The Day of the Dragons

The Day of the Dragons

        K’tura stood by the large oak door of the fabled Stone Room, unsure of the reason for her presence here, or even if she should be there at all. The dimensions of the stone room were only rumored among the people, for nobody had ever had the chance to venture inside. The rumors said the room was constructed completely of a gray stone -- gray stone ceiling, gray stone floor, gray stone walls, and a gray stone fireplace with, of course, a gray stone mantle. The room was said to be of truly gigantic proportions. At two hundred feet in length and one hundred in width, with a ceiling rising to a height of fifty feet in the center before rounding off in a dome painted with a mural of some sort, it was truly enormous.

         K’tura inhaled deeply, waited a moment, then exhaled. Her hand reached for the large brass lion’s head knocker then hesitated, betraying her true desires. She gathered her wits and rapped twice, then once more after two seconds had elapsed. Despite herself, K’tura pressed her ear to the door and listened for any sound. Presently a rustling could be heard, along with an occasional tap. There was a rhythm to it: Rustle, rustle, tap. Rustle, rustle, tap.

         This went on for a few seconds, and with each repetition the sounds grew louder. It wasn’t long before the sounds ceased altogether, a jingling sound taking their place.

         “Just a minute, just a minute,” a feeble and muffled voice called out merrily.
         
         A key turned in the lock and the door creaked open, revealing a small, elderly man standing at the threshold, squinting at K’tura from a pair of beady eyes. The man wore a long robe and tall, cone-shaped hat of matching royal purple color. He was short, about an inch shorter than K’tura, with a long, flowing white beard and a white maine of hair. He carried a long staff that boasted a golden crown.

         K’tura slid quickly past the man, into the fabled stone room, and he closed the door behind her. The room was indeed grand, and it lived up to its rumors splendidly. There were four massive windows on each of the four walls, with gaudy curtains hung from the tops of each window. A lone bed sat in a corner some two hundred feet away, and around the room were adequate and quite antique furnishings.

         The man was smiling at K’tura as she gawked at this strange and mysterious room, the room in which the great Merlin performed all his magical experiments. But where was Merlin? She looked at the old man and her brow furrowed. Could this frail man be the great Merlin? Surely not. But K’tura was still too taken with the room to ask the little man where the renowned magician was hiding himself. Surely he would pop out of a vase, or materialize into thin air in a moment.

         “Would you like to st down, my girl?” asked the old man.

         As before, his voice was feeble and weak, but it had a merry quality to it that charmed K’tura, who readily sat in a down-filled sofa. The old fellow sat beside her, patted her hand and smiled warmly.

         “Perhaps you are wondering why you were summoned?” he asked.

         K’tura nodded. He rose, strode to a nearby desk, and returned with a scroll. “It was so nice of you to come, dear,” he said kindly, then handed her the scroll. She took it from him and silently read the scrawled handwriting.


ENGLAND
         We, the DragonsClan of the Grampian Mountain Region, Scotland, are invading your country on the 27th of June. All will be spared if you give us The Fairest Maiden to fight over. If you do not comply, all of you will die.


         K’tura gasped. The old man patted her back and uttered small comforts. She sputtered for a while, then finally gained the ability to speak. “But why doesn’t Merlin stop the dragons before they come?”

         The man smiled obligingly, then said, “Well I would, my dear, if it were at all possible. I’m afraid my powers have run out in my old days.” He frowned, then shrugged. K’tura was shocked that this frail, elderly man was the great Merlin, king of all Magi. He had been in seclusion for many years, and obviously this was why -- he had lost his powers.

         “Which maiden will go?” she asked. “Who is the fairest?”

         Merlin frowned again and grew very interested in his fingers. K’tura understood. She was considered to be the fairest maiden of all, and she would be sacrificed to appease the mighty dragons. She stood and walked slowly around the room.

         “Isn’t there any other way, dear sir?” she asked desperately.

         Merlin stood and sighed. “I’m afraid not, my dear. On the 27th of June, the Dragons Clan will invade, and you will have to be given as a token of our compliance. I’m so sorry, my dear. So very sorry.” He continued muttering his apologies and shortly he grew so donwhearted that K’tura had to console him.

         “I’m only one life,” she finally said. “By giving it I will save all of England. I’ll be honored.”


June 27


         Presently a carriage arrived outside a grand English castle. Five burly men and a dwarfed sixth stepped out, each holding a plaid-striped sack with tubes and such sticking out. The entire city of Camelot was looking on as the men, dressed in plaid kilts and sashes, walked bravely up to the platform where King Arthur and the fairest maiden in all of England sat.

         The five burly men, as well as the dwarfed sixth, bowed their knees then stood and looked around. “Where’s the bloody Fairest Maiden?” they cried in unison.

         King Arthur gazed at the men, scowling. “And who are you?” he demanded.

         The men gawked. “We’re the bloody DragonsClan,” one, the leader, said to the king. “Now don’t tell me ya never got our letter.”

         The leader turned to the somewhat smaller man and commenced to hit him over the head with the end of his sash. The man protected himself as well as he could, crying out, “I sent the letter, Dan’l! I sent it, mind you!”

         “Cease!” King Arthur roared, and the leader immediately halted. “We received a letter, but it said dragons were to come and they wanted the fairest maiden. Where are the dragons? We have the maiden.” He motioned toward K’tura.

         The men smiled their most charming smiles and bowed to the lovely lady. “And a might fine lassy she be, sire,” the leader said.

         “Aye,” the other Scots chimed in.

         A huge red-headed Scot spoke up now. “But where’s The Fairest Maiden?” His companions nodded their heads and looked inquisitively at the king.

         His Majesty looked astonished and pointed toward K’tura. “Behold! This is she! Are you blind?”

         “Sire,” the leader stated, “it is obvious that you are not going to comply.”

         A look of dread passed over King Arthur’s countenance and his skin grew pale. “We prithee, good sirs, have not your dragons kill us. We shall find you a maiden more to your dragons’ liking.”

         The leader raised his eyebrows and smirked, as did the other Scotsmen. “Kill you?” he said incredulously. “Now, why would we go an’ do a thing like that?”

         “But you said you would,” King Arthur replied, quite confused by now. “In the letter,” he added.

         “I didn’t write that,” the leader said. He looked toward the little fellow again. “Did you write that?” The midget shrugged his shoulders, coughed, and looked away sheepishly.

         King Arthur fetched the scroll and read from it. “And I quote: ‘If you do not comply, all of you will die.’” He put the scroll away and waited for an answer.

         The leader smiled. “I told him to put ‘die of shame,’ but the little bugger fancies himself a poet, said it wouldn’t rhyme. I suppose he left that part out, for aesthetic purposes surely.” He shook his head and laughed. “So where’s the glorious bagpipers’ band in all of England willing to challenge any of Scotland’s best bagpipers?”

         “Yeah,” added the midget. “Where’s The Fairest Maiden?”

         And thus broke up the group of onlookers, who were extremely relieved and perhaps a bit disappointed by the fact that no real dragon showed up.

         The king sighed, shook his head, and muttered something about “those addled Scots,” as he walked away with K’tura in tow.

         And that, my friends, is the closest anybody has ever gotten to a real dragon.


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Author's Note:
This was originally published in The Fictitious Gazette Online in May of 1998 under the pen name Trowie Lyness. It has a word count of 1431 words.