mother?”
This startles me. “You mean, you don’t even know your mother’s name?”
“Why, she’s . . . she’s Mother, and the queen, and Her Majesty.”
I sigh. My own son needs more education on important matters, and I intend to give it to him. I sit back on the bench, ignoring the din of the tavern crowds. “You’ll find out soon enough. Just let me tell the story.”
T HANKS TO THE reward from King Ashtok, Dalbry, Reeger, and Cullin could live high on the hog for a while. None of them owned a hog, although Cullin did manage to leave the castle with some wrapped salt pork.
On foot, the three followed a forest path that led to a wider road. Having seen Sir Tremayne’s proud stallion, Dalbry hefted the bag of durbins and did some calculations. “It might be time to invest in a good steed—preferably a white one, but the color doesn’t matter. A knight needs a horse. The role demands it.”
Reeger rolled his unevenly set eyes. “Crotchrust! How would we afford to care for a horse?”
“Sir Tremayne has one.”
“Who knows about Sir Tremayne’s rustin’ bank accounts? He was offering to slay a dragon for free; maybe he’s independently wealthy—a trust-fund kid.” He shook his shaggy head. “Fools like that bring down the market value of dragon slaying.”
“We have our mule,” Cullin pointed out. The beast grumbled and wheezed, perhaps as a sign of recognition that they were talking about him, or perhaps to share his misery at being overloaded with pots and pans, camp gear, Dalbry’s armor, and all the “sure to be useful” items that Reeger picked up along the way.
“If I had a horse, Cullin could take care of it,” Dalbry said. “That’s fitting work for a squire.”
The handsome young man sighed. “Back in my village, I always dreamed of being a stableboy with a warm place to sleep and slightly used straw, but that was above my station as a feral orphan boy.”
“Let’s think about this,” Reeger said. “True, a fine white stallion would make brave Sir Dalbry more dashing, but horses come with a lot of hidden maintenance costs. You have to feed them, shoe them. And then there’s the saddle—good saddles don’t come cheap.” He looked over at the knight. “An impressive warrior like yourself could never be seen with a bargain-basement saddle. And then there’s the stabling fees whenever we hit a town.”
“At least I wouldn’t have to walk,” said Dalbry. “I’m old enough that my knees and feet ache most days. And it’s awkward to claim I’m an important knight when I come into every town on foot.”
Reeger flashed his brown smile. “Simple enough explanation, Dalbry—your mount got devoured by a dragon during your last combat. You fought and wounded the ferocious monster, but you yourself were injured, your armor damaged. You fell to your knees and held up your sword, desperately trying to stay alive. The dragon lunged toward you, and all seemed lost—but then your brave steed . . .” He paused, tapping his lips as he thought of a name. “ Lightning charged in to distract the beast—rearing up, striking the scaly monster with his front hooves! But the dragon roasted your valiant horse with a gout of fire. In that moment of distraction, though, you drove your sword into the monster’s throat. Alas, the valiant steed was mortally injured. There, on the blasted ground, next to the dead dragon, you cradled the head of your horse until he died. Poor Lightning . . .” He hung his head, then snapped his gaze up again with a bright smile. “And that, Dalbry, is why you don’t have a horse.”
Cullin grinned. “Reeger, you’re good at that.”
They all agreed that a good story was more cost-effective than buying and maintaining a real horse.
The trio headed to the next kingdom, which was ruled by a king legendary for his rotundness: King Norrimun the Corpulent. Traveling through a sparse forest where there were more stumps than trees, Dalbry
This startles me. “You mean, you don’t even know your mother’s name?”
“Why, she’s . . . she’s Mother, and the queen, and Her Majesty.”
I sigh. My own son needs more education on important matters, and I intend to give it to him. I sit back on the bench, ignoring the din of the tavern crowds. “You’ll find out soon enough. Just let me tell the story.”
T HANKS TO THE reward from King Ashtok, Dalbry, Reeger, and Cullin could live high on the hog for a while. None of them owned a hog, although Cullin did manage to leave the castle with some wrapped salt pork.
On foot, the three followed a forest path that led to a wider road. Having seen Sir Tremayne’s proud stallion, Dalbry hefted the bag of durbins and did some calculations. “It might be time to invest in a good steed—preferably a white one, but the color doesn’t matter. A knight needs a horse. The role demands it.”
Reeger rolled his unevenly set eyes. “Crotchrust! How would we afford to care for a horse?”
“Sir Tremayne has one.”
“Who knows about Sir Tremayne’s rustin’ bank accounts? He was offering to slay a dragon for free; maybe he’s independently wealthy—a trust-fund kid.” He shook his shaggy head. “Fools like that bring down the market value of dragon slaying.”
“We have our mule,” Cullin pointed out. The beast grumbled and wheezed, perhaps as a sign of recognition that they were talking about him, or perhaps to share his misery at being overloaded with pots and pans, camp gear, Dalbry’s armor, and all the “sure to be useful” items that Reeger picked up along the way.
“If I had a horse, Cullin could take care of it,” Dalbry said. “That’s fitting work for a squire.”
The handsome young man sighed. “Back in my village, I always dreamed of being a stableboy with a warm place to sleep and slightly used straw, but that was above my station as a feral orphan boy.”
“Let’s think about this,” Reeger said. “True, a fine white stallion would make brave Sir Dalbry more dashing, but horses come with a lot of hidden maintenance costs. You have to feed them, shoe them. And then there’s the saddle—good saddles don’t come cheap.” He looked over at the knight. “An impressive warrior like yourself could never be seen with a bargain-basement saddle. And then there’s the stabling fees whenever we hit a town.”
“At least I wouldn’t have to walk,” said Dalbry. “I’m old enough that my knees and feet ache most days. And it’s awkward to claim I’m an important knight when I come into every town on foot.”
Reeger flashed his brown smile. “Simple enough explanation, Dalbry—your mount got devoured by a dragon during your last combat. You fought and wounded the ferocious monster, but you yourself were injured, your armor damaged. You fell to your knees and held up your sword, desperately trying to stay alive. The dragon lunged toward you, and all seemed lost—but then your brave steed . . .” He paused, tapping his lips as he thought of a name. “ Lightning charged in to distract the beast—rearing up, striking the scaly monster with his front hooves! But the dragon roasted your valiant horse with a gout of fire. In that moment of distraction, though, you drove your sword into the monster’s throat. Alas, the valiant steed was mortally injured. There, on the blasted ground, next to the dead dragon, you cradled the head of your horse until he died. Poor Lightning . . .” He hung his head, then snapped his gaze up again with a bright smile. “And that, Dalbry, is why you don’t have a horse.”
Cullin grinned. “Reeger, you’re good at that.”
They all agreed that a good story was more cost-effective than buying and maintaining a real horse.
The trio headed to the next kingdom, which was ruled by a king legendary for his rotundness: King Norrimun the Corpulent. Traveling through a sparse forest where there were more stumps than trees, Dalbry
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