Two Ways to Win [2 of 2]

This story was too big, so it was split in two. Here is the link to Part 1

The knight stepped aside and motioned for Penrose to move through. He did. The applause was deafening. Every cheer, clap, and whoop gave him the heart he needed to continue. Whatever fear or doubt had lingered in the back of his mind was gone. Penrose would be a commoner no more, he would slay the beast, and be done with it. The great dirt circle of the tournament grounds spread out before him, onlookers on every bench, eyes in every corner. He tried to ignore the trail of blood that led out of the center of the ring and focused on finding Albert instead. There were far too many people. Oh well. He stepped into the center and drew his great sword, shiny, unused, but sharp from a hundred nights under a patient whetstone.

            The crowd roared.

A distant announcer hushed them with outstretched palms. “But a challenger is only so good as the challenge itself. From the hinterlands, found deep within a cave by our most spirited magus, I give you a fearsome, dwarven dragon!”

            The stadium hushed as an iron crate was brought through a tall gate into the far side of the arena. Penrose squinted. The crate wasn’t large, and looking through the bars, he couldn’t see much of anything. Still, the attendants were taking whatever was in the box seriously. They slid a series of large iron pins out of the sides, ran back to where they had come, and slammed the gate shut. The box’s iron door fell forward, revealing the monstrosity inside. Only… it wasn’t a monstrosity.

            Sitting in the box, no more than two feet in length was a plump green dragon, less than a year old. It was curled up in a corner, tail wrapped over its eyes and breathing softly.

            “Let the trial begin!” shouted the announcer.

The crowd cheered, Penrose steadied himself, but the dragon did not move. He advanced, keeping a wary eye. As he drew closer, he could see that he was correct, this was no dwarven dragon – dwarf maybe, but nothing to write songs about. It was just a babe, hardly worthy of a tavern story and certainly not worthy of a trial. In a certain light, it was almost cute. Maybe some day it would be fearsome, but not this day. There is more than one way to win the trial… The words echoed in his head. A knight of the realm protects the weak…

Penrose’s head spun. All the while, the dragon slept. It would be in poor taste to run a sleeping baby through. That was common sense. Protect the weak. Maybe the old man hadn’t been lying. Perhaps this baby dragon was a test. The crowd had grown silent in his hesitation with a few tentative jeers beginning to crop up from the onlookers. Decisions had to be made. Penrose thought to what he knew of knights, all he had read, all he had studied, and sheathed his sword. “I would like to ask mercy on behalf of this poor creature!”

The announcer, puzzled, hustled over to the side of the queen. She tilted her head, considering the request and then spoke back to him. Once more, the announcer rushed forward. “No, I’m afraid it must be to the death.”

“Respectfully, it is a mere babe.” Penrose would kill the creature if he had to, but persistence was knight’s work.

“It’ll get bigger,” shouted someone from the audience.

“Fair point, it will get bigger,” offered the announcer.

“It’s half asleep!” shouted Penrose to the crowd.

“If it wakes up, it could burn the village!” called a woman from the crowd.

“I live in the village!” yelled another.

Penrose turned to the queen, exasperated. “Would you have me stick my blade through a creature that can’t even be bothered to—” The arena grew suddenly hot. Penrose looked at his feet, confused to see flames licking up from the soles of his boots. A wave of nausea swept over him, followed quickly by immeasurable and unyielding pain. He screamed and turned back toward the dragon.

Babe or not, the creature was out of its box and breathing a steady stream of green flame through its tiny jaws.

Penrose rolled, trying to put the flame out, but it only spread as the dragon turned its head gently back and forth, roasting him with barely any effort.  

“W-Wha—” Penrose tried, but faltered as his armor melted before him, closing his tiny view of the world. Pain was followed shortly by numbness. The old man played me. There was no anger, or much of anything for that matter. All he felt was heavy. His last thought as the light left the world was that he understood very much how the family plow had felt.