The Lavender Tavern

The Knight and the Dragon

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Episode notes

It had been decades since the last dragon had been sighted in the region; Goodwife Bayliss was the oldest Baravian, and even she could only dimly recollect her grandparents telling tales of an ice dragon spraying the countryside with frost and icicles, freezing the cattle and sheep where they stood.

Nobody had seen a dragon since then. Until now.

Every town menaced by a dragon could use a knight. Every lonely wizard could also use a knight. What happens to a love affair when the dragon has been defeated?

Written by: Jonathan Cohen

Narrated by: Joe Cruz

A Faustian Nonsense production.

To read the full transcript of this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/the-knight-and-the-dragon

Transcript

Once, there was a quiet town called Baravia that was nestled in between two hills on the eastern edge of the continent. Baravia was well-situated: it had a river that brought water, and fish, and boats with trade from other villages down the coast. The plain it stood upon was high enough that the temperature was moderate. It was considered the friendliest town in the region.

The Baravians prided themselves on being friendly. At the entrance to the town stood a statue of the town’s founder with open arms, and an inscription in several languages reading, “Welcome to Baravia, all strangers who seek it!”

Baravia was also known throughout the region to welcome travel from visitors, commerce from visitors, and certainly gold from visitors. But there was one type of visitor that Baravians did not like at all.

Nobody had seen a dragon since then. Until now.

The farm animals smelled the sulfur and fled, spooked. The farmers also smelled the sulfur, but they did not know to run until a shadow fell across their land. With a wingspan several yards wide, orange-red scales, and yellow slitted eyes, the dragon swooped and soared and buzzed the tops of the farmhouses until the farmers cowered in their cellars.

Then came the fire: magical fire, green and blue and orange, straight from the dragon’s mouth, scorching the thatched roofs and searing the rows of corn, and somehow miraculously missing the animals which stood fearfully at the edge of the river, trying to decide which was a worse fate: to enter the river, or be burned by the dragon.

Goodwife Bayliss was not afraid; at the age of ninety-six years, she was only afraid of the aches that afflicted her hips. She stood in the largest scorched cornfield with her non-magical scythe and her non-magical voice and shouted at the dragon. “Get away!” she cried. “Leave Baravia alone!”

The dragon made a long swooping arc downwards, and the one farmer who could see Goodwife Bayliss later said it looked as if the dragon was coming straight for her, fire lashing the field in a straight line. At the last moment, the dragon pulled up, but Goodwife Bayliss’s arms were more agile than her hips, and she reached up and hooked the dragon’s head, which spun down towards her and incinerated her.

“Our beloved Goodwife Bayliss has been slain,” Olliver, the council leader said at the hastily-assembled council meeting. There were a few murmurs at the use of the word “beloved,” but nobody wanted to be a person who would speak ill of the dead, especially one who was still standing in scorched-carbon form in the field where she had been struck. “We must do something.”

“Our crops are in danger,” one farmer said.

“Tradesmen are avoiding our town,” a merchant added.

They sent soldiers to fight the dragon. Baravia had a small contingent of friendly soldiers who spent their time guarding the bank and the merchants, and greeting visiting tradesmen. The soldiers were not familiar with battle.

They returned, scorched and singed and smelling of smoke and sulfur. “We could not get close!” one of them gasped, and the others nodded in unison. Then they went to change their garments and returned to their patrol of the bank.

“We must approach Wynn,” Olliver said at the next town meeting. There were more murmurs. Wynn was Baravia’s new wizard, and he had only been in the town a few months. That led to suspicion, particularly since he had yet to make a deposit at the town bank.

It was Olliver’s opinion against the group of farmers and merchants, none of whom would take a firm position for or against. And so Olliver won the day, and he went to see Wynn.

Wynn had a thatched hut on the edge of town. The hut had belonged to the previous wizard, a disreputable soul who had been ‘asked’ to leave Baravia when it had been discovered that he was laying trances upon the townspeople that caused them to withdraw their gold from the bank and give it to him.

Wynn had not changed anything about the hut. His clothes still lay in a box at the foot of the bed. His books and papers were in the box he’d brought with him months ago. His only additions to the hut were the vials and phials and philtres and potions on the far wall. When Olliver entered through the open door, Wynn, a tall stooped man with red hair and freckles, was taking stock of the potions and muttering to himself: “Attar of roses, turmeric, sage…”

“Friend Wynn,” Olliver said.

“Councilman Olliver,” Wynn replied. Olliver was a man courageous in council, and yet fearful in private. Wynn waited.

“A dragon has attacked Baravia,” Olliver said finally, as if that should explain his presence in Wynn’s hut.

“I have heard,” Wynn said drily. More silence.

“Goodwife Bayliss has been slain,” Olliver added.

“No doubt her kinsmen will mourn.” Goodwife Bayliss had no kinsmen or kinswomen.

Olliver stepped from side to side, and appeared to Wynn as if he needed to relieve himself. “The council has asked me to come here.”

Wynn moved his right hand in a circle as if to speed the conversation. “…to ask me to defeat the dragon?”

“Yes!” Olliver burst out in relief, then caught himself. “As the town wizard, it is your sworn duty to rid Baravia of this scourge.” He blushed. “The payment shall be the usual amount of gold.”

Wynn mused. “I suppose this falls within my responsibilities,” he said.

“What will you need to accomplish this?” Olliver asked.

“I will need to collect information,” Wynn said, looking at his shelf of potions. “Read up on dragons, perform research…”

Olliver sighed and nodded. For any request the council had, Wynn needed to read and read – as if there was time for reading when there was a dragon on the loose!

A small archive of books and papers and scrolls stood at the south edge of Baravia, where Wynn had spent many an afternoon reading and thinking in the intense haze of sputtering candle smoke. The archivist, a wizened woman named Clydia, collected the admission fee for the archive and showed him where the material on dragons was. There was very little of it. A troupe had passed through Baravia fifteen years ago with a poorly-received play about a dragon. A youth had drawn a dragon in chalk on the council chambers’ door and had been flogged.

There were history books about dragons from long ago, but no dragons had been seen since before Goodwife Bayliss had been born. Even so, Wynn paged idly through the tomes, reading to himself such fascinating words as: “The dragon is known to shed skin twice a day, and such skin mayhap be used for clothing and other crafts…”

Baravia’s archive held no clues to this particular dragon, unless it was on the verge of shedding skin and crafts were needed. When Clydia closed the archives for the day, Wynn took the long route past the welcome gate of the town toward his hut.

As he passed the gate, he saw a dusty man in traveling leathers. A knight, Wynn thought. The man had a sword and a bow and quiver, but he did not need any special garb for Wynn to know him to be a knight. Even through the dust, the man held himself straight and proud, though he walked slowly towards the gate, looking very tired.

Several townspeople were present: a young woman was carrying a basket of reeds, two men were talking commerce, and a boy was pulling a wagon filled with round smooth river stones. They each glanced at the knight, but none said a word or approached him.

Welcome to Baravia, Wynn thought. This had been the same greeting he had received when he had arrived at the town several months ago. Despite the statue, despite the sign, the people had not greeted him or taken him in…until he had cured a councilwoman’s son of a sleeping sickness. It was fear, he thought, fear of the unknown, or perhaps fear of losing their gold to the unknown.

So Wynn stepped forward, and came up to the knight, who stopped in front of him. Wynn was taller than the knight by a good foot, but the knight was well-built and smelled faintly of sweat and the road. “Well-met, traveller to Baravia,” Wynn said.

The knight lifted his helmet, and Wynn saw his dark, dark eyes. Intense and curious and wary. “Thanks,” the knight said, looking pointedly around at the other townspeople who had stopped to watch them, but continued to keep their distance.

“Would you like a drink?” Wynn asked.

The knight seemed to relax as if the burden of his trip had suddenly come down around him. “Thank you,” he said. “Call me Tristan.”

Wynn’s hut was already too small for him, and with the knight, there was barely enough room for them to sit at the low wooden table with glasses of wine between them. “You are a knight,” Wynn said, stating and not asking.

Tristan downed the wine in a single gulp, then coughed and sputtered. “Yes, an honorable profession.” He shook his head. “Or rather, it was an honorable one until our mission disbanded. Now I work for hire.”

A mischievous thought flashed through Wynn’s head, thinking of hiring Tristan for something related to ‘knightly’ duties, but he dismissed it. “Have you been hired much of late?”

The sun was setting outside, and the orange rays illuminated Tristan’s dark brown eyes as he poured another cup. “Here and there. I make enough gold to get by.” Then, looking at the potions and vials on the wall of the hut, Tristan asked, “And you? Does Baravia pay its wizard well?”

“I am yet on probation,” Wynn said. “They remain unconvinced that I am a fine enough wizard for such a fine town.” At his tone, Tristan looked at him more sharply, then smiled.

“Yes, I see. What must you do to convince them of your worth?”

Wynn sighed heavily. “I am afraid that I am about to fail at that task.” He took a book out of his pack that he had borrowed from the archives and laid it on the table, opening it to a drawing of a winged, fire-breathing creature. “A dragon is threatening Baravia.”

Tristan smiled, and it occurred to Wynn that he liked that smile a great deal. “Did I not mention that I am a slayer of dragons?”

“Surely there cannot be enough dragons in this world for you to specialize in such a profession,” Wynn said, running his index finger around the rim of his cup. The wine had traveled from his stomach to his head.

“I have been far and wide across this country,” Tristan said. “Even in the last few months, I have slain dragons of fire and dragons of ice.” The wine was touching the knight’s tongue as well, Wynn thought.

“Let us speak of this tomorrow,” Wynn said. “Will you sleep here tonight?” That last, he said with more bluntness in his voice than he had wished.

Tristan looked at the narrow single bed and shook his head, getting to his feet unsteadily. “As is my custom, I shall sleep under the stars.”

Wynn saw him to the door. “Perhaps I shall join you under the stars one day, knight.”

Tristan’s breath, scented with wine, was very light on Wynn’s cheek. “Perhaps, wizard. You may always follow me.”

Alone, Wynn paced in his hut. There was no doubt that Tristan claimed to be a slayer of dragons for hire. There was no doubt that he could slay this dragon, if what he said were true. And there was no doubt that Wynn himself could not slay or enchant or magick the dragon on his own.

Wynn had collected the information, and read about dragons, and done his studying, despite Olliver’s sighing. Wynn knew that he could craft a weapon that would defeat the dragon…but he could not get close enough to strike it.

But conceivably, Tristan could.

“You would entrust the defence of our town to a…stranger?” Olliver asked Wynn the following morning. Olliver and his group of farmers and merchants were in the town council building, and Olliver sat underneath the portrait of the town’s founder, the famous painting depicting the man standing with open arms and a welcoming smile.

Tristan stood next to Wynn, but said nothing. A bowl of fresh water and a rag had transformed him from a dusty stranger into a proud and confident young man with a broad chest and massive arms, sword at his side.

“Am I not still a stranger in Baravia as well?” Wynn asked quietly.

Olliver coughed. “Yes, but…well, we need your assistance. We have been blessed to have had your help on several occasions over the last few months. You are known to us.” He pointed to Tristan. “He could be a fraud. Or a common thief.”

Wynn felt Tristan bristle beside him, and heard the slight clip-clip of his leather-clad fingers gripping the handle of the sword. “I vouch for him,” Wynn said simply. “He has told me his story, and I have investigated it.” At the word ‘investigated,’ Olliver gave a heavy sigh, but Wynn did not stop. “He is the man who shall defeat our dragon.”

That evening, in Wynn’s thatched hut, Tristan scooped meat and vegetables from a bowl. He eats like a man starving, Wynn thought, though he has the broad shoulders and heft of a man who is well-fed.

Wynn had already finished his meager dinner, and he was looking at potions and philtres and making notes while Tristan finished his meal. “You did not do any investigation of me,” Tristan said, smiling as he surfaced for air at last.

Wynn reached over with a cloth and dabbed the knight’s beard. “I investigate in my own way,” he said.

Tristan indicated the bottles and vials with an inclination of his head. “What are these?”

Wynn picked up a purple vial and hefted it in his hands. “I gathered this last winter, on the shortest day of the year, just as the sun set.” He handed it to Tristan, who looked at it in surprise.

“It is cold – like ice,” Tristan said.

Wynn smiled. “It is the distillate of winter – Winter’s Bane.” He took the vial back and looked at it reverently. “This shall be the base of the weapon you will use against the dragon.”

Tristan looked confused, then nodded. “A weapon of ice. I see…I have slain dragons with sword and bow and arrow, but never by magical means.”

“We shall dip your sword in the potion once it is complete, and the tips of your arrows.” Wynn looked him directly in the eyes. “If your aim is true, the dragon cannot help but fall.”

“My aim is always true,” Tristan replied.

And Wynn saw this for himself, as Tristan practiced in the clearing behind the hut over the next days while Wynn mixed potions, read recipes from scrolls, and boiled various liquids over the hearth-fire. Whenever he stopped to rest, Wynn saw Tristan slashing at a makeshift fighting figure made of straw and clay, the knight’s muscles taut, glistening with sweat.

Tristan spent each night under the stars, until the day a heavy storm fell upon Baravia. Then, shivering and shaking the water from his leathers, he came indoors and allowed Wynn to dry him off.

“You do not like to accept hospitality when it is offered,” Wynn suggested, toweling Tristan’s hair roughly and playfully until Tristan pulled the cloth away from him.

Tristan’s face was ruddy. “I have learned,” he said, “that there is a price to be paid for hospitality. And of course, I do not stay in any one town for very long.”

“I have lived in Baravia for eight months,” Wynn said. “The longest I have stayed anywhere, in many years.”

Tristan grinned, pointing at the open box on the floor. “And yet you keep your robes in a box. Do you expect that you may need to flee Baravia if we do not conquer the dragon, wizard?”

Wynn looked away from Tristan. “I have been expecting to be sent away from here from the moment I arrived, but I shall not leave until my task is done, knight.”

Rain fell heavily on the roof, and Wynn saw that it was late. “Will you sleep in my bed tonight?” he asked, then reddened.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “I notice that your bed is scarcely large enough for the one of us, let alone both.”

“Then,” Wynn said very carefully, “perhaps we may stack ourselves vertically, like dishes on a shelf.”

Tristan slowly smiled. “Shall we discuss who shall stack on whom? Or is that a matter to be discussed once the dishes are put away?”

They lay against each other in the tiny bed, Tristan wrapped around Wynn and pressing into his back, his breath warm on Wynn’s neck in the darkness.

Wynn could not sleep. After a while, he asked: “What will you do with the gold the townspeople of Baravia give you?”

He felt Tristan shrug, and pull his arms around Wynn further. “Live,” Tristan said simply. “Although I have slain many dragons, they are not common in this land. The gold should allow me to live and eat and rest for a year.”

“You need not leave Baravia once you have vanquished the dragon,” Wynn said. “There is always need for men who can wield a sword.”

Another shrug. “The soldiers of Baravia are mere money-guards,” Tristan replied. “And the Baravians are not the friendliest of folk, are they?”

Wynn stared out into the darkness. “I have found my place.”

He thought that Tristan might speak again of the clothes he kept in the box, but the knight said instead, “A town can always use a healer, or someone to deliver babies, or ward off evil spirits...or make potions. But how many dragons will attack Baravia in the coming years?”

Wynn stayed awake as Tristan moved and sighed and fell into slumber, his grip on the wizard loosening. You are a traveler, Wynn thought. You will always be moving from town to town. Like me.

“Nuri,” Tristan whispered in his dreams. Nuri, Wynn wondered. A lover, a parent, the town where he had been born? Holding onto Tristan would be like trying to hold onto a summer’s breeze.

Wynn worked slowly and methodically on the ice potion. Then, he worked even more slowly, and went to the archives often to read and make notes. Then, he tried to do as little work as possible, but Tristan came upon him in the hut one day and asked after his progress.

“I am sorry to say that my work is complete,” Wynn said, hefting a jar of liquid that shifted and spun like flurries in a snowstorm.

“Sorry?” Tristan said. “Is this not good news?”

“Once you have slain the dragon,” Wynn said, turning away so that Tristan could not see what was in his eyes, “this adventure shall be at an end.”

He could not go with Tristan on the day of combat. The ice weapon was also a shield that would protect its bearer, but neither Wynn nor the Baravian soldiers would be protected. The soldiers were thankful not to have to go. And so Tristan went alone, and Wynn waited in the town square with the rest of the town. He was sure of the outcome, sure of Tristan returning...