As Grummore approached the camp, he could hear voices. Bending low and cursing his wooden leg, he pulled the bow about, silently notching an arrow into place as he made his way through the underbrush. There were two men, one on foot, and the other sitting on one of the two horses, picking at a stone in his shoe. Ector was on his hands and knees in the snow.
The man standing beside Ector was old, thin and grizzled. His beard appeared to be knotted around a face that was twisted and ugly, the nose broken once upon a time. He was eating the last of the stew as if he hadn’t eaten in days, dipping a hand into the pot with the reins of the second horse wrapped around his other hand. The horse stood quiet, chewing at the feedbag.
The man on the horse looked down at Ector.
“Are you alone?” he asked. His eyes searched the trees as he poked at his shoe with the point of a knife. He was young, probably no more than thirty, Grummore thought, looking like the more capable of the two. He seems a cautious man, Grummore noted. Perhaps he finds it strange stumbling on a man sleeping in a campsite with a rabbit stew cooking in the pot? It’s something the older man seemed to take in stride.
“I said, are you alone?” the man asked again.
“D’ya see anyone else about?” Ector answered, and Grummore smiled to himself.
He’s a good lad; brave, but stupid, considering.
He knew if the two men hadn’t crept up on Ector while he was sleeping, they would’ve never gotten the better of him. The old man looked up from the stew he was eating and kicked Ector in the ribs, grinning as he licked his hand clean. He pulled on the reins, forcing the horse to follow him, and kicked Ector a second time, and then a third. He looked up at the other man, laughing at Ector now holding his side.
“Maybe now he’ll learn talkin’ t’ ye right-wise?” the old man said, looking up at the other man on the horse.
Grummore stood, pulling the notched arrow back in one fluid motion as he limped out into the open and let the arrow fly.
The old man held onto a look of shock, staring down at the fatal arrow sticking out of his chest. The horse reared up in fright, pulling the man along with it as though the man were an afterthought.
The second man reached for his sword. He pulled it out of the scabbard in one singing movement. Grummore already had another arrow notched in his bow as he stepped further into the clearing.
“I was adoubted if ye’d be daffish enough t’ ‘dress yerself against me,” Grummore laughed, pulling the bow taut. The man pulled on the reins and the horse reared up as Grummore let the arrow fly, burying it feather-deep into the horse’s breast. The horse screamed in pain, its eyes wide with terror as it toppled over, coughing and frothing bloody foam. The man leaped free of the dying horse and rolled until he found solid footing.
Grummore dropped the bow with a laugh, and shrugging off his bearskin robe he drew his sword out of its rusty scabbard. He stomped his way through the snow toward the thief, his sword held high. A scream burst from his lips. The thief laughed, watching the old man hobble to the attack. Grummore’s sword flashed in the light, his breath puffing in the cold air as he kicked the snow with each limping step.
The thief raised his sword and charged the old man. At the last possible moment, Grummore lowered his sword and tucked his head. Rolling forward, he caught the man in the midriff with his wooden leg as he swung at him with the flat of his sword, knocking his feet out from under the man and tumbling him into the snow. Grummore stood above the thief with his sword pressed against the man’s chest, his footpad standing on the man’s sword.
“Would I were assured as t’ where yer errant lusts will take ye, laddie,” Grummore said with a smile. “But all the same, t’is by yer own disadventure ye find yerself at odds with one ye might ha’ thought in ‘is dotage. An’ ‘ow now that I’ve disworshipped ye all in one fell swoop?”
“An’ what will ye be doin’ with ‘im, Gran?” Ector asked, pushing himself up to his knees with an effort. He was a handsome youth, with misty grey eyes set deep in a soft face. He stood tall among men, broad shouldered, and with a full chest and large arms. He was awkwardly poking at his ribs, and grimaced with pain.
“Will ye be killin’ ‘im, like t’other one? Or will ye be sendin’ ‘im on his merry way, t’ bring others?”
“Others?” the thief called out, suddenly aware of what Ector was saying.
“Aye, lad, a good thought that,” Grummore smiled at Ector. “T’is a mal-ease I feel.”
“There’s no one else! I swear! No one’s followin’! There are no others!” the thief cried out. A deathly pallor came over his face at the thought of what might follow.
“So say ye now, ye perfidious lout,” Grummore said. He pressed his sword harder against the man’s throat.
“I swear it! There’s no one else! Tell him!” the man screamed at Ector.
“I would liefer believe ye than ‘ave t’ tear ye limb-meal — ”
“What?” the thief asked, looking from Grummore to Ector and back to Grummore again. “I don’t understand the half of what he’s saying!” he called out to Ector.
“He said he’d rather believe ye than have to tear ye limb from limb — ”
“Believe me!” the thief cried out. “Believe me! There’s no one else!” he said again. Finally, looking up the length of Grummore’s sword pressed against his throat, he pleaded. “There’s no one else! I swear by all that’s holy — ”
“Holy? Ye wot not from holy, lad. Ye’ve come ‘ere with pillars intent, meanin’ t’ take the very food from our bellies — ”
“And that’s all we’ve come for! Just the food! We haven’t eaten in days! We’ve been running, and hiding.”
“Hiding! A man bent on holy ways has nae t’ hide. Ye wot not from holy!”
“He’s set in his ways,” Ector said, unwinding the horse’s reins from the dead man’s hand. He led the animal back to the wagon. “It’s somethin’ to do with the way things used to be,” Ector went on, picking up the horse collar and placing it around the animal’s neck. He picked up the second collar and threw it into the back of the wagon.
“How long are you going to keep that sword pressed to my neck?” the thief asked Grummore.
“Mayhaps I should slip it through, tofore?” Grummore smiled. He turned to look at Ector. “What say ye, boy? Are ye near done there?”
“Aye,” Ector says, returning to look at the dead man. He bent down and searched the body. He took the man’s knife and slipped it into his boot. He found three small gold pieces — each one a different size and shape; one was jagged edged; the other flat; the last one was oval shaped.
“What’re these?” Ector asked, trying to bite the edge of one of the pieces.
The thief shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Where were you comin’ from?”
The thief was silent and Ector turned to look at him.
“I asked you where you were coming from?”
“The Dragon Lands.”
“Dragon Lands? What Dragon Lands? I don’t know of any Dragon Lands. Are there supposed to be dragons there?” he asked with a laugh. “We’re supposed to be Dragon Slayers; that’s what Gran tells me it says on the wagon. It’s Latin,” he said with a smile, dropping the gold pieces into his pocket.
“I know what it says.”
“You can read?”
“Would it make a difference if I said yes?”
Ector considered the question and then laughed as he stood up again, shaking his head. “Not really. You see, Gran has a habit of defendin’ people that can’t help themselves—but attack him?” Ector went on as he began packing up the campsite. He dragged the dead man into the underbrush, leaving a bloody trail in the snow. “Well, if you attack him thinkin’ he’s an easy target — or me — he’s not one to forgive those who trespass against him.”
Ector picked up the blackened pot, digging his hand into it and scraping out the last of the stew. He licked his hand clean, smearing it on his jerkin before wiping the pot out with a handful of snow and putting into the back of the wagon. He tied the tarp closed and put the battered shield back in place.
“We didn’t trespass. We didn’t do anything!” the thief declared.
“It was your intent,” Ector said softly, and Grummore nodded slowly.
“Aye.”
“Gran thinks you’ll follow us and try to kill us as we sleep. He’s not about to let that happen,” Ector reaffirmed, leaning against the wagon and folding his arms across his chest. He looked at Grummore again, who nodded again.
“So he means to kill me?” the thief asked, looking at the feet of his dead companion poking out of the underbrush.
“He might just maim you,” Ector said, shrugging.
“Maim me? Do you mean cutting off an arm, or a leg? That kind of maiming?”
“Aye,” Grummore said, pushing the point of the blade a little harder against the thief’s throat.
“Is he serious?” the thief asked Ector.
“My Gran’s been around too long to believe you’ll actually do what you say. Maybe fifty years ago he might’ve believed you — ”
“T’was his ilk woulda been at Camlan Field,” Grummore nodded, leaning a little harder against the sword. “All those brave men left t’ rot there.”
“Camlan Field? Where’s that?” the thief croaked out.
“Ye wot not by Camlan Fields?” Grummore asked, slowly shaking his head.
“That’s where Arthur was felled by the hand of his own bairn, Modred. You know those names, don’t you?” Ector asked, walking back to the campfire. He looks at the dead horse.
“Did you have to kill the poor beastie, Gran?”
“T’was little t’ be done on it,” Grummore said.
“Is that where you lost your leg, old man?” the thief asked, looking up at Grummore. “At Camlan Fields?”
“T’was at Barnham Down I lost it,” Grummore said, lost for a moment in the mists of memory.
“An’ where’s that?”
“Ye wot not that as well?” Grummore asked, stepping back and dropping the point of his blade into the ground. He leaned on it casually, looking down at the man.
“Should I?”
Grummore considered the question, looking at the man from under heavy brows before turning to his grandson. “Liefer would I ha’ died at Barnham Down than see it come t’ this.”
He looked at the thief.
“When Arthur fell, Camelot fell with ‘im. Gawain had befallen ‘imself the week tofore, mischieved by a smoting from Lancelot at Benwick, and was taken to leech the entire week thereafter. T’was at Dover where Gawain’s brothers died — though of the lot of ‘em, only Gareth stood fine by my likin’. ‘E was slain trait’rously by Lancelot, though ‘e bethought it was Modred he slew. We wept for Gareth — all of Camelot wept for Gareth. As we made lan’fall at Dover, Modred met us with his knights. And though Gawain was Modred’s own half brother he fought against him and stood with Arthur until he was again sore aggrieved an’ died in Arthur’s arms thereafter.”
“And you were there?”
“D’ye doubt my word?” Grummore said angrily.
“No!”
“Don’t doubt him at his word,” Ector admonished, turning his attention to the dead horse.
He pulled the knife out of his boot and quickly cut into the horse’s flanks. The flesh steamed as the blood seeped into the snow and stained it a dark crimson. He dropped what horse flesh he could into a leather bag. “We’ll eat like kings for a week, I don’t doubt,” Ector sighed.
“You fought with Arthur?” the thief asked.
Grummore stepped back again, planting his sword into the soft loam again and looked out at the snow-covered trees. He could feel the cold in the shadow of what had once been his leg.
“T’was brillig cold that morn as well,” he said, “but all mal-ease an’ miscomfort are soon forgot when it come t’ battle. T’was at Barnham Down where I was mischieved; unhorsed in that great melee, an’ left t’ die. It fortuned that Bedivere found me an’ took me t’ leech.”
“You were a knight then? At Camelot?”
“Aye,” Grummore nodded.
“Sworn to help and only do good?”
“An’ what of it?”
“Then how can you kill me?”
“How can I not, ye miscreant?” Grummore asked.
“Wait! You say you’re Dragon Slayers?”
“Aye,” Grummore said with another slow nod.
“Those coins?” he said, pointing at Ector who reached into his pocket and fingered the coins before pulling them out to look at them.
“What of ‘em?” Ector asked.
“He tried telling me they were Roman coins,” the thief said, nodding toward the dead man. “But I saw them when he picked them up. They’re dragon shells.”
“Dragon shells? And where did you find them? In the Dragon Lands?” Ector smiled.
The man nodded. “I can get more if you want. All we have to do is kill the dragon.”
“Kill the dragon? There are no dragons. Are ye daft man! There never were! It’s just a way for us to collect money while Gran tells his stories to the wee’uns. They don’t wanna hear about dragons, they wanna hear about Arthur, and Lancelot, and the love he had for the Queen.”
“But there is a dragon! I’ve seen it. That’s why we haven’t eaten for three days. It’s been hunting us because the old man broke its eggs. It even has a name!”
“A name? The dragon has a name?” Ector smiled.
“Meligaunt,” Grummore said softly.
*
“Bind ‘im,” Grummore said, sheathing his sword and turning away.
Grummore picked up his bearskin robe, wrapping it around himself as he made his way to the front of the wagon and climbed up onto the seat with an effort.
“Bind him? Have you taken to yer dotage, Old Man? What for?” Ector asked, licking the horse’s blood from his fingers as he watched his grandfather climb up onto the wagon.
Ector looked up at the old man, shielding his eyes. Grummore pulled the bearskin robe tighter around him as he leaned back against the wagon and closed his eyes. Ector shook his head, walking to the back of the wagon, talking to himself. He pulled the battered shield down again and untied the heavy tarp, climbing into the wagon and searching for a length of rope.
“If you ask me, I say we leave him and be done with it,” he called out. “Dragons? Is that what we’re doing now? Looking for dragons?” he asked, poking his head out of the front of the wagon. “For real?”
“Aye,” Grummore said softly, smiling.
“If you try cheating us in anyway; try running, or think you can kill us as we sleep,” Ector said, looking at the thief before he continued his search, “I’ll put an arrow in you.”
“I’m not lying,” the thief said.
“No? I was hoping you were,” Ector smiled, stepping down from the wagon. He was holding three different lengths of rope.
“Give me your foot,” Ector said, making a loop in one end of a rope piece.
“What for?”
“I’m gonna hobble you like the animal y’are,” he said, cinching the rope tight around the man’s ankle.
“That’s too tight.”
“Would you rather I sliced you behind your knee?” Ector asked softly. “Gran calls that the hough-bone. Step ahead,” he says, measuring the rope and pulling the man’s foot back half a step.
“How do you expect me to walk like this?”
Ector smiled as he shook his head. He took the second piece of rope, tying the man’s hands in front of him. He made a loop with the third length of rope and slipped it over the thief’s neck. He tied the other end to the back of the wagon and let out ten feet of rope.
“If you don’t keep up, I’ll drag you,” Ector said.
He climbed up onto the wagon, picking up the reins and urging the horse forward. He turned to look back at the camp, reassuring himself they left nothing behind. Satisfied, he flicked the reins and the wagon crawled over the snow-covered trail as Ector smiled, think about the thief shuffling to keep up.