Earl the Dragon Slayer
The first three chapters of a family-friendly novella aimed at adult and child readers.
An audio reading of the first three chapters of this book can be enjoyed here.
The book can be purchased on Amazon stores here.
Foreword by the Author
I imagine that it will be difficult for any reader to engage with the subject matter of this story without wondering whether it is an allegory for events which took place only a few years ago.
It’s reasonable for any reader to consider such an interpretation but, whatever this book may be, it isn’t an allegory for the events of 2020 or any other recent events similar in nature. The idea for the story was conceived in 2017 and I finally put pen to paper in 2018 and finished the first draft by the end of that year. Since that time, all edits have been minor adjustments and the substance of the tale has remained the same.
Some might be inclined to presume that the story is a work of prediction about historic statues or perhaps an allegory for some earlier act of iconoclasm involving historical figures. Such presumptions are understandable but the story is not a warning about possible statue destruction or removal in the near future, neither is it supposed to be analogous to an earlier instance of these things.
Although every writer prefers his work to speak for itself, and would rather not commentate on his own stories, I would do well in explaining that, while the book includes a statue, it is not about statues.
If anyone wishes to know what the story is about, I would suggest that he turn over the page and discover for himself.
“Fairy Tales are more than true: not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten.”
– Neil Gaiman
“These tales of heroic warriors battling the forces of darkness are at best the overly positive representations of history’s victors. At worst such stories are complete distortions of historical fact, namely, those which include tales of knights slaying dragons.
Not only do dragons not exist but even if they did, such stories would only be encouraging cruelty to animals and the notion that man is superior to all else in nature. Man is, at least, no better than an animal and, is at most, the vilest of all creatures.
We would do well to educate our children on the facts which have just been described above.”
– A teacher’s guide to the teaching of modern history courses for primary-aged schoolchildren
THE FIRST CHAPTER
The Statue
It was the most boring day of Earl’s life. He was in school and school was always boring. He wasn’t allowed to do anything fun during the lessons, he did doodle on his paper which was fun but he wasn’t technically allowed to do that. Playing in the schoolground during lunch wasn’t fun either, he wanted to play games with action and wooden swords. But his teachers said violence was bad and that included play-violence and he had been told if he brought his wooden sword to school again, they would burn it.
They had already written notes to his parents telling them they should get rid of his wooden sword as it would encourage him “[…] into a lifestyle of violence, into habits of hurting others, into militant-thinking and into aggressive, competitive and self-destructive ways”. Earl didn’t exactly know what “militant” meant but he guessed it was a bad thing. He had managed to throw away all those notes before his parents managed to see them, but he had stopped taking his wooden sword to school.
The only games he could play were sports such as football and cricket. But the teachers had insisted that these games should be non-competitive and instead be cooperative; the school staff said that games with winners or losers were “mean” and games where everyone won were much “nicer”. But they were also more boring as a result, only the girls and the sissy boys wanted to play them.
It was nearly the weekend though and Earl was in his last lesson, history. When this was over, he could go home and do what he wanted to do and read what he wanted to read. The history lessons here didn’t seem to match the history books back at his house and he much preferred the books at home.
His teacher was talking about one of the biggest battles that had taken place on the continent. The Second Siege of Durmonte’s Castle but for some reason his teacher Mister Smidgen didn’t want to talk about the interesting parts of the battle. Like how the attackers managed to scale the wall by tricking the small number of defenders or how when the attackers were about to seize victory, they were attacked in the rear by the relief force.
No, Mister Smidgen was only talking about the effects the battle had on trade relations between the countries involved after the war had ended.
Boring.
“Despite attempts by Ambassador Kurderwiez, the nation did not want to lower the embargoes on the importation of orange tomatoes…” Mister Smidgen droned on, “…thus relations became fraught and difficult according to the diarist Frauden Dirk, who was a scribe for an accounting guild at the time. But we shall talk about those in detail next week. Now on your tables should be colour-in drawings of the different ambassadorial uniforms of the countries mentioned. Colour them in and answer the questions related to the exportation of radishes.”
Earl had already finished colouring those drawings. He had been barely listening and was now playing with his dark hair and rubbing his brown eyes to try and stay awake.
“While you are colouring those in, I shall answer any questions you may have about the Second Siege of Durmonte’s Castle,” Mister Smidgen said.
Earl raised his hand.
“Yes Worthington,” Mister Smidgen sighed.
“Mister Smidgen,” said Earl, “since we were talking about the Battle of Durmonte’s Castle…”
“We prefer the term tragedy,” Mister Smidgen listlessly interrupted, “the noun “battle” is too neutral a term for the horrible death which happened on that day.”
“…why didn’t we look at the leaders of the armies?” Earl asked, ignoring Smidgen. “I mean, why didn’t we talk about how Marque Jacque de Nichy single-handedly killed fifty men by himself holding a key gateway into the keep? And why didn’t we look at how Count Karl von Froudenhoffer fooled the defenders that his men had left the camp and then attacked suddenly? Or how people fled at the sight of Sir Rackington, a man who had killed a dragon?”
Smidgen sighed again.
“These things are not as important as the economic, socio-political, cultural, agrarian, hygienic and trade-relational changes which happened after the tragedy and the war closed,” he said. “Have you been reading antiquated history books, Worthington?”
Earl didn’t know exactly why but he didn’t feel like answering this question.
“I thought so,” said Smidgen picking up a pen and a piece of paper, “listen Worthington. I know the things you have read in those history books are exciting but real history is more…”
He paused.
“I am trying to think of the word,” he said.
“Boring?” Earl suggested.
“No definitely not!” said Smidgen with a bit of emotion, “more… complex and intricate. The history books you are reading are full of… falsehoods. It is unlikely Marque Jacque de Nichy managed to kill fifty warriors by himself. Since he was on the winning side and very few people could write in those days, he probably embellished his achievements in the tragedy to further his political standing. It certainly helped him marry the daughter of King Julianus.”
He took a breath.
“As for Count Froundenhoffer, celebrating intelligence which caused tragedy is not good. And as for Sir Rackington, whilst a man of… many accomplishments, you should know better Worthington. Dragons do not exist.”
With that Mister Smidgen clearly decided he’d had done enough and began writing on the piece of paper he’d picked up. Earl guessed that he was writing a note to his parents probably warning them to get rid of his grandfather’s history books which were kept in the study. Earl decided he’d have to get his hands on this note too before his parents saw it.
Earl completed the questions with the least necessary effort and waited for the school clock to ring four o’clock, so he could go home. The clock was only happy to oblige Earl after so long and soon he was walking out of the school gates and down the paved road of the village.
It was a bright sunny day, the kind which appear in April and warm everyone up for summer. And on days like this, the sun brought special attention to the white marble statue in the middle of the paved village square; the statue every villager would pass at least once during the day. It showed a mighty knight wearing full armour, face hidden by his great helm and in his hands a tall great sword stabbed into the pedestal below him. The warrior was standing with one foot on the pedestal but the other was resting on two severed, scaly dragon wings.
It was a statue Earl had read much about (outside of school). It was a statue commemorating Sir George of Greenley. The books said that Sir George was a formidable warrior in his age and had come to this village to kill a dragon which held dominion over the inhabitants and the surrounding land. A fierce battle took place lasting two days and two nights and when dawn broke on the third day Sir George defeated the dragon. He sliced off its wings and three of its four limbs. But before he could deliver the deathblow, the evil lizard managed to burrow its way deep into the earth and thus escaped Sir George.
Despite not being truly defeated, the dragon did not return and the village was freed from its tyrannical rule. Sir George went on to accomplish other great deeds and embark on other heroic adventures. Before he left the village however, he told the people that the dragon would return and when it did, he would also, to kill it once and for all.
Thus, it was said that Sir George was not dead but merely sleeping, waiting for the day the village was threatened by its old nemesis once more, and on that day, he would awake and finish their battle.
Or at least that was what had been said.
It had been over three hundred years since the battle between George and the dragon (or “the supposed and almost certainly fictitious” battle had happened, according to Earl’s teachers) and no one took the legend seriously anymore. Earl had read some of the history books in his school and he had observed a clear progression of opinion. From his grandfather’s books back home, he saw that historians had taken the legend seriously. Then from the ones at school he saw that historians had started to take it less seriously but had still enjoyed the tale and then (as the books got newer and newer) they had started to dislike the story but had admired the statue. But now Earl was noticing in the adults around him a further development: the opinion that the statue was bad.
According to modern historians, Sir George represented ideals which were “inappropriate for these enlightened times” and the statue celebrated those backward ideas.
Earl didn’t know whether the ideas or “ideologies” as his teachers called them, were bad or not but to him it seemed clear that the statue was only celebrating Sir George’s defeat of the dragon which had lorded over his ancestors. Nevertheless, the village was considering a vote on whether to demolish the statue.
Earl looked at the statue as he always did while walking back to his house at the end of the street on the edge of the village. He always felt better when he looked at it, somehow his spirits were always lifted when he saw it and he felt some inner power stir inside him. He didn’t know what caused it precisely, was it the sword and armour? Or the pose of the man who had triumphed over a monster and freed a realm from darkness? Or could it have been just the skill of the sculptor in crafting this image? Could it have been a combination of all of these?
Earl did not know.
He opened the door to his house. Earl’s home was at the end of the village and next to the large open fields where sheep and cattle were allowed to roam and eat freely. There were no fences or walls as the sheep and cattle were so tame one could just call them by name and they would come. At any rate, both the sheep and the cows didn’t like to leave the apple orchard which Earl’s mother and father tended. The shade and the luscious grass were too much for the livestock to resist.
Earl walked through the old red door and saw his mother and father sitting in the lounge deep in conversation.
“…it seems clear we should get rid of it,” his father said.
“I agree,” his mother replied, “it must be filling our children’s heads with so many bad and violent ideas.”
“Yes,” Earl’s father nodded seriously, “it… hey son! How was school?”
“It was fun,” Earl lied, he had learnt that sharing his honest opinion about school was unwise, “what are you talking about?”
“That horrid statue,” his mother replied.
Earl felt a pit open in his stomach.
“Yes that,” his father said, lighting his pipe, “it shouldn’t be in the village. I was telling your mother about the vote on the statue.”
Earl couldn’t believe it. He had known that the village had been discussing the statue along with other matters every Friday evening, but he had never thought there would be a vote on the issue.
“I was just saying that I shall be casting my vote for destroying the thing,” his father said, taking a puff from his pipe.
Earl felt his heart beat faster. This couldn’t happen. He imagined the statue and two strong men wielding hammers smashing it to pieces. He shivered at the thought.
“Are you alright dear,” his mother asked, leaning forwards, “I hope you haven’t caught a cold.”
Earl knew he needed to say something.
“You can’t destroy the statue!” he blurted.
His parents were shocked.
“What do you mean?” his mother asked.
Earl knew it was too late to back down now.
“It’s… it’s a work of art!” he said. “It celebrates the moment Sir George defeated the dragon which ruled our village in the past!”
“Art can be bad,” Earl’s father replied, “and that statue is bad art. Do not get me wrong son. Peter Bromley was an excellent sculptor and the statue is an elegant example of what you can do with marble. However, it does not and cannot be celebrating the defeat of a dragon. Dragons don’t exist. What it does celebrate is violence and death. You understand the statue is almost certainly a metaphor for something. Probably a metaphor for some rival Sir George killed. A person or perhaps even a group of people lost to the records of history. Regardless, the statue is almost certainly a celebration of the death of innocents.”
“You don’t know that!” said Earl, exasperated, “nothing I’ve read suggests that Sir George killed anyone except those who deserved it!”
His father’s pipe twitched slightly in his mouth.
“We know that dragons don’t exist so my explanation is the most likely,” he said, firmly, “besides, history is written by the victors. All those things the history books say about the victims of Sir George are likely untrue or exaggerated.”
“And,” his voice got darker, “don’t you dare say ever again that anyone or anything deserves to die. Because I’ll tell you something son. Even if dragons were real, I’m sure none of them would deserve death by the sword.”
Earl opened his mouth but his father raised his hand.
“Now we shall discuss this no further,” his father said, leaning back into his seat, “I shall be voting for its removal and my mind is fixed on that. There is nothing more to be said or added on the subject.”
Earl’s mother nodded approvingly and said to him.
“We know how you feel about the statue and those stories your grandfather used to read to you, may he rest in peace,” she said, “but you must understand, we think this is best for us, you and the village. We’re doing this because it is the right thing, not the easy thing.”
Earl looked at the kind face of his mother and the resolute face of his father before storming out of the lounge.
As he left, he heard his father say quietly but not quietly enough: “Sometimes, I wish he was more like his sister.”
Earl felt his blood boil and marched to the one place which would make him feel better.
His grandfather’s old study.
The study smelt of musty old books which Earl had come to appreciate over the years. To Earl it was the smell of wisdom and knowledge, two things he associated with his grandfather. There were three wooden bookshelves in the square room, two on either side of the fireplace and one on the left wall. Above the fireplace was an old weapon’s plaque which had held two sabres. Earl had asked his grandfather if they were real and he explained they were decorative rather than practical, but he told him he’d used one of the weapons to drive off a wolf trying to attack his grandmother. His grandfather had had a book on swordplay and Earl had read it from cover to cover and had practised everyday hoping that one day he would be skilled enough to use the decorative sabres.
But the blades were now gone. Some years ago, when Earl was younger, the village had held a vote on whether to dispose of all their weapons and the result was a unanimous yes. All the weapons had been taken to the smelter and melted down to produce various things such as candlesticks and farming tools. His grandfather had passed away at this point and so there was no one to stop his parents taking the sabres to the smelter.
Earl moved to one of the most-read books on the nearest shelf. The History of Sir George. There were three books on Sir George in the study and Earl had read them all, but this was his favourite because it contained illustrations of George’s adventures.
He turned to the pages describing Sir George’s encounter with the dragon and looked at the black and white illustration beside the main text. It showed Sir George bringing his sword in a downward cut towards the wings of the dragon which was snarling at him with all its fang-like teeth.
Earl wondered whether what his father had said had some truth to it. Was this all a metaphor? If the dragon had been asked about this, wouldn’t it have said that Sir George was the villain? Did the dragon deserve this?
He shook his head. He didn’t know what to think anymore and he didn’t know what to trust. In one sentence, his teachers told him not to believe anything he read but in the next would tell him to trust the books they gave him. Did he trust his grandfather’s books or did he trust his school’s?
These questions continued to plague his mind throughout the rest of the day and he couldn’t get rid of them, even when he went outside and started practising cuts and thrusts with his wooden sword. But there was one thing he was decided on and there was no changing his mind about it.
He didn’t want the statue to be destroyed.
THE SECOND CHAPTER
The Return of the Knight
School ended early. This was nice for two reasons. The first was because it meant less school and the second was because it was a Friday which meant the weekend was even longer.
Earl should have been happier but his spirit was still low. The statue of Sir George was always on his mind. The vote was two days away now and he knew how all the adults would cast their ballot.
He walked up to the statue destined for destruction. Normally, it inspired him but now it depressed him. The stone knight was strong and resolute, a figure of might and courage. A man who had fought a dragon and won so that three hundred years later, the descendants of those he saved could come and tear down the statue which grateful villagers had erected in his honour.
Earl stood still before it. He felt he should say something. Apologize to Sir George for what the villagers were going to do to his statue but he knew this would be silly. Sir George was dead and his parents and teachers were right, he wasn’t sleeping. He was only a man and would not be coming back, neither to save his statue nor to save the village from a returning dragon if it existed.
Earl sighed and moved to walk by it but stopped upon seeing something move. He turned and looked at the face of the statue, the helmeted head was moving forwards. Wait no. It wasn’t the head itself but something which looked like the head was coming out of it and moving forwards!
Earl stood transfixed by the strange event. It wasn’t just a helmet which was moving out of the statue but the whole armoured body with the sword as well! This new figure came out of the statue and stood on the edge of the pedestal before jumping onto the ground in front of Earl.
Now that the armoured knight was standing in front of him, Earl could better come to grips with what he was seeing. The knight appeared to consist of cloud or white mist, although there was no wind in the air that day, wisps of white matter were flying and blowing off the warrior into nothing like smoke.
There was silence in the square as Earl stared up at the tall and intimidating wisp of Sir George.
Earl was so shocked and stunned by what he was seeing, he didn’t even have the mental control to wonder whether he was asleep or not.
Finally, the figure spoke.
“I have come to fulfil mine oath,” his voice was strong but not loud necessarily, “Heaven hath granted my awakening to aid this land to battle the returning worm. Folk!” He shouted. “Warriors, knights and soldiers come hither! Much is there to prepare! Soon the great worm will return!”
His voice seemed to echo around the village, which was impossible because there was nowhere for a voice to echo. Earl would have thought anyone within a mile’s distance would have heard it. But as he looked around the village, even though people were chatting to their neighbours and walking about doing various jobs, no one was responding to George’s commands.
Although George was still wearing his great helm, he seemed to be looking around in confusion.
“What is this!?” he cried. “Can none heareth my voice?”
He looked at Earl.
“Lad,” he said, “dost thou see and hear me?”
Earl could only manage a nod.
“Why do these village folks not?” George asked in surprise.
Earl swallowed.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What is thy name?”
“Earl.”
“Earl, art thou true in thy words?” asked George seriously.
Earl nodded.
“Then swiftly,” George said, “find the warriors of the village! Tell them that the worm returns! Every fighter must be ready. Thou shalt be my tongue to thy folk.”
“We don’t have any warriors.”
Sir George went silent.
“Or weapons.” Earl added.
George bent down so his helmed head was eye-level with Earl.
“Dost thou speak true?” he asked.
“I swear,” said Earl.
George did not move.
“How can this be!” he finally exclaimed. “I told thy fathers to be ready for the worm’s return. Have ye not kept any weapons?”
“No,” Earl explained, “no one believes you slew a dragon. They think that your whole history is fiction. There is even going to be a vote in two days to destroy your statue.”
Again, George was silent. He turned and looked around at the village and then back to Earl.
“Tis clear,” he said, finally, “if thou art the only one who can see me, then thou shalt have to slay the worm.”
Earl was shocked. He felt his heart rate increase.
“Me?” Earl said. “I can’t slay a dragon! I’m too young!”
“There are no others,” George said, “tis not ideal but thou shalt do.”
“But…” said Earl, “why can’t you do it? You’re here now.”
Sir George sighed.
“If but I were able,” he said, “heaven allowed my return hence yet not to slay the worm but to find he who shall. My charge is to guide and I shall be thy guide.”
Earl felt a panic-stricken sweat break out on his forehead. The knight couldn’t be serious. He was too small, too young and much too inexperienced to be tasked with killing worms and dragons. He needed to find an excuse to escape this responsibility.
“You could probably find someone elsewhere,” he said, “maybe in the next town or village…”
“I must not waste time,” George replied, “he will be here soon. Thou art this land’s last hope.”
Earl didn’t like the idea that he was the village’s “last hope” because if he was, he knew there wasn’t much hope at all!
“But…” he said, thinking, “I now know you’re real but how do I know the dragon is real? I mean I can see you, but I’ve never seen a dragon outside of the history and story books. How do I know you’re telling the truth about this worm?”
The knight was dumbfounded by Earl’s absurd question. Earl knew it was absurd, but it was the type of question his teachers had taught him to ask when he was reading books and he was willing to try anything to escape the responsibility of slaying a dragon.
Sir George looked at him long and hard for maybe ten seconds before speaking again.
“Earl,” he said, “I exist. Thou hast said so thyself. Thusly, I shall ask thee a question: for what purpose would men such as myself exist if worms and dragons were fiction? And why would I be allowed to waken from my slumber if there were no threat to be thwarted?”
Earl tried to think of an answer. He thought he might be able to answer his first question with any number of retorts he had received from Mister Smidgen but as to the second he could not think of any worthy response. He felt his body start to shake.
“I don’t have a sword,” he said.
“What dost thou have?” George asked.
“I have a wooden sword,” said Earl.
“Then take that,’ George replied, “and I will take thee to a place where swords are forged.”
THE THIRD CHAPTER
East Oak Wood
Earl went home with Sir George following behind him. No one was around to see either of them enter the house. Earl collected a knapsack and gathered cheese, bread and water for the journey. George had told him it would take until the evening for them to arrive at the village on the other side of the forest where the smith was to be found.
After he had packed food and water, Earl went to his room and pulled his wooden sword from under the bed. It was a simple thing he had made himself; he wasn’t sure what use it would be on the journey but Sir George had told him to take it.
Earl’s house was on the east end of the village. Beyond the orchard and the fields where the cattle roamed was the forest, East Oak Wood or just East Oak to the villagers. He had been told it was mostly a forest of oak trees but Earl had never been allowed the wood itself. It was considered a dangerous area while Spinney Wood on the other side of the village was considered safe.
Earl’s parents never told him why East Oak was dangerous, only that he should never enter it because entry was strictly forbidden by village law. From where he was standing, however, the forest didn’t look more or less dangerous than Spinney Wood and he couldn’t see why it should be illegal to enter it.
As Earl walked across the grazed fields, wooden sword in hand, bag hanging from his back with the ghostly Sir George beside him, he couldn’t help but dwell on how wild this situation was. This was the last thing he would have predicted if he were asked yesterday what was going to happen today.
The events unfolding currently were surreal but he had already pinched himself enough times to know he wasn’t dreaming. He had ceased being frightened however, his fright had turned into excitement. For the moment, he could forget that he was supposed to kill an ancient worm upon his return to the village and instead enjoy the journey. He was eager to see the inside of East Oak and to find this forge to acquire an actual sword, it had been years since he had seen a real weapon.
If George could detect Earl’s excitement, he didn’t say anything.
“What is this forge and who is the blacksmith?” Earl asked as they drew closer to the trees.
“It is in a village and the blacksmith is an old friend,” said George, “I shall tell thee more when we get there. For the moment, keep an eye for danger. If thou hast spoken true, then there may be danger within these trees.”
Earl nodded and gripped his wooden sword tighter. What could be in the woods? He wondered. Bears? Wolves? Other dragons? His parents and neighbours had never been specific. Although if what his grandfather had said was true about the wolf who attacked his grandmother, then canine beasts probably dwelt within the woods.
If any wolves appear, I’ll climb a tree, Earl thought to himself, and if they try climbing up, I’ll poke them in the eye with my sword.
He played several scenarios involving the appearance of wolves in his mind, creating plans to deal with every possible predicament. His thoughts were interrupted however upon entering East Oak properly.
True to its name, the forest was comprised of ancient, large oaks. Their branches stretched far and wide and created a canopy which almost completely hid the sky. However, the canopy did not block the sun but instead filtered the light through its leaves, tinting it a light green. The ground beneath the trees was covered with luscious grass that had never seen grazing animals, beautiful flowers flourished in the sunlight and large mushrooms along with thick moss covered fallen branches and tree trunks. Birds sang sweetly in the branches above while butterflies, bees and insects buzzed and hummed around and above the flowers.
East Oak was more than pretty, it was beautiful. And it was more than mesmerising, it was captivating. The memory of Spinney Wood with its small trees, lonely flowers and crushed plant life, vanished from Earl’s mind. He realized that until now he had never entered a forest or wood before in his life and he now knew what he had missed for years.
He stood spellbound for some seconds, scanning the woods around him soaking in the environment, its sounds, its colours and its shapes. He slowly moved forwards, still captivated by the beauty… no, beauty didn’t capture East Oak’s magnificence… exquisiteness was probably the more apt word. But in truth, Earl couldn’t find any one word or list of words which could describe the scene and ambiance around him.
“Do you know any words to describe this?” he asked Sir George.
George looked at him and then at the wood around them.
“Some things cannot be expressed with words alone,” he said finally.
Earl noticed a dirt path as he walked further through the grass. It was small and twisted and wound its way through the grass and between the trees. Maybe it was a route used by rabbits, he didn’t know. It looked big enough for him though.
“That is the path thou must follow,” said Sir George, pointing.
Earl walked onto the path. He didn’t know whether it was the fact he was on a quest or because he was in an enchanting forest or a mixture of these things, but stepping onto the path, he felt his excitement change into what he could only imagine was joy.
He giggled, then he chuckled and then he began running up the path laughing all the way. He ran following the path through patches of red mushrooms, past trees and over fallen oaks, deeper and deeper into the wood. Normally, this kind of running would have made Earl tired, he couldn’t seem to gather energy to run home from school (even though it was maybe only five stone-throws away) but here, it was as if he were drawing from an unlimited pool of liveliness.
On and on he ran, his legs strangely enjoying the exertion. How long he might have kept running, I do not know, however, he slowed down upon noticing subtle changes in the wood’s atmosphere and then stopped abruptly upon turning round a strangely large alder tree flanked by natural rows of bushes.
It was almost as if he was looking into a different wood but Earl knew this was part of East Oak. Yet how different it was! The areas he had run through were green and bright but this region was damp and brown. The ground was not covered with green grass or colourful flowers but instead smothered and choked with water. Earl had never seen a bog in his life but he knew this was one. The path cut through and around the large ponds of stagnant, muddy, brown water, where there were no pools there was nothing but soaked brown mud. Earl knew instinctively he would sink if he stepped into this mud. There were trees growing in the water-clogged earth but they were miserable-looking. They were tall but thin, their leaves were brown as if it were autumn rather than late spring.
There was a white haze in the air which grew thicker and thicker the more Earl looked across the swampy expanse and he realized he could neither see the end of the marsh nor the road.
There was no vibrancy in the air. No insects, not even flies were to be seen in this desolate bog. Birds seemed to have avoided this part of the forest, the only noise was that of a chilly breeze whistling between the sorry trees.
Earl felt his previous happy state disappear. He looked around, hoping to see another path which would take him around or away from the bog but he could see not see much beyond the thick vibrant trees of the rest of the forest. He turned to Sir George who was floating next to him.
“Do I have to go through here?” he asked, he hoped Sir George would say no.
“Alas yes,” said George, “this is the swiftest route to the forge. And there is no other path that I know.”
Earl looked back into the marsh. He gave a nervous sigh and began to continue slowly up the path. The bog ahead unnerved him and he didn’t trust it for one minute.
While the rest of the earth was soaked by the water, the path was dry and unlike the rest of the mud pristinely clean. Indeed, the path was on raised earth above the marshland and so Earl felt quite sure that he would not get wet. Although he did have to take care with his steps, he almost slipped off the path and into the muddy earth.
The haze didn’t get thicker as Earl travelled but it didn’t get thinner either. So he didn’t know how far he was from the end of the marshes. Time itself seemed to operate differently in this area of the forest, he had to have been travelling through the swamp for maybe half an hour but it felt like he had been in there for half a day. Earl was starting to get hungry but he didn’t dare stop to eat, he had a suspicion that the marshy woodland was dangerous and he wanted to get out as soon as possible.
The whole place was unhappy. The trees seemed to groan around him and the whistling wind seemed eager to escape the swamp and move into the surrounding vibrant woods.
The path continued winding and twisting through the mud, water and trees until it split into a fork. While the main path continued straight and appeared to head out of the marsh, the second one turned sharply to the left and headed further into the swampland before ending in a pond.
The choice was obvious.
Earl moved up the straight pathway and then stopped.
A strange noise was coming from the path up ahead. It sounded like a cross between a snigger, a cackle and a rasp.
“As I thought,” Sir George said.
“What?” Earl said, tightening his grip on his wooden sword.
There were three short figures shuffling towards them through the mist and Earl could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Still the horrid sniggers and cackles pierced the air.
“Bog-dwelling things,” said Sir George, “frigglewumps. Keep thy wits about thee.”
The creatures emerged from the cloak of the mist about twenty yards away. The frigglewumps, as Sir George called them, were ugly things. They had long marrow-like noses which hung over their mouths, almost hiding their small but sharp teeth which their lips seemed unable to conceal. Their skin was pebble-grey in colour and very toad-like, the frigglewumps seemed to be coated in warts and other bulbus skin-deformities. Their legs were similar to that of a frog and they shuffled on them rather awkwardly, their hands however were very human except for the long claw-like nails on their fingers. Each frigglewump was equal in height to the other and they were all maybe half a head shorter than Earl. They were wearing black hoods and ragged brown clothes which had clearly never been washed.
“Stranger,” the middle one rasped, “why are you here?”
“Show not fear,” Sir George said, “they are but the weakest of their kind. They are no threat.”
Earl nodded to Sir George, confusing the three frigglewumps who couldn’t see the ghostly knight.
“None of your business!” Earl snapped at the toady monsters.
The frigglewumps shuffled back a little, obviously taken aback by his response. Earl felt most confident all of a sudden.
Then the middle swamp-dweller spoke again.
“That may be true, man-child,” he said, “but none go through these woods without paying homage to the Marsh Queen. What gifts have you brought?”
“Give them nought,” Sir George advised, “these foul things will take thy generosity for gullibility and think thee weak.”
Earl heeded the old knight’s words.
“I haven’t brought her anything and I’m not going to give you anything,” he said.
Again, the frigglewumps shuffled back and their faces made that expression everyone makes when their plans do not go accordingly. Earl felt affirmed and powerful, he had never seen anyone treat him with such fear and respect.
Then the expression on their faces changed to that of one who has been insulted.
“In that case,” said the one on the left with a high shaky voice, “we shall give you to the Marsh Queen as a gift!”
Then they all began hopping towards him rather like frogs, and Earl took a step back.
“Do not retreat!” Sir George commanded. “They are cowardly wretches and shall not fight hard. Ready thy stick and strike whoever comes close!”
Earl pointed his wooden sword at the frigglewumps hopping towards him but they did not stop, in fact, they didn’t seem the least bit frightened. Their movements were a blur to Earl’s eyes and so he could not focus on their bodies particularly well but one aspect of the frigglewumps caught his attention. He hadn’t noticed them while they were standing still but he could see them now. Their eyes. Their eyes were bright orange and contained nothing but small black pupils which were filled with an awful eagerness.
After seeing those battle-hungry eyes, Earl’s courage failed him.
He turned and began to run back up the pathway he had come.
“No!” Sir George cried.
Earl heard the frigglewumps laugh behind him.
“See! See!” One of them shrieked. “Coward! Coward! He is no fighter! Get him! Get him!”
Laughter erupted around the marsh, bouncing off the trees and the ponds in such a way that it was impossible for Earl to be sure where the cackles were coming from. Then a dozen or so frigglewumps jumped on either side of the path he was running on and attacked him. They were half the size of the three frigglewumps who had blocked his path but what they lacked in strength, they made up for in pluck and number.
They punched him with their little arms and kicked him with their larger frog legs. They couldn’t reach his head but it didn’t matter because Earl’s whole body was jostled around in such a manner that he couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. The individual frigglewumps seemed to blend into one horrifying swarm of amalgamated faces and one continuous stream of horrendous cackles. The blows seemed endless and the whole experience was similar to being in the sea and pounded by small but never-ceasing waves.
Earl cried in terror and began swinging his wooden sword around him to knock the frigglewumps out of his way so he could continue running down the path. Techniques he had been copying from his grandfather’s book on swordplay were thrown out of the window and he swung wildly. He didn’t know how many he was hitting or where he was hitting them but he could feel his sword splintering from the impacts.
Then one of the frigglewumps grabbed the sword as he positioned it for a downward strike and wrenched it out of his hand. This ruined Earl’s balance and one of the frigglewumps took advantage and kicked him in the stomach, he fell to the ground and next thing he knew the creatures were tying him with coarse rope.
Nice