Bones

What the hell did the Princess mean, find the bones? What on earth did the princess want with bones? Helliot pushed the mystery from his mind. It was none of his business what she wanted with them. But being in the employ of the king, it was his business to do as he was told. The bones had to be recovered.

He finished loading the wheelbarrow and rested the pitchfork against the stable wall. Then he grasped the handles and wheeled the heavy load of dung towards the pit beyond the paddocks.

The load was too heavy. Halfway there the heaped straw and muck began to tumble. Helliot tightened his hold on the handlebars but he wasn’t strong enough. The Wheelbarrow and all its contents spilled over the cobbles in the courtyard. A gust of wind derisively seized the straw and scattered it.

Helliot blinked. Expressionless, he headed back to the stables to collect the pitchfork.

“It is possible.”

“Good. You shall have the required ingredients. Get to work!”

“But I need things.”

The voices came from inside the stable. One of them belonged to the young princess of Cherrylot, the other was unfamiliar to the stableboy who had paused outside the door.

Not wanting to eavesdrop, he proceeded into the stable, heading for the empty box where the pitchfork waited.

“Hi, Hell!” Princess Shelly’s bright voice echoed in the empty stall.

“You Highness,” the stableboy grunted. Then he looked around for the owner of the other voice but saw no one. “Who were you talking to?”

A smirk danced across her face. “I can’t tell you.”

“Ah, I see.” In truth, he didn’t see anything, but if the princess wanted to keep secrets, he could do nought but accept it.

Her smirk turned into a grin. “It would be very risky to tell you.”

“If you want to tell me, I promise I will take your secret to my grave.” Helliot was a nosy man.

“That you would, an early grave! If I told you, I would have to kill you.”

“I tremble with fear.”

“Dolf is a wizard.” She watched the stable boy's face excitedly, as if waiting for a particular reaction.

Helliot avoided her eyes as a cauldron of anxiety started steaming in his chest. He tried to regain composure before joking, “Are you going to kill me now?”

“No,” she laughed. “But Helliot! A real wizard! He can bring back Fluffy!”

“Please, Shelly. Sorcery is not the answer.” Sorcery? This time Helliot really did tremble with fear

The young girl’s eyes grew hard. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. It’s all your fault anyway. Where were you when the dragon came? Why was my pony not safely inside? Now, Dolf says he can bring her back. You should be grateful! Someone is willing to correct your mistakes.”

“Where is this wizard of yours, then?”

“He will find you soon enough. You’re needed!” spat the Princess.

Helliot said nothing.

The girl marched from the stables.

***

Helliot set out to track a dragon with a heart void of hope that he would find Fluffy’s remains and full of fear that he would find the hungry dragon instead.

“We need tears of a frog!” cried the wizard, stirring the cauldron. “And some of that, erm, what’s it called… I can’t remember, but we need some.”

Helliot regarded the wizard over his shoulder, trying to work out if he was talking to him.

“Go find some, boy!” Spat the withered old man in Helliot’s direction.

The stableboy sighed. “Where does it grow?”

“I have no idea,” he grumbled. “Try the ogre’s garden. Everything grows in there.”

Helliot thought this was rather a lot to ask. He had no desire to swing by an Ogre on his way to the dragon’s hideout, and he didn’t like the old man’s tone, no please or thank you. Besides, he was quite certain the necromancy wouldn’t work, and Helliot knew exactly who would be blamed for the failure.

The old man rambled on. “Looks like a broken kite. You know, when the sticks are snapped, and the strings all tangled. Be off now, boy! The princess wants her pony back.”

***

Like a broken kite. Yes, these leaves looked just like that. The wizard might have mentioned they would be bright purple.

Glancing at the ogre’s curtained window, Helliot grasped the odd plant and tucked some into his pocket.

He sneaked back the way he had come. There was a convenient hedge behind which he could hide. The ogre had not shown himself, and Helliot hoped this was a sign of more luck to come.

Keeping his eyes on the grimy window of the monster’s keep, he backed out of the garden. A strange smell filled his nostrils, probably something from the garden, but he had not noticed it on his way in.

His behind collided with something, and it wasn’t the hedge.

The ugliest creature you can imagine towered over him, eyes narrowed, lips purged.

“Oi,” said the creature in a deep, slow sort of way.

Helliot bit his lower lip. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” The ogre scratched his head and put one thick grimy finger into his mouth.

“Erm…” Helliot considered legging it. The creature was blocking his way. “I’m… trying to clean up this mess made by the dragon.”

The ogre was slow in answering. “Dragon? Not another one…” His expression changed, rage replacing confused curiosity.

“I believe it is the same one,” muttered Helliot, cowering under the monster’s fury. Then he desperately added, “Sir.”

“I hate dragons!” The roar made the foliage in the garden shiver as if a heavy wind blew. “He eats the farmer’s sheep, and who gets the blame? I’ll tell you; I gets the blame, I do.”

“I thought dragons preferred pony,” mumbled Helliot, thinking that the ogre most definitely ate the sheep. His breath gave it away.

The smelly creature bared enormous yellow teeth, then growled. “I’ll let you go. You better finish off that dragon, though. I’d help you, but… I can’t be bothered.” He turned to walk away.

“Hey,” cried the stableboy, getting a sudden idea. “You can help! I’ll need some frog tears, erm, to defeat the dragon. Have you any, erm, sir?”

The ogre spat. “Nah, see the witch! Down in the valley.” Then he trotted off, slumped and dragging his feet.

***

“What is that stench!?” A shrill voice cackled from inside a low circular building. “Stinks of horse manure!”

Helliot loitered outside the witch’s hut, but she could already smell him. The vast collection of spiders, broken things and slimy puddles inclined him not to go any closer. The stableboy was as displeased with her smell as she with his.

“Argh,” she shrieked stumbling out of the door. “It’s one of them peasants from the Kingdom of Cherrylot, no doubt lost or just suicidal.” She stepped in the slimy puddles on her way across her front yard, this didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest, although yellowish slime stuck to her boots and the bottom of her cloak. She was almost as ugly as the ogre, but not quite. Her nose was long and misshaped. Helliot reckoned the nose was a requirement in the field of witchcraft.

“What do you want, smelly peasant?” She inquired in her shrill jeering voice.

“Frog tears,” he said simply, praying for the encounter to end already.

“You can’t afford them,” she growled.

“The king will see the dragon slain. He’ll give you anything you want if you help me.” Helliot hoped that was true.

“You’re lying,” screeched the witch, mirth on her face.

“I beg you, don’t turn me into a frog!”

“Whyever not? You’d cry a little and there – frog tears!” She laughed cruelly but did not raise her wand. “A frog will not do. If you’re off to kill the dragon, better turn you into something more… effective.”

“I’m not…” He swallowed, then cast his eyes downward. “I wasn’t going to kill the dragon, just recover the bones of the royal pony, Fluffy.”

The witch stopped laughing. “Dragons eat the bones of their pray….” She regarded him with amusement, but also something else. “I know just what you need!” Flashing her stained teeth in a grin, she skipped off into her hut.

She returned with something wrapped in an old rag. “This, dear peasant, is a mighty sword of sorcery… The Blade of Bread!”

As the rag flew off the object, Helliot saw a most peculiar object. It was not a sword. Rather it was a crusty roll, shaped to look like a sword, at least to the eyes of someone with good imagination.

“The Blade of Bread?” Helliot tried to sound impressed.

“Aye!” sang the witch, beaming with pride. “Made it myself.”

“And what do I do with that? I’m a stableboy, not a knight.” Not that being a knight would have made any difference. “Does it give me dragon-slaying powers when I eat it?”

“Nope,” the crone’s belly laugh sounded almost genuine. “It takes away the dragon’s stableboy-slaying powers. Best not eat it. It has the most vicious poison. One lick of the crust and the dragon is dead. Or maybe not.” She shrugged.

Maybe not? Helliot had no choice, the princess wanted her pony back. “If I slay the dragon, you’ll grant me the frog tears?”

The witch nodded and bowed as she handed over the crusty roll, rewrapped in the rag.

***

For someone who had never tracked a dragon before, the stableboy felt he did well to find the enormous cave, recognisable as the dragon’s lair by the spiky tail poking out of it.

Somewhat fearful but relieved his journey was drawing to an end, Helliot prodded the scaly tail. “Excuse me, Mr Dragon?”

The earth began shaking, the tail disappeared into the cave. Moments later the beast’s head appeared in the opening.

The dragon blinked and sniffed the air.

Courageously, Helliot lifted the Blade of Bread and frantically waved it about.

The dragon giggled, rested its head on its front paws and watched the stableboy dance.

Helliot knew not what else to do, so he launched the crusty roll at the dragon. The part that might have been either the hilt or blade sliced the dragon’s eyeball.

An angry roar drowned all other sounds, and the next moment the stableboy was in the dragon’s mouth, drenched in its saliva and heaving from the foul smell.

Being swallowed by a dragon was most uncomfortable, and the journey through its gut was no party either.

***

Being a man who always looks for the silver lining, Helliot rejoiced at finding himself alive some hours later, surrounded by various other creatures who had suffered the same indignity of being eaten and then pooped out again. By the looks of things, no one else had survived the ordeal.

Bones lay scattered all around him. Remembering his task, he set to looking for those belonging to the royal pony Fluffy. They were hard to distinguish from the sheep bones, and he wasn’t altogether certain he had the right ones when he set off for home.

***

He smelled a lot worse than horse manure when he swung by the witch’s hut to pick up the frog tears. She noticed it too.

***

Back at the royal stable, the wizard, Dorf, plunked the lot in the cauldron and the bones assembled into a dreadful undead pony, who stank and limped and was anything but fluffy.

The disgruntled princess blamed the stableboy, who got on with his work. The undead pony neither ate nor pooped, which was a great improvement as far as the stableboy was concerned.