Flaude rolled over on his mighty back, stretched his huge scaly legs, and belched, a great and mighty expulsion of noisome gas and flame that resounded all down the valley and to the lake and its mountain beyond. The dragon felt thoroughly pleased with himself; not for nothing was he known throughout the land as Flaude the Foul. Oh, sure, there were other dragons, dragons who boasted larger hoards of treasure or higher kill counts, but how many of them could belch like the great dragon lords of old? Not many, not many, Flaude thought happily. No, only he, Flaude the Foul, son of Grimstink the Gory, son of Turg the Terrible-
Just then he heard the tinny sound of a horn. “Oh, no,” Flaude groaned. “Not again.” He’d already fought three that day and he was sure they’d set a limit, but no, sure enough, as he lifted his great head and blearily looked over towards the valley road, he could see, albeit upside-down, the approaching form of a man on horseback all clad in metal.
“Oh, damn,” groaned Flaude. “Oh flame and fire, and I’ve already eaten too.” Unlike some of his more aggressive dragon friends, he didn’t pursue the little two-legged fellas for sport. He’d eat them if they came after him, sure, which they invariably did. He only made a special effort to go out and get them, though, if one of them happened to be a wizard, as all that magic they’d drawn through their little bodies lent them a certain zing when they were being devoured. Not to mention, if you snapped up a wizard or two you could belch in different colors, and that was just plain fun, you had to admit.
Knights were different, though. Knights had all that metal on, and when you flamed them it sometimes overheated, and overdone human tasted bad in the stomach. Flaude would eat one, none the less; he wasn’t the pickiest of dragons, but he wouldn’t enjoy it as much. He gave a cautionary bellow and a small huff of smoke, hoping the man would take the hint and go away. Unfortunately this knight didn’t look to be going away; he kept right on into the valley until he was almost within flaming range, and then he drew up his horse and puffed out his armored chest. Flaude knew he was serious then, alas; it seemed he was about to do his speech.
Grumpily the dragon rolled back over and heaved himself up on to his feet. His wings ached as he stretched them to their full awesome length; he wasn’t an old dragon, no, definitely not, but he wasn’t in his first century anymore either. He only gave half an ear to the knight’s ramblings as he prepared for the inevitable attack. The fellow called himself Sir Torred, Duke of SomePlaceorOther (Flaude had missed that part), and he’d come forth from his aged father’s glorious kingdom to win valor and thus the winsome heart of Lady blah blah blah and thereby prove worthy for the holy crown of-
“Oh,” Flaude interrupted, “Politics? Is that all?”
“What?” said Torred, startled.
“I’ve heard about this. Argo, he lives up in northern parts but comes down for the summer sometimes, he enjoys studying the history of you people. Likes to know what he’s eating, I suppose. Anyway, he explained about politics once and now a lot of us make a habit of discussing what you’re up to ever since. Something to do when we get together, you know.”
“What?” Torred repeated.
Flaude sighed heavily. It was bad enough the knight wanted to fight him; now he had to have a conversation about it, and he didn’t seem too bright either. “You’re, what, a second son of your father, right? So you want to kill me because your older brother hasn’t killed a dragon yet and that way you can get past them and become king of…” he paused, trying to remember, “Your er, kingdom,” he finished, lamely.
Torred’s mouth fell open. Flaude heard the little clunk inside his helmet. “How could you do that? Consorting with spies, are you?” the knight said, trying to bluster.
Flaude rolled his great eyes. “No, I just listened to your speech,” he said. “More or less,” he amended. “It was very good, if a bit wordy. Maybe you might think about swapping it out for a battle cry, a war yell, something in that line? The people you kill aren’t going to care much why you kill them, only that you’re doing it!”
The dragon chortled at his own wit; naturally, Torred was less amused. “I wasn’t doing it for your benefit, I was doing it for history! Posterity! Tradition!”
“Well, I hope you weren’t expecting me to write it down,” Flaude sniffed. “‘Cos I don’t remember half of what it was.”
Now Sir Torred was really offended. “You weren’t even listening? Ill-mannered craven monster! Have at thee!” To Flaude’s surprise, Torred abruptly leaped right down from his horse, threw his lance aside, drew his sword, and ran straight at him, screaming incoherently.
The dragon normally had enough time to breathe up a thorough gusher of fire that put well paid to whatever knight foolish enough to attack him; Flaude didn’t like to take chances with food that fought back. Torred had caught him off-guard though, so the best he could do was a rapid burst of blue-white flame straight for the man’s head. Torred’s screaming cut off abruptly; his half-molten corpse swayed, and then fell over. A few ashen remnants drifted away on a passing breeze.
Flaude snorted in disdain. “Not even worth eating, you ask me.” He circled round and plodded back towards his cave, thoroughly dissatisfied by the whole affair. Maybe if he went to bed early tonight and had a good long rest on his treasure bed, he’d feel better about it in the morning. “And who knows,” he thought hopefully, whuffling through his nose to get the last traces of smoke and Torred out of his nostrils, “Maybe there’ll be a wizard by tomorrow.”
Note: this story was submitted for season 10, round 4 of the Lunar Awards, which had a fantasy theme this time.