The Last Dragon Slayer
Sir Archie the Bold was the very last dragon slayer. If you’d ever met him you would understand why… every time that dragons were mentioned, Archie hid.
For a dragon slayer, Archie was of a rather diminutive build. He had to stand on a block to mount his pony and he wore armour that previously belonged to the twelve year old son of a warlord. His broomstick-thin legs, adorned with knobbly knees, knocked together with fear at the mere mention of dragons. His muscles were so flaccid it was a miracle he could raise his broadsword more than an inch from the ground, let alone battle a dragon.
There came a day, however, when the pint-sized slayer could no longer shirk his knightly responsibilities. He was cornered by a desperate group of villagers, crying “Archie, Gwendolin the Ghastly is killing our kids.”
Archie may have been a bit of a coward, but he’d always had a soft spot for children, probably because they were easier to look in the eye during conversations. Anyway, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to ignore a child-killing dragon, though his cowardice was begging him to flee. Reluctantly, he pulled on his armour, mounted his pony, and rode towards the field where the great dragon, Gwendolin the Ghastly, unfurled and stretched her great wings, the colour of deepest obsidian, on a distant hilltop.
Archie was sore afraid. The open pasture had no walls to hide behind or bushes to skulk in. Archie heard a soft bleating and, squinting his eyes to the setting sun, he spotted a herd of goats.
His brow puckered… hatching a plan was such a rare occurrence. “I know,” he said to the nearest goat, “If I disguise myself as one of you, I can hide in plain sight.”
He rode back to the village to gather supplies, then returned to the field in his disguise, with weapons concealed. He mingled with the goats, whimpering fearfully.
That night, Gwendolin gloried at the succulent kid she plucked from the field and roasted to a crisp, golden brown.
Poor Archie was never seen again.