It had been decades since the last dragon had been sighted in the region; Goodwife Bayliss was the oldest Baravian, and even she could only dimly recollect her grandparents telling tales of an ice dragon spraying the countryside with frost and icicles, freezing the cattle and sheep where they stood.

Nobody had seen a dragon since then. Until now.

Every town menaced by a dragon could use a knight. Every lonely wizard could also use a knight. What happens to a love affair when the dragon has been defeated?

Written by: Jonathan Cohen

Narrated by: Joe Cruz

A Faustian Nonsense production.

To read the full transcript of this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/the-knight-and-the-dragon

Transcript

Once, there was a quiet town called Baravia that was nestled in between two hills on the eastern edge of the continent. Baravia was well-situated: it had a river that brought water, and fish, and boats with trade from other villages down the coast. The plain it stood upon was high enough that the temperature was moderate. It was considered the friendliest town in the region.

The Baravians prided themselves on being friendly. At the entrance to the town stood a statue of the town’s founder with open arms, and an inscription in several languages reading, “Welcome to Baravia, all strangers who seek it!”

Baravia was also known throughout the region to welcome travel from visitors, commerce from visitors, and certainly gold from visitors. But there was one type of visitor that Baravians did not like at all.

It had been decades since the last dragon had been sighted in the region; Goodwife Bayliss was the oldest Baravian, and even she could only dimly recollect her grandparents telling tales of an ice dragon spraying the countryside with frost and icicles, freezing the cattle and sheep where they stood.

Nobody had seen a dragon since then. Until now.

The farm animals smelled the sulfur and fled, spooked. The farmers also smelled the sulfur, but they did not know to run until a shadow fell across their land. With a wingspan several yards wide, orange-red scales, and yellow slitted eyes, the dragon swooped and soared and buzzed the tops of the farmhouses until the farmers cowered in their cellars.

Then came the fire: magical fire, green and blue and orange, straight from the dragon’s mouth, scorching the thatched roofs and searing the rows of corn, and somehow miraculously missing the animals which stood fearfully at the edge of the river, trying to decide which was a worse fate: to enter the river, or be burned by the dragon.

Goodwife Bayliss was not afraid; at the age of ninety-six years, she was only afraid of the aches that afflicted her hips. She stood in the largest scorched cornfield with her non-magical scythe and her non-magical voice and shouted at the dragon. “Get away!” she cried. “Leave Baravia alone!”

The dragon made a long swooping arc downwards, and the one farmer who could see Goodwife Bayliss later said it looked as if the dragon was coming straight for her, fire lashing the field in a straight line. At the last moment, the dragon pulled up, but Goodwife Bayliss’s arms were more agile than her hips, and she reached up and hooked the dragon’s head, which spun down towards her and incinerated her.

“Our beloved Goodwife Bayliss has been slain,” Olliver, the council leader said at the hastily-assembled council meeting. There were a few murmurs at the use of the word “beloved,” but nobody wanted to be a person who would speak ill of the dead, especially one who was still standing in scorched-carbon form in the field where she had been struck. “We must do something.”

“Our crops are in danger,” one farmer said.

“Tradesmen are avoiding our town,” a merchant added.

They sent soldiers to fight the dragon. Baravia had a small contingent of friendly soldiers who spent their time guarding the bank and the merchants, and greeting visiting tradesmen. The soldiers were not familiar with battle.

They returned, scorched and singed and smelling of smoke and sulfur. “We could not get close!” one of them gasped, and the others nodded in unison. Then they went to change their garments and returned to their patrol of the bank.

“We must approach Wynn,” Olliver said at the next town meeting. There were more murmurs. Wynn was Baravia’s new wizard, and he had only been in the town a few months. That led to suspicion, particularly since he had yet to make a deposit at the town bank.

It was Olliver’s opinion against the group of farmers and merchants, none of whom would take a firm position for or against. And so Olliver won the day, and he went to see Wynn.

Wynn had a thatched hut on the edge of town. The hut had belonged to the previous wizard, a disreputable soul who had been ‘asked’ to leave Baravia when it had been discovered that he was laying trances upon the townspeople that caused them to withdraw their gold from the bank and give it to him.

Wynn had not changed anything about the hut. His clothes still lay in a box at the foot of the bed. His books and papers were in the box he’d brought with him months ago. His only additions to the hut were the vials and phials and philtres and potions on the far wall. When Olliver entered through the open door, Wynn, a tall stooped man with red hair and freckles, was taking stock of the potions and muttering to himself: “Attar of roses, turmeric, sage…”

“Friend Wynn,” Olliver said.

“Councilman Olliver,” Wynn replied. Olliver was a man courageous in council, and yet fearful in private. Wynn waited.

“A dragon has attacked Baravia,” Olliver said finally, as if that should explain his presence in Wynn’s hut.

“I have heard,” Wynn said drily. More silence.

“Goodwife Bayliss has been slain,” Olliver added.

“No doubt her kinsmen will mourn.” Goodwife Bayliss had no kinsmen or kinswomen.

Olliver stepped from side to side, and appeared to Wynn as if he needed to relieve himself. “The council has asked me to come here.”

Wynn moved his right hand in a circle as if to speed the conversation. “…to ask me to defeat the dragon?”

“Yes!” Olliver burst out in relief, then caught himself. “As the town wizard, it is your sworn duty to rid Baravia of this scourge.” He blushed. “The payment shall be the usual amount of gold.”

Wynn mused. “I suppose this falls within my responsibilities,” he said.

“What will you need to accomplish this?” Olliver asked.

“I will need to collect information,” Wynn said, looking at his shelf of potions. “Read up on dragons, perform research…”

Olliver sighed and nodded. For any request the council had, Wynn needed to read and read – as if there was time for reading when there was a dragon on the loose!

A small archive of books and papers and scrolls stood at the south edge of Baravia, where Wynn had spent many an afternoon reading and thinking in the intense haze of sputtering candle smoke. The archivist, a wizened woman named Clydia, collected the admission fee for the archive and showed him where the material on dragons was. There was very little of it. A troupe had passed through Baravia fifteen years ago with a poorly-received play about a dragon. A youth had drawn a dragon in chalk on the council chambers’ door and had been flogged.

There were history books about dragons from long ago, but no dragons had been seen since before Goodwife Bayliss had been born. Even so, Wynn paged idly through the tomes, reading to himself such fascinating words as: “The dragon is known to shed skin twice a day, and such skin mayhap be used for clothing and other crafts…”

Baravia’s archive held no clues to this particular dragon, unless it was on the verge of shedding skin and crafts were needed. When Clydia closed the archives for the day, Wynn took the long route past the welcome gate of the town toward his hut.

As he passed the gate, he saw a dusty man in traveling leathers. A knight, Wynn thought. The man had a sword and a bow and quiver, but he did not need any special garb for Wynn to know him to be a knight. Even through the dust, the man held himself straight and proud, though he walked slowly towards the gate, looking very tired.

Several townspeople were present: a young woman was carrying a basket of reeds, two men were talking commerce, and a boy was pulling a wagon filled with round smooth river stones. They each glanced at the knight, but none said a word or approached him.

Welcome to Baravia, Wynn thought. This had been the same greeting he had received when he had arrived at the town several months ago. Despite the statue, despite the sign, the people had not greeted him or taken him in…until he had cured a councilwoman’s son of a sleeping sickness. It was fear, he thought, fear of the unknown, or perhaps fear of losing their gold to the unknown.

So Wynn stepped forward, and came up to the knight, who stopped in front of him. Wynn was taller than the knight by a good foot, but the knight was well-built and smelled faintly of sweat and the road. “Well-met, traveller to Baravia,” Wynn said.

The knight lifted his helmet, and Wynn saw his dark, dark eyes. Intense and curious and wary. “Thanks,” the knight said, looking pointedly around at the other townspeople who had stopped to watch them, but continued to keep their distance.

“Would you like a drink?” Wynn asked.

The knight seemed to relax as if the burden of his trip had suddenly come down around him. “Thank you,” he said. “Call me Tristan.”

Wynn’s hut was already too small for him, and with the knight, there was barely enough room for them to sit at the low wooden table with glasses of wine between them. “You are a knight,” Wynn s