It took about thirty minutes to drain the head of the dragon of blood. Terry had grabbed some rope from the truck and thanks to the horns and protuberances on the snout it was easy to loop the rope. He hung it from a lower branch on the sole tree in the field and he sat there watching the red blood leak from the neck while Ernest discussed payment over a beer with Lethal. They both left him to it.
This was one of the things they don’t tell you about in the pulp novels the Order of St. George published. None of the stories about Sir Alfred McAlpine talked about the nitty gritty day to day stuff. Terry knew he was lucky to have been raised to become a knight instead of coming to it later. He'd been exposed to all this early. He already knew about the hard parts. It also was something you kept out of the public eye. The average person out there in the wide world probably knew this sort of thing went on. They just didn’t want to think about it. That’s what knights do. They protect people. They protect them from monsters, sure, but they also protect them from the harsh realities behind the scenes.
Ever since magic returned back in ‘75 the world had needed protectors. The bickering over jurisdiction led to absolute chaos until the Church stepped in and volunteered to set up the Order of St. George. Now anyone willing to go through the training, serve their time as a squire, then an Errant Apprentice, and swear the Peace and Truce of God could become either a Knight Protector or a Knight Errant and keep people safe. It’s what Terry’s dad had done. He smiled at that.
He wondered if his dad would be happy that his son had followed in his footsteps. He wondered what his mother would say. Would they be proud that Terry had sworn the PTOG as soon as he was old enough to understand the words at the tender age of six? That he’d been throwing himself into danger since then? That Ernest and Dottie had resigned themselves to the inevitability of it and done their best to see he had the training he needed?
He wondered a lot of things about his father. . .
He completely lost track of time until he heard a loud and long expletive from Lethal and a beer can get crushed behind him.
“G’damn you drive a hard bargain, Ernie.” He was saying.
“Don’t call me Ernie, ya idjit.” He heard Ernest reply. “You’re lucky I didn’t charge more. The kid needed this one. Otherwise we might not have come out here at all.”
Terry saw that the blood had finally stopped seeping out and the grass beneath had grown greener and longer. It was done. He tuned them out and unhitched the rope from the limb and got the head lowered to the ground. He unfastened it and grabbing it by the horns he lifted it on his back. He walked by the two bickering old men, who ignored him, and dropped the massive thing into the bed of the truck. It made a terrible sound as it strained the old Ford’s suspension. That shut the both of them up finally.
“Well,” Ernest said looking from Terry back to Lethal, “I’d say this has been fun but I don’t think I can manage a lie that big with a straight face. See ya in church, Lethal.”
Lethal slammed a check down on the hood and grumbled his way out of the field as quickly as he could and still maintain some form of dignity. Ernest pocketed the check and watched him go.
“Maybe that was too far.” Ernest said to the man’s back. Terry walked up checking the back of his duster for blood stains but he found none. He watched Lethal walk off mumbling to himself.
“Maybe. But it’s the truth. He’s a terrible grump.” He grinned at Ernest. “Besides. I believe you made him so mad he left the rest of his six pack.”
Ernest looked shocked and finally noticed the beer sitting on the other side of the hood. “Hot damn, kid. You may have just salvaged this mornin’!”
About twenty minutes later Terry parked the truck in front of the old train depot in downtown Raymond. Around 1985 it had been converted into a way station for the Knights of St. George. A dwarf named Dwumbra ran the place. He did maintenance on equipment and ran a machine shop in the back for working on motorcycles. Not many knights came through the area any more, but when they did they were surprised to find something so large and full service.
Dwumbra himself was an odd duck for a dwarf. He had a dark blue, almost black, beard and hair that he kept combed over one eye and had adopted a goth aesthetic. He never said why he’d abandoned his people in New Mexico, but he seemed happy and by that point had been in town so long he was a regular. The locals liked Dwumbra.
Terry managed to hoist the severed dragon’s head onto his back and lugged it straight though the front double doors into the way station.
Dwumbra, sitting behind the counter, looked up in shock.
“Holy hell, kid. That’s number three, isn’t it?”
Terry grinned. “It is! Can you add it to the tally and let me know how much I earned?” He should have felt bad for taking money from Lethal and then taking money from the Order, but one was for Ernest for services rendered. This was just for him.
Dwumbra waved him over to his large scales at the end of the long wooden counter. Terry slung the head over his shoulder onto the large flat plate trying not to let the insides fall out of the neck. Dwumbra whistled. “Good lord, Terry. This thing is eighty pounds! He must have been a monster! I still don't see how you lug these things around like that!”
Terry blinked. “I mean, it was a monster, so. . .”
Dwumbra just shook his head smiling. Ernest stepped up to the counter to pick up the slack.
“He was as big as a school bus if he was anything.”
“I’m impressed.”
Ernest clapped Terry on the shoulder.
“Not gonna lie, Dwum. I’m proud of the boy.”
Terry grinned like an idiot. His uncle could be sparing with praise. But this was special. They both knew it.
Dwumbra walked back over to his desk, which had been the ticket counter, and pulled out a calculator. He started typing in numbers with his stubby fingers. He looked up as Terry and Ernest came back to their side of the counter.
“How long was it when it was in one piece?” he asked.
“Fifty, maybe fifty-two feet with the tail?” Terry said, looking to Ernest for verification. Ernest simply nodded.
He typed in some more numbers shaking his head, then grabbed a scratch pad to jot some figures down.
“Probably filled up on the heifers too. . . I think we can fudge that into the probable weight. . .” He mumbled.
His brow furrowed and his mumbles became mutters. Terry tried to get a look at what he was writing and typing but Dwumbra curled his arm around the paper and turned, blocking it and the calculator without looking up. After several minutes of furious scribbling and punching at the calculator he finally came to a number. His eyes widened.
“Hey,” he said. “Can you take a check?”
“Why?” asked Terry.
Dwumbra ran his fingers through his hair and puffed out his cheeks for a second.
“Honestly, I don’t keep this kinda cash on hand.”
Ernest whooped and slapped his knee. “This calls for a celebration!” he said and held up the beers Lethal have left on the truck.
“Here, here!” Dwumbra shouted and jumped up on the counter to grab a can from the plastic ring. Ernest held the dangling cans up to Terry who shook his head.
“No thanks. I don't drink.” Was all he said. He normally didn’t like people drinking much around him but this was an exception. “Uncle Ernest, you can have mine. I’m driving back anyway.”
It was a quiet and awkward drive back to the house from town. The facts hung in the air between Terry and Ernest. They both knew this was likely the last time they’d be doing this together. On top of that, there was something Terry desperately needed to ask him before this all came to an end. He glanced over at Ernest. The older man was staring out the passenger side window, seemingly deep in thought. He also had the last beer open in his hand.
“Open container law in Mississippi, Unc.” Terry said.
Ernest looked at him. Took the can and chugged the entire thing in one go before throwing it out the open window. He let out a long, low, loud belch and wiped his hands together. “What container?” he said with a grin.
Terry sighed. It wasn’t the littering that bothered him. The garbage gnomes would have the can carried off before the hour was out. No, what bothered Terry was that Ernest was obviously trying to avoid the situation. There was nothing for it. He was just going to have to ask him.
“Uncle Ernest,” he began, but before he could continue he was interrupted.
“Wait.” Ernest said. “I know what yer gonna ask but I don’t want to talk about it right now. After dinner, ok? I promise, after dinner I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Just. . . Just let me sober up first. This is gonna be a lot.”
Terry nodded.
“Ok. Thank you.”
He thought it would would have been more difficult than this. Ernest had this habit of surprising people. He’d seem like a backwoods yokel and then show a depth of understanding that would leave you speechless.
A few minutes later they pulled into the dirt drive in front of the house and there on the porch was his Aunt Dottie. She was of an age with Ernest. Where Ernest was tall and lean, Dottie was short and stout. Ernest had trained Terry with the sword and shield, but it was Dottie that taught him how to wrestle and fight. She was smiling now. Terry and Ernest got out of the truck and as he walked up she said what she always said when she saw him first thing in the morning.
“Oh no. Not you again.” The smile never left her face and she opened her arms wide for a hug. Terry jogged up and gave her a bear hug which she returned. He squeezed her tightly and Dottie looked up at him.
“There he is. My boy’s all grown up now.”
The smile slipped from Terry’s face. Today was going to be the beginning of a lot of lasts.
“I. . .” Terry began but didn’t know where to go from there. He settled lamely on “I love you, Aunt Dottie.”
It seemed to be the right thing to say. She squeezed him until his back popped and Terry groaned.
Dottie let go and turned to the house.
“If you to want lunch I’m going to need some help with it.” She watched Ernest take careful steps toward the porch. “Well, not both of you I guess.” She walked in leaving Terry on the porch. He turned and looked at Ernest.
“You good?” he asked his uncle.
“Yeah. Just gotta sit in the recliner for a bit. You go help yer aunt.”
Terry nodded and ran inside but heard his uncle yell after him, “NO ARMOR IN THE KITCHEN!” Terry slapped his forehead and ran straight through the hall, the dining room, the kitchen, out the back door, and to his trailer to get changed before he spent the day doing chores with his aunt. He was going to try and enjoy today. He wanted to burn this into his memory.
At dinner that night, Ernest was quiet. Dottie talked like everything was normal and asked about the dragon, and Lethal, and how things went with Dwumbra. Terry for his part tried to stay positive. And he mostly succeeded until Ernest asked him a question.
“How are ya gonna go?”
Terry blinked. In all of his thoughts about leaving home he’d never actually gotten that far. As an Errant Apprentice he needed a “steed”. Some kind of vehicle he could use in combat and to get around. Most knights used a motorcycle. Terry didn’t have that kind of money. Well, he did at the moment but not if he wanted to eat afterwards.
“Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it.” He said, his face starting to burn with embarrassment. He’d finished his dinner and started pushing a single English pea around the plate trying not to meet Ernest’s eyes. He looked up as Dottie spoke.
“I’m sure we can think of something, but that’s for tomorrow.” She said with a smile. It made Terry suspicious. It was the sort of thing she said at Christmas about things he might get as a gift if he was good and Santa came. Well, before Santa had to be taken down a few years ago.
Ernest nodded. “Yeah. I suppose yer right. Terry, when you’re done with the dishes, meet me on the front porch.” And with that he stood up, walked past Terry out the door, turned and left. He heard the front screen door open and close on its rusty spring.
Terry looked at Dottie. “Would it be ok if we went ahead and got the dishes now?”
She smiled sadly. “Of course.” She stood but stopped in the act of gathering plates. “Go easy on him, Terry. This won’t be easy for him. It was your father, but it was his brother.”
Terry stood.
"I guess he did know him longer than me." he said as he started clearing dishes. Dottie touched his arm.
"None of that. You'll feel better once you two talk."
Terry nodded and took plates into the kitchen for washing.
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