Back in the days before the Change, when magic was still wont to be seen in the land, Bartholomew was a young man schooled in the arts of forging.

He labored all day in the forge, making weapons for the King’s sons and other nobles. Bartholomew was diligent and industrious, and he sang and dreamed as he worked. All who saw his work said that there were no fairer weapons available, despite his youth. Barth’s swords were sharper, stronger and shinier. His mail was lighter, yet sturdier.

He dreamed as he pounded the hot steel, dreamed of fashioning a sword and armor for himself one day. And yet, he never seemed to get around to making it. There was never enough time. The King’s third son, Prince Whomever, or the good Lord Whatshisname always came first. And because Barth’s work was so excellent, there were always orders far in advance.

One day, Barth was commissioned to make a sword for the King himself. Barth immediately pushed aside his other work and sat down to think.

A King’s sword was no ordinary thing. It should be made of thunderbolts gathered in the light of the full moon, forged in dragon’s fire, and laid about with enchantments before being tempered in holy water.

Well, reasoned the lad, tomorrow night is the full moon, so that’s no problem. But where to get the dragon’s fire? As he sat pondering, there came from outside a tremendous roaring, louder even than the furnace of his forge. Without pausing for thought, Barth snatched up a hauberk he had made for the good Lord Whoo and raced outside. There, right before his forge, lay a dragon of Tremendous Girth and Proportion.

The worm had blue hair streaming in straggles from its horny brow, and green scales, sharp enough to slice a man’s bones, all down its mighty back. The mighty tail was twice as long as the horrendous body, and from behind the forelegs rose a pair of leathery wings tipped with venomous barbs.

Barth recognized him immediately. This was Grendor, Eldest of Dragons, Lord of Beasts, Terror of Terrors.

“What!” bellowed Grendor, “is there no one with the courage to face me?”

At this challenge, Barth looked about. Indeed, excepting himself, the road was empty. Where were the King’s brave sons? Where were the nobles? Where was the King’s Guard? Barth took a deep breath, stood his ground, and hailed the dragon. “Lord Grendor!” he shouted. “O! Dragon of Great Proportions, Lord of Beasts, Terror of Terrors! What do you here in the land of men? Are you so anxious to pass your titles on to your sons?”

Slowly the huge neck of the worm swivelled around until Grendor was able to fix one massive, terrible eye on the young smith. “Ha!” The force of the dragon’s laughter almost blew Barth off his feet, but Barth braced himself against the wall of the forge and kept his ground.

“Ha!” laughed the dragon again. “Is this the best the mighty King can muster to send against Grendor the Mighty?”

Barth pursed his lips. “Am I not enough?”

The dragon’s mighty teeth gleamed as he smiled. “Well spoken, brave little morsel. Come, let me taste you.”

Barth also smiled, knowing well that the worm could not reach him, sheltered as he was by the buildings lining the narrow road, for the beast was simply too large to get head or talons between the structures. Also, Barth was well-read, and he knew somewhat about dragons. “Before I slay you, O Mighty Worm,” he yelled, “I would ask you a riddle.”

Grendor slumped back and laid his huge head on the ground, for, if possible, dragons like rid- dles better than man-flesh. “Ask, then, of my wisdom, little mouthful.”

Barth assumed a schoolmaster’s voice, and stood with hands clasped behind his back. “In all the tomes of wisdom, in the chrestomathies of lore, in the scrivings of wizards, or in the tea leaves of witches . . . in all of these, where is it written that Grendor the Great will meet his death by the hand of a commoner on the night of the full moon?”

Grendor hesitated not at all. He snorted, and a spout of flame licked around the corner to singe Barth’s foot. “Ha! Nowhere is such a thing written, else I would know of it, for I am the Wisest of Worms, Mightiest of the Mighty. Come and meet me, little fool!” Smoke began to curl from the worm’s nostrils, and the claw of his right forefoot lifted a slab of stone the way a man would brush aside a cushion. Grendor crept forward, a red light in his eyes. “Come,” he hissed. “Let me taste your juices!”

“Listen to me!” shouted Barth, backing away. “Are you so sure of your knowledge?”

A dragon is prouder of nothing more than his education, and Grendor, being Eldest of Worms, had a mighty pride indeed. “So sure am I,” he replied haughtily, “that I shall return here tomorrow night, when the moon is full, to taste you then!”

“To your doom, then!” shouted Barth.

“To yours!” returned Grendor, spreading his huge, foul-smelling wings and flapping away.

Now all the people came out from behind their locked doors and congratulated Barth on his bravery. “But what,” said Prince Whosthat, emerging from behind the cistern where he had hidden, “what will you do tomorrow night when the worm returns?”

“My Lord Prince,” said Barth, always polite, “I small meet him in battle.”

Then all those who praised him laughed, thinking his courage merely the bravery of a fool, and they left him alone. “You will perish,” wailed Prince Whosthat, “and then how will my father get his sword?”

“I do not intend to perish so easily, my Prince.” And that ended the conversation, for the Prince was famished from the excitement, and he retired to the castle for a second lunch.

Barth set about collecting the supplies he would need for tomorrow. First, he strengthened the walls and roof of his forge, bracing the stout stone walls with a steel lattice. Then he drew several barrels of water up from the well. He had the village priest bless one of the barrels, and this one he set aside from the others.

Then he went about the village begging enchantments from the people. Thinking that he was at last afraid of tomorrow’s fight, and unwilling to help in any other way, the townsfolk gave unstintingly. By the end of the day, Barth had charms and magicks against fear, against foolishness, against old age, against bad luck, against enemy magic, against dragons and lesser beasts, and even against the wiles of women, for it was believed in those days that to love a woman robbed a warrior of his strength, and, in fact, most warriors could be found in the brothels, whiling away their strength, rather than out in the countryside, a-questing or stringing up brigands and robbers.

All these spells Barth wrote down verbatim, and then added two he had learned long ago and yet had never had occasion to use. The first was an enchantment guaranteed to give unerring aim and sure thrusts, and the second was to ensure an unfaltering stance.

Then, assured that everything he could do was done, and being a sensible young man, Barth went to bed early.

In the morning when Barth awoke, townspeople were already leaving the village. There were long lines of them going up into the hills, drawing wains laden with provender, from there no doubt to watch the pyrotechnics which would take place that night. In all, there seemed to be a holiday mood among the villagers, for the children scampered and prattled about the coming fight, and the older folk took blankets and food as if for a picnic. And yet, there was no doubt that they were leaving; even the King’s household - Knights, Lords, Princes, Ladies, and all - were taking to the hills.

Barth ignored this exodus and spent all day polishing his armor. As darkness fell, he was ready.

At the first light of the full moon, he scampered away to search under the hedges. Fortunately, it had rained the previous night, and there were many fresh thunderbolts to be found. Barth selected an armful of the biggest and best, and made his way back to the forge.

He was just in time, for as he passed through his doorway, the moon was blotted out by huge, slowly flapping wings, and there arose the stench of dragon fetor. “Ho!” cried Grendor, “where is the brave, foolish, tasty commoner?”

Barth stuck his head out the window and called, “O Brave and Splendid Father of Dragons, I am in here!”

“Then come out, succulent morsel!”

“My Lord Dragon, you must come in and get me!”

This reply sent the worm into a rage, for no dragon likes to be taunted, especially after waiting a whole day and a night for a battle. With a roar that curled the King’s beard far away in the hills, Grendor lurched into motion and came as close to the forge as his bulk would allow.

Barth watched through the window, measured the distance cooly, and shouted, “You’re not so Splendid!”

Grendor replied by shooting a blast of fire through the window. Nothing could have pleased Barth more. He picked up his tongs and held the thunderbolts before the dragon’s fire.

“Your mother was an iguana!” he shouted when the fire subsided for a moment. The worm obligingly spewed forth more flames, and Barth continued his work. Then he noticed that the windowsill was catching fire, so he carefully put down the hot thunderbolts and sloshed water from one of the barrels until the fire was out. Peering carefully around the edge of the window, Barth looked for the dragon.

With a whump, something huge and heavy landed on the roof. Barth smiled to himself and pulled open the skylight. “So,” he taunted, “the Mighty Worm needs to hide on the roof!”

Grendor answered with a ferocious blast of breath through the skylight. Barth once again held the thunderbolts before the fire and began to pound them into shape.

Long before he was finished, he was dripping in sweat and choking in the fumes. But he held onto his tools and kept working. There were many breaks for both of them, for even Grendor could not keep his fire going for hours on edge, and Barth had to stop quite often to douse flames.

But at length, just when Barth was running out of insults, the forging was done. He took the white-hot blade into the corner and began to murmur the enchantments he had written down.

And just in time! For not only had Barth run out of taunts, but Grendor had run out of pa- tience. As anyone who has read the right sort of books knows, a dragon will play with his food before eating it, and although some of Barth’s jibes had struck home, Grendor was still toying with the lad. Now his stomach rumbled, and he began his attack in earnest. With his huge, strong wings he beat at the walls of the forge, and with his heavy snout he sought to lift the roof.

Barth tried to ignore all this, for the charms had to be said while the metal was still molten, and he had several left to say. So he trusted to his preparations, hoping that the reinforcements would hold until he was done. And just as the walls were cracking under Grendor’s blows, he finished the last spell. Grabbing up the still hot blade, he plunged it into the barrel of holy water.

Such a steam was never seen in the land before! It rose up around the blade and filled the room, then sought the skylight and the windows. It overflowed the land like mist, obscuring everything. Grendor ceased his attacks, confused for a moment, wondering what new device this might be.

When Barth withdrew the sword from the barrel, there was no holy water left: all had been consumed in blessing that mighty blade. Barth felt a shock of power blast up his arm as the sword came alive in his hand.

Forked lightnings spewed from the sword’s tip and clove the air, filling the room with the scents of sulphur and ozone. Barth took advantage of the obscuring mists and slipped out into the night.

Everything was dark, covered by the steam of holy water. Now everyone knows (or should know, for it’s in all the right kind of book), that dragons are heathen beasts, and hate holy water. But although they hate it, it cannot truly harm them, for they are of an old race, older than mankind, and are soulless. Grendor wrinkled his massive snout in distaste, and swung his formidable head from side to side, seeking his enemy.

Like two evil red lamps, Barth saw the dragon’s eyes pierce the dimness, and Barth smelled the sulphur of the worm’s breath. Hiding the enchanted sword behind his back, Barth snuck up as close as he dared.

“Ha!” roared the dragon, catching sight of him at last. “Did you think you could hide, my little dinner dumpling?” With that, the Eldest of Dragons, Terror of Terrors and Lord of Beasts, brought to bear his mighty breath. But almost all of Grendor’s fire had been expended to forge the sword, and what little remained was rendered heatless by the holy water vapor. But Grendor was a Worm of Many Weapons, and he turned so that his huge tail swung through the air at Barth.

The holy water vapor mist obscured vision for both of them, so the first warning Barth had was the whistle of air as the tremendous tail whipped toward him. Involuntarily, he held his sword up - in reality, the sword held his arm up, for it was spelled against dragons and lesser beasts, and had a mind of its own. And because of the charm against bad luck, the sword was at just the right angle when the barbed tail descended. Like a hot knife through butter, the enchanted blade sliced off the majority of Grendor’s mighty tail. Green ichor gushed from the wound, and the tail segment writhed on the ground.

Springing back, Barth just barely avoided Grendor’s pounce of rage.

Only once before, back in the misty deeps of unremembered time, had Grendor the Mighty been wounded in battle. The worm cast his mind back and back, reaching for the memory of how he had been wounded, and how he had eventually won that battle.

A slow smile of evil triumph spread across the dragon’s face. Splaying his great toes, he waited while the ichor from his tail-stump boiled forward toward Barth. Now everyone knows, or really should know, that dragon blood is the vilest, most slippery, most caustic liquid known in the world. Where it touches, hard stone melts, and mere flesh vaporizes instantly. Protected by his magic from the acidity of his own blood, Grendor watched the greed tide of vile ichor inch forward and lap up against Barth’s boots.

The leather of Barth’s boots curled back and smoked, and Barth leaped straight up in aston- ishment and pain. But the enchantment on the sword which guaranteed sure footing caused him to land on the only safe spot - the dragon’s back.

Seeing his unwonted advantage, and being a sensible lad who didn’t fiddle about with notions of fair play when his life was at stake, Barth immediately plunged the enchanted blade deep into Grendor’s neck and severed it.

Lightning filled the air; thunder roared and the sky split in two. The body of the worm col- lapsed under Barth and slowly melted in its own foul effluence. And the amount of ichor and the amount of dragon were exactly the same, so that when Grendor was completely gone, so was the foul corrupting blood. Grendor, Eldest of Dragons, Lord of Beasts, Terror of Terrors, that Worm of Tremendous Girth and Proportion, was dead.

Barth immediately fainted dead away. When he woke, he found himself in the center of a huge, cheering crowd of villagers, all shouting his praise. He held up the enchanted blade in his right hand, and lightning crackled up from it to smite the sky again and again.

Then Good King Worthy and his sons, Prince Whomever and Prince Whosthat, accompanied by the Lords Whoo and Whatshisname, and the entire coterie of the court, stepped forth to honor Barth.

“Goodman Bartholomew,” pontificated the King, “that was a deed worthy of a noble. Give us our sword and we shall knight thee rightaways.”

Now Barth was always polite, but was no fool, and he knew a good thing when he saw it. He bowed low to the King, and said gravely, “My Lord and King, though this sword was indeed fashioned for you, I do not choose now to surrender it.”

King Worthy frowned a mighty frown, and all the villagers cringed. But Barth, who had outfaced the Eldest of Dragons and lived to speak of it, was no longer afraid of the fat old King.

At a signal from their liege, Princes Whomever and Whosthat stepped forward with their swords drawn. But Barth swept their blades away with hardly a thought, for he had forged their swords himself and knew them to be no equal for the one he now bore. Prince Whomever whimpered and massaged his wrist. Prince Whosthat ran to hide behind the cistern.

“Perhaps,” mused the King, “we were hasty and unjust. You are obviously a likely lad with a sure wrist and good sense. Sir Bartholomew, wouldst keep the blade and marry my daughter?”

Barth laughed. “I am neither knight nor stallion to father Princes for an aging King. I shall take my sword and seek adventure in the Wide World.”

At this brave speech, the people cheered, forgetting their fear of the King for a moment. And the King, seeing that he couldn’t keep Barth anyway, gave him his royal blessing and sent him on his way.

And thus do we ever forge our oppressor’s weapons, neglecting our own, until one day, like Bartholomew, we take up our swords and carve our way to freedom, and find the way was always open.

Story Notes

This story dates from circa 1982. I wrote it as an entry in my journal. I still have no idea why.