The prince picked at his chin. His eyes lit up. “It just might work,” he said, and almost smiled.
“Nothing doing!” said Chudu the Goat’s Son fiercely. “It’s not my nature to have tantrums.”
“It’s your secret nature, dwarf, and we all know it.” She smiled as if she actually liked his secret nature, and she patted his hump. Perhaps in the back of her mind she was hoping it would bring luck.
“It’s not fair!” yelled the dwarf, and snatched off his hat and began stomping it.
“That’s good!” Armida said. “That’s perfect! When the dragon comes, do that.”
“Ouch, ouch, ouch!” yelled Chudu’s hat.
And so, despite Chudu’s protests, the thing was decided.
“I’ll never live this down,” the prince said, gloomily shaking his head; but he let them help him off with his armor, and Armida put it on. She swung the sword and ax a few times and hefted the lance to get the feel of it. Then they helped her up on the horse, and Christopher the Sullen got out his violin, tightened the bowstrings, and carefully tuned it. Armida rode the horse into the woods so the dragon wouldn’t see him when he came barreling out.
“Now?” the prince called softly.
“Now!” Armida answered.
Christopher the Sullen began to play. Chudu’s hair stood on end, it was so beautiful and tragic, and tears filled his eyes so he could barely see. He brushed them away with both hands to keep a bead on the cave-mouth. The music dipped and swooped like a mournful swallow, darting across the valley, gliding through the trees, and then, suddenly, there loomed the head of the dragon, peeking from the cave. The prince faltered, so horrible was the dragon’s look, then went on playing. The head snaked out farther, rising up into the sky and weaving as it came; it was wide and flat, like a poisonous snake’s, and the glittering tusks in its partly opened mouth were nine feet long. The eyes were black mirrors that reflected the whole valley, and the scales on the neck and chest and belly, like the bristles on his pate, were of colored metal plate and all brighter than lightning. Back and forth the head moved, slowly, terribly, like the head of a cobra; and now one foot came out into the valley — talons like a monstrous eagle’s — and after it a second foot. For a moment it seemed that the music alone would bring Koog into the sunlight, but with his two feet exposed he paused, for profound caution was in Koog’s nature, and his terrible head stopped moving. He seemed to meditate.
At a hundred and forty-four thousand, Chudu stopped counting and went into his rage.
“YARG! WOOF! YOWL!!” bellowed Chudu the Goat’s Son, and the noise was like a hundred volcanoes. The dragon jerked his head back. Chudu ran forward, trembling in his fury like a thrashing machine. Never in his life had he felt such pure, glorious anger. He turned himself into a thunderball and set a tree on fire, then turned himself into a mad bull elephant and stomped the ground until it split in a great wide seam and he almost fell in. He turned himself into a sheep and ran straight at the cave-mouth, then turned into a hawk and sped away just in time as the dragon spit flame and the sky rained soot. He turned himself into a laughing hyena and laughed at the dragon with bitter scorn, then turned himself into a silly old woman in a rowboat, drinking gin. He turned himself into a cat, then a bat, then a mouse, then a house, then a huge, four manual pipe-organ.
The dragon couldn’t stand it. He plunged into the valley with a terrible roar and a great belch of fire and came bounding toward Chudu with his vast, webbed wings half-extended. Chudu turned into thin air and was gone from sight.
Out came Armida and the horse full tilt, the lance running straight as an arrow, cradled in her arm. The dragon turned sharply and raised his head to spit fire, but too late, his enemy was upon him, and before he could even cry out at her in righteous indignation I AM KOOG!, the lance went straight through him, and Armida had jumped up and was standing on the saddle, swinging with the broadsword, cutting off his head. It fell like some colossal boulder — the horse leaped back — and the mirroring eyes went unfocused. Chudu turned back into himself and lay panting in the grass.
“We did it!” cried Armida, and waved her triumphant sword. She galloped back over to the prince and kissed him, and then, from pure high spirits, kissed the dwarf.
After they were rested, Armida gave the prince his armor again and they tied a rope around the dragon’s head so they could drag it behind the horse. Then they started back.
As they were approaching the Ancient Monastery, the prince said soberly, “There’s something I think I should tell you two.”
“Yes?” Armida said and leaned sideways and forward so she could look past his shoulder at his face.
“I’ve changed my mind. I think I won’t kill myself after all. The abbot was right.”
“That’s wonderful!” cried Armida. “Oh, Prince Christopher, that’s wonderful!”
“And I don’t want you to kill yourself either, all right?”
“Anything you say,” said Armida, and put on her silly look. “You know I wouldn’t dare disobey you.”
Chudu was so happy he forgot that he too had intended to kill himself.
When they were almost at the gate of the monastery, Armida said, “There’s something I ought to tell you two, too.”
The prince twisted around to look at her.
“I think the abbot,” said Armida, “has six fingers on each hand.”
The horse began to tremble.
“But don’t be frightened,” she added quickly, and gave them a wink. “I have a plan.”
Chapter Thirteen
They found the abbot reading and thoughtfully pondering a book about a murderer. The abbot, as it happened, had hundreds of such books. He quickly put it down and stuck his hands into his cassock and asked the travelers their news.
“So you’ve killed the dragon,” said the abbot when they’d told him. “Incredible!” He looked at Prince Christopher with new respect, then called one of his monks to him. “Brother Will,” he said, his old eyes bright and his gentle lips trembling, “gather the brothers together and get all the monastery wagons,” and go to the cave where old Koog used to be, and gather up all his treasures and bring them to the monastery.”
“So that’s why you wanted the dragon dead,” said Christopher the Sullen.
“Naturally, my son,” said the abbot, smiling. “But it’s not for ourselves, it’s for the poor and needy. Of course it all rightfully belongs to you, I’m well aware of that, and however much or little you may want of it—”
“No no,” said the prince with a wave. “I have everything I need back at the palace. Greed’s the root of all evil.”
“You’re a wise young man,” said the abbot. Then he said, “Come, let’s get you out of that armor and into something softer.”
After they had all changed, he took them to the stone-walled chamber with the fireplace — for suppertime was past — and nodded toward the wine and warmed-up food the holy brothers had laid out for them. The three ate and drank to their hearts’ content, and the abbot looked on approvingly. Armida used her knife and fork and spoon with such delicate grace no one would have believed, who had not seen it, that such a frail wisp of a girl could have slain a dragon. It seemed unlikely that she could lift an iron dagger, let alone a knight’s long lance. When the abbot tried politely to engage her in conversation, her answers and comments were so shy and foolish that even Prince Christopher the Sullen was forced to smile.