Questing For Dragons

By Len Robertson

The richest man in Pen's village wants her for his wife, an evil baron wants her in his bed, his witch wife wants her dead, the emperor offers a huge ransom capture the reborn Roxanne, and, further complicate matters, she's disguised herself as a boy to squire a formidable yet wooden headed knight who's seeking the Dragon Lord.

Somehow Pen has to avoid the gallows. or worse, being locked away in the Emperor's harem forever while helping the knight in his quest. It doesn't help matters that the Dragon Lord usually feasts on those who seek him, or that, Sir George, won't tell her why he seeks someone who will surely consume him and all he knows.

Not quite eighteen and unfamiliar about the world beyond her village, Pen does her best to guide George through a series of hazards: an oasis habited by the ghost child Roxanne now dead 600 yeas, a monastery of mysterious monks, a hidden vale of gorgeous women lead by a demented witch, across a treacherous bridge to an ancient dragon who may know the lair of the dragon lord, and to the deserted 600 year old castle of the long dead Roxanne. And then there is the certainty of the gallows or of the Emperor harem if she's caught.
As the adventure progresses, Pen and George are joined by an untrustworthy sorcerer and a callow 1400 lb. Minotaur youth who hasn't yet earned his name. All of this makes Pen yearn for the old days when she was the village hog herder lathered in the slime of the stye.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Len Robertson
• Release date: Apr 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301185818

Len Robertson

Len Robertson is the author of 6 science fiction and fantasy books, including his most recent release, Revelations, which won 3rd place in the Science Fiction and Fantasy Category at the 2010 Pacific Northwest Writers Conference.He is a regular contributor to the opinion pages of the Chicago Tribune and an avid follower of recent activities in astronomy, space travel and the search for life on other planets.He currently lives in St, Charles, Illinois with his wife and loves to travel to places like Italy, Turkey, and New Zealand.

Book preview

Blame it on Igor

For most of her life, Penelope had been thin and bony with an odd frog-like voice that made her an object of ridicule in her village. All those years, she prayed nightly to be someone else. Then, like magic, she did change, and with that change she learned the ugly truth about heartfelt wishes. They can be treacherous.

Like today. Without warning her life was in frightful jeopardy. I don’t want to marry Igor, she shouted at her father. He’s an old man and he’s weak.

He’s wealthy, Penny, her father insisted. He put his big hands on her shoulders and peered down at her. He can protect you.

Pen did her best not to scream. He hasn’t any teeth and his breath is awful. I smell him before I see him.

Penny, you’re eighteen and still unmarried. You have refused everyone and must marry. Please.

She saw weariness in her father’s eyes and feared she was the cause. Still, she dared not show weakness. Not if she valued her freedom.

I’m not eighteen, yet. My birthday is months away.

Her father straightened and folded his arms. Pen knew too well that he always did that when he was past arguing.

It has been decided, he said.

Desperate times cried out for desperate action. How much is Igor giving you? How much are you selling me for?

Don’t say that. It’s not like I’m selling you. It’s an arrangement.

Not ready to concede, she used her special weapon: She was his only daughter and she was cute. She gazed up at him with her green eyes watering. Not to Igor, Daddy. Not, Igor. Please. Please. She was on her knees before her father, clutching his big hands, and sobbing wildly.

Her father teared but he remained unmoved. Haven’t time for this, now. I’m meeting with the village elders tonight. Old Tom took sick last night, and they say he’s done for.

"Old Tom? Tom who herds the village hogs?’

There’s only one Old Tom I can think of, and that’s him. We offered the job to your brothers and the other young men in the village. Promised them twelve coppers a week, but none of them wanted it.

I’ll take it! she shouted. I’ll take it.

Her father’s face went blank. He had never permitted her to have dogs or cats like the other children in the village, and for her to suggest that she herd much larger animals left him speechless.

Pen pressed her advantage. I’m the tallest girl in the village, and I’m as tough as any boy. Remember when they all called me Frog because of my low, scratchy voice? They don’t bloody well do that any more. Her fists clenched as she spoke. Well, do they?

Her father’s face brightened and he nodded in agreement. True, they don’t. Almost forgot that nickname. You really want to herd hogs? It’s a nasty, dirty business. Not at all ladylike.

When was I ever a lady?

Her father laughed so hard at her comeback that he had to sit in a chair to catch his breath. Pen, you’ll be the death of me yet. All right, I’ll tell the elders I’ve found a volunteer, but it’s going to cost them another three coppers. I’ll need them to placate Igor. One thing though. You’ll need to braid your hair, or do something with it. Your sun-bright hair would look an awful mess otherwise.

Her father proved to be right about one thing: her long, blond hair. She braided it into a tight bun, anchored it with pins, and capped it with her headdress but her locks kept coming undone in the wallow, making for unsightly snarls. After three days of struggling with hair that had turned from blond to streaky brown from dirt, she trimmed to shoulder length the golden tresses she swore to her late mother would remain untouched until she married.

If not for Matilda

Matilda, the largest sow in the village wallow, liked to play and escape was her favorite sport. As village hog herder, Pen struggled every day to keep her corralled. Sometimes, she succeeded, usually when it rained or snowed. Other times, especially on bright warm days, Matilda bolted, her tail flung high. On those days, Pen chased Matilda until the sow tired and wandered back to the wallow. It was all Pen could do because Matilda outweighed her at least four to one.

The day that changed Pen’s life began cool and overcast but the clouds burned away by noon and the village commons warmed in the bright sunlight. By mid-afternoon, the day became pleasant, yet it wasn’t until the shadows lengthened toward evening and Pen relaxed half asleep beneath a broad oak that Matilda bolted. This time, the sow ran for the forest that lined the far side of the village common, probably twice as far as she had ever run in her life. Legs tired, out of breath, Pen followed only steps behind as the sow reached the trees.

Matilda, what’re you doing? Pen cried as she whacked the sow with her herding staff. It’s near sundown and there are wolves and bears in the forest. They eat sows like you. You’re their favorite food. Don’t you grunt and ignore me. I’m telling you the bloody truth.

Matilda ignored Pen and the thwacks from her staff. Instead, she fed on mushrooms she found in an old rotten stump. She grunted so cheerfully as she tore apart the stump that Pen wondered if Matilda had come across magic mushrooms—magic for hogs, that is.

Screams of pain and the clash of steel drew Pen’s attention. She removed her clumsy headdress and sneaked through the underbrush until she reached the source of the noise. Six thugs dressed in the crimson-on-black livery of Lord Grimm, the hated robber baron of the Black Tower beyond the upper end of the valley, surrounded a knight astride a great gray Percheron.

Matilda needed to return to the wallow but the knight needed help. As Pen struggled to decide, her right hand touched her sheathed knife. Decision made, she burst from the underbrush and made for the nearest thug. Defend yourself, codpiece!

The thug, who stood a head taller than Pen, took one look and laughed. Get lost, little boy, before you get hurt.

That was all Pen needed to hear. With five rough brothers and an annoying frog voice, she learned early how to protect herself.

The codpiece took a half-hearted swing at her as he expected her to run. Instead, she ducked under his arm and ripped him along the ribs. He screamed and dove at her, his blade outstretched. She evaded his charge by stepping aside and tripping him as he staggered past her on wobbly legs. Then, even as he groaned and rolled on his side, her right foot found his groin, twice. Screaming, he lurched to his feet and stumbled for the trees. He had plainly had enough.

For a moment, Pam watched him flee. Bad idea. Another thug tackled her from behind and threw her to the ground. She found herself pinned facedown in the dirt with her knife beyond her reach. She struggled to free herself, but the thug held the advantage.

He grabbed her hair. He reached for her face. His hand pressed against her cheek. Against her lips. Perfect. She bit him—hard. He screamed and pulled away, holding his hand and cursing. The instant she felt the thug’s weight lessen, she squirmed from beneath him and grabbed her knife. He leaped for her again, but she moved quicker. A moment later, the thug stiffened as her blade struck home. It took precious seconds for Pen to yank her bloody dagger from the thug’s stomach and shove his heavy carcass aside.

She sensed someone above her. Fearing she was about to face another of Lord Grimm’s thugs, she looked up, her knife at the ready. To her surprise, it was the knight, only he wasn’t astride his horse. Rather, he stood above her and he looked bigger on his feet than he did in his saddle. He stood heads above her and his shoulders seemed wider than the wagon door to her father’s barn. If she had to guess, he doubled her in weight and he looked to be solid muscle.

I saw what you did, Boy, he said. Thank you.

You’re welcome, Sir, Pen answered. She scrambled to her feet, averting her gaze as she did. The last thing she needed was direct eye contact with the knight. He might not be as stupid as Lord Grimm’s thugs.

Your name? the knight asked.

Pen froze. If he learned her full name was Penelope, he would know two things: she hated her name, and she wasn’t a boy. She kept her eyes averted.

He asked again. This time he doffed his helmet and smiled.

Pen cast a sidelong look. He was younger than she expected. Much younger. He had blue eyes and a broad face made wider by a small nose and light sandy hair that reached halfway to his shoulders.

Barefoot and attired in an old ragged tunic covered with pig slop, dirt, and blood, Pen felt more and more uncomfortable with every passing second, yet she remained intensely curious. She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. Honest, optimistic, deep blue eyes returned her look. Pen liked him. A lot.

It’s Pen, Sir, she gasped.

The knight appeared not to hear her. Boy, most know me as the Silver Knight but my given name is George. What about the brigands? Do you know them?

The who?

The brigands? The ruffians.

Pen blinked. You mean the jackasses I cut.

George grinned. Well, if you want to be crude. Yes.

Don’t know their names, Sir, but I know where they come from.

You do? And, how would you know that?

By what they wear, Sir.

A puzzled expression crossed the knight’s face.

They wear the livery of Lord Grimm.

And Lord Grimm?

Of the Black Tower, a day’s walk from the valley.

The knight thought a moment. Don’t like Lord Grimm, do you?

No one in the valley does. He’s a bloody thief and a robber. Everyone knows that. Why? Haven’t you heard of him?

I’m not from these parts, Boy. I was passing through the valley bound for the Dragonslair Mountains on a quest when ten of the brigands attacked me.

Ten thugs, Pen wondered? She only saw six. I cut two. What happened to the rest?

I dispatched four of them early. I was fighting the other six when you lent a hand.

Whoa, Pen thought. He dispatched four early? You killed them?

George looked shocked. I simply disabled them. I took an oath to avoid needless killing on my quest.

Pen couldn’t believe what she heard. Knights earned their bread by fighting, yet she was the killer. More and more, she regretted not minding her business and feared what he might say next.

You don’t kill anyone? she questioned, looking directly at George for the first time.

Why do you keep asking me that?

She pointed to the lifeless goon lying on the ground behind her. I killed one of the jackasses.

Mmmm, George said. He went to his horse, reached into his saddlebag, and rummaged through it several times while muttering under his breath. His face looked noticeably paler as he returned carrying a pouch and a flask.

Let’s have a look. He crouched alongside the robber. Behold the powder in my hand, made from ground unicorn’s horn and bezoars stone. If there’s any life left in the man, this will restore his breath.

George rubbed the thug’s lips with his powder, and then gently dripped wine from the flask into his mouth. The attacker coughed several times, licked his lips and swallowed.

Good, the knight said. He’s taken all the powder. We wait.

Please, Sir Knight, Pen protested. It’s late. My father will be angry if I don’t return with my hogs by sundown.

Go then, Boy, he replied. It may take a while. Anyway, as I searched for the powder in my saddlebag just now, I found a map parchment missing. Probably lost it during the fight.

Pen often lingered at the hog wallow until past sundown whenever she suspected Igor of waiting with flowers or gifts. Not today. She had the uncanny feeling that her future might be entwined with that of the Silver Knight, and it scared her. She hoped and prayed as she returned to her naughty Matilda that she would never see him again, even if he had a kind manner and deep blue eyes.

Matilda dashed any hopes of returning quickly to the village. The sow balked at abandoning her beloved stump even though the sun hovered over the far western hills.

Pen yelled at Matilda. She pushed her fat, fat rump and pulled her fat, fat ears. Damn you, Matilda, Pen screamed, giving the sow a useless kick. When they make bacon out of you, I’m going to enjoy every bloody bite.

Excuse me, a familiar yet totally unexpected voice called from behind Pen. Are you in difficulty?

It was the Silver Knight again. Only now he sat astride his horse and they loomed over her.

Sir Knight! she cried, her face burning from the embarrassment of being caught unaware struggling with her sow. I didn’t hear you coming. Something wrong?

George smiled. No, Boy. Nothing wrong. I heard your voice and came to see the reason for the fuss.

But, but, the jackass?

Oh, he’ll be fine. The powder worked quite well. I feared if I dallied much longer, I might have to fight him again and ruin all my hard work saving him. Now, about you. What’s your problem?

A knight concerned with a hog herder’s problem? If Pen hadn’t heard it firsthand, she wouldn’t believe it. Just Matilda, Sir. She likes her mushrooms.

Doesn’t want to leave, does it?

No, Sir. She doesn’t.

George studied Matilda. Boy, you helped me and now I think I might help you. It shouldn’t take but a minute.

Pen stood slack jawed. What did this knight intend? She watched incredulous as the he turned his horse and trotted a fair distance from Matilda and her rotten stump. Pen’s incredulity turned to horror as the knight lowered his great lance and began a thunderous charge, yelling as he rode. He meant to spear her sow.

Pen opened her mouth to scream for the knight to stop, but Matilda squealed first. One second, the sow dug for mushrooms; the next second, she ran for the village wallow so hard her back legs reached past her front legs. She squealed as though she had already been stuck.

Pen stood open-mouthed for a second time in about as many minutes.

The knight returned, his voice ringing with laughter. Thought it might work. It was at least worth a try.

Thank you, she answered, as she struggled to contain unmanly giggles bubbling up from her innards.

He suddenly turned serious. Do you mind if I accompany you back to your village? I have a question for your father.

A question for her father? What could any knight want with the father of a barefooted urchin that smelled of pig slop, mud, and dried blood? A chill ran along her spine as she imagined the possibilities. She focused so much on the question that she abandoned her headdress in the underbrush.

What are you going to ask my father? she asked as she trotted alongside the knight’s horse. What is the question?

George ignored Pen. He seemed lost in his thoughts as he rode toward her village.

Sir Knight, she shouted at the top of her lungs. What…are…you...going...to...ask... my...father?

George drew his huge mount to a halt. What did you say?

Out of breath from running and shouting, Pen found it hard to talk. The question? My father? What?

Oh, not to worry. Not to worry.

Of course, her mind thought of nothing else as the two finally overtook a docile, exhausted Matilda, and drove the herd to town. Only when the village came into sight did Pen wonder at the reception her herd might receive with a tall knight on horseback leading them.

To her surprise, passing through the village that evening proved easy. She was so slathered in dirt, slop, and blood that she became just another barefooted urchin trailing in the wake of a mounted knight in silvery armor who captured the eyes of everyone in the village. The next thing she knew, the elders invited him to the village meetinghouse.

As the sun set in the west, she found herself alone with her hogs at the wallow, because even her usually hesitant father found a visit by one as illustrious as the Silver Knight worth celebrating.

Pen was grateful to be alone because she looked horrible and she stank, but she found herself disappointed at the same time. And, she was curious. What is George asking my father? she wondered for the hundredth time, as she made her way in the late evening to the river for a very private bath. In the midst of the bath, she imagined herself in womanly attire. Those dresses, ribbons and perfumes in her late mother’s chest that she had avoided wearing since she was a small child might look rather nice.

Visit to a Black Tower

The Silver Knight and his mysterious question were yesterday’s news as Pen retrieved her headdress and resumed herding the village hogs beneath a sky heavy with rain. She hoped for a quiet morning after the commotion of yesterday, especially since she had a knack for calming the herd with her voice and words. Instead, she encountered a frantic Matilda.

It seemed as if Matilda sought revenge for yesterday’s fright. The biggest, fattest hog in the herd, she ran through the wallow, grunting and shoving the other hogs aside. Some of the hogs ran away, squealing as they went. Others tried pushing back, but Matilda was large and upset.

Fearing Matilda was about to kill the smaller hogs, Pen dove in to save them. Bad idea. Almost before she knew it, her headdress fell into the muck and she found herself on her hands and knees in the slop, trying desperately to avoid being crushed beneath the surging, squealing swine.

A strong hand grabbed Pen by her collar and hoisted her from the wallow. She looked up in astonishment to find the Silver Knight looking down at her, concern on his face. Boy, are you all right?

She stood and tried her best to look presentable with stinking slop caked inches deep on her tunic and oozing from her hair. Sir? she said, looking askance once again. You shouldn’t be speaking to the likes of me. I’m only a common hog herder.

Boy, I’m here to see you, the knight said. I’ve gotten your father’s permission.

For what? As she spoke, she imagined a thousand answers to that question, but the one that seemed unlikely loomed larger in her mind than all the others combined.

A smile spread across the knight’s broad face. I need someone to guide me to Lord Grimm’s Tower.

Not the permission she expected, and it’s the moment Pen first hated the Silver Knight. You don’t want to go there, Sir, she answered after a moment.

The knight ignored her warning. I fear I lost a parchment of great value during yesterday’s dust-up, and Grimm’s men may have found it. I mean to have it back. I should add that your father didn’t see you as my guide. He kept offering one of your brothers. But, after I told him you were worth a ducat to me, he agreed that you’ll do fine.

Actually, the Black Tower was about the last place in the world that Pen wanted to go, and it wasn’t just because she would make the day-long journey blanketed head to toe in stinking hog slop. The Black Tower was rumored to be a place of dark magic. More to the point, Pen planned this day to be her last as a hog herder. Even marriage to frigging Igor seemed preferable to the past two days herding the village’s bloody hogs.

But, she couldn’t tell the Silver Knight that. No, she protested. My hogs.

Your brother Michael stands in your stead today. The knight thought a moment. Would you like to ride behind me on my horse? We’ll make better time.

Two very conspicuous reasons for not riding behind the knight instantly popped into Pen’s mind, if she meant to continue with her pretense of being a boy, that is. No, Sir, she lied. Don’t like horses. Anyway, I have boots. She pointed to an old pair of Michael’s boots stuffed with cloth that she borrowed because her feet still ached from the barefooted running she did yesterday.

As she trotted beside the Silver Knight, She wondered how she earned half a year of hog herding in just one day. A bloody ducat? She was still dizzy with the revelation some hours later when they stood on the hill overlooking Lord Grimm’s Black Tower.

Many stories had been told in Pen’s village by passing troubadours about Grimm’s Tower. Always, they described it as a vast stronghold with sharp ebony spires jutting skyward behind impenetrable black walls and a menacing dark moat; tales Pen discounted as the natural embellishments of eager story tellers. She discovered the troubadours didn’t tell the half of it.

As she drew her thin cotton wrap tightly around her to ward off the daylong rain that had finally lightened to a drizzle, she took in the incredible sight. Massive ramparts rose above, dwarfing the humans and horse. She imagined ladders twenty tall men failing to reach the battlements. More astonishing, the Tower’s dark face gleamed beneath heavy rain clouds as if each stone possessed a dark fire. The glowing stones seemed so menacing that Pen half believed the Tower had been ensorcelled.

Odd, said the Silver Knight, eyeing the Tower. It’s not as wide as most castles I’ve seen, but it’s taller than any of them by half again. Can’t recall ever seeing one so strangely dark either.

Evil, Pen muttered under her breath as she hunched forward, her arms drawn against her body in a vain attempt to stay warm in the cold drizzle. Nothing can be worth this.

A rusty iron drawbridge ratcheted slowly open. The knight held his lance erect and uncovered his head while Pen followed some paces behind him, her hand on the hilt of her dagger. If she didn’t die this day from pneumonia, she vowed she would marry Igor.

Her dagger filled her right hand as she heard approaching footsteps; but, instead of onrushing thugs waving swords, a striking, platinum haired woman wearing a shimmering, ruby red gown approached beneath a broad umbrella borne by attendants. She greeted the Silver Knight and presented him with a golden garland on a purple cushion.

For you, my hero, the woman breathed. She bent to emphasize an extravagant ivory cleavage as she offered the wreath to the knight. Could this beautiful woman be Lord Grimm’s wife, the feared witch Lady Dazzle?

Madam, the knight said, as he quickly dismounted from his horse, I lost a parchment yesterday, and I wonder if your men found it?

Sir Knight, the woman insisted. Accept our gift and join us in a feast this evening. Afterward, we’ll speak of other things.

Their eyes locked as the woman spoke and the knight blushed. But, what have I done to deserve such an honor? he asked.

Please, she sighed, baring even more cleavage. We’ve heard about your great exploits. Our servants are at your disposal.

The woman’s face whitened as if she was about to swoon, drawing an obviously taken Silver Knight to her side.

Relaxed against the knight’s massive chest, the woman quickly recovered. She clapped her hands and a dozen servants appeared, unrolling a crimson carpet. Moments later, a seemingly stupefied knight strolled into the Black Tower—a broad umbrella above his head, a royal carpet beneath his feet, and a beautiful, attentive woman on his arm.

Pen couldn’t fathom what had just happened. She led a great knight to the robbers’ lair to thrash the thugs who’d attacked him but, instead of getting their just rewards, the scoundrels sent a beautiful witch who captured his mind and invited him to a feast in his honor? Pen found herself so transfixed by this ugly turn of events that she stood wordless as the Silver Knight, the woman in ruby red, and their entourage vanished into the Tower. Abruptly, the knight’s gray charger became Pen’s only company.

What the bloody hell should she do now, she wondered as she flicked sodden hair from her eyes. The Knight abandoned her in the rain and left her holding his horse without so much as a word about what to do with it. Or, about her. And for what: cleavage, pretty words, and a heaving bosom.

As much as she liked animals, Pen was tempted to tie the horse to a bush and seek dry shelter until the rain stopped. So what if the fool entered the web of a black widow spider. He was a knight. He knew what he was doing. Served him right if he learned too late the fate of honored guests at a spider’s banquet. Pen hoped the spider served the knight to her staff well done.

She was only a girl with a small knife, after all, she reminded herself. The ducat the Silver Knight gave her father bought the location of Lord Grimm’s Tower and little more. The first thing she would do after the rain stopped would be finding a clear stream and washing away the stink and the stupidity she had garnered today.

Afterward, she would just keep going. She didn’t want to marry Igor, she didn’t want to tend the village hogs, and she didn’t want any more to do with the Silver Knight. The whole world lay at her feet and a ducat burned a hole in her pocket. Crap! She didn’t have the bloody ducat. Her father did.

Carrera, the largest city in Grimm’s dukedom, was a two-day walk. There would be work there for a girl like her. She could get a job as a ‘seamstress’. She was cute enough. Nix on seamstresses, Pen decided after a moment. Her first client would be Igor. She had heard tales from her older brothers that the bloody creep supported Carrera’s professionals all by himself.

She felt hungry, her legs ached from all the jogging she did that day in Michael’s boots, and she still held the horse. It was past time to end the nonsense. "Horse, do you know your way home? You don’t owe your rider anything. You can leave and go anywhere you want. So go. Run. Run like the wind. Let’s be reasonable. If you run, I can’t hope to catch you so I wash