George

By Kate Danley

Like if Terry Pratchett and GALAVANT got together and had an idiot child!

 

George is just your normal peasant, with parents who abandoned him to join up with pirates and a terrible family secret he carries around his neck. 

 

But when a wandering knight scoops him up to carry all his heavy stuff, George feels like his dreams are coming true! Except the knight dies. And now George is in trouble. Will donning the knight's armor and taking his place solve his problems? What about when a dragon terrorizes the kingdom and George is expected to fight it? Things are about to get complicated...

 

Chase away the darkness with George and his friends in this hilarious, rollicking riff on George and the Dragon by USA TODAY bestselling author, Kate Danley.

 

These dragons aren't going to slay themselves!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katherine Danley
• Release date: May 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201056438

Kate Danley

Kate Danley, an award-winning actress, playwright, and author, is a member of the Acme Comedy Improv and sketch troupes in Los Angeles. Her plays have been produced in New York, Los Angeles, and the Washington, DC/Baltimore area. Danley’s screenplay Fairy Blood won first place in the Breckenridge Festival of Film screenwriting competition in the action/adventure category. Her debut novel, The Woodcutter, was honored with the Garcia Award for the best fiction book of the year, was the first place fantasy book in the Reader Views Literary Awards, and the winner of the sci-fi/fantasy category of the Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Kate currently lives in Burbank, California, and works by day as office manager for education and exhibits at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles.

Book preview

DEDICATION

To Arizona and Xavier and Rowan and Miriam

"If you ignore the dragon, it will eat you.  If you defy the dragon, it will overpower you.  But if you ride the dragon, you will take advantage of its strength and power." – Chinese Proverb

Chapter One

All stories begin because someone was an idiot.

One dumb choice and things go spiraling out of control.  However, if it weren't for people running around like they had rocks for brains, no one would grow.  And if no one grew, life would never get better.  And that's what life is about, right? 

...or is it about being able to make the perfect marshmallow fluff... 

Okay, so it's a tossup.

But we'll save the perfect marshmallow fluff recipe for the end and proceed with the whole growth to happiness hypothesis here.

Our story starts in the Kingdom of Crumb, which was an entire nation filled with people who were, well... what's the saying?  Not the sharpest pikes in the armory?  A couple lances short of a joust?  All jester, no ministers?

You get the picture. 

The teeny, tiny Kingdom of Crumb was a small one, but it was not, however, named such because of its size.  Rather, it was because there was a long-standing source of national pride in the kingdom that all splendid things inherently begin with a K sound.

Some ideas are dumb. 

But before you start rattling on about how all-things-that-begin-with-a-'k'-sound-are-cool-pushes-the-acceptable-boundaries-of-believability, need I remind you some places are willing to fight to the death over a piece of colored fabric stuck to a stick, or defend the honor of a bird or bear.  Is it so strange a country might attach its national pride to a sound?  One that fits in an anthem?

Oh Kingdom of Crumb!

A kaleidoscope of kings!

Khakis, ketchup, and carrots!

To the Constellations,

We keenly call ka-ching!

It should be noted lyricist does not have a k sound, so the kingdom did not invest money in developing that artistic craft.  (Which is a shame.  Let's just say the anthem goes on for thirty more verses and no one needs that living in their head rent free, so leave it there and count yourself lucky.)

But this story isn't about an anthem.  It is about idiots.  And our trouble starts with a rabid nationalized attachment to kangaroos. 

Now, to be clear, there were no actual kangaroos in Crumb.

But it was the idea of kangaroos that sent the citizens into such a rapturous fervor. 

Some might even suggest it was a great injustice that a place filled with such k-sound marsupial super fans never had an opportunity to nuzzle their noses into that sweet, soft Macropus giganteus fur.  (Imagine what would have happened if they had seen a picture of a koala...)  If it had been six-hundred years later, perhaps some plucky zoologist would have started a Kangaroo Refuge & Rehabilitation Petting Park where kangaroos could roam free and be bottle-fed by adoring tourists.  That would have made the obsession understandable.

However, this all started because one day, a daring explorer returned from the other side of the globe.  And she decided to bring back a rather lovely oil painting of a kangaroo as a birthday gift for King Kaleb III. 

And boy oh boy, did he love it. 

And if a king in Crumb thinks something is cool, it is a whole new ball game.  You think The Rise of Rigel in the Summer Sky by Dante Rinaldi is popular when the pilgrimage carts come rolling in on a Sunday morning for a little culture, well... hold on to your wimple. 

The Kangaroo Craze captured the hearts and minds of Crumb (which was fine, according to the king, because craze had that krazy ’k’ sound.)  The denizens of the kingdom lined the cobblestone streets for blocks.  They wrapped around the Guild Hall, past the Old Mill and the Old Clink, all the way to the ammonia vats on Wool Walker Street.  Heck, you'd think that Kingling Bros. Joust-a-Joust Circus had come to town! 

All the who's who and what's what were in attendance.  There were even artists on hand to produce pictures of patrons positioned before the kangaroo painting to prove that, yes, they had been in proximity of the portraiture. 

It was such a mark of honor to have one of these souvenirs, however, a counterfeit kangaroo portrait scandal rocked the nation until a special delegation was formed.  For a low additional fee, they would paint the painter painting the patrons, thus inventing what some have come to call meta. 

These kangaroo portraits hung proudly over many a mantel until, generations later, mystified offspring wondered why the heck their ancestors were so obsessed.  In a cleaning frenzy fad to attain minimalistic serenity, they tossed said portraits into the Workhouse Donations pile. 

Which, of course, set off the kitschy kangaroo craze of mid-medieval lowbrow art. 

Said offspring with said minimalistic serenity now destroyed were left shaking their heads and muttering under their breath to the dark night, If only we had hung onto that kangaroo.  We'd be kajillionaires. 

This led to them never throwing anything out, which began an unfortunate age of hoarding, which led to an invading horde desperate to lay their grubby mitts on all that sweet treasure rumored to be squirreled away in the basements of Crumb.  They were sorely disappointed, however, to learn that in Crumb, treasure was defined by attachments of the heart, not actual monetary value.  This led to the invention of the landfill.

However, this is not a story about landfills.

Let's get back to the kangaroo.

It's important because the halcyon days of the craze were not to last. 

Sadly, one chilly, gray day when the wind swept in from the east, a doomed family joined the line to visit the King's Kangaroo.  After shuffling into the castle, past the kitchen, the rookery, the Great Hall, and the Great Gift Shop, a very hangry little boy and his parents stood within the royal art gallery. 

Suits of armor flanked the painting, as if to warn of the fate that would befall any who sought to interfere with the solemn procession of art aficionados.  People spoke in excited, but reverent tones.  The whish-whish of paintbrushes as artists speed-painted portraits of those well off enough to afford a spendy souvenir filled the air like the meditative sound of running water.

Now, having been driven to distraction by their son's incessant whining that his stomach was so empty it was going to turn inside out and consume him, these parents decided to give him a block of pink bubblegum, despite a sign that said, No food or drinks inside the exhibit.  Rules exist for a reason, you know.  But because we're dealing with idiots, these boneheaded adults didn't think food applied to gum.

His parents were rapturous as they stared at the gold-gilt masterwork of palm fronds and fuzzy gray kangaroos.  However, the boy wondered, as all kids do, how big a bubble he could blow.  And like all precocious young minds, he decided to find out. 

However, in the moment of maximum sticky diameter, a single hair from a traitorous paintbrush freed itself.  Caught in an updraft of all the milling bodies, it floated across the room, and landed on the nose of that wretched little boy.  And as he inhaled deeply, it did its treacherous, dirty deed.

It tickled his nostrils and the boy sneezed.

The pink gooey mess shot out of his mouth.  Gasps of horror echoed from every throat.  Almost in slow motion, it arced through the air.  And in one dreadful moment, it landed with an incriminating splat across the face of the kangaroo.

And that's why the Kingdom of Crumb cannot have nice things.

Now, you might wonder why this tale of woe is being brought up at this particular moment.  You might think it is to serve as a cautionary tale to you, gentle readers, who think it is okay to eat in an art gallery or chew candy like a cow as thespians act their guts out on a stage  yards away from where you are sitting.  And, yes, it is that. 

But the larger reason is because this unfortunate sneeze would one day be an awkwardly-timed-ejaculatory-exhalation that would reverberate around the globe.  Or at least around the continent.  And for the people of Crumb, continent was as good as the globe because continent began with a k sound, and that just settles that.

But like the pea beneath the princess or the stone in the shoe, that one bothersome bit of gum started off a chain of events that would change Crumb forever.

For, you see, when you happen to be the boy who destroyed the king's kangaroo in a kingdom the size of Crumb, it is not like you can just go about your business.  When people ask, What happened to you today? you can't say, Oh nothing special...

No.

They know.

They know what you did.

Especially in front of a gallery of speed painters recording everything on oil and canvas.

His parents tried to scrape off the gum before anyone noticed, but it made things worse.  They hid the wad in a leather pouch and planted it on their son because you can't behead a minor. 

But by the time the family got home, word had already spread that their son was the Official Killer of Crumb Joy, gum was outlawed by punishment of death, and they found themselves having to pack up all their belongings in the dark of night and hightail it to the border.  It was quite fortunate there wasn't a wall or some other device to keep them from crossing, for I'm afraid if that had been the case, we would have had no story for you today.  Instead, you'd be reading a rather sad tale about a miserable family who spent the rest of their days farming turnips in a prison yard until they died in their beds, thinking to themselves, Well... I guess that's that...

But instead, this family made it to a neighboring kingdom where they changed their name and kept their heads low, and never copped to being the joy killers.  But the years passed, as they do, and that shamed little boy grew, and over time, he fell in love and had a son.

And this child's name was George.

Now, George was a thoroughly unremarkable lad.  And this came from his parents and their generous estimation of him.  He was elbows and thumbs and a bit dim, and for the life of them, they couldn't understand why he couldn't comprehend how special a k sound was.

Even so, they put up with him and tried to raise him as well as two nitwits can.  However, as much as their parenting skills lacked, they had one strict rule: no chewing gum.

Which was rather unfortunate when there were more important life lessons to be gleaned from the Kangaroo Gum Conundrum (as it was recorded in the textbooks).  Perhaps, cover your mouth when you sneeze.  Or don't eat in an art gallery, you monster. 

But, you get the parents you get.  And these were not particularly good ones.  There was a whole host of lessons George's parents forgot to teach him.  Things like: learn from past mistakes, or forgive yourself for accidents, or keep your mouth shut when hiding in your hovel from a raiding party of pirates who are breaking down your door.

Alas, poor George had a story he felt was important to tell just as said piratical party broke down said door, and the family was discovered in their hidey-hole.  Quicker than George could say, But wait!  I didn't tell you the part about the oozing boil on Jeremy's bu—, they were captured.

Alas, the raiding party also wasn't very bright, so they didn't gag George later when they were trying to hide from the king's men.  And they were all discovered as George decided it was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate his ability to use his lips to fart the entire musical scale in three octaves.

Between you and me, George's parents were warming to the idea of a tropical adventure.  Sort of a quiet ocean getaway far from the running yap of their loquacious son.  And with dreams of drinks served in coconut shells, they snuck off as soon as the king's back was turned and hoped their new pirate friends would still take them.

Alas, this familial disharmony could have been avoided if they had just kept their son's jaw occupied with something like, say, chewing gum. 

As it was, George was quite shocked the next morning to find them gone.  As well as the king's men.  The armed battalion figured they had saved the family, their work was done, and had moved on to foil more plots.  Also, the kid was driving them to feel a bit stabby.

However, this meant George was just a kid left in the middle of a field with nothing.

Oh, his parents left him with a note, but he couldn't read. 

So, poor George sat upon a boulder and wept.

His blubbering cries reached the ears of a passing noble knight (which begins with a k even if you can't hear it, so you know he is stealthily splendid).

This knight, Sir Edwin, stopped his white charger before George, who was sobbing tear-soaked snot balls at this point.  The knight removed his shining helmet and his long blond locks flowed from the sides of his balding head. 

Embarrassed by the contrast, George hiccupped and tried to smooth down his own messy black curls.  (Unbeknownst to him, mucus makes a fantastic pomade.)

Looking down his long, sloped nose, Sir Edwin sniffed.  Why are you crying?

George got off the rock and held out the letter.

With two fingers, Sir Edwin took the moist vellum and gave it a glance.  Hmmm... appears your family has run off to join the pirates.  They say 'to protect you' from the dangerous dolphins and a vitamin D overdose.  Recommend you conscript yourself to the king's men.  He looked around at the barren wasteland around them, not a single king's man in sight amidst the dry grass and dead trees.  Did you conscript yourself to anyone?

George shook his head, not sure what 'conscript' meant.

Sir Edwin let out an exhausted sigh, acknowledging his knightly vows demanded he not leave this undersized child to face the bog mules, a nasty species of meat-eating equine, when night fell.

His horse swung his head around to look at him like he couldn't believe his rider was even considering bringing along this filthy, slime-extruding peasant.

But Sir Edwin figured he'd at least take the kid to the closest tavern and, heck, perhaps this chance encounter would give this child a greater meaning and purpose.  So, with great generosity of spirit, he tossed down all his heavy equipment on the small boy and said, Carry my stuff.

George's fallen heart leaped to be chosen for such an important job.  He felt his chest expand with his sense of meaning and purpose. 

Oh thank you thank you thank you!  You won't be disappointed! he said as he scrambled after the knight, pausing to pick up the jousting pole he had dropped, and his sword and his gauntlets.  I'll be the best squire you ever had, Mr. Sir—

Now, Sir Edwin had been trying to help the pathetic child with a bit of hard labor to distract him from his misery.  But with the word squire, a spark lit in the flint of the knight's brain.  Squires brought status.  Squires could lead a cheer in the stands.  Squires meant not stomping around looking for someone to unbuckle a person after a nasty fall in a jousting tournament.  Squires fed horses and mucked stalls and brought beer and massaged corn-covered-calloused feet.  He sniffed again, but this time sizing up George's potential.  Edwin.

Mr. Sir Edwin!

The knight pulled a sandwich out of his saddlebag and nibbled it daintily before feeding the rest to his horse.  We must teach you some manners.

And so, Sir Edwin gained a squire and George gained a life.  They had grand adventures.  I won't bore you with the details.  Quests of various lengths, infrequent and admittedly brief crossings of the swords, some attempts at jousting, and a lot of watching and bellowing at the tavern about the local hammer-throwing teams...  

Okay, it is not only the details that are boring, but the adventures themselves were not actually that great...

They seemed on vellum like they should be! 

It's just things never seemed to pan out.  The success-to-fail ratio was so high, it might cause a person to think there was something to it. 

I mean, not George. 

George had full faith in his master knight.  He knew the man could do no wrong.  It was a matter of bad luck.  And George tried his best to provide all the rabbit foot charms and sage smudges to reverse whatever curses had befallen them.

However, for all the tales of his exploits, Sir Edwin always seemed to have forgotten some important implement needed to complete the quest.  He always blamed it on George and his lack of foresight.  George emphatically agreed and vowed next time to do better. 

But even so, Sir Edwin always ended up at the bottom of the jousting tallies and complained about tennis elbow when challenged to a sword fight.  He also suffered an awful lot of debilitating runny noses when monsters needed slaying.  Swore it was an allergy to scales. 

George, however, was just grateful for the opportunity to sand away the rust that formed in the armpits of Sir Edwin's armor.

And this, my friends, in a world where scraping out armpits seems like an honor, is where our real story begins.

One day, Sir Edwin heard of a quest in the Kingdom of Crumb.  The prize was too great for even him to make excuses. 

Behold, my lad! Sir Edwin exclaimed as he read the proclamation nailed to a pub post.  He took a great gulp from his wooden cup and then dashed the empty vessel to the floor.  The bar wench rolled her eyes as she picked it up.  An ogre terrorizes the countryside mere hours from the King's castle!  He tapped his finger against the vellum.  See how I do not quake in fear to face this monster!  See how bravely I read on to see how we might be of aid!  See how I note...  He squinted and brought his long nose closer to the calligraphy.  "...that any hero strong and brave enough to rid the countryside of this beast shall be rewarded with a candlelit dinner for two with King Kaine's daughter, the fair Princess Kenzie!  Sir Edwin rubbed his hands together.  George!  Prepare my trusty steed!  For I, alone, am the man to save the Kingdom of Crumb from this scourge!  And when I have that ogre's head on my pike, I shall claim the princess as my prize!" 

George had never been to the Kingdom of Crumb.  In fact, his parents only spoke of the place in disgusted tones, like when they talked about someone who stepped into the other room to get an extra slice of cake despite the fact they already had a big piece and their bottom was so enormous, their pantaloons were primed to pop.  They left George with the impression Crumb was a terrible place.

Perhaps we could manhandle a minotaur! George pressed as Sir Edwin saddled up Chance.  Or take a stand against a sea of selkies!

Nonsense, you idiot, Sir Edwin sniffed, buckling the horse's cinch.  Now get me my travel pudding.

Now, one thing George's parents gave to him was an artifact from the Kingdom of Crumb.  It was an object so dangerous, they told him never to let it out of his sight and never to let anyone know he owned it: a wad of hard, pink candy that squished when George dug his fingernail into it.  It was his family's only heirloom, it was their greatest shame.  (His parents also thought it might have collector's value and since the king couldn't behead a minor, George seemed like the perfect patsy.) 

But it was the only thing that tied George to his parents and grandparents and the place from whence they all came.  It was tangible, historical proof that The Good Ol’ Days were real.  So, despite the constant paranoia it might kill him, he still wore it, secretly, close to his heart. 

But it was in this way, in a little leather pouch around George's neck, that for the first time in a generation, gum was smuggled into the Kingdom of Crumb.

As Sir Edwin rode his gallant steed forward and George trudged along behind, George couldn't help but be suspicious of this terrible new land.  He wondered if the undulating fields of wheat were a lie.  If the birds overhead were only chirping because they were sounding an alarm.  Even the sun shone too bright, he thought, noticing how the blue skies caused the colors of the wild flowers to violently pop against the green grass.

He was sure that's why Crumb was plagued by ogre problems.  Birds and flowers and plentiful food.  They never had ogres in the damp, boggy land where he was from. 

The castle itself was fairly castley.  It had crimson turrets and high walkways, a mighty gate and battlements lined with their jagged, tooth-like merlons.  The building had been whitewashed in lime,