“Sir,” the Knight said, hands fumbling with his heavy helmet, “the dragon...it ate my horse.”
The King stared at him with burning eyes, then threw a brass vase at the knight head. The Knight dodged it and ran back a little, it was better than telling the king that the dragon ate a whole village or burned down a wheat field. But the heat of his eyes still hurt and he was still throwing things. The Knight considered what he should say next or if he should run for his life to a neighboring kingdom. But when he saw the furious bearded man that somehow had a crown on his head, he decided the best choice was to stay still and silent.
“You came back without a dead dragons head only to say that the lizard ate your horse?!” the King yelled, “you could have at least waited until the thing burned down a village.”
“So you could send an army to kill the dragon rather than a lone knight?” the Knight asked hopefully.
“No, so I’d have a real reason to kill you.”
The Knight gulped and smiled, agreeing with the king on the outside, but screaming on the inside. Unless he thought of a way to explain it so the blame was on someone else, the King would surely behead him. So he looked around the room for an escape, for anyone who could take the blame. His eyes landed on the little jester, who was perched on a chair and flailing his staff about. The knight knew the Jester personally, a drunk little fellow that always got into trouble, the perfect suspect. He pointed at the little man and and stepped closer to the King's throne.
“The Dragon burned down a village looking for this man,” the Knight declared, “the dragon went mad when he found out it wasn’t a jester that came to see him.”
“Why would he be looking for a Jester?” the King asked, rising up with a sword in his hand, “and why didn’t you tell me that the dragon destroyed that village.”
“Your majesty,” he replied, “the Dragon loved riddles and the taste of fools, and he spoke in prose so I really didn’t understand what he meant at first.”
“What did the dragon say then? Do tell me.”
“The one who laughs,
Reds and greens,
Blues and orange,
Telling me the riddles that plague me,
And looking so appealing,
Like a giant….uh…..boars head?”
“That sounds like a crappy poem to me,” the Jester said, jumping off his chair and bouncing over to him, “and I look like a Herring, not a boar's head.”
“Look it doesn’t matter what you think, it matters what the dragon thinks.”
“And dragons don’t speak,” the Jester added with an evil smile.
“Sir David,” the King said in a booming voice, “are you lying?”
Sir David gulped and nodded his head, he’d been been found out. He fell to his knees and waited for his head to be chopped off. The doors slammed open and another knight came in, Sir Peter, all covered in burn marks and blood. He stumbled in and fell down face first, then sat up rather suddenly. The King, who was ready to behead, looked at him and sighed. Sir David mentally thanked him for giving him a few more moments of life.
“Your majesty,” Sir Peter said, “the dragon ate three whole villages and is on his way here.”
“Why you…” the King yelled.
“And he wants to see the Jester,” he continued, “and he told me in a poem.”
“But…” the Jester said, ready to crack down on him.
“I was rather surprised when he did since dragons don’t talk, but it turns out they can,” Sir Peter laughed, “they just think we’re too stupid and low class to understand them.”
The King looked at Sir David, then the Jester and said, “then we’ll have to sacrifice the jester.”