Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived an king and queen in an ancient, spindly castle. They were good and just rulers, and the kingdom flourished under their reign. One day, however, a fearsome dragon with gleaming red scales flew over the castle walls and set fire to a particularly elongated parapet. As servants, courtiers, and knights ran about excitedly, no one noticed the dragon make off with the king’s youngest and fairest daughter, Lady Belinda, who had come outside to watch the blaze. When the hubbub subsided and Lady Belinda was nowhere to be found, the king and queen commissioned the worthiest knight of their kingdom, Sir Buckingham, to recover Lady Belinda and slay the dragon. If Sir Buckingham returned successful, the king and queen promised him the hand of their daughter in marriage.
But unbeknownst to the king and queen, the crimson dragon was not a dragon at all—it was the magical façade of an evil sorcerer, Lord Welkinshire, who had long coveted the power and prestige of the king. Disguised as a dragon, Welkinshire winged to his lair deep in the in the wilds of the Weatherford Mountains, where, using his dark arts, he turned Sir Buckingham to stone and cast him into a doorless room where Lady Belinda was chained to the wall. As one by one the most stalwart knights ventured into the distant mountains, Welkinshire meted them the same fate. Soon, the kingdom was left with none but its most cowardly knights, and they too marched tremulously to their demise in the sorcerer’s lair.
Unfortunately, through bribery, guile, and a great deal of good acting, Lord Welkinshire had long ago wormed his way into a high position within the king’s confidence. Once all the knights had vanished and the kingdom was left defenseless, Welkinshire planned to reveal his true identity, vanquish the king and queen, and claim the kingdom as his own. However, on a cold, rainy evening just before the sorcerer was about to consummate his plan, a fair-chinned stranger on a bedraggled white horse appeared unannounced at the castle gates. He introduced himself as Albert, prince of the neighboring kingdom, and explained that he had come on a quest to free Lady Belinda from the clutches of the crimson dragon. During the journey from the neighboring kingdom, the dragon had attacked and destroyed the prince’s entire retinue; Albert himself, however, had forced the dragon to retreat after a valiant struggle. The king and queen were overjoyed: finally, here was a warrior who, despite his youth, had been able to defeat the dragon. They gave Albert abundant blessing and ample provisions and sent him on his way the next morning.
Albert had asked to travel alone, but the queen insisted that he take with him Frusty, a trusted dwarf who, in his younger days, had guided many a knight on a victorious quest. They made a strange pair: the blond, lanky prince in knightly regalia riding alongside the squat, coal-haired lump of gray rags. Frusty’s miniature pony made the contrast all the more ridiculous, and Lord Welkinshire stifled a dignified chuckle as he watched the castle gates shut behind the two adventurers.
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After the pair had traveled in silence for some time, Frusty spoke. “Have you settled on a plan of attack yet?”
Prince Albert glanced sharply at the dwarf before responding. “We head east, toward the Weatherford Mountains.”
“And once we reach the mountains?”
“The dragon is clever; he will notice our presence long before we discover his. If we do not find his lair immediately, he will come to us.”
“Foolish,” grunted the dwarf loudly. Albert blinked twice and hung open his mouth. “What if the dragon comes on us in a narrow pass, where there is little room to maneuver?” Frusty continued. “If the dragon finds us first, he will stage the battle on his own terms. Have you thought of that, eh?”
The dwarf peered upward with a smirk, but Albert regained his composure. “Why do you refuse to address me with the respect that my station deserves?” he asked.
“Ah, forgive me, sire,” Frusty responded, his voice cracking as he spoke in obsequious falsetto. “Too delicate for a little common speech? Can’t survive without your regal title?”
Albert’s cheeks flushed. “No, but—but you have no right to speak to me like this!”
“Now listen here.” Frusty’s smirk was gone, and his temper was rising. “I may be your servant on this quest, but I am not your nursemaid. I can’t coddle you and call you ‘sir’ and ‘highness’ and bring you caviar on a silver platter. When you’re on a quest, you have to get used to living without a few of those”—the smirk returned—“conveniences. The sooner you get used to that, the better.”
Albert stared stonily ahead. “I do not understand,” he began loftily, “why the queen should have chosen to saddle me with such an impudent dwarfish cur.”
Frusty grinned wickedly, exposing several rotten teeth. “That’s just what I mean,” he said. “You speak to me like that, you can’t be offended when I follow suit.”
Albert did not respond.
When night fell, the prince and dwarf made an uneasy camp. While he prepared the meal, Frusty told Albert to pitch the tent. Dinner conversation was stilted; Albert curtly rebuffed Frusty’s attempts at further planning. When the meal was over, Frusty informed Albert that he would be the first to take watch. Albert protested that they were still in friendly territory. “You can never be too vigilant,” the dwarf responded. Albert’s watch was uneventful; he shook Frusty perhaps a little too roughly when his shift was done. The prince embraced his pillow gratefully, but moments later a tent pole gave way and the tent collapsed on top of him. Frusty smirked.
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