Sir Dagonet smiled, and with a flourish of his arms, continued his tale.
The story moved on.
The phantom townsfolk gathered around George, pleading with him. Some fell to their knees. Others pointed toward a distant lake where a mist had begun to rise, thick and greenish, curling around the stage like breath.
Dagonet became the gatekeeper again.
"Every day," he said, "the beast demands tribute. Sheep at first, then cattle, then gold, and finally…"
He paused dramatically.
The children leaned forward.
Dagonet whispered.
"People."
The children gasped, while the adults had already seen it coming. But that didn't mean they weren't entertained; it wasn't every day you saw a show like this. Even in a kingdom where magic wasn't a secret, it was still rare beyond measure.
He let the silence last for two heartbeats, building up anticipation, then added, "Which I should note is horrible behavior for a dragon. After all, why ask for people? If I were a great dragon, I would ask for gold. After all, which dragon wouldn't want to sleep on a mountain of gold?"
The crowd relaxed into laughter again.
George frowned.
"And no one has fought this dragon?"
The gatekeeper wrung his hands. "Many have tried."
Dagonet straightened, then immediately became a line of knights.
One after another, phantom versions of himself appeared across the stage, each with a different helm, a different shield, a different absurdly heroic posture.
The first raised his sword. "I shall slay the beast!"
A dragon's roar thundered from the mist.
The first knight turned around and fled.
The second stepped forward. "I shall negotiate with the beast!"
Another roar came.
The second fled faster.
The third knight cleared his throat. "I shall observe the beast from a safe distance and write a strongly worded poem."
The dragon coughed a little smoke.
The third knight dropped his parchment and ran.
Then, a fourth knight appeared, one that looked far more like a bad guy than an honorable knight. "Fear not, townsfolk! I shall help you lay the dragon!"
"Don't you mean slay the dragon, honored knight?" an illusory villager asked.
The knight turned his head, looking out toward the watching crowds, and twirled his mustache. "Yes," he said simply, without explaining anything.
The children didn't see anything wrong with it, but the adults couldn't help but laugh as they picked up on the adult-themed joke.
Dagonet, standing as George, watched them go to the dragon one by one, only to fail, some far more deservedly than others.
"Cowards?" George asked.
The gatekeeper shrugged. "Alive."
Dagonet turned to the crowd and lifted one finger.
"A fair distinction! Remember, bravery is not the absence of fear. That is stupidity. Bravery is knowing you are afraid and stepping forward anyway."
He paused.
"Stupidity is doing it while shouting, 'Watch this.' I have known many knights who confused the two. Sir Mordred has made a hobby of it."
The crowd cheered and laughed at Mordred's name, some of the children repeating, "Watch this!" in terrible heroic voices.
Dagonet smiled, letting them enjoy it.
Then the music shifted, the flute softened, the drums slowed, clearly indicating a change in theme, in the very emotion the story was meant to awaken in the audience.
From the phantom city came a procession.
At its center walked a young princess, dressed in white and gold, her head held high despite the fear in her eyes. She was made of light like the others, but she seemed clearer, more real. A crown rested upon her brow, and in her hands she held a thin ribbon, the symbolic leash by which she was meant to lead herself to the dragon.
The crowd quieted again.
Dagonet removed his cap for the first time.
Only for a moment.
"The king's daughter had been chosen," he said, his voice softer now. "Not because she was guilty. Not because she was weak. But because fear is very good at convincing people that sacrifice is wisdom, so long as someone else is being sacrificed."
The words settled gently over the square.
The children naturally knew that a princess had to be sacrificed, as that was how all fairytales went, as the knight and hero would save them.
The adults once again picked up on deeper themes. Far more thought-provoking, and far more true than any children's story.
Then Dagonet put his cap back on, slightly crooked.
"Now, had this been Camelot, there would already have been seven knights arguing over who got to charge first, three more insisting on a proper plan, Sir Tristan composing something sad in the corner, and Sir Agravain asking why no one had solved the dragon problem before breakfast."
The crowd laughed again, grateful for the release.
George stepped toward the princess.
"My lady," he said, bowing deeply, "why do you walk alone toward danger?"
The princess looked at him. Dagonet turned, and now he was her too, his posture changing, his voice higher, dignified, and touched with trembling courage.
"Because my people fear the dragon more than they love me."
A little hush passed through the crowd.
Then George answered.
"Then today, they shall remember how to love."
Dagonet paused, frowned, and looked out at the audience.
"Very good line, that. Wish I had said it first."
Laughter.
He nodded toward one of the children in the front row.
"You there, remember that. If anyone asks, I did say it first."
The child nodded eagerly.
"Excellent. History improves already."
The mist thickened.
The lake appeared.
Not truly, but enough that everyone could smell damp stone and cold water. The stage darkened beneath a shadow too large to belong to any ordinary beast.
The dragon rose.
It began as a shape in the smoke.
Then scales.
Then claws.
Then a long neck crowned with horns.
It towered over the stage, vast and terrible, its wings spreading wide enough to cast a shadow over half the square. Its eyes glowed like coals, its teeth shone like daggers, and smoke curled from its nostrils in slow, heavy breaths.
Several children gasped.
One hid behind his mother's coat.
The dragon lowered its head and opened its jaws.
"I," it thundered, in a voice that shook the square, "am the terror of this land!"
Dagonet, as George, looked up at it.
Then looked at the crowd.
Then leaned in and whispered loudly, "They all say that."
The crowd burst out laughing, and even the children who had been frightened peeked back out.
The dragon blinked.
"I heard that."
George raised his sword. "Good! Then your ears work. A rare quality in villains."
The dragon recoiled, offended.
"I am not a villain. I am a dragon."
"A dragon demanding tribute."
"A dragon with expenses."
"Expenses?"
"Do you know how much it costs to heat a cave?"
George looked toward the audience.
Dagonet looked toward the audience.
Even the princess looked toward the audience.
"Now," Dagonet said, stepping briefly out of all roles to address them directly, "this is why one should never let the villain explain too much. Sooner or later, they start sounding like a town council."
The adults laughed louder than the children that time.
The dragon stamped one claw.
"I demand the princess!"
George stepped between them.
"You cannot have her."
The dragon lowered its head. "And who will stop me?"
George lifted his sword.
Dagonet lifted his wooden sword.
For just a moment, the painted gold along its edge gleamed like something holy.
"I will."
The drums began again.
The dragon roared.
George charged.
And Cardiff vanished into the story.
The dragon lunged, jaws snapping shut where George had stood a heartbeat before. George rolled beneath its neck, came up beside one massive claw, and struck. Sparks flew from the dragon's scales.
"Now, that," Dagonet said mid-swing, "was a fine opening strike. Not the one I would have chosen, mind you. I prefer starting with conversation, confusion, and, if available, a pie."
The dragon's tail swept across the stage.
George jumped over it.
The flames rushed toward George in a brilliant red-gold wave. The crowd felt the heat without being burned, the warmth rolling across their faces like summer sunlight.
George raised his shield.
The fire split around him.
"Ah, good shield work!" Dagonet cried. "But if you ever encounter a dragon yourself, be mindful that good old George here was shielded by God; a normal shield wouldn't be able to block dragon fire."
The dragon recoiled, surprised. Then annoyed. Then furious.
It stomped one foot, and the stage shook.
"You are persistent."
"I am Saint George!"
Dagonet paused, and the entire play ground to a halt as he struck a thinking pose. "I guess he wouldn't have been Saint George back then... would he?" he mused, though his voice carried easily.
Then he just did an overly dramatic shrug. "Oh well, even someone as grand as I can make mistakes at times; we can't all be as perfect as Galahad." He smiled. "But back to the show!"
The dragon charged.
George charged.
They met in the center of the square.
The dragon's claws raked against George's shield. George's sword flashed again and again. The air filled with the clang of steel on scale, the roar of the dragon, and the fierce cry of the knight.
It was not a dance.
It was a war.
And the crowd watched, leaning forward, holding their breath, some of them shouting for George, some of them whispering prayers, all of them utterly lost in the magic of it.
Then George stumbled.
The dragon saw it.
One claw shot out, not to kill, but to knock him aside.
The princess gasped.
The crowd gasped.
George fell.
The dragon loomed over him, jaws opening wide for the final strike.
George drove his sword upward from the ground.
Through the dragon's neck. The dragon froze, then staggered.
Then collapsed, its massive form fading like smoke as it crashed to the ground, leaving only the echo of its roar behind.
George rose, bruised but triumphant.
The princess ran to him.
The crowd rose to its feet.
And as they cheered, as they threw flowers and shouted and wept with joy, the painted city around them faded.
The castle walls returned.
The road became a stage again.
Dagonet stood before them alone, wooden sword in hand, jester's cap slightly askew, breathing hard as if he had fought the battle himself.
And for a moment, no one moved.
They simply stood there, caught between the story and the world, the magic and the real, the knight and the jester.
Then the applause began.
It started with one person, then another, then another, until the entire square erupted in a storm of cheers, shouts, and whistles that echoed through the streets of Cardiff and beyond.
(End of chapter)
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