16 | Psychopomp Magazine
say, I was once was a woman like you. Something drew me here. Perhaps this is a place where I used to live.
The sound of men and horses closing in makes us both turn to look through the gates. What a long time it has been since such sounds were heard in this city. Dirty smoke from a few torches gutters up near the castle. If the king has sent a regiment to win his daughter back, then they can have her. No meal is worth that much trouble to me.
But Sabra seems to think otherwise. It’s George and his fools, she murmurs, looking frantic for the first time. They are coming to rescue me.
She looks up at me, trying to be brave, but I see that she’s used up all her courage. Dragon, she says, I would rather die than go with them. If you killed me now, I would be glad of it.
I wait a moment in case any more offers of royal generosity are forthcoming. I would have liked a few cows, at least. The cavalry is almost upon us. She holds my gaze until the riders come into view, and then she picks up her skirts and flees.
Twenty armed men come charging down the broad avenue leading to the gates. They stop before the threshold of the city, awaiting further command. At the front of the pack is their leader, styled as a knight with plate armor and a barred helmet. I am not fooled—chivalry vanished from these lands long before my birth.
He shakes his sword at me, shouting through his colossal headgear.
I am George of Wormingford, the king’s chosen champion to defend these territories and to save her royal highness, the princess Sabra. For your unholy crimes, monster, we ought not to let you live. But if you lead us to the princess and fall down at my feet in surrender, perhaps I may be moved to spare your life.
Heavens, I think, he cannot be serious.
But he is, and when I don’t respond, he raises his sword above his head and kicks both heels into the sides of his horse so it rears up, whinnying. His men all follow suit.
Before they can reach the gateway, the entire party is engulfed by a scorching