Prince charming's Arc

Chapter 17 of 30

Prince Charming sat by the dragon until first light. The poacher was gone down the path, alive, with a story to tell. That was the trouble. A man who saw a dragon lie down instead of strike would not keep it to himself. He would say the beast on the mountain was tame, and the next hunters would come in a group, with better bows. Prince Charming stood up and put his hand on the dragon's jaw one more time. He had to reach the poacher before the poacher reached the road. He ran back down the ridge trail and cut across the fields toward his house. The two-story house sat at the forest's edge with its lamps still lit from the night before. He did not go inside. He took the horse from the shed and rode for the low road that led out of the valley. He found the man a mile on, limping, bow slung, wet to the knees from the stream crossing. Prince Charming rode past him, then turned the horse across the road and stopped. The poacher raised his hands. Prince Charming did not draw a weapon. He said he had one offer. The dragon had spared him once and would not spare a second party. If the man went back to any town and spoke of a tame dragon, the men he brought would die on the ridge, and so would he for leading them. But if he carried a different story — that the dragon on the mountain had pinned him and let him crawl away as a warning — then he would live, and other hunters would stay clear. Prince Charming took a coin from his pocket and threw it in the dirt at the man's feet. He said it was for the walk home. The poacher looked at the coin, then at the mountain behind them, where the dragon was still visible on the ridge with its wings half open. He picked up the coin. He nodded once. Then he went down the road without looking back. Prince Charming rode home slowly. He was not sure the man would keep the bargain. A story bought with a coin could be sold again for two. But the dragon on the ridge had been the better argument, and the poacher had seen it clearly. At the house he unsaddled the horse and walked to the birdbath at the forest's edge. He dropped in a pebble to call a bird and sent word up the mountain that the man was gone and the promise had held. Then he sat on his porch step and watched the road. The story was loose in the world now, in whatever shape the poacher chose to give it. He could not call it back. He could only wait to see who came next, and what they had heard.