THE KNIGHT WHO CRIED DRAGON (PART ONE)
Of all the great knights of the Lost Kingdom of Hirun, perhaps the greatest was Sir Kasta Bailey. Regrettably, this noble warrior will never be remembered as such, for her legacy is not as a great knight, but as “The Mad Knight”. It is unclear when the delusions that would define her began; some say she was born tormented, whilst others attribute it to her impoverished upbringing.
Kasta Bailey was not born into a world of magic or fairies or dragons, but the rather mundane world of nettle farming. The Baileys came from a long unbroken line of nettle farmers and Kasta was no different from her forebears, working the land since the age of six.
Unsurprisingly, farming stinging nettles is neither a pleasant profession nor what many little children dream of becoming when they grow up. Despite techniques to pluck the plant without being pierced by its venomous needles, the ubiquity of the spikes makes stings inevitable. After years of toil, eventually, the pain subsides into numbness, but for Kasta, she never quite got the irritation out of her hands. The Bailey’s profession was matched in tedium only by their primarily nettle-based diet, consisting purely of nettle bread, nettle soup, nettle cheese, nettle pie, and nettle cake.
Perhaps it was the mundanity of her diet that drove Kasta to imagine worlds more interesting than her own. All she ever wanted was to be something more than a peasant farmer and so her mind granted her that wish. As she toiled, Kasta began to see dancing sprites and fairies. They would advise her on the best technique for nettle-plucking and lead her to the plants that were the ripest for picking.
Kasta kept her visions to herself and they served no purpose other than her entertainment. This changed when one day Sir Godric of Whitelake rode his horse straight into the Baileys’ field of painful plants. Godric’s steed was stung so badly that it immediately threw the rider from its back, catapulting the knight into a bed of pain.
The young Kasta was the first to hear Godric’s cries and hurried to his aid. She helped the knight back to the farmhouse and nursed his swollen skin with dock leaves and warm water. As Kasta cared for the knight, Godric told her tales of gallantry in foreign lands, so outlandish that the wide-eyed young girl would begin to dream that they were true.
From that day forth, Kasta’s visions turned to those of knighthood. At any moment, great hordes of demons could come crashing out of the tress, a thirst for blood in their jaws. Kasta would stand and armed only with a hoe and rake, slay them with ease, saving her little village from destruction. The sun would set and Kasta would recount her day’s adventures to a bored and bemused family.
As Kasta’s audience grew less interested, her visions grew stronger. Eventually, her dreams could no longer be ignored and after one supper of particularly stingy nettle salad, Kastor packed a sack and set off to find fame and fortune.
Denbridge was the realm’s capital and, thanks to the now-deceased Sir Godric, the only place that Kastor knew of other than Nettle. Thus, Kastor set off for the big city, journeying day and night through woods, bogs and ruins until eventually, she found herself in the city of Denbridge.
The young woman had no knowledge of the means or requirements of a knight. Ordinarily, a person is knighted after many years of serving the realm, initially as a squire and then as a soldier in battle. After nearly a lifetime of service, if the soldier was particularly liked by the King and if they were particularly lucky then they might be granted the honour of a knighthood. Kasta knew none of this and upon arrival in Denbridge, immediately proclaimed herself a knight. She was barely an adult and still clothed in muddied peasant rags, but in Kasta’s mind, she was clad in gleaming steel armour.
The brave knight’s first quest was to the Denbridge tavern to finally try some food that did not sting her tongue. As she ate, Kasta would itch her nettle-stung hand and talk to the other patrons, reeling off implausible yarns clearly invented that moment. A few were infuriated by her obvious falsehoods, but to Kasta’s surprise, most took entertainment in the woman’s delusions. At first, the innkeeper only tolerated this strange character, but once Sir Kasta’s audience grew from a few to a crowd, the keep began to see his profits rise and offered Kasta free food and board, fearful that she might transfer her patronage to another tavern.
Quickly, Kasta became well known throughout the city and not only did people begin to flock to hear her stories, but they played along with the game. The smith donated a sword, passing knights would contribute a spaulder here, a gauntlet there, so that bit by bit, Kasta gained the appearance of a true knight. The final touch was given as a gift from the innkeeper himself, a shield, adorned with a nettle coat of arms.
The Nettle Knight, armoured in a mosaic of metal, became such a character of Denbridge that eventually the King himself sought an audience with her. As any good knight would, Kasta dutifully obeyed and upon entering the King’s court, took on a heightened air of chivalry. Having not knighted this woman, the King could have rightly imprisoned Kasta for lying, but the King was a good-humoured soul and enjoyed what he believed to be a very elaborate performance. The King relished in Kasta’s tall tales and was intrigued as to whether this so-called, ‘Nettle Knight’ was some sort of jester or if she was truly delusional. So captivated was the King, that he granted Kasta the honour of a place in his court, to serve as an “Advisor on Chivalry”.
Kasta threw herself into her role and unexpectedly found herself learning a great deal about knightliness. She was granted permission to talk to the greatest knights in the kingdom. She overheard conversations of war, discussions of tactics and a healthy dose of castle rumour. She became so knowledgeable that at the King’s banquets she now sat closer to the King than many true knights. Foreign dignitaries and unknowing guests would leave her company believing they had met the most esteemed warrior in all the land.
Of course, for Kasta the lie was more than a story and she continually implored the king, as chivalrously as she could, to involve her in his campaigns. Although the King respected Kasta’s wit and skill at spinning a yarn, he thought her no more than a highly skilled jester. The King would not let Kasta join any of the actual fighting for which a true knight is trained, lying that Kasta was needed to stay and defend the city. With no true quest to occupy her mind, Kasta sunk deeper into her childhood delusions. These delusions became particularly potent whenever the King was away on a campaign and the Nettle Knight had little to do but chase chickens around the courtyard believing them to be antagonistic wraiths.
So desperate to fight was Sir Kasta, that occasionally she would liven up the guards of the city by exclaiming that a dragon was approaching the castle walls. Although the city guard knew perfectly well that dragons were not and could never be real, they were bound by oath to, if not obey, at least humour a knight of the realm. They would investigate and of course, there never was a dragon, all that there would ever be was a circling eagle. Yet, Kasta firmly believed in what she witnessed and would repeat the stunt on multiple occasions until the guards stopped looking.
One spring, the King embarked on a particularly long and costly campaign that fed on the Denbridge soldiers until the city guard was stripped to a mere skeleton. One day, as the war marched into its third year, Sir Kasta Bailey, the Mad Knight of Nettle, stood upon the East wall of the city, watching the clouds, as she was often wont to do when she heard a rustle. Looking down at the trees encircling the castle, she saw them most definitely move. Sir Kasta sucked in a great lungful of air and immediately yelled out, “Dragon!”
The few remaining guards heard her but, having become accused to the Mad Knight’s regular cries of ‘dragon’, ignored the declaration, and returned to their game of cards. When Sir Kasta cried a second and third time, the guards were moved to return a, “Shut up, you fool!” but no more.
Their surprise must have been quite something when fire suddenly rained down upon them from above. The guards scrambled to their positions, but it was much too late. What they saw was no dragon, but barbarian catapults hidden in the trees hurling flaming barrels of tar over the castle walls. By the time the soldiers were in position, the Perilly horde was already scaling the walls.
If the castle soldiers were shocked, then Sir Kasta was practically stunned as she struggled to consolidate her delusions with reality. Through the fog of her mind, one truth emerged; now was the moment to prove herself as the brave knight he always claimed to be. Whether it was a dragon or a barbarian horde, now was the moment for Kasta to fight.
A great, hairy brute, armed with two hand axes appeared over the wall and lumbered toward Kasta. She drew her sword and looked death straight in the eye. Sir Kasta could fight illusions, she could fight chickens, but the Mad Knight had never fought a real threat. At that moment Kasta turned and promptly fled, yelling, “Dragon!” as she went. She tumbled into the keep and barricaded herself inside.
When the King and his forces returned, brimming with elation for another well-won victory, they found no welcoming crowds, but instead the smouldering ashes of their home. The few that had survived were huddled in the keep. Since those that had seen the barbarians were all dead, the survivors readily agreed with Kasta’s story of destruction wrought by the flaming dragon. The King quite rightly dismissed the impossibility of such a thing, but the delusional Kasta and the shaken nobles held firm that they had seen a monster.
“Come,” the King commanded as he helped up a noble, “We’ll march South, seek shelter in Warrowill Keep, there is no more refuge to be had in Denbridge.”
“Sire, you can’t,” Kasta suddenly exclaimed, “The dragon still roams the realm, we have to find its lair and kill it!”
“There is no dragon!” the King exploded, “You may live a life encircled by fairies and spirits, but the rest of us have to live in the real world. Where were you, hmm? You call yourself a knight but you cannot even draw your sword to fight. You are no knight; you are nothing but a peasant nettle farmer playing dress-up!”
Kasta bowed her head and rubbed her hand. Although she could not say it, within her she knew the King was right. The King and the last people of Denbridge left the city, leaving an ashamed Kasta behind.
Kasta’s madness was growing once again. The King’s words of disdain span round her head for hours until they warped into words of encouragement and Kasta found her morale once more. If the King did not believe in a dragon or in Kasta then she would have to give him a reason to believe.
“Well then,” the Nettle Knight thought, “It seems I will just have to slay the dragon myself.” And with that, the Knight mounted her horse and rode into the trees…
…to be continued…
