Bantam Tales

by Chris

The Dragon of Hoofholt

There once was a dragon who lived in a hill which it styled a mountain, at the base of which lay a village which it styled a city, filled with ponies whom it styled its subjects. Every month it would come amongst them and take whatsoever it wanted—food and valuables, and if the villagers lacked enough of either to satisfy it, then young fillies and colts, for it was ever in need of servants to shine its scales and marvel at it on command.

How long it had been thus, only the dragon itself knew—but years enough that its cavern filled with treasures, and its larder was never bare, even as the villagers grew ever more gaunt and miserable. Until one day a pony marched into its cave.

“Dragon!” she cried, “I come to challenge you!”

“Who are you, that speaks so boldly?” the dragon boomed, flexing its claws as it considered the best way to deal with this pest.

“I am Sweetroot, from the village of Hoofholt, which you hold in thrall. And I challenge you for the freedom of my village! If I defeat you, then you shall trouble Hoofholt no more!”

“And if I win?” the dragon asked, its annoyance untempered, but its curiosity now piqued.

“If you win, then Hoofholt shall be yours.”

“You offer me only what is already mine,” the dragon noted, “but I accept nonetheless, for I shall find it pleasing to crush you. My only condition is that this challenge be to the death.” It smiled, thinking itself very clever. A pony might, perhaps, dream of winning a challenge of riddles against a dragon, but how could such a small creature hope to stand against it in deadly combat?

But Sweetroot was not deterred. “Very well, if you shall let me choose our weapon.”

“As you wish. It makes no difference how I slay you.”

“Then the weapon I chose is time. Let its passage leave one of us defeated!”

The dragon laughed. “A tricksy answer. You think yourself wise, do you not? But you are foolish, indeed. A dragon lives ten thousand years or more! Will you live so long, little Sweetroot?”

“We shall see who the winner is,” Sweetroot replied.

And so the two settled into their great battle. Of course, as Sweetroot pointed out, the dragon could hardly continue its looting with its ownership of the village unsettled, and this seemed fair to the dragon. After all, there would be plenty of time to resume its depredations after the duel was concluded.

But as the battle dragged on, the seemingly massive larder began to empty. So at Sweetroot’s suggestion, the dragon sent its servants to the village to bring back food and supplies. Yet since the colts and fillies could hardly compel the same submission the dragon itself did, Sweetroot proposed that they take a bit of gold from the cavern’s vast stores, and trade for the goods instead. The dragon acceded, the wisdom of her advice obvious. Nor did it object when she further proposed that those fillies and colts be sent home to their parents, on the condition that they return once a week to handle the shopping arrangements. After all, the benefit of having fewer mouths to feed was undeniable, under the circumstances. And in any event, the dragon found Sweetroot was rather more pleasant company than the gaggle of terrified foals had been.

And when winter came, Sweetroot quite fairly noted that she could not bear the cold as well as a dragon, and that a bit more gold might be spent to bring her blankets and coats. For after all, the chosen weapon was time, and not temperature. And the dragon could hardly disagree. It perhaps need not have cloaked her in quite such fine garments, but that was only fairness as well, it told itself.

And as months turned into years, and even the great store of gems with which the dragon sustained itself began to diminish, it was Sweetroot who observed that perhaps the dragon’s less consumable valuables could be traded at the village for precious stones. After all, one cannot eat paintings and pottery. And it was clear to the dragon that this, too, was true.

And so the years passed into decades, until at last Sweetroot grew sickly and frail. Sweetroot did not have to ask the dragon to send for doctors, for it knew well that time was the chosen weapon, not illness. But the medical ponies it summoned at great expense from distant cities all shook their heads. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” they said. “It’s simply her time.”

With an angry roar, the dragon sent them away, and curled itself around Sweetroot’s sickbed. And there it lay, listening to her rasping breath.

“It has taken long enough,” murmured the dragon at last, “but it seems my victory is at hand.”

“Perhaps,” answered Sweetroot. “Revel in your victory, then. If so you esteem it.” And having spoken those words, she died.

And the dragon looked about its bare, empty cavern.

*****

At dawn, the dragon brought Sweetroot’s body down to the village. It demanded no tribute, seized no goods. It simply laid her down in the square, declaring, “Here lies the greatest of ponykind, who has defeated me in a battle to the death.”

And from that day forward, it troubled the ponies of Hoofholt no more.

Author's Note:

Originally written in Summer 2018 for the "It Could Have Gone Better" writeoff event. Which it won!

Comments

[FanOfMostEverything]

I knew I'd seen this one before. Still a wonderful and bittersweet tale.

[Godslittleprincess]

Wow! That was one amazing story, and that ending! What a twist!

[Chris]

10336586
:D

10330968

Such a fascinating culture the griffons have.

Isn't it, though? We spent all those years thinking Griffons were Klingons, only for it to turn out they were Ferengi.

10331969
10333704
Griffons, man. I tells ya.

10331976
10330974
Glad you enjoyed!

[PresentPerfect]

Ohhhh.

[TuxOKC]

I especially liked The Greatest Treasure Of All.

I do a bit of Latex type setting in my spare time. If your ever interested in getting these bundled up in one volume, just ask.

[Ghost Mike]

An oddball ghost happened across your fic and read it. Have a review!

[Bad Horse]

11793337
Don't you mean, "Quiero hacer una Freddy Krueger vs Jason"?