Sir Reginald

Chapter 2: Damsel In Distress

Tall, overshadowing trees towered over Reginald. Light beams zipped by him as the sun was hardly able to shine down on the exhausted knight. His horse huffed hard through its bit as he rode through the forest at a persistent gallop. He had been riding nonstop for nearly five days, his horse sweating profusely underneath him. Reginald's stomach roared out with hunger from the meager bits of food he had eaten over the five-day period.

The first two days were the worst, sloughing through the swamplands. He had to pull his horse through the muck constantly. Even though the nasty water came up to his knees, it still made the horse restless and anxious. It was better to walk the animal through the swamps than ride it.

These last three days had been filled with camp settings, restless sleep, and meager meals of berries, soups, and stale, barely editable bread. Reginald had not ridden this fast and hard in decades. Not since his hair was a prime auburn-brown and his body was in peak physical condition. Old age had slowed him down something awful, making what should have been a gallivant journey into an arduous, painful, misery-laden trip. Although most of the time he hunted dragons, he was not trying to beat a black knight to the prize. Before Nimdok had shown up, Reginald would have taken his time, extended a seven-day ride into ten, stopped at a few towns along the way, and enjoyed himself. Now, he was pushed by an old, driven feeling he hadn't experienced in quite some time: pride. He was not going to let Nimdok beat him to his prize. This great red dragon was his, and his alone. His prize. His honor. His kill.

Finally, breaking through the tree line, he saw the castle come into view. It was a large castle, too. He slowed his pace and trotted along, catching somewhat of a breather as he stared at the looming dragon's abode. At least six well-built towers lined the top, with white stone walls on all sides and a giant portcullis more than capable of accommodating a large-sized dragon in and out. What really struck Sir Reginald as odd was that the castle seemed in great shape. Most dragons didn't do upkeep on their hidings; most just stayed for a long bit of time—centuries or more—and then left when they had no further use for the accommodations.

This one does housework, eh? Sir Reginald thought to himself.

Slowing his horse down more and nearly falling asleep atop his winded stallion, Reginald stayed ever-alert and began pacing his horse in front of the dragon's castle. He didn't want to announce his presence like he had in his earlier, bolder days. He decided to go see if there really was a dragon at home. He was going to ride around to the back slowly when he heard a voice. A damsel's voice.

"Hello? Who goes there? Another knight, I take it?" Her words were sad and drawn.

"Yes, madam. I am Sir Reginald Macehammer of Lythgowen." Reginald announced proudly. "And you are?"

"Princess Daisella. The origin is unimportant. Have you come to slay the great red dragon, sir knight?" Her words, again, were sad and full of misery.

"I have, princess."

"Well, it may displease you to know he is not back yet from his hunt. He will return, though, and you can try your luck then, if you wish?" A quiet whimper escaped her.

Reginald slowly dismounted his horse, hearing the pain and sadness in her voice. He did not see her, though. Approaching the closed portcullis, he took his bow in hand. His sword was ready on his back, his short ax on his hip, and those dragon bone arrows waiting in his quiver. Just a few feet from the gate, he asked, "Princess, are you okay?"

"I am. Just slightly, sick is all. It is quite early in the morn for knights. I've been told that it will last for awhile."

"What makes you ill, Princess Daisella?" Reginald's attention spanned the castle, looking for a giant red beast to come swooping down for a surprise attack.