Six sages were strolling when they came upon
A scene most astounding in scale
A dragon lay wounded and gasping for breath –
Indeed dying right on the trail.
After a brief conference, the sages agreed
To deduce the clues of the scene,
Determine the cause of the pending demise,
Then resume their saunter serene.
The first, with assurance, did sweep his hand o’er
The wreckage of battle and said,
“It’s clear that our hero was mighty and strong
Whose sword will make this dragon dead.
“Observe the deep cuts his strokes made in the wyrm.
An orc-kin or brute from the Rift
Brought down this great beast with a terrible blade
So large all we six could not lift.”
“Tut, tut,” scorned the second with skeptical eyes,
“It takes more than strength to withstand
the ferocious blows that he surely received
from this dying dragon’s clawed hand.
“A stout, hardy woodsman as thick as an oak
Used vigor and grit to endure
The clash that transpired with this massive foe
And emerge with his vict’ry secure.”
The third sage stepped deftly around the felled beast
And loudly proclaimed to himself
For all his companions to openly hear,
“Gadzooks, it’s the work of an elf!
“See here! These long shafts cut from wood of the yew
Have found every gap in its scales.
While nimbly avoiding a rival’s assault
An archer most always prevails.”
“It wasn’t elf deftness or raw brutish force
that conquered this eons old beast,”
the fourth sage declared as he peered down his nose,
“but likely the work of a priest.
“It takes a wise man with a studious flair
To research and face the unknown.
In this case it’s clear – that our hero was shrewd -
He didn’t meet this threat alone.”
“I’m bored,” yawned the fifth, “with your lackluster views.
A legion itself would fall short
Of besting this wyrm with but physical blows.
No, he failed at a loftier sport.
“A battle of wits, to a mastermind mage,
He lost and so fled his resolve
To live with the truth - a mundane mental status -
And thus did his spirit devolve.”
“You’re all off the mark,” in a confident tone
declared the sixth sage with a smile.
“For I think a mere bard used a charming approach
To deceive, persuade and beguile.
“A dragon’s conceited yet vulnerable
To sycophancy at its best.
Convincing oration. A rapier’s thrust.
Likely it was no grueling contest.
The sages’ deliberation now complete,
They marshaled and moved down the lane.
The dragon sighed after them with his last breaths -
His quandary to frankly explain.
“As you’ve each surmised, it was not a lone skill
that brought me to this lowly end.
Instead ‘twas one warrior with divergent traits
Though how I just can’t comprehend.
“He had me convinced he had peaceably come
gathering census statistics.
How gullible now I accept I had been
To fall for a ploy so simplistic.
“Yet extensive lore did the fellow display -
In eight languages we conversed.
Though as I reflect on the themes we discussed
They did seem just slightly rehearsed.
“Prudent and sensible – a well-mannered gent –
He cleverly used this deceit
To gain my appeal and then strike the first blow.
Oh, what a consummate cheat!
“Swift like an adder he was to attack me
Despite being laden by mail
Encasing his body . . . wait, an armored census taker?
Now how did I miss that detail?
“His fortitude shocked me, for blow after blow
Seemed proof of a worrisome truth -
That my end was near if this lad had the strength -
I’d never grow long in the tooth.
“Indeed, he eventually unleashed his axe
And brought me to task with three blows.
‘I want yer fat lute!’ he cried triumphantly
As I painfully writhed in death throes.
“’Fat lute?’ I considered, completely perplexed,
‘I’ve not one of those in my hold.’
Then out came the lad bearing backpacks and bags
Bursting at the seams with my gold.”
The great dragon heaved a last sigh and prepared
To board the boat tied to death’s wharf
And managed at his slayer to voice this curse:
“May pride be the death of that dwarf!”
Laddy
