Helen’s uncle had done it. And a great-great grandfather -- or was it a great-great-great grandfather? -- had been in that same line of work. In fact, many insisted that St. George himself was a distant ancestor. Yes, you might say it ran in the family.

So when she saw the ad while scanning the classifieds, Helen took a slow, thoughtful drag on her cigarette. “Hmm…Don’t see these much anymore….”

Deep within her, there was a stirring of blood, a quickening of the pulse that was nearly imperceptible, a tingling that Helen staunchly ignored. Instead, she ran her fingers through her dark, curly hair and let a smile quirk her face. “It’d sure impress Dad, wouldn’t it?”

There was something about this…she wanted to do it. The logical part of her mind suggested immediately that her interest was merely to alleviate the boredom she’d wallowed in since Veronica left her, and she seized it, not really caring that it made no sense. She exhaled, the smoke billowing from her nostrils, and smiled. “Well, why not?”

The ad read:

WANTED:

HERO

to Rescue King

Experience Preferred

*Reward*

for details

After all, it ran in the family.

* * *

She called right away, half-afraid someone had already taken the job. She needn’t have worried. The phone rang…once, twice, three times…

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, dignified and proper, without a hint of warmth.

“Yeah. Hi. I’m, uh, calling about the job…”

“Job?” The voice sounded puzzled. Had she dialed the wrong number?

“…Yeah. I saw an ad…”

“Oh.” For a moment, the silence on the other end crackled like ice snapping on a windowpane. “I thought you’d be male.”

Helen was about to slam the phone down in disgust, but restrained herself long enough to spit through gritted teeth, “I hope you aren’t going to reject me out of hand because of my gender…that’s grounds for a lawsuit, you know.”

Instead of the flustered apology that she expected, Helen could almost hear the woman stiffen over the phone and glare at her from across the city with eyes of freezing blue. She shivered.

“Certainly not,” the woman, who by this time Helen had mentally dubbed “the ice queen,” continued, sounding not at all affected by Helen’s idle threat. “It is just that, traditionally, Heroes have usually been male. I trust you are qualified, then?”

Time for the big sell. “Have you ever heard of James du Priest?”

“Of course. One of the greatest Heroes of our age …that is, until his unfortunate accident.”

“Yes. Well, I’m his niece.”

At this the woman’s voice actually showed an inflection of emotion, that of impressed surprise. “His niece?” Ha! Gotcha! “Then he himself trained you?”

Uh-oh. Lie, drat it! “Yes.” It was only an exaggeration, really. He had brought Helen along on some of his easier jobs when she was a kid; princess tracking, goblin beheading, stuff like that. She’d picked up a few things.

“And you are certain your skills are adequate?”

Hmm. Still needed convincing. What were those things Uncle Jimmy had always said to secure a job? “The blood of a thousand Heroes runs through my veins. Whether creeping Imp or sliding Wyrm, the foe shall wither beneath my blade. The creatures of Old are no match for the divine power of a Christian Hero.” Actually, she was agnostic, but the ice queen didn’t need to know that.

There was a pause. “I suppose you’ll have to do. We haven’t had any other applicants.”

* * *

Helen stepped off of the bus and squinted in the late afternoon sunlight. She checked the address in her hand, hastily scrawled on the back of an envelope, and glanced up at the house before her. This was definitely the place. A large Victorian-era townhouse sat, regally overlooking the gated park across the street.

Helen gave herself a quick once over to see that she looked appropriate. She really wasn’t sure how to dress; should she go for class or practicality? In the end, she had decided on a mixture of the two, wearing a plain white shirt and tan slacks, a nice overcoat, and her old waitressing flats-nice looking, but slip-resistant and good for walking. She’d even accessorized with a gold-colored necklace and stud earrings for added class. Convinced she was presentable, she made her way up the steps and rang the bell.

Helen waited, half-expecting to see the door answered by Jeeves the Generic Butler. Instead, the door opened to reveal a tall, pale woman of about forty; coldly proper and devastatingly beautiful.

Helen’s breath caught in her throat and she gave the woman a quick once-over to be sure she was not mistaken.

The soft fall of platinum hair, the thin grace, and the eyes the color of chipped ice-this was definitely her. The Northern Woman. The Ice-Maiden whom the King had married.

And that meant -- Helen gulped. She’d expected she would be rescuing a petty king, the king of South Bronx or something like that. Not the King.

The Ice Queen pursed her lovely mouth and her brow furrowed disapprovingly. “Yes?” She looked down at Helen with a blizzard in her eyes.

Helen coughed nervously, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. “We--*ahem*--we spoke on the phone?” Helen drew herself up to her full height of five feet, two inches, and tried to project an air of easy confidence.

The Ice Queen sighed and turned. “Very well. This way.” Helen followed as the Queen led her into an elegant study. “Please, sit.” She indicated a comfortable-looking chair with a twist of her pale wrist. Helen sat. The Queen remained standing, turning to gaze out the window to the park. “My husband has been taken,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Three nights ago. He was strolling in the park with the dogs, as is his habit.” She paused again, turning to fix Helen with an icy gaze.

Helen nervously cleared her throat and nodded. The Ice Queen seemed to be waiting for her to talk. “You…you, uh, called the cops?” Helen asked lamely, after a long moment of silence.

The Ice Queen shook her head, and lightly touched the windowpane with her fingertips. “No. The police cannot help. No one knows he is even missing, save his family, and, now, you. It would not do to throw the city into a panic. This is a concern of Old Blood.” Helen watched, mystified, as fingers of frost crept across the window glass from the Queen’s touch. “The King was taken. Taken by a dragon to the heart of Old City.”

* * *

The Ice Queen hadn’t had much of any other information to offer. She presented Helen with a few papers to sign: confidentiality agreement, contract, and the like. Helen had reviewed them quickly and signed with a steady hand.

She felt remarkably calm about the whole situation. Not the way she would have guessed she’d feel. The Queen had even presented her with an envelope of cash; a three hundred-dollar stipend for supplies. That was fortunate, because no matter how calm Helen might feel, she knew she had no chance without at least one essential Heroing item.

She needed a sword. And that meant only one thing. Time to go to Fringetown.

It was awfully close to Old City, sitting on the fringe of the skeletal buildings in a slummy neighborhood. This was where the lowlifes hung out, a place that most of the time, the cops forgot existed. Here, an amalgam of the chaotic Old ways and the rigid order of the modern world ruled. A few more blocks inward, and even this would disappear; instead of winos and hookers, goblins and worse would roam the street. Because of the precarious balance in which it existed, Fringetown was a place you could enter and never return from. It was also an excellent place to shop.

She entered the pawnshop, the manila envelope clutched tightly in her hand. The bell jingled merrily, a strangely incongruent sound in this ill-lit hole-in-the-wall. The proprietor glanced up from his copy of Playboy, a cigar stub dangling from his enormous lower lip. A bushy eyebrow raised itself slowly, like a humping caterpillar, as he noted the small, neat looking woman entering his establishment. He feigned disinterest, however, pulling the magazine back to cover his sallow face. “Whatch’ likinfer?” came a muffled, soggy voice from somewhere behind Pamela Lee’s cover spread.

Helen turned to regard the shelves of merchandise. “Uh, beg pardon?”

There came a heavy sigh as the proprietor lowered his magazine fully to the counter, and removed the spongy cigar with a hand missing two fingers. “Whatcha lookin for?” he repeated with exasperation.

“Uhm, a sword. A Hero sword.”

This prompted another raised eyebrow, and a snort. The shopkeeper replaced his cigar and leaned heavily on the countertop. He appraised Helen for a moment, then shrugged. “Don’t have many swords in right now. Whatcha need?”

She hesitated, not really familiar with the subject. Uncle Jimmy’s sword had been heavily enchanted; he’d been as proud of it as he was his new Lexus. She used an index finger to brush some hair from her face, and tried to sound as if she knew what she was talking about. “Got anything enchanted?”

“What kinda enchant ya after?”

She drummed her finger along the side of a thigh. “Whatcha got?”

He scowled and stood, reaching into his pocket to grab a jingling set of keys. He hooked a greasy finger over his left shoulder, indicating an old cabinet behind the wire mesh. He lumbered to it slowly, and a stench of sweat and garlic rolled behind him. With a look of annoyed concentration, he fished out the proper key and unlocked the cabinet, displaying a number of swords hanging neatly on pegs. Three of them looked to be mundane, a fencing saber and two katanas, and Helen mentally discarded them. She turned her attention instead to the heavy, flat-bladed swords that looked like something out of Conan comic book. That was the ticket.

She pointed. “Tell me about those.”

The proprietor spat his cigar onto the floor and squashed it beneath a scuffed boot. “Ya got this ‘un,” he began, jabbing a finger at a shining silver number with a hilt shaped like a snake or a dragon. “S’got a fireproof enchant on it. Won’t melt in Wyrmfyre and whatnot. This ‘un,” he indicated a silver, jewel encrusted number, “s’got the same thing, ‘cept better. Won’t let the guy holdin it burn either. S’also got something makes it hum around danger, like an alarm.” Here he regarded Helen, as if he doubted she could follow him.

“Go on. What about that one?” She pointed to the fourth sword over, which had a strange shimmering effect, like rippling water, and a huge green gem set in the hilt.

“Hhummm…” He stooped a minute to examine the tag, bending just enough to cause Helen to avert her eyes lest she become sick. “Oh, this ‘un’s unbreakable, fireproof, an lets the bearer see in th' dark. This ‘un here is unbreakable. An this ‘un turn’s the guy holdin it invisible. That’s all the enchants I got. Th’ rest’ve um’re mundane.” He straightened up and crossed his arms, leaning against the cinderblock wall, and gave Helen a long look.

She squinted, face screwed up in thought. “How much for the shimmery one?”

“Five hundred.”

“Oh. Damn. Too rich for my blood. How about that other one there? The humming one?’

“Four twenty-five.”

Helen bit her lip. “You got anything for under two fifty?” She supposed she could go as high as three hundred, but she had plans for the other fifty dollars…

The proprietor narrowed his eyes, and slowly rubbed his chin. “We-e-ell…” He reached into the cabinet and hefted a plain, grey blade. “This ‘un here’ll set ya back two twenty-five…tell ya what, for two fifty, I’ll throw in a scabbard. Ya got ta have a scabbard.”

Helen thought for a moment. It wasn’t fancy, but it was enchanted, at least; unbreakable. She could always pawn it back after this caper. She opened the envelope and counted out the cash. “I’ll take it.”

* * *

The sword was heavy.

It strained her belt, pulling it so it bunched at one side of her slacks and dug into her hip. The worn leather scabbard offered little in the way of protection as it slapped against her thigh with the rhythm of her steps.

The electric lights of Fringetown were growing dim behind her, and Helen mentally cursed herself for forgetting to pick up a flashlight. At least the moon was full, and bright enough to let her see where she was going. Still, now that she was actually entering Old City, her confidence seemed to take a sharp dip. Was she ready for this? After all, Old City was huge, and full of creatures that had the run of the place. She had no idea where to even begin looking for the dragon. With no idea where to go, she simply walked in a straight line, following the old street that no one used anymore.

So far, there was no sign of any beasties, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Probably lurking in the shadows this near the border. Helen knew they’d grow braver the further in she got. Maybe they were watching her even now, not sure what to make of the small human woman. She rested a hand on the hilt of her sword, prepare to draw it at the first sign of danger.

An inhuman scream came from around the corner. Helen gasped and looked frantically from side to side. From around the same corner came a huge crashing, closer than the sound had been before.

Eyes wide, she spied a shadowed alley to her left and ran for it. Whatever it was, it was big. And she was just being careful. That’s what she silently told herself as she ducked into the shadows. The crashing noise stopped, but there was still a sound of movement, something large and clumsy, getting closer by the second.

Helen took a deep breath and peered around the corner, then whipped her head back with surprising speed and sank further into the shadows. She’d been on the lookout for anything and everything. Goblins, imps, and wyverns, certainly. Ogres, sure. Werewolves even. But she’d never-never expected a troll. And why should she? These weren’t the Ozarks….

Helen wracked her brains for a moment; how keen was a troll’s sense of smell? Its eyesight? Could it find her, even in an alleyway of shadows? She’d barely caught a glimpse of it before pulling back into her hiding-spot, but she had no desire to try and fight it. She put a hand to her forehead, clammy with sweat, and moaned softly. What was I thinking? How am I going to slay a dragon, when I’m too chicken to even fight a troll?

There was a shuffling from further within the alley, and Helen started, thinking for a moment the troll was behind her. She turned slowly, her hand going automatically to the sword. Four pairs of eyes gleamed yellow-green in the darkness, hovering and bobbing as their owners stayed cloaked in darkness.

Goblins. She heard a scrape, perhaps of a dagger being unsheathed, and saw the faintest glint of a sharp-toothed grin.

The last thing she needed was a knife fight in an alley with a troll closing in. She wasn’t sure if the goblins would care either way, but grabbed the hunch they may have a common enemy. Helen shook her head exaggeratedly, and pointed to the street. She brought a finger to her lips, then mouthed the word, “troll.”

The effect was immediate, if a bit hard to see in the poor light. The goblins blinked their large lantern-eyes and shrunk back, pulling themselves low to the ground. A common enemy, then.

In the unnatural silence, they could hear him moving closer; an uneven, clumsy sounding gait, like a five-hundred pound baby just learning to walk, and a constant scraping sound: something being dragged, perhaps? Helen looked back to the street, and from behind the rusted shell of a ’68 Mustang, saw his shadow. She pulled herself even further into the alley. Her eyes having adjusted somewhat, she saw the four goblins cowering in the dead end a few feet away. If he trapped them, they were screwed. A female (maybe) goblin let out a small gasp, and Helen turned back to the street.

There he was.

Helen had never actually seen a troll before, but she’d heard them described. As usual, the description in no way did the thing justice. She had certainly never seen a fouler creature in her life. The troll was huge, at least nine or ten feet tall, despite the fact that his posture was horribly curved and stooped, and roped with muscle that looked to be attached incorrectly in places. Squinty pig-eyes and a nose like a boil sat above a toothy mouth on his long-chinned face. His head was flat and squashed onto a nearly nonexistent neck; tiny nubs flaring from holes on the sides were the only indication of ears. His arms were too long, reaching nearly to the ground, and one of them dragged in its grip most of an old streetlamp post.

Helen could have handled it; she really could have. There was just one more detail that nauseated her: the troll was completely naked. He (there could be no question as to the creature’s gender) was hairy from head to toe, accessorized with various mats and tangles and rotting pieces of what might be last month’s lunch. A pendulous gut swung low, almost covering the thing’s horribly malformed and distended groin.

Helen decided if she weren’t already gay, this sight would put her off men for a good long while. She suppressed a gag, nearly choking as she struggled not to make a sound. The revolting creature gave one last pinching tug to his disgusting organ, and, blasting a fart, began walking again.

Helen barely dared breath, until the scrape of the thing’s lamppost club grew faint and at last faded. “God,” she muttered, bringing a hand to her forehead. “Oh, god.” Now she was beginning to feel how fast her heart was beating. Her legs jellied beneath her, and she leaned back against the wall for support.

After a moment, it occurred to her that she was not alone. She turned her head back into the alley, where four pairs of eyes blinked back at her. Helen slowly straightened, keeping a careful watch on the little beasts. No telling what they might try. Still, she wasn’t so worried now. Four goblins…she could probably defend herself if they rushed her-she hoped she could, at least-but if things were ideal, it wouldn’t even come to that. She had a trick or two up her sleeve.

Finally, one pair of eyes narrowed, becoming slits of yellow against the black darkness of the alley. “Is he gone?” A hoarse rasp, male, young-sounding. Good.

Helen nodded once, sharply. “I’ll be going.”

“Prob’ly shoun.” A female this time, definitely young. Was that a warning or a threat?

Helen’s hand went instinctively to the pommel of her sword. “I’ve got things to do.”

The male with the slitted eyes moved forward a step. “What you goin do here? Humans ain’t belong; this is old ways, old land.” He swept his hand elaborately. “Old City. This is ours.”

Hmm. She hadn’t planned on being questioned. She considered tossing off a lie, but knew that they’d smell it a mile away. “I’m here for the dragon.”

A collective gasp rose from the goblins, followed by a derisive snort from their leader. “You? Ha! You here for the Great Old One? He’s not for you, you ain’t the blood…” His raspy voice crackled for an instant, then broke, suddenly uncertain. “Is you? I din smell…” He moved closer, sniffing experimentally with his sharp nose. Instantly, a needle-toothed grin flashed across his wrinkled face. “Hey, is that--?”

“Yeah. It is.” Helen sighed, her gambit discovered. “I’ll trade. For information.” She reached into her overcoat to retrieve the package.

“I dunno. S’it good stuff?”

She dangled the plastic sandwich baggy between thumb and forefinger, displaying the quarter ounce it held. “The best. Wanna trade?”

The leader shot a quick glance over his shoulder at his party, then nodded eagerly. “We deal. What you want?”

Helen furrowed her brow. “The dragon. His lair. You know where it is?”

The goblin hesitated, gnawing on a scarred lip. Clearly he was at war with himself. Helen held her breath, hoping his vices would win out. It was a good thing she’d spent the last fifty dollars on that weed. It was a last minute decision, as she recalled Uncle Jimmy’s explanation of the marijuana she’d found in his glove compartment when she was twelve. “It’s for work,” he said with a wink. “I’ll tell you a little secret: all goblins are potheads.”

The goblin proved Uncle Jimmy right once again, as he stared longingly at the baggie and began nodded furiously. He reached behind him and grabbed the smallest of his band by the arm. “She show you.” He held out his hand expectantly, and Helen dropped the bag into his sweaty mitt. The small female he’d pulled forward didn’t look too happy about the situation, and she voiced her protests in the rough and guttural tongue of her people. Her leader merely sneered and barked a command, then began fishing through his pouch for rolling papers.

Helen stepped out of the alley, and the small female followed, hanging her head. “Be gone fore I ged back…” she murmured, kicking at a loose bit of concrete with her clawed foot.

***

The goblin guide moved quickly through the streets, often dropping to all fours to scuttle across a patch of moonlight. Once another goblin melted out of the shadows, leering at Helen, and the female goblin approached him, jabbing claws in Helen’s direction and jabbering away in their rough language. Whatever she’d said gave him pause; he blanched as her looked at Helen and slunk back into his alley.

Finally the goblin stopped, her lantern eyes staring wildly at Helen. “I’s goin no fruther. Great Old One be’s thad way.” She pointed to the right and flinched.

“Wait a minute…” Helen reached out to stop the little creature, but she ducked and slid away from Helen’s grasp, then turned and loped away into an alley. Helen sighed and moved in the direction the goblin had pointed. After a block or two, she had the distinct impression she’d been had.

Even before the creatures of Old rose up and reclaimed the heart of the city as their own, this must have been a lousy neighborhood. The buildings all around her were crumbling; rubble littered the ground where chunks of concrete and brick had plummeted to the sidewalk, unable to hold their buildings any longer. Traces of decades-old graffiti, faded and discolored by soot, were still visible on the sides of some buildings.

Helen shook her head in disbelief. She couldn’t understand why the dragon would choose this old tenement as the location of his lair. It was dying, crumbling, falling apart. They were places in Old City still fit for a king. The old mayor’s manor, for example, or one of those classy old hotels.

She wondered for a moment if she’d been tricked. Maybe the goblins had herded her into an ambush or something like that. She glanced cautiously over a shoulder, then shook her head.

“No,” she whispered to herself, not aware she was voicing her thoughts aloud. “This is the place.”

She saw it now, suddenly, and it made sense. It was perfectly silent here, and not with the heavy, ominous silence she’d come across in the outer fringes of Old City. No, it was silent here, because there was nothing. Not for blocks. Nothing but the dragon. The Great Old One, as the goblins had called him, with a tone of uncharacteristic reverence in their voices.

Helen’s heart was pumping loudly, but not with fear. No, it was a rhythmic thrumming, an echo of the power pulsing through this place. Once, years ago, men built their city here, with no regard for the power of the Old, no appreciation for it. People had lived here, played here, married here, died here, cooked their meals and sold their drugs and protected their families and gone from babies to toothless old men, all in this run-down slum of a neighborhood. Yet now, there was somehow no feeling of humanity. In the other streets of Old City, the humanity had been there; though it was buried under the Old, it still shined through. Here, it had been crushed, snuffed out under the heart of Old like a candle being pinched out.

Helen pursed her lips. It’s funny, she thought, I should be soiling myself by now, but I don’t feel scared. She lightly brushed her fingers over the pommel of her sword and smiled. Maybe I’m not as full of it as I thought. Maybe I do have some Hero blood after all…

Drawing in a deep breath, she began walking to the building she instinctively knew was the one.

She mounted the stone steps, remarkably free of debris. There were no doors. One lay torn from its hinges at the side of the entryway; the other was nowhere in sight. Helen gripped the sword tightly in a sweaty hand and glanced quickly from side to side. Nothing but more stairs. A scatter of dust fell from above her, the ceiling groaned and creaked as something massive shifted its weight.

She moved to the stairs, already feeling the fear begin to creep back around her. She had to move before she lost her nerve. You can do this. Remember Uncle Jimmy.

As Helen rounded the corner she could begin to see the floor above her. The wall to the apartment had been knocked down, leaving the whole level exposed. She thought she saw a flicker of movement in the shadows, but couldn’t be sure. She no longer had much moonlight to guide her, save what came through a broken window at the top of the stairs. Her eyes clenched shut for a moment, and she willed herself into action. Her feet moved again, climbing slowly, stair by stair.

“Do you need a light?”

The voice startled her, and Helen let out a little yelp. She missed the step with her right foot and pitched forward, slamming her knee on the staircase.

“I’ll get you a light.” The same voice, from the room above her. Helen’s blood chilled. The dragon. Nothing else could have a voice like that, so ancient, with a quality that defied description. Above her, a candle flared into life.

He knows I’m here, he knows I’m here…. Helen bit her lower lip, trying to keep from crying out again. Her knee throbbed. What to do? Keep going up…what else can I do?

Leaving the sword hanging at her side, she pulled herself up with the stairway railing, hoping it wouldn’t break under her weight. Her knee actually felt a little better already; she must have just banged a nerve or something. A few steps more and she got her first look at a dragon, by the flickering of a candle flame.

Helen had always imagined that upon seeing a dragon, her first thoughts would be those of fear, or awe, or perhaps a combination of the both. She had somehow expected a sighting of a Wyrm would leave a person speechless, unable to articulate the feeling drawn out in them. However, gazing at this beast, two words sprang immediately to her mind, and they fit the situation perfectly:

How sad.

The Great Old One had withered, faded with the countless years. Now he was no longer great, just old. So very old. Helen knew dragons lived for a long time. Everyone knew that. She just never considered that they might start to show their age.

The dragon must once have been an impressive sight, all gleaming teeth and flashing scales and power and fire. Now his skin was as dull as tarnished coins, chinked and hanging loosely off sharp ridges of flesh and bone.

He looked so small, too, he barely took up the corner in which he crouched. His wings hung from his back, dragging on the floor. How could he even fly? If she didn’t know for a fact that he’d had carried the King off, she would never have believed he could still get airborne.

She watched him carefully to see his reaction to her. There was none, and she finished climbing the stairs, stepping onto the landing. He simply watched her, not moving. In his claws he cupped the candle. Helen paused. What do I do now? She wasn’t about to get any closer to it, not yet. Her eyes swept the room, seeking a sign of the kidnapped monarch.

The room was a dump. The floor was covered with all sorts of stuff; Helen could see pieces of car engines, old watches, hood ornaments, beer bottles (broken), the smashed picture tube of an old Zenith -- even a fire hydrant. And aluminum cans, everywhere. And next to the dragon, a table, with stuff on it sorted into relatively neat piles.

Helen shook her head, puzzled. The dragon, seeing her gaze on the table, made the slightest of creaking movements, bringing his tail protectively in front of it.

This is his hoard. All this worthless crap is his hoard.

The dragon never took his eyes off of Helen, but he raised the candle a little, studying her. She could now see his eyes were rheumy, bleary and almost sightless. She saw his maw open the slightest bit -- was that a smile? No, there was no joy in it.

“Maybe you…” the dragon began, his ancient voiced laced with uncertainty, “Do you think you can help me?”

“H-help?” Helen was getting dizzy. She needed to sit down; she couldn’t take it. Dragons weren’t supposed to be arthritic and helpless. She had come here expecting to see something of great majesty, and, yes, she realized now, maybe to be killed by it. She didn’t want to die, but this was much, much worse. She felt like busting out in tears.

The Old One lowered his head slightly, and Helen could see the pain even that small movement caused him. He reached out with one clawed foot and gently caressed the top of the table at his side. “It won’t work anymore. And I can’t remember. Will you --?” He lifted the candle, inviting her close.

Numbly, Helen’s feet began moving, taking her to the table. She didn’t dare look at the dragon, not this close, because from here it would only be painfully clear that he was dying.

A claw stabbed over her shoulder at a box on the table. “There. Please make it work.”

Helen knit her brow and grabbed for the box. In a moment, she realized what it was. She undid the clasps, revealing an old portable record player. There was a drawer on the bottom of the stand, and she pulled it open. Here there were a few records; old ones, the heavy kind that broke easily. Louis Armstrong. Billie Holiday. Mel Torme. Lena Horne.

“Can you make it work?” asked the dragon.

She shook her head sadly from side to side and held up the power cord. “It needs electricity. It won’t work here.”

The dragon heaved a sigh, seeming to collapse. “I forget things. Too much now, too often. I don’t know what I am doing much of the time, but I remember listening to those songs and that they made me…” He trailed off. “I kept them, though. Kept them well and didn’t scratch them.”

“No, you didn’t scratch them at all…” Helen murmured. What was happening?

The dragon continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. “I can’t remember. This was my lair once, a long time ago. Then…it changed. I left.” Helen reached out a hand to touch the dragon lightly on the shoulder, wanting to comfort him. It was rough and cracked, like dried old leather. He looked at her, his eyes struggling to focus. “What happened? It wasn’t like this before. I was younger then; I knew and remembered. I remembered.” Suddenly he tilted his head to the side, as if a thought struck him. “I remember…a King. But that was long ago, too long ago.”

Helen shook her head. “No. That just happened. You took the King. A couple nights ago.”

The dragon moved his gaze to the flickering candle in his claws, transfixed for a moment by the flame. “Yes…that’s right. I remembered Kings. It felt right. So I went to find one. I found one and brought him here…but it didn’t help. Nothing’s changed. I still…can’t…remember…”

Helen nodded. “Yes. Where is he?” She swept her eyes across the room and noticed for the first time a door in the far wall. Probably the bathroom. She pointed. “Is he in there?”

The dragon brought a clawed forefoot to his brow and shook his head slowly. “He…may be. I…everything is so….”

Helen pulled herself up to her full height and stepped towards the door. The dragon blinked and watched her. “You…leave him there. Don’t.”

Helen glanced back at the pathetic old creature, trying to steel herself; to be callous. “He’s why I’m here.”

He shook his head. “No. Don’t try to take him back. I remember what happens next. I remember that. We’ll only have to fight, and I don’t want to kill you.”

Helen ignored his plea, kicking through the trash on the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to fight with you, either. I just need to bring him back.” She neared the door. Her hand reached out for the knob.

She heard the dragon sigh heavily. “I knew it was coming….” he whispered. “Please,” came the Old One’s pitiful voice from behind her a final time.

The word seemed to hang in the air forever, then escalated, rather suddenly, into a viscous snarl. Helen whirled around, clumsily trying to draw her sword, and accomplishing only tangling it in the leather scabbard. The dragon was crouched on all fours; the candle, miraculously still upright and lit, forgotten at his feet. Suddenly, he no longer looked quite so pathetic. His muscles were taunt, ready to pounce. His jaws were cracked open, exposing his yellow teeth, from which hot saliva dripped. His eyes, no longer rheumy and unfocused, burned with a fiery light. As Helen frantically freed the sword, steam began to roll from the sides of his maw.

Helen spat an oath and raised the cumbersome blade, pointing it directly at the transformed, suddenly fearsome beast. He pulled himself low to the ground and began advancing slowly.

She backed up against the wall, edging away from the door. “Wait…You were right! Let’s not fight, all right? You can keep him; let’s just sit here and talk, okay--?”

If her words reached the dragon, he gave no sign. Instead he gave a quick twitch of his tail and launched himself at Helen. She slashed blindly with the sword, feeling it whoosh through empty air. The dragon moved to the side, easily avoiding her clumsy blow, and made ready to pounce again. Helen bolted for the stairs, and tripped on an old iron near the Old One’s table. She scrambled to get up, and dove to the side at the dragon leapt again. She could feel a blast of hot air as he flew past her, missing by only a few feet, and crashed into his table, crushing it beneath his weight. A clawed foot smashed down on the guttering candle, extinguishing it.

Helen thrust an arm behind her, feeling blindly for the wall in the sudden darkness. Her fingers brushed the crumbling wallpaper and she flattened herself against it. Across the room, she saw the glitter of the Old One’s eyes. He was going to pounce again. She gripped her sword tightly in both hands, drawing in a deep breath. This was it.

She hear his claws scramble a moment on the floor, then she knew he was leaping, in the air -- he was right in front of her, claws extended! She swung the sword with all her strength, and her arms her jarred numb as it connected. She heard the dragon give a wuffling wheeze. Had she killed him? She couldn’t see a thing in this darkened room. Helen willed her hands to hold their grip, even as they slipped, feeling boneless and jellied from the ringing blow. She scarcely dared breathe.

He moved. Not toward her, though. Away, back to the table. She hoped she wouldn’t have to try and finish him off…despite the fire he’d just shown, she still felt like she was picking on the resident of a nursing home. What honor was there in that?

A candle flared into life again. The dragon stood near the smashed remains of his table, one claw rubbing his snout, where a trickle of blood ran from his nostril. Helen suddenly realized she had hit him with the sword, whapped him across the nose…with the flat side of the blade. She groaned.

However, he was no longer paying any attention to her. Instead, he placed the candle gently to the side and sifted through the splintered debris of the table. With trembling claws, he drew up piece by piece of his smashed records. A strangled cry escaped his throat. Helen couldn’t take it. Her sword dropped from her hands, and she flew to his side.

The Great Old One was crying.

Helen placed a hand on his neck, rubbing the frazzled mane of the ancient beast. “Your records,” she whispered. “I’m really sorry. Really.”

The dragon let the tiny bits of grooved blackness tumble from his claws. “Take the King. I won’t stop you. Take him. But first, take your sword. Take your sword and kill me.”

“No!” Helen shook her head, dizzy. “No. I don’t want to-I couldn’t!”

“Please…” the dragon’s voice cracked, and in that instant he crumbled, more pathetic than he’d been when she first viewed him. “There’s no place for me now. Not anymore. Not anymore…”

Helen took his head in her arms and pressed it close to her. “No. There will always be a place for you. I don’t want to live in a world that had no place for dragons….” She petted the scaly skin of his brow, acutely aware of each crack and wrinkle.

He butted his head lightly against her chest, and she released her hold. Still, he did not remove his head. “I’ve forgotten…everyone has forgotten….” Now he dropped his head, lying it dejected on the floor.

Helen brought a hand to her aching head. “What if I visited you?” she blurted out.

The dragon raised his head a little and tilted it, a flash of interest in his eyes. “Would you do that?”

“Yeah,” Helen continued, nodding. “I could come and visit you. And I could, uh, bring you new records. Well, CDs. And a Walkman, so you could listen to them.” Though he didn’t seem to completely understand what she was talking about, the dragon’s rheumy eyes glittered a little at this. “Sound good?”

The dragon rested his head on the floor once more, but this time, he seemed pleased.

“Good. I’ll just get the King, then, and go, okay? And I’ll come back later. Tomorrow, maybe…it depends. But soon. I promise.”

The dragon closed his eyes and, much to Helen’s surprise, purred softly. One eye squinted open a bit. “Tell him I’m dead.”

“Huh?”

“The King. Tell him you slayed me…wait a moment. Get your sword.” Helen complied, and placed it in the dragon’s outstretched forefoot. He grabbed a bunch of his coarse mane and sliced it neatly off, then offered it to Helen, along with her sword. She sheathed the blade, and tied a knot of the wispy hair, then picked up the candle. The dragon smiled-actually smiled!-and put his head down once more, closing his eyes. “I’m dead,” he whispered, and damned if he didn’t chuckle when he said it.

Helen pressed her face against the bathroom door, listening. “Your Majesty?” There was no response. She twisted the knob in her grip, and pulled the door open. Candlelight flickered off the cracked mirror above the sink. The King was in the bathtub, asleep. He’d pulled a tattered rug around him for warmth. Helen gently shook him by the shoulder. “Your Majesty, wake up. I’m here to rescue you.” He stirred and blearily opened one eye.

“Wha--?”

“I’m here to bring you back. Come on, let’s go.” She grabbed an arm and helped him to stand.

The King, still half-asleep and weak, blinked stupidly for a moment. “The dragon,” he said at last. “There’s a dragon out there.”

Helen nodded. “I know. I slayed him.” She held up the knot of mane for proof. “Here.” She shrugged out of her overcoat and held it out to the King. “Take this. Let’s go.” The King let the moldy rug slide from around his shoulders and drew Helen’s coat around him. It was a little too short in the arms, a little narrow in the shoulders, but it was better than nothing. Helen appraised the abducted monarch for a moment. His brown suit was torn and filthy, his face gaunt and weary. How old was he? Helen seemed to remember he was about mid-fifties-ish, but right now he looked at least seventy. The dragon had probably forgotten to feed him. Helen offered an arm to support the King, and he took it.

Together they picked their way across the cluttered room, and the King threw a wary glance at the shadowed bulk of the dragon in the corner. Helen took care to keep the candle low, the light away from the Old One. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “He’s dead.”

Over her shoulder, she saw the dragon wink.

* * *

The walk back to Fringetown was a blur. It was cold, too; Helen had on only a short-sleeved shirt, while the King wore her overcoat. Still, he needed more than she did.

Nothing accosted them, and Helen thought she knew why. After all, her shirt was smeared with the blood of the dragon’s nosebleed, and in her hand she clutched a scrap of his mane. This time the creatures of Old scurried into the shadows from her.

Once safely back in civilization, Helen hailed a taxi and they tumbled thankfully inside its heated interior. Helen tried to keep the King’s face shielded from the cabbie, remembering what the Ice Queen had said about keeping this whole thing quiet, but she soon discovered the driver was foreign and could barely speak English. Well, forget it. Who’d believe him?

Helen woke suddenly, and realized she must have drifted off during the cab ride. “Thirty-three dollar,” the cab driver repeated. Helen glanced to her side. The King was fast asleep. She fished through her pants and pulled out her last two twenties.

“Keep it,” she said, shaking the King’s shoulder to wake him. He stepped out of the cab and a sigh of relief escaped his lips as he saw his house. Helen helped him up the steps and rang the bell. She couldn’t wait to see the look on the Ice Queen’s face when she opened the door.

The door swung open, and to Helen’s surprise, revealed a twenty-something girl. She flew out the door and embraced the King, tears shining in her eyes. “Dad! Dad, you’re okay!” Helen coughed lamely, feeling awkward witnessing this private moment. She looked at the doorway, where the Ice Queen now stood.

The Queen’s eyebrow quirked in surprise and she glanced at Helen, with a look of reluctant approval. She approached her husband coolly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Husband,” she said, her voice even, “I am glad you are returned to us safely.”

The Princess moved to the side to allow her parents an embrace, and smiled at Helen. She looked strangely like her mother, pale and beautiful, but her hair had a golden touch of blond light to it, her gray eyes danced with emotion, her smile was warm and inviting. She was no maiden of ice.

She brushed her fingers lightly across Helen’s arm, and the touch was cool, but not glacial. “Thank you.” She moved back into the house, following her parents. “This way,” she beckoned, tucking a stand of platinum-gold hair behind an ear.

* * *

Helen sat in the study, trying to keep the look of dumbfounded shock off her face. When the she’d read in the paper there was a reward…well, suffice it to say, she hadn’t expected quite so large a sum. Then again, it did make sense, didn’t it? The sum was equal to a king’s ransom, but she had just saved the King…. No wonder Uncle Jimmy had been able to live the way he did.

The Ice Queen raised her chin haughtily. “I trust the amount is sufficient?”

“Oh, yeah,” Helen gulped. “Very generous. Thank you.”

“It will be deposited into your bank account by tomorrow morning, then.”

“Th-thank you,” Helen managed to stutter. I’ll never have to work another day in my life…

“Wait a minute, Mom,” said the princess, who had previously been standing silently in the background. “You’re forgetting something.”

The Ice Queen, for a moment, paled. “Yes, Diana?”

The princess moved forward, her gaze fixed firmly on Helen. “Well, there’s also that whole business of ‘the princess’s hand.’ You know, common reward for king-saving and all that.” She shrugged. “I don’t know about all that; I’m a modern girl. But…” She smiled warmly at Helen and flipped her platinum-gold hair. “Would you settle for a first date?”

Helen rose, smiling. “I think that would be all right.”

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