“The dragonslayer…” Yefrem hesitated. The life of a minister was built around choosing the right words when speaking before the king. The next could be pivotal. “He… defecated, sire.”

King Fyodor shifted uncomfortably in his throne. “Well, as we all do, Yefrem. When I asked you to relay all new information, perhaps do not be so literal with the task. We wish to make a monument to his successes, not speak of his bowels.”

“It’s more than that, my king, it’s…” He started shifting uncomfortably himself. His chubby fingers ran circles around one another, pulling at his knuckles, hearing the little pops echo in the chamber. “It was in the public fountain.”

Fyodor raised his eyebrows. “Again?”

“Again.” He unravelled a scroll, but more for the purpose of giving his hands something to do besides idling. “He referred to it as a ‘giant bidet’. He claims he has coined the term, but we’ve yet to decipher its meaning. The peasants seem to have their guesses, however.”

“Ohh,” the king sighed. He slunk into his throne and raised a hand to his face. Through his fingers, he mumbled further. “There’s vanishingly little to celebrate for him. He has already been a P.R. nightmare. You’re the minister of this - can you not do anything about it?”

“And I thank you again for the appointment to Minister of Peasant Relations,” Yefrem said with a deep bow, “but to dictate how a dragonslayer acts during his triumph is well beyond my powers. That, and the deaths have begun to severely try the peasantry’s patience already, and we should likely focus on how to rid ourselves of him entirely.”

Fyodor sat up suddenly. “Deaths? Surely he hasn’t moved from dragons to our citizens!”

“No, sire, certainly not! The deaths are just related to his presence,” he said with a placating air about him, hands outstretched and a smile between his jowls.

Again the hand returned to the king’s face. Distantly, he thought of his predecessors; The Great, The Terrible, The Conqueror. What title would he garner? The reign of 'The Fecal' held little esteem, and the moniker was gaining traction among the peasants. “Please indulge me, then, minister. If not by his hand, then how?”

Yefrem cleared his throat. “Our hero, the dragonslayer, believed it would suit him to prove his courage not only through the battling of great and powerful beasts, but by surviving a death-defying spectacle.”

“Go on.”

“He tried to jump the river Kulikov on horseback.”

The king threw up his hands. “And how did that result in the deaths of peasants?”

“The subsequent attempt of rescue,” Yefrem explained.

“Ah.” The king settled back into his throne. “The peasants rushed to the aid of their hero, and some sacrificed their very lives in the attempt. Admirable.”

Yefrem’s hands began to spin up again. “If only, sire. In truth, they perished while attempting to save the horse, who had grown quite popular in spite of his owner's recent public embarassments. Meanwhile, the dragonslayer had grown bloated from drink, and floated back to shore quite comfortably on his own." He closed his eyes in solemn mourning. "Sadly, our people are not known for their ability to swim, my king.”

Fyodor’s eyes went wide. “Drowned! Saving a horse?”

“Indeed. The great tragedy was further exacerbated when they realised the horse was more than capable of swimming back to shore on its own.”

He scratched his chin. “Well. We shall mourn their losses just the same. Throw them a funeral service on behalf of the king.”

Yefrem perked up, jowls once more shaking with the motion. “But there is good news! The massive waves of death since the arrival of the dragonslayer have produced a tremendous amount of coin for the church - and thus, the crown. The cost of funerary arrangements has produced somewhat of an industry. It comes at a fortunate time, seeing as the reduction in public services in order to properly have equipped our soldiers in the battle against the dragon are falling

upon the heads of the peasants.”

Fyodor waved his hand in dismissal. ”Surely it mustn't have made a notable difference. The water still flows, the food is plentiful. What could it be that so bothered them?”

Yefrem tucked the first scroll into the crook of his arm and pulled a second from his bag.

He ran a finger from top to bottom, searching, searching, until it landed upon the latest easing of the royal coffers. “Ahh, there we are. We’ve most recently cut… hmm. Well, I do hope the king appreciates irony.”

“Out with it, Yefrem,” Fyodor all but growled.

“Swimming lessons for the peasantry.”

The king buried his head in his hands. “This all stems from the dragonslayer. All of it! He’s been a blight upon this kingdom! How much pain has this land suffered in his presence?”

“Well, truly, sire, the loss of swimming lessons alone… countless drownings… It’s astounding! We’re not even near deep water, and-”

“We must be rid of him. Tell him that we thank him for his services to the crown, and he is free to leave and travel on to his next great adventure.”

Yefrem began to fiddle with his fingers again so strongly that he dropped his many scrolls. “Unfortunately, sire, there is still the matter of his promised monument. We’ve attempted to inform him that he is free to roam once more and the statue will be erected in his absence, but for reasons we cannot ascertain, our words are met only with giggles.”

The king slammed his hands down upon his throne and stood up, his guards snapping to attention at his side. “That’s enough! We cannot venerate such a man as this. We shall thank him for his efforts in slaying the dragon that scourged our lands, and be done with him!”

Yefrem locked his fingers behind his back so they could no longer move. “That does bring me to the next point of business, my king. The peasants have begun to realise that the dragon…”

“Out with it, Yefrem, you’re trying my patience!”

“They’ve realised the dragon may not have been… bad.” The king only blinked back at him. “He had never caused a single death, nor injury. He simply kept to his lair, and would only soar over croplands to delight the children. Yet upon your order we’ve lost countless peasants from declaring war upon him.”

“We did?” the king asked with eyebrows raised.

“We did,” Yefrem confirmed. “Countless,” he repeated. "More than the drownings. The truly notable drownings."

“Well,” the king started with a wave of his hand, “he was sitting up there, you know…menacing us. At least our peasants no longer have anything to fear.”

“Save for water, of course,” Yefrem added drily. “The sheer volume of dead in the river…”

The king paced back and forth before his throne, tapping his chin, pondering and pondering. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers, and with a raise of his brow he turned to Yefrem in triumph. “I’ve got it. We shall not venerate the dragonslayer - but instead, raise his weapon to the peak of glory! The sword by which the dragon was felled shall be our monument to this kingdom’s strength!”

“Brilliant, my king!” At least his fingers now spun behind his back and out of sight.

“There is an issue, however. The dragonslayer did not use a sword.”

The king brushed the comment aside. “Mace, flail, spear, what-have-you. Well enough.”

“Unfortunately, the dragonslayer utilised no weapons in the battle beyond his own two fists.”

King Fyodor’s jaw dropped and his crown sagged, and once more he fell limply into his throne. “He punched a dragon to death?”

Yefrem shrugged. “He said he was full of vinegar and… another substance… and after having visited the local tavern, he downed as many mugs of ale as we’ve had peasants lost in the river, and strode up the mountain towards destiny.” It was Yefrem’s turn to stroke his chin and wonder. “That said, we may be on to something.”

—

Trumpets bellowed in the town square announcing the arrival of King Fyodor. Dressed in full battle regalia he had earned from directing others to go to battle, he stood before his population upon a raised platform for all to see. Guards stood menacingly at his side, but his face was warm and welcoming. Today was a day of pride. He was to unveil the statue dedicated to the defeat of the dragon, the menacing beast that terrified the populace by living in moderate

proximity.

As most celebrations had as of late, the king began with a solemn moment of silence for those that had recently drowned in the Great Bathing Apocalypse of last week before acknowledging that, truly, there were no means to prevent such tragedies.

“Citizens,” the king began at last, raising their heads. “Today is a day of triumph!” The crowd roared in adulation, thrilled at finally having a moment of celebration. “The dragon has been defeated, and once again our quiet land is brought to a state of peace. With the unveiling of this statue of remembrance at all the countless peasants who had thrown their lives away, so, so very pointlessly-” Yefrem mumbled something to the king who paused to listen. “-heroically, heroically that is, at its destruction. For their sacrifice and the strength of the hero who has rid us of the dragon’s terror, we have erected a monument-”

“Ha!” yelled the dragonslayer from somewhere in the crowd.

“-to commemorate the victory. Only four peasants have died in its creation!” He grabbed at the thin sheet covering the statue. “Behold!” He unveiled the monument, a powerful fist charging towards the heavens, glimmering in gold, beautiful but strong. Never had the king felt such pride, having produced such an awe-inspiring piece of art after having defeated such a mighty foe.

“Huh,” came a voice from the crowd.

“Why a fist?” asked another.

The king couldn’t believe his ears. “It’s strong. Powerful. And it didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Kinda bland.”

“Yeah. Dull. Even I have fists.”

“How’d we pay for it?”

The king saw his opportunity to win his people back once again. “Ah, the spoils of war! We’ve managed to pay for the monument entirely through the gold we’ve pilfered from the dragon’s lair.” The peasants didn’t so much as blink. “It’s good, no? In the end, we almost broke even.”

“Huh. I think we could do better.”

“Yeah,” piped up another. “Let’s make another one. Something strong and powerful; brave, yet cunning.”

Another peasant raised his hand. “I’ve got it! How about a dragon?”