The Dragon MEGAPACK ®. Kenneth Grahame

Darrell Schweitzer Megapack

      The Robert Sheckley Megapack

      The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack

      * Not available in the United States

      ** Not available in the European Union

      ***Out of print.

      OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY

      The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called “The Lord Dunsany Megapack”)

      The Wildside Book of Fantasy

      The Wildside Book of Science Fiction

      Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

      To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

      Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

      Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

      More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

      X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries

      SYMPATHY FOR DRAGONS, by John Gregory Betancourt

      Sir Horace, the greatest knight in all Mordovia, tracked the dragon Grothnir back to its lair in the Pyrénées. On a cold, wind-swept plateau three thousand feet above the lush green valleys of France, he dismounted his horse, drew his sword, faced the cave, and bellowed:

      “Ho, monster! I have come to slay you!”

      He sensed movement within the darkness. Bracing himself, he raised his sword and prepared for battle—of which there came none.

      “Grothnir!” he bellowed after ten minutes of waiting. “Show yourself, spawn of evil!”

      Again he sensed movement, and two great yellow eyes suddenly regarded him from the depths.

      “Come out!” Sir Horace shouted.

      “No,” said the dragon, its voice low and rumbling.

      Sir Horace blinked, hardly believing his ears. A dragon that would not do battle? Impossible! Perhaps the monster had misunderstood.

      “Come out!” he repeated, in his most commanding voice.

      “No,” said the dragon.

      Sir Horace ranted. Sir Horace railed. He called the dragon a coward, a simpering weakling, a mockery of all that was draconian. Still Grothnir refused to fight. In desperation, he threw rocks at its eyes. He even gathered snow from the peaks above and pelted the beast with snowballs. But for all his efforts, for all his insults, the great creature remained steadfast in its refusal. And Sir Horace knew better than to venture into its lair, for within such close confines he would be roasted by the monster’s breath.

      They had reached an impasse.

      * * * *

      Sir Horace made his camp outside the cave’s mouth. Each morning he renewed his challenge to the dragon; each morning it refused. Once a week villagers from Les Fleurs brought him fresh provisions and checked on his progress; once a week he reported, “I have it cornered. I will starve it out.”

      But as the weeks turned into months, and the months threatened to turn into years, still the dragon Grothnir remained safe within its lair.

      Once, on a particularly beautiful spring morning, he thought he heard cracking and chewing from within the cave. He listened intently. Yes—he definitely heard something. Perhaps Grothnir had caught a foolish rat. Well, vermin would little sustain it.

      “Grothnir!” he bellowed, as had become his custom. “Come out!”

      “Soon,” came the rumbling reply.

      Sir Horace raced to his tent and began to sharpen his sword. Soon! The word sent his blood racing. Soon!

      * * * *

      Each day for a fortnight, the dragon repeated its promise. By the fifteenth day Sir Horace felt his patience wane.

      “Soon!” he snorted. “I will be an old man before we do battle! How much longer will you make me wait, O serpent?”

      “Tomorrow,” promised Grothnir.

      Filled with hope and ambition, Sir Horace retired early to his prayers.

      * * * *

      The next day, Sir Horace rose before dawn, made his morning ablutions, and crossed to Grothnir’s cave. The day had come! Today he would slay the dragon. He wore a garland of fresh flowers on his shield; he carried his sword unsheathed. As he walked he whistled, and his step had a merry bounce.

      “Ho, dragon!” he called at the cave’s mouth. “Come out!”

      “Step back,” came the reply. “I must stretch my wings.”

      Obligingly, Sir Horace removed himself to the far edge of the plateau. Yet he remained steadfast in his vigilance; he would not give the serpent a chance to fly away.

      Slowly Grothnir emerged into the sunlight, sixty feet long from smoking snout to barbed black tail. Sir Horace noticed how thin it was, how its hide hung slack and its bony ribs and hips stuck out. The dragon’s scales had lost their rainbow sparkle from a year underground; its gold eyes blinked, dull and listless. Slowly it shook dust from its leathery wings, then stood on its hind legs and roared at the sky.

      The ground shook, but Sir Horace kept his feet. Even half starved, the dragon looked impossibly huge and strong. Yet, remembering its cowardice, he drew new strength. It feared him! It had taken nearly a year of starvation to force Grothnir into the open. It knew he must inevitably triumph!

      He stepped forward boldly, raising his shield against the monster’s flaming breath.

      “Come out!” the dragon called.

      Sir Horace peeked around his shield, but the dragon was not talking to him. He followed its gaze to the mouth of the cave, where ten or twelve smaller versions of Grothnir watched. The dragonlings, thin and bright-eyed, were little bigger than a man, with twin plumes of smoke rising from their nostrils. One still had a bit of shell stuck to its shoulder.

      Sir Horace gulped. It hadn’t been cowardice that kept Grothnir in the cave. She had been sitting on eggs. He took a deep breath. Even so, a dragon was a dragon, and a knight’s duty was clear. He would slay them all.

      “Pay attention,” said Grothnir to her hatchlings.

      Sir Horace raised his shield and advanced. He felt the heat of a fiery blast, but the shield saved him. More confident, he rushed forward.

      Giant claws plucked shield and sword from his hands, then knocked him to the ground. Dazed, he heard the scurry of tiny claws, and suddenly the hatchlings ringed him, staring down curiously.

      “The most important thing,” said Grothnir cheerfully, looming above, “is not to overcook your food.”

      Sir Horace began to scream even before the flames struck.

      THE FOUR CLEVER BROTHERS, by The Brothers Grimm

      “Dear children,” said a poor man to his four sons, “I have nothing to give you; you must go out into the wide world and try your luck. Begin by learning some craft or another, and see how you can get on.”

      So the four brothers took their walking-sticks in their hands, and their little bundles on their shoulders, and after bidding their father goodbye, went all out at the gate together. When they had got on some way they came to four crossways, each leading to a different country.

      Then the eldest said, “Here we must part; but this day four years we will come back to this spot, and in the meantime each must try what he can do for himself.”

      So each brother went his way; and as the eldest was hastening on a man met him, and asked him where