The Dragon Was A Negotiator
The dragon was waiting in the small valley, exactly where the chart said.
It was the size of a goat. It had blue scales. It looked at Sir Brielle with bright orange eyes.
"You're late," said the dragon.
"I'm sorry," said Sir Brielle. "I couldn't find my sword."
"Where was it?"
"In the turret. Behind a cushion."
The dragon nodded. "I lose mine sometimes too. I have a bag I hide gold in. Last month I forgot which cave."
Sir Brielle was a little surprised. The dragons in books usually did not chat.
"Are we going to fight?" she said.
"Yes," said the dragon, "but only briefly. I have a flock of sheep to count this afternoon. Could we agree on a draw?"
Sir Brielle thought.
"What does a draw look like?"
"You wave your sword. I breathe a small flame. Neither of us hits the other. Then we both go home and tell our friends a heroic story about it."
Sir Brielle considered this. It was, she had to admit, very practical.
"Agreed," she said.
They did the heroic non-fight. Sir Brielle waved her sword. The dragon breathed a small flame, just a little singe-mark on a nearby rock. Then they bowed to each other, very politely.
Sir Brielle rode home. The chart had a tick next to today's dragon. The cook had soup ready.
Sir Brielle put her sword on the rack, very carefully. Then she put a small note on the wall above the rack:
*If your sword is not here, check the turret room.*