“We cannot cower.” The King boomed. “We must be strong, untied. A mighty force that—”

Thump! Thump!

Fifteen heads turned towards the grand doors. Bewildered expressions jumped down the table from each Knight to the next—everyone knew the rule: No disturbing the King's Counsel.

The King cleared his throat, and all heads twisted back to him. “A mighty force that—”

The doors shook again. Brass handles trembled and echoed through the large hall.

“Jester,” The King waved a stiff hand, ordering me over. “Go see to the door. Discover why the guards are not completing their duties.”

Although he still addressed me by the title, I wasn't so much a jester anymore but more of the King’s personal servant. Not that I minded, washing the King’s skivvies was marginally better than the crushing embarrassment of a jester performance. However, I did still have to wear the outfit.

Hesitantly, I bowed my head, cringing as my hat jingled.

Sat beside the King, Sir Cal snorted. Strands of wispy black moustache disappeared into his mouth, and I made a mental note to slip pepper into his morning, Earl Grey.

“Yes, sir.” I said, “Certainly.” And I slowly moved around the King’s golden chair.

I didn't understand why one of the Knights couldn't have done it; possibly their backsides had welded to their seats.

Pair’s of glaring eyes—except for Sir Alice, poor girl only had one—followed my wobbly journey towards the door. The silence was awkward and painful. The bells on my shoes chimed and tingled; I never so hoped the ground would have swallowed me.

Maybe the potential intruder waiting on the other side of the door would run me through, put an end to my humiliation.

Or maybe—

The door rattled, and I realised I had been standing motionless before it like a lost lemon.

“Jester!” The King shouted.

“Yes,” My fingers fumbled around the door handles. “Apologies, My King.”

Yanking the handles down, I pulled the doors in. Warmth and a strangely deserted corridor greeted me. Not a guard, nor a hurrying, sweating servant insight. And no murderous mercenary.

Odd.

A chair scraped from behind. “Jester!” the King barked, “Who is it?”

“Er... Nobody, My—”

My hat flew from my head, stolen by a burning blast of air. The bells landed with a ringing clang, skidding along the stone floor.

The Knights gasped, and I didn't think seeing my hair was something to cry about, but then I turned back towards the door.

Wings spanned to either side of the doorway, and each curve, phalanges, extended out to a sharp, white talon. Two enormous feet, also sporting some rather nasty looking weapons, dangled from the wyvern’s body. Green, almost iridescent blue scales covered the wyvern’s head, and back and eyes of onyx flicked every which way, never staying still longer than a second. The young wyvern roared, sparks of embers dancing over its muzzle.

My breath abandoned me as the young Wyvern swooped over my head. Golden scales coloured her belly, and I caught a glimpse of the faint red tinge where her heart was.

“A wyvern... And a goat?”

Following behind, his hooves beating a rainstorm galloped a goat. Just a goat—a wyvern and now a farmyard pigmy goat.

The little black and white goat charged towards the table of Knights. Horned stubs struck the corner of Sir Mabel’s chair. The leg splinted. Wood cracked. The leg broke. Sir Mabel’s chair, along with her, plunged back. She crashed with a strangled cry against the ground.

Like a guilty child, the goat disappeared under the table.

Knights shot from their seats. Swords found their way to hands, and suddenly, the great hall was consumed with yelling adults and the ringing clang of armour.

“Someone capture the goat!” Someone shouted. I couldn't see who.

“It’s got my cape!” Shouted another—Sir Lou?

“The wyvern?”

“The goat, idiot!”

Abandoning my hat on the floor, I hurried around the table, narrowly dodging a swing from Sir Alice’s sword. Her eye patch had shifted slightly, and I could see the hollow socket beneath.

“Apologies, Jester,” she panted.

“It’s alri—”

“Out the way, fool!”

Sir Grant—his hair a mane of blond that all the ladies and gents seemed to adore—shoved me to the side. And as the graceful man I am, I fell, tumbling in a tangle of limbs. My head smacked the back of a chair. I gasped, drowning in a nauseating tide of dizziness and flashing lights.

Feet pounded my skull, or maybe they were simply running by, and my blurred eyes gazed up.

The wyvern rose, spiralling up to the stained glass steeple. I watched in awe; my neck bent a banana as a spurt of flame burst from the little one. A rainbow of colour ignited over her scales—she truly was spectacular.

With a graceful twist of her wings, the Wyvern descended. She roared, and another flare of fire blasted.

Black soot stained the white brick wall, and a cloud of smoke drifted into the air.

“For the love of the Saints, men!” the King bellowed, his own sword drawn. “She is only a youngling.”

Sir Davey ducked. She thrust her sword upward, striking nothing. “But she has fire, Sire!”

“And you have shields!” I shouted from my place on the floor.

The Knight eyed me as though I had stepped on her birthday cake but tugged her shield from her back. She fastened it to her wrist, and soon most of the other knights followed.

Sir Grant—oh self-absorbed Sir Grant—raised his sword and slammed it against his shield. A metallic tin reverberated, and the wyvern tilted her scaled head, but she didn't seem scared but instead rather curious.

And then I got an idea—which didn't happen often.

Tugging off my left shoe, I rose to my feet and waved it. The wyvern turned toward me.

Cold hands of dread wrapped around my chest, and I suddenly realised what I had done.

Calling a wyvern to you—stupid, stupid idea!

She swooped down. I screamed, and I threw my shoe into the air. But instead of her talons capturing me, she caught my shoe and landed with a thump on the table.

Awes and awws replaced the shouting. The Knights stood peacefully and watched as the wyvern played like a kitten.

Then Sir Grant had to ruin it.

“Let me end her, Sire!” he said.

“No!”

I dived in front, Sir Grant’s sword a hairsbreadth from slicing my neck. I gulped down some air, hid my trembling hands behind my back. “No. Apologies, My King,” I said, ignoring Sir Grant’s prize-winning scowl. “Please, let me save it. She’s only young.”

The wyvern mewed, and she flipped onto her back, kicking my jingling shoe up into the air with her feet. Beneath the gold of her scales, her heart thumped.

“See, she only wishes to play.”

The King rested his hand on Sir Grant’s sword, lowering it to the ground.

“You have a kind heart, Jester,” he said. His brow furrowed, and he rubbed his grey-bearded chin almost comically. “I will allow it,” The King said, so softly I almost hadn't heard it.

“What!” I blurted, and Sir Grant rolled his eyes. “I mean... thank you, My King. I will take her somewhere far away. Somewhere safe.”

Strangely, Sir Cal smiled and offered me a lengthy stretch of golden rope—a curtain tie—, and I had to stop myself from flinching away.

Carefully, I fastened it around the wyvern’s belly, behind her wings.

Perhaps I wouldn't lace his moring Earl Grey with pepper.

Removing my other belled shoe, I shook it.

The wyvern’s head shot up. Her beady eyes followed my hand, and she kicked my other shoe away, leaping into the air.

I took a step around the table, and she followed, the wind from her wings twisting up turrets of hair.

A laugh bubbled from my lips.

I was walking an actual wyvern.

Sir Lou stepped out of my way, fingered the chewed edges of his red cape.

“Where is the goat?” I asked.

A high pitch squawking bleat echoed from the corridor. A woman screamed, and something crashed.

The goat had escaped.

Again.