Saint George - 19. Rage

But what was that?! Quicker even than lightning the rider had jumped to his feet and into the saddle, snatched the lance from its special casing and ere the monster realised what was afoot had driven it deep down its throat. It had been a ruse, one often used by Roman soldiers. The horses were especially trained for it.
Still, the people couldn’t believe their hero had been slain; still, they clung to their conviction that it would keep laughing and, shortly, crunch the Roman spear to smithereens, but when a wide stream of yellow goo started gushing from its jaws and its limbs slackened one after another, there was little space left for doubt. The cheering turned into a roar of rage, of boundless rage.
The game was over, forever it was. What a dirty trick of that guy! Such a special animal that’s never hurt a soul, ever. What a bastard! What a jerk!
A flare like this was never to be quenched by words alone. There, someone already threw a stone to the rider, dislodged from a wall. Then it took but an instant for stones and roof tiles to rain down on him. Poles and shelves, too. Tearing down the now useless stands offered another outlet for their anger.
Through skilful maneuvering of horse and shield our officer succeeded in dodging the greater part of the avalanche and whatever hit him couldn’t do much harm because of his helmet and body armour. That he still defied them drove the crowd’s rage to a head.
‘Now for that wench’, the mother of a dragon bride shrieked, ‘that witch child’ and she cast her stone in the direction of the half-naked princess. This was a signal of sorts and the girl would have been stoned to death without fail but for the immediate intervention of the officer who slashed her ropes with his sword, hoisted her onto the horse in front of him and raced in full gallop beyond the range of the projectiles, all under protection of his unerring shield.
If ever there was a baffled man it must have been this Roman officer. During the fight, shouts of encouragement were meant for him, the torrents of abuse and imprecations for his adversary, or so he’d assumed. All at once, the very opposite proved true, he himself being the bad guy.
For their next target the people sought out the royal family but in the general uproar they had slipped away unobserved.
With venting their rage the crowd had made hardly any start. They pulled down literally everything related to the show. Even the dead dragon didn’t escape their attentions. How stupid of him to let himself be fooled. Why hadn’t he just blown some flames from his nostrils! A petty dragon could have done that! A travesty of a dragon it had been, a mock dragon from an operetta.
That they’d been in such awe of it. Pathetic!
There, with a dull thud the first stone landed on the dead beast. This was another signal and soon it lay buried under a heap of rubble.
Even then, the people still remained restive.
Now they raised the cry: ‘We’ll seek him out, the bastard, him and that witch child. He shall die!’ Therewith the people streamed to the gate in dense throngs.
It was still closed as it used to during the festivities but no sooner the gatekeepers learned of the will of the people than they hastened to open it.
‘We’re gonna find him, the scoundrel!’

English translation by Ronald Langereis © 2013
from the Dutch, "Sint Joris" by Belcampo, 1983

Saint George - 18. Single combat

Suddenly, a great sigh went up from the crowd, a sigh of dismay. For, at a brisk trot, there approached a Roman horseman in full armour.
For all but an instant the dragon could have owed the consternation to the royal blood, once it picked up the sound of hooves, not any longer.
That it was akin to scorpions was now plainly to be seen, for as fast as these can curve their body to inflict a deadly sting with their tail, in a flash, the monster swung its bulk around to take the spoilsport head-on.
And now, to their great delight, the people were treated to a duel between the armour-plated rider and the panzer-scaled dragon.
Once more suspense reigned supreme. This was quite a different victim than that pathetic wench at the pole - about his ending up a victim the people had no doubt whatsoever, a foregone conclusion. Now, at the least there would be resistance. His helmet was an officer’s and in the Roman armies the only way to become one was by gallantry.
At first, there was exploratory skirmishing, seeking out the opponent’s weaknesses. It gave the impression of a mock battle but it was well understood: this was a fight to the death.
The armour of both was equally heavy, never to be penetrated by either claw or sword. The beast’s sole vulnerable spot was its beak. Therefore, biting was precluded, its fangs being no match for steel.
The beast was evidently stronger than the man and his horse but the Arab was nimbler. It was going to be a battle of force against speed.
Soon it became a matter of pricking and teasing, prying between plates or scales, trying to wriggle or tear them loose, preferably at a joint. Now and then, they made a scratch, drawing some blood. This only enhanced their fierceness.
The people were watching breathlessly, as were the princess and her family.

The end came by surprise.
During a breathing-spell, the monster curved its body scorpion-fashion and treacherously, with the end of its tail, knocked the other from the saddle and to the ground where he was left for dead. Dazedly, the horse remained at his side.
The beast had triumphed and as a sign thereof, it raised its head heavenward, gaped its beak wide open and filled the air with its house-shattering laughter.

English translation by Ronald Langereis © 2013
from the Dutch, "Sint Joris" by Belcampo, 1983