The great Dragon of Hallowmaul was slain by Sir Embolt Oldenvault, who promptly died of a failing heart. Sir Embolt's squires, a former mortician and his limping son, stood over the armored corpse and plotted.

"He's dead," said the son.

"No he's not," replied the mortician, a man of clever eyes and nimble fingers.

"He's dead," the son repeated. "He's not moving."

"He's sleeping."

"He's not speaking."

"He's stoic."

"He smells bad."

The mortician fumbled through his bags for ointments and potions in bottles of thick green glass. "I can fix that."

The mortician and his son lifted the still knight onto his iron-haired gelding, and they strapped his armored legs into the stirrups, and they tied his lobstered gauntlets to the reins. They closed his visor and buckled tight his crimson cape so that no one could see the copse beneath all the shining armor and billowing plumes.

The squires mounted their mules and lead the knight's horse through the forests and bogs, and back towards the castle. Every night, the mortician would treat the body with glues and preservatives, dappling the face with hagroot juice, lining the gums with ostrich dun, slathering the pale, bruised chest with a blend of melon pulp and cat blood. As they neared the castle, the squires dressed the knight in necklaces of garlic cloves and flowers. And so it was that when Sir Embolt rode into the King's throne room high atop his mount with his squires by his side, the King and all the castle were overcome with the sweet scent of flowers and victory.

"Sir Embolt Oldenvault!" the King almost leapt from his golden throne. "No knight has ever fought the Dragon of Hallowmaul and come back alive!"

The Queen, a slender woman with hair of spun gold, eyed the gilded, girded knight. "Do tell, how did you survive? What is your secret?"

Sir Embolt, of course, said nothing.

The Queen fanned at the twin blooms blushing her cheeks. "Such a stoic figure!" she sighed.

The King clapped his hands to summon a dozen servants, each trembling under the weight of ornate chests overflowing with gold. "As promised," said the King, "your reward is the sum of five thousand gold coins."

The nobles and King's men gasped. The mortician felt his heart dance wildly. His son fought down a joyous laugh.

Sir Embolt, of course, said nothing.

"Our knight is speechless at such a payment," said the bowing mortician.

There was a creak of steel, and Sir Embolt slumped slightly in his saddle.

The son spoke up. "I fear Sir Embolt has refused slumber since his battle, so that he could bask in your royal glory all the sooner!"

The King straightened in his throne. "Of course! Sir Embolt, you must be exhausted after such an adventure. I will have the gold delivered to your house immediately."

Sir Embolt collapsed forward on his horse.

In response, all the noble men and counselors and knights and squires in the throne room followed his example, and bowed low.

The King himself stood and bowed, his snowy beard almost sweeping the floor. The mortician and his son grabbed the horse's reins, and led Sir Embolt, still bowing, out of the castle.

A sort of feverish murmur rose like flames in the noble crowd. The King turned to his blushing wife and exclaimed, "What a hero!"

Three days later, when the Kingdom fell to war, a courier was sent to summon Sir Embolt. The courier was received at Sir Embolt's manor by squires dressed in extravagant clothes of satin, velvet, and weasel fur.

"The Kingdom is at war!"

"Son, fetch this man a drink," said the mortician. His son limped off and returned with a slender glass of wine. "Sir Embolt just returned from slaying the Dragon of Hallowmaul. He is still recovering."

The courier shook his head. "Forgive me sir, but the King requires every knight to report for battle tomorrow!"

"Very well," said the mortician. "Sir Embolt will be at the front of the line at dawn. Now be gone! Our knight must gather his strength!"

The battlefield at dawn was a sea of steel and banners. As the sun peeked over the black horizon, all warriors where amazed to see Sir Embolt Oldenvault sitting tall upon his horse, flanked by his squires. Sir Embolt was dressed in full battle regalia. His cape billowed magnificently in the morning breeze, and in hand was his sword, the very sword that had laid slain the Dragon. The mortician and his son traded nervous glances. The past night had been filled with work: strengthening the armor with metal rods, welding the sword's hilt to the gauntlet, and cementing Sir Embolt to his war saddle.

Now, in full view of the King's army, the mortician and his son turned Sir Embolt's horse to face the enemy. With a chorus of thrums and whistles, a thousand arrows came raining down. Sir Embolt's horse panicked, and tore away from the squires' hands, straight towards the approaching soldiers. There was a great cry, and the King's army rushed by the squires, following Sir Embolt's charge.

The mortician and his son watched with wonder as Sir Embolt entered the fray, his stiffened back straight and proud. Three arrows slammed through his breastplate, but of course Sir Embolt felt nothing. As his horse galloped wildly, Sir Embolt's sword, held as it was by his stiffened arm, cleaved through the enemy soldiers. The battle continued for hours. In the end, the enemy retreated, and never set foot in the Kingdom again.

That night, the King's army celebrated with songs around the campfire. There were many stories of the battle to tell, but the one name mentioned time and time again was that of Sir Embolt.

"Did you see him charge the enemy?"

"I saw him chop the heads off of four men in one swoop!"

"He was shot three times! In the chest!"

"Death cannot conquer such a knight!"

"What a hero!"

"What a hero!"

"What a hero!"

The King this time awarded Sir Embolt with a castle in the Vixen Valley, and three miles of land to call his own. Sir Embolt arrived at the award ceremony dressed in a robe of the most fragrant flowers, and was thereon known as the Garland Knight. When it came time for Sir Embolt to address the King, his squires spoke instead.

"I am afraid that Sir Embolt's voice is still recovering from his battle cries," said the mortician, "but know this: if he could speak, Sir Embolt would spend hours praising your royal generosity."

The mortician stayed at the castle to drink with the nobility and discuss Sir Embolt's new estate while his son led the knight, whose smell was starting to pervade the sweet scent of the flowers, back home.

Over the next month, many nobles came to visit Sir Embolt. The mortician and his son always came to the door of their castle with expressions of pity and sorrow masking their annoyance. "I'm sorry," the mortician would say, "but Sir Embolt is still tired from battle."

Or the son would add, "He was shot three times, you know. It takes many weeks to heal from such injuries!"

But admirers of Sir Embolt continued to appear in the Vixen Valley. Finally, the mortician simply said, "Sir Embolt is planning his next crusade."

Of course, the true reason that the squires would allow no visitors was that Sir Embolt’s corpse was finally succumbing to the nature’s ways. No flowers could veil the putrid odor that surrounded the knight, and the limping son finally had to weld shut every hole in Sir Embolt's armor to keep him from leaking.

One day, the Queen herself came to visit the Garland Knight. Upon sighting Her Royalty, the limping son ran to the mortician in fear. "What will we do? The Queen is here, and Sir Embolt is but soup in his armor!"

The mortician thrummed together his nimble fingers. Suddenly, a light came to his clever eyes, and a smile crept upon his lips.

When the Queen entered the castle, it was the mortician who greeted her. "My Queen!" he cried, bowing low to the floor. "You are just in time to hear of Sir Embolt's plan!"

"His plan?" gasped the Queen. She had worn her fairest dress, and had powdered her cheeks so that she resembled an angel of spun glass and gold. "You mean..."

"Sir Embolt's next crusade!" the mortician cried, and unfurled a great map of the Known World. "There is a thunder from the North, my Queen, and it can only mean that the armies of the Barbarians are amassing. Sir Embolt Oldenvault, the Garland Knight, Slayer of the Dragon of Hallowmaul, has volunteered to delve deep into the northern lands and quell this Barbarian invasion!"

The Queen nearly fainted. "How long?" she cried. "How long must he be gone?"

"Oh, you never know with the North!" said the mortician. "Sir Embolt has sworn to defeat every last Barbarian, or die trying. He may never return!"

The Queen ran from the castle in a haze of tears and sorrow. The mortician turned to his son and grinned. "Problem solved!"

"B-but what about the Barbarians?" his son stammered. "I've heard they couple with their horses and eat men alive!"

The mortician laughed, perhaps louder than necessary. "My boy, the Barbarians are myth! I know of the North, and it is a vast, empty land of tall mountains and deep cliffs."

A nervous sort of smile came to the son. "Then this will truly be Sir Embolt's last crusade?"

"Yes!" cried the mortician. "What a hero!"

The news of Sir Embolt's brave quest spread over the kingdom fast as a plague. When the Garland Knight set out, dressed in his flowers and garlic and welded armor, a mighty crowd had amassed to see him off. As they lead Sir Embolt through the throng of crying admirers, the mortician whispered to his son, "I had Sir Embolt accomplish one final deed last night."

"What's that?" the son whispered back.

"Sir Embolt has no sons or daughters, and his brothers are dead. Last night, the Garland Knight wrote out his final will and testament."

The son gasped. "Who gets his treasure?"

"You fool!" hissed the mortician. "Sir Embolt signed everything over to us!"

The son nearly cried for joy.

For many weeks, Sir Embolt and his squires traveled north. The mortician and his son no longer bothered to keep their knight immaculate. Without constant attention, his armor began to rust, his cloak fell to pieces, and between the joints of his greaves and helmet a nauseating green liquid leaked. Soon the mortician and his son were marching over cold mountain passes.

One day, the mortician pointed to a plain that ended at a cliff. "That looks deep enough," he said. "Quite a grave for our knight!"

The squires lead Sir Embolt's horse across to the cliff’s edge, which looked over an immense frozen valley. The limping son attempted to pull Sir Embolt from his horse without spilling any of the old knight on his new boots. "I'll be glad to get rid of that smell!" he exclaimed.

It was the mortician who finally pushed the rotted knight off the cliff. He and his son watched the armor plummet down to where it finally burst on the sharp points of exposed rock, hundred and hundreds of feet below.

"Goodbye, Sir Embolt," said the son.

"Thanks for everything!" laughed the mortician.

There was a whicker from behind. The mortician and his son turned to find a dozen mounted men surrounding them. The men wore hide shirts barely stretched over knotted muscles, and each clutched a massive axe in his thick, hairy hands.

The son gulped. "B-barbarians!"

The mortician stopped smiling.

Sir Embolt Oldenvault never returned from his last crusade. His vast treasure and valuable castle were donated to the King, and the Queen was often seen strolling about the Vixen Valley with a shadow of sorrow upon her face. The soldiers who fought in the King's war continued to share the tales of the brave Garland Knight, and many sculptors were inspired by the story, so that in the following years the Kingdom became famous for its many statues of the legendary hero. Without the threat of the Dragon of Hallowmaul, the Kingdom flourished, and Sir Embolt's name was recorded forever in history.

The squires, of course, were soon forgotten. But there were rumors from the North of a Barbarian army with a devious new leader, a man with clever eyes and nimble fingers...