FANTASY HUMOR ADVENTURE

Werner Begins

A budding rogue is forced into a dragon hunt

Dragons are stupid creatures and clumsy fliers at best. That few people know this says volumes about our preference for exotic myth over mundane reality. To be fair, back in the day we were more likely to encounter them, before the few not exterminated by bounty hunters and glory-seeking morons escaped to the mountains. People today think of them as fairy tales, but I’ve killed one, or at least was nearby when it died.

Before I was press-ganged into the False Duke Koerner’s army and started my career of flight, fraud, and fornication, I grew up in a town called Castlestone in the far south of Selbst province. The village’s name may have been intended as mockery; no lord would have pissed away their gold in building fortifications to protect that backward hamlet.

The main pursuits of the townspeople were swindling the sheep farmers from the surrounding countryside and spreading slanderous gossip about their neighbors. At the cheating they were only moderately successful, since everyone involved was dense as lead, but at the rumor-mongering they excelled. This idle talk would set me on my first, reluctant adventure.

It may surprise those of you who’ve heard ballads of my deeds — generally paid for by me — but there was a time when I was a boy unschooled in the ways of the world.

My parents, who were of poor but respectable stock, had been carried off by the swine plague, and I was left to make my way in life. I‘d been fortunate, or so I imagined, to find a position as dogsbody for a distant relative who ran the Castlestone’s largest hostelry, fittingly named The Eager Sheep. I could be found most days shoveling horseshit in the stables, or mopping vomit and other remains of an evening’s revelry from the tavern floor. I say it was a large establishment, not an elegant one.

Even now, I’m an agreeable-looking fellow, and popular with the widows and ladies whose husbands have grown weak in the loins. But before the grey beard crept in, I caught the eye of many a pretty young girl. Even as a lad of low position, my charm could work magic across girls of every rank in Castlestone. Mind you, caste meant little in a place where the wealthiest families still kept pigs in the house.

Her name was Faith, and although I’m not a sentimental man, I remember every curve of her face and form as though she were standing in front of me. Hair black as midnight, eyes the blue of a shallow sea, and a smile that promised laughter and wickedness. Her father owned a large farm, as well as the feed shop across from the Eager Sheep, and while her family would never be invited to court, in that miserable place she was a princess.

I saw her often as I threw buckets of filthy tavern floor water out the door to settle the dust, and deduced from the way she returned my smiles that she wasn’t a shy girl. Before long we conspired to meet in the back room of the feed shop whenever her father, a widower, was out.

But Castlestone, as I’ve said, is a small, ignorant village full of small, ignorant people. Inevitably rumors started, and grew louder until they reached her father. Although nothing could be proven, the whispers were sufficient, and one morning I was awoken by the sound of loud angry shouts and hammering on the door of the shed where I slept alongside a dozen barrels of beer.

Later in life, I would become adept at evading irate fathers, husbands, brothers, and lovers, but in those days I had little experience. I lay frozen on my straw mat as the door was kicked in by Faith’s father Kyle and two large, ugly men brandishing clubs.

Kyle looked down at me. “You have defiled my daughter, you filthy privy-licking son of a barbarian whore and a latrine rat!”

Resisting the urge to reply that based on her expertise in, and enthusiasm for, the amorous arts she had been defiled well before my arrival on the scene, I struggled to my feet.

“No, sir, not at all! I have seen your daughter at a distance, but I would scarcely deem myself fit to speak with her, let alone…I cannot even say it, sir.”

He snorted, while his thugs raised their clubs. “You lie, scum. Faith herself confessed to me. I know all.”

He wasn’t sure then. Faith was no fool, and short of being dragged from the storeroom with me heaving and thrusting atop her, she would deny our association to the grave.

“I cannot speak to what you have heard or who has told you, but you are mistaken, sir. I have not laid a single hand or other body parts on or in your daughter — Faith, you say?”

Strangely, this seemed to aggrieve him even more. He motioned to his men. “Show him how we treat liars.”

Fate, in the form of my uncle Rapney, saved me from serious harm. Overhearing the commotion from his living quarters above the tavern, he had come down to check on his stock and quickly grasped the situation. Rapney placed no value in me beyond the labor I provided, but he could hardly allow Kyle to damage his property. Without warning his presence loomed in the doorway.

“Kyle, you visit my beloved nephew early this morning. I hope all is well with you. But I must ask you to leave, Werner has much work to do.”

He spoke softly but with an unmistakable edge. And while Rapney lacked Kyle’s eminence among the burghers, he was large and unpleasant, and as proprietor of the town’s largest drinking establishment, had his own hoodlums on call.

Kyle turned towards him, face red.

“Your nephew has molested my daughter and soiled our family honor. He must pay. Even a man of low birth and lower habits like yourself can see that. No insult intended.”

“None taken, it’s a fair observation. But this is a serious charge you raise. Did you interfere with this girl, Werner?”

I open my eyes wide and did my best to sound innocent. “No, Uncle. I know her only by sight.”

Rapney looked back at Kyle. “Have you witnesses? A confession?”

“Not needed. The whole town speaks of it. I demand satisfaction.”

“Satisfaction? If the story were true, what would satisfy you?”

Kyle furrowed his brow and pretended to think.

“Well, the lad deserves a thrashing and to be dragged out of town behind a team of horses, but…”

“But?” said Rapney.

“There could be financial compensation, perhaps.”

Rapney shook his head.

“We can avoid an uncomfortable negotiation over the cash price of your daughter’s honor. I’ll tell you now that the boy has no silver and will get none from me.”

“Rapney, I am a man of standing in this town. I cannot simply allow a cur like this…”

His sentence sputtered out as he gestured towards me, and I smiled agreeably.

“We have established that this thing, that may or may not have happened, cannot be allowed to go unpunished,” Rapney said. “The outstanding question is what you think would be an appropriate reparation. If indeed, there is something to repay.”

Kyle was quiet for a moment, and his face took on a look more vulpine than usual.

“There is a dragon, a wurm, loose in the countryside and attacking the sheep on my estate. If the boy killed it, I would be prepared to put this situation behind us.”

Rapney nodded. “I’ve heard of the creature. Can your own men not hunt it down?”

“I’ve sent men after it. They have not returned.”

“And you think this boy would succeed where your ruffians could not?”

“No. But if he succeeds, my sheep are safe. If he dies trying, that will repay the debt of honor.” Kyle shrugged.

Rapney looked thoughtful. “And I suppose if he were to rid you of the creature, there would also be a reward?”

“Reward? That I let him live is reward enough.”

My uncle shook his head. “We have no proof of wrongdoing. Thirty silver. “

“Twenty.”

“And ten bushels of grain to me. As his agent.”

Kyle sighed. “Agreed. When he brings proof. And he will never look at, nor speak to my daughter again.”

He turned towards me. “The estate is off the Old Road, two days ride from here. You’ll see the fences. I’ll have a bird sent so the ranch foreman Aartis will be expecting you.”

He fixed his gaze on me.

“If you run, boy, know that I have eyes on every caravan route and town between here and the Kirliz Wastes. And when I catch up with you, you’ll long for simple death by wurm.”

“Agreed,” said Rapney on my behalf.

Kyle turned and left the shed, thugs trailing in his wake.

The uncomfortable feeling that had been building in my chest threatened to transform into violent illness, as this cheerful negotiation on my certain death concluded.

I looked at Rapney. “Uncle, this is unjust! There is no evidence!”

“Do you think you are invisible, lad, coming from the storeroom? And the girl is certainly not inaudible. Some fathers would have killed you without a thought.”

He shook his head.

“She is pretty. But as you get older, you may learn that there are times when however tempting, it is wiser to keep the snake in its den.”

Seeing the argument lost, I said nothing.

My uncle continued. “You will be thinking it would be better to leave Castlestone and take your chances on the road than to face the dragon.”

I feigned incomprehension, as this is exactly what I had been thinking.

Rapney continued. “I’ve known Kyle for thirty years. He will honor the bargain, but if you renege he can and will have you tracked and killed. In Castlestone I can protect you, somewhat. Outside, your life will be forfeit to any bandit wanting to claim a bounty. It’s best if you leave as soon as possible. I will provide some supplies. “

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“We’re family. And in the unlikely event that you kill the thing, I will expect half of your reward in return.”

Perhaps Rapney did have some avuncular affection for me, because he not only gave me food and water for my journey, but a battered war-axe that he’d acquired from gods knew where, a silver coin and one of his two horses. Brandy was a vicious old bay mare perhaps a year away from becoming stew for the patrons of the Eager Sheep, but she was arguably worth at least as much to Rapney as I was.

Before the sun reached its zenith I was on the Old Road. It winds through a pleasant stretch of green countryside and rolling hills before settling into leagues of dull, flat pasture, broken only by the occasional stand of cedar or oak.

I had decided to let Brandy carry the supplies while I led her, principally to reduce the chances of her throwing me in a fit of equine rage and running off with the bags. While the road was considered a safe one — there were few travelers, and those usually had little worth stealing — I wore the battle-axe slung artfully on my back in the hope that any lurking bandits would take me for someone more martially inclined.

The sun was low on the horizon, and I was considering making camp when I heard a rumble of hooves approaching me from behind. I turned to see a cloud of dust that coalesced into a lone rider on a black horse far more fit and groomed than old Brandy. The rider slowed his mount beside me, and I could see it was a fair-haired man not much older than myself, dressed in chain mail and fully kitted out with sword, shield, and lance. Nothing that would have turned heads in the capital, but a veritable prince of warriors by Castlestone standards.

I paused my walking as he came up beside me.

“Hail, fellow, where are you headed?” He spoke in the common language of Selbst, but with a slight accent.

I tipped my head forward and said nothing.

The man laughed. “Indeed, it is none of my business. I’m also headed north. May I journey with you?”

Not waiting for an answer, he swung himself down off his mount with a grace that argued long practice in horsemanship.

While I wasn’t looking for company, the road ahead promised to be as long and dull as the road behind, so a companion wasn’t the worst thing that could have befallen me. Besides, he looked like he might have some skill in the weapons he was carrying, which could prove useful in case we ran into highwaymen or wolves.

“By all means, if you don’t mind walking with me. Brandy doesn’t take well to riders. Or much of anything else, really.”

“Not at all. Fleetwing could use a rest from carrying my bulk. I am Demerest, son of Duke Salstar of South Barrow.”

I’d never heard of the family or the place but tried to look suitably impressed. “My name is Werner. I clean up shit in a public house in Castlestone.”

He laughed. “Honest work, sir. I’ve shoveled some shit in my time too. What takes you away from Castlestone?”

I calculated whether there was any disadvantage in telling the truth, and decided there wasn’t.

“I’m off to the Kyle sheep ranch. I’m looking for a dragon.” He whistled. “As am I! You’re going to kill it? “

No, you half-wit, I’ll be inviting it for high tea. “That’s the plan.”

Demerest paused briefly. “Ah. Is that axe perhaps imbued with some sort of fae-magic?“

“No magic. But this is the job I’ve been hired for and I’ll go through with it or…” I shrugged.

The young man looked excited. “You have a commission? I’m strictly on my own adventure. Who are you working for? What’s the payment?”

I snorted. “Twenty silver, and I remain alive.”

He furrowed his brow. “You’re alive already.”

“Agreed. It’s a long story. But that’s the important part at the moment.”

He smiled. “Care to tell more on the road? I propose that we join forces and split the silver. Seems like you could use another blade, or even a first one, and your presence might get me a warmer welcome at the estate. You’d be surprised how often people don’t want you chasing monsters around their property.”

I pondered the offer. Given that any monetary reward would undoubtedly go straight from Kyle to Rapney without stopping at me anyway, I could see advantage in having this enthusiastic simpleton between me and the dragon.

I squinted and tried to sound unconvinced. “I’ll give you five silver.”

“A fair offer, sir. In any case, glory and reputation are what I seek.”

“And I seek to remain alive,” I said. “How can we fail with such noble purpose?”

As we traveled, I learned more of Demerest’s story. He was the third son of some petty Duke in the south, and as such stood to inherit nothing more than the family name. When his father and oldest brother had died in rapid succession, almost certainly poisoned by his second oldest brother Lanza — as he related casually — he’d reckoned it was time to seek his fortune somewhere far from his murderous sibling. Since then, he’d been roaming the lands hiring out his sword where possible, engaging in some light banditry where necessary, and looking for a chance to perform the kind of deeds that would win him fame, glory, and enough coin to fund his return home.

“You see, Werner,” he said. “If I go back to Southie a hero, I’ll be too popular with the people for Lanza to touch. They don’t care about the third son of the duke, but when I’m the dragon-slaying, maiden-rescuing defender of the poor, they’ll line the streets to welcome me back. If Lanza tries to kill me, the peasant mob will be at the castle gates with torches and crossbows, or whatever it is they use.”

As a member in good standing of the mob, I doubted their willingness to risk being drawn and quartered simply out of admiration for his heroism. However, it seemed prudent to encourage his fantasy if it would lend him the strength to take on the wurm.

“A sound plan. I wish I could be there to see your triumphant return and your brother’s greeting.” That last part at least was true.

“If we kill the beast, you will always be welcome in my duchy.”

My duchy. Dear gods, he was already claiming the place for his own in front of a stranger. How he had survived as long as he had in the tangled web of a ducal succession was unfathomable.

That night we camped in a small grove off the main road, sitting by the fire and sharing the bread that Rapney had given me and a hare that Demerest had taken down with a sling. As we ate, he regaled me with stories of battles he’d fought and men he’d slaughtered. The tales buoyed my spirits considerably, implying as they did that he might actually be able to carry out the task at hand. Or simply be a tremendous liar.

Pausing for a moment between cheerful tales of mayhem, he looked at me.

“And you, Werner? Where have you wielded your axe?”

“This is a first outing for the axe. At least with me.”

“You have other weapons?”

“I once killed a rat with a rock at fifteen paces.”

“A rat?”

“Well, a mouse. Rats are surprisingly difficult to kill. And if you miss, it just pisses them off.”

Demerest pursed his lips. “If you like, perhaps tomorrow we could do some training before we set off. I’ve some experience with the axe.”

The next morning he seemed to have forgotten his offer to instruct me in the art of axe-play, or like me had decided that an hour of training would be a waste of time. Given that I planned to allow him to take the lead in any fight, I didn’t remind him.

We walked through increasingly hilly country for several hours, only stopping briefly to fill our waterskins at a stream and eat the remains of the hare from the night before. Eventually, we saw a dirt track turning off the road, marked by a small sign bearing the Kyle family symbol, a sheep with a curiously lascivious grin.

“I guess this is it.”

“We should ride in,” Demerest said. “It will create a better impression.” He swung aboard Fleetwing with the grace of a dancer, both their manes fluttering in the wind. I shrugged and clambered aboard Brandy, who whinnied and tried to bite me.

About a hundred yards down the path we encountered a cluster of buildings, one of which looked like a palace built to quarter size, as if for wealthy dwarves. Behind it was a long low structure with a tall dark-haired man chopping wood in front.

We neared the closest building, a small cottage. A small skinny man with a face like a mummified boot sat on a stool outside, glowering at us and picking his teeth.

He was even less impressed as we approached and dismounted. “Hail, fellow. I believe Aartis is expecting us,” I said.

He looked at us for a moment, then spat on the ground. “Ain’t she lucky.” He heaved himself off his seat with a sigh and walked to the cottage doorway. “Hey Aartis. Some sojers or somethin’ here t’see ye.” He returned to his stool and stared off into space.

Moments later, a small, dark woman in her thirties emerged. Although she wore the rough cloth shirt and trousers of a farmer, she carried herself in a way that suggested authority. She walked over to us and looked us up and down for a moment, before addressing Demerest.

“Are you the dragon-slayer?” Evidently Kyle’s bird had reached her.

I spoke up. “I’m Werner, ma’am. Demerest will be assisting me.”

She assessed the two of us, me disheveled and filthy in my disintegrating tavern boy rags, and Demerest, straight and stalwart in his chain mail, with his jaw chiseled from granite and fair hair flowing in the breeze.

“He’s helping you? Alright then.” Unlike the man, she didn’t have the peasant accent most common in this rural part of the province; I judged her to be from one of the big cities further north, maybe Mort’s Ford.

“Come into the cottage and I’ll fill you in.” She looked at the man on the stool. “Roger, water the horses and take them to the stable.” He scowled but took the reins and walked off.

“Roger is part goblin on his mother’s side,” Aartis said, ushering us into the small building.

Inside, the cottage was tidy but austere, furnished with only a cot, small table, and stone fireplace presumably used for both cooking and warmth. We sat at the table.

“Lovely place,” I said. If we didn’t kill the wurm, it would be worthwhile to get on her good side so she could intervene with Kyle. Besides, under the heavy wool, I discerned the outlines of some intriguing curves.

“If you say so,” she said. “This is my place. The big house is for Kyle when he shows up. The hands and the help sleep in the big bunkhouse in back. You can stay there or you can sleep rough.”

I would have been happy for a night indoors before getting slaughtered, but Demerest had the energy of a particularly stupid puppy.

“M’lady, I think we would prefer to get straight to the task. What do you know that would help us in the quest?”

“Please don’t call me m’lady,” said Aartis. ”And I can’t tell you much. A couple of months ago we started losing sheep up in the hills. Just one or two a week, but unusual since there aren’t many predators left in these parts. We sent some hands out, and one of them saw something that looked like a giant worm with wings. Said it grabbed a lamb and took off.”

Demerest nodded sagely. “That would be the wurm, then.”

Aartis looked at him. “Bright boy.” She shook her head. “Anyway, since then the men won’t go to the high pastures at night. Kyle sent a couple of men who looked like they knew what they were doing. Bows, swords, the whole deal. They went up there about ten days ago and never came back.”

Demerest puffed out his chest like a brave beautiful pigeon. “We will return, m’lady. Ma’am. Aartis. The evil wurm will trouble you no more.”

“And when we do return,” I said, with what I was intended as a seductive glance but in hindsight probably resembled a debauched leer, “perhaps you and I can share a cup of wine to celebrate?”

To her credit, she did not laugh out loud, just looked at me with pity in her eyes. “Perhaps not.” She stood up. “Roger can direct you to the high pasture.”

Outside, Roger, who was presumably some sort of diversity hire, brought our horses to us and pointed in a vaguely northeast direction. “High pasture is some two leagues that way. Easy t’ find. If ye fall off a cliff, ye passed it.”

“What do you know about the wurm? Has it attacked any humans?”

“Not that I heerd of.’ He flashed an evil grin, all shattered teeth and rancid meat breath. “Ain’t the dragon ye should worry ‘bout, I don’t think.”

“What does that mean?”

Roger shook his head and wandered away.

The high pasture was indeed easy to find. Demerest and I followed a worn track upwards until we reached a large, verdant plateau. It was a portrait of pastoral magnificence — the flock of placid white sheep grazing set against the emerald green of the pasture, the whole scene framed by snow-capped mountains rising into an azure sky. Had there been a public house and a brothel, I might never have left.

Demerest pointed towards a small copse of trees near the center of the field. “We can set up camp in there and wait til nightfall.”

I nodded, and we rode towards it, Brandy protesting with loud sighs but no indications of imminent revolt. Upon reaching the grove, we tied the horses up at the edge. I pulled my tent from the saddlebags and Demerest shook his finger at me. “Werner, we’re not going to be sleeping. No fire either, it would give away our location. Bad for night vision, too. No, we sit and watch.”

We walked far enough inside to be hidden, sat, and waited.

Demerest’s tales of derring-do had long since lost any charm they once held, and by the time the sun dropped below the mountains, I would have happily been consumed by the wurm rather than listen to another. As he took a breath and arrived at the apparent climax of some incomprehensible story about a giant boar he’d once wrestled on his grandfather’s country estate, I stood up.

“I had the beast in a reverse chokehold, and was preparing for the kill...”

“Hold that thought.” Forever, if possible. “I have to piss.”

The night was cloudless and well lit by a full moon even in the shadow of the trees as I walked behind a nearby elm and relieved myself. Returning, I stumbled over some unnoticed obstacle, fell face-first into the dirt, and screamed. I’d made a soft landing on the object that had tripped me, a shallowly buried corpse whose rotting head was grinning at me from a hand’s breadth away.

Demerest came running, then knelt down to look. “He’s newly dead. But who is it?”

A voice boomed from the woods. “Newly dead he is, lad.”

Five men stepped out of the shadows. In the moonlight, we could see that all were armed with axes or long knives. Nothing fancy, but they didn’t need it. They had the numbers, and our own weapons were yards away.

I looked up and recognized the speaker as the tall man I’d seen chopping wood earlier, and one of the others as Roger. The tall man continued. “As to who he is, he be one of the last pair o’ nosy dragon hunters Kyle sent up. See, it ain’t no wurm been taking most o’ them sheep.”

Demerest, who predictably had not yet grasped what was going on, spoke in a puzzled tone. “Well then, who has?”

I lurched cautiously to my feet. Terror has always been motivational for me, and I cleared my throat as if to speak, then bolted at top speed towards the horses at the edge of the wood. If I could get Fleetwing untied and mounted, I’d easily be able to outrun the sheep rustlers, and Demerest — well, he could practice his warrior skills and perhaps buy me a few moments. He was a decent if dull fellow, but no use both of us going down.

Unfortunately, when I reached the horses, there was a thug with a large spear guarding them. He lunged towards me and held the point to my throat. “Come now, boy, d’ye give us no credit a‘ all?”

From the wood behind me, I heard the sound of voices as the rest of the crew brought Demerest to us. Roger was arguing with the leader.

“I tell ye, Terric, we croak the ot’er one, but this boy can fetch a ransom. Horse alone be wort’ a gold coin.”

The taller man shook his head. “That ain’t our game, Roger. Too dang’rous.”

As they reached us, Roger pushed Demerest over to stand next to me, and the other gang members pinned our arms behind us.

Terric smiled grimly. “Ye know how this ends, lads. Not personal, I assure ye.” He raised his knife above me.

Now, this is the part of the story that many doubt, but if I held anything dear beyond my own skin, I would swear on those things that it’s true.

Without warning, there was a deafening flapping sound from above, followed by a thump that shook the ground. The wurm had landed.

If you’ve been raised on stories of mighty noble creatures clad in dazzling scales and engaging knights in clever wordplay, you’d have found this creature a grave disappointment. It was perhaps the length of two tall men lying down, and so far as I could tell in the moonlight was a dusty brown color. It had surprisingly small wings, still flapping furiously from the descent, and no visible eyes or nose. Its capacious mouth was wide enough to swallow a small sheep whole and open to reveal rows of pointed teeth as long as my thumb.

It darted forward with surprising speed and grabbed hold of Roger’s leg, chomping it off in a single bite. Roger fell to the ground bleeding and shrieking, and even in my now compounded terror, I couldn’t help a feeling of satisfaction at the little bastard’s pain.

The bandits holding Demerest and myself let go and fled, but Terric froze, knife in hand.

I’ve since speculated that the wurm was drawn to the commotion, and intended the largest target — the horses — as its prey. Unfortunately, Terric stood between the monster and the horses, which led to one of the most remarkable things I’ve seen in a long and eventful life.

The wurm turned towards Terric, and with a great whistling sound, absolutely sucked him into its maw from several yards away. Terric was considerably bigger than a small sheep, however, and got stuck headfirst in the creature’s throat, screaming until the great jaws closed and cut him in half.

It was an expensive victory for the wurm. The delightful Terric was too large to swallow and too well-lodged to chew up or spit out. Demerest and I sprinted for the woods, grabbed our weapons, and hid. We heard a few more screams from Roger, some snuffling hoises from the wurm, then nothing.

We emerged at dawn to a grim tableau. The now-deceased Roger and the bottom half of Terric lay on the grass in pools of congealed blood, while the wurm was also dead, presumably choked.

After satisfying ourselves that the beast was in fact no longer breathing, we each cut out a tooth as evidence and rode back down to the main estate. Aartis greeted us with surprise; evidently, she’d had little faith in our return.

We sat at her table with a jug of ale and told her the story in detail. Had Demerest not been there, I would have been tempted to exaggerate my role in the monster’s demise, but as it was I stuck to the truth. She listened without interrupting and then spoke.

“That would explain why five of the hands and Roger were missing from the bunkhouse this morning. No doubt those that survived have moved onto new pastures. I will send some men up to bring Terric and Roger back, and see that they are at least buried.”

More than the murdering swine deserve, I thought but didn’t say.

Aartis continued. “It’s late in the day, gentlemen, and you must be tired from the, er, battle. It will be dinner soon, and if you wish to stay the night there is room in the bunkhouse.”

Demerest nodded. “That is most gracious of you. Werner, shall we move our bedrolls to the bunkhouse?”

“Actually,” Aartis said, “the bunkhouse may be cramped with both of you. Demerest, you may sleep in the cottage if you wish. On the floor, of course.” She gave him a smile that could not be misinterpreted.

Demerest actually blushed but was not so naive as to decline. He retired to the cottage with Aartis after the meal, while I sat with the ranchhands and nursed a tankard of ale and my bruised feelings.

We left the next day. Demerest decided to continue north rather than returning to Castlestone with me, saying he could collect his five silver coins at some future time (and although I never expected to see him again, he did get his silver many years later, in an adventure that I will record if the gods spare me).

I never got paid anyway, with Kyle claiming that the wurm had died of natural causes, and my uncle deeming it not worth the argument. But I know I killed a dragon, and there’s not many living can say that.

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