“Off with you!” he shouted again. He shook his pitchfork once more.
The sound of feeding stopped. If anything, the silence was more terrifying than the noise. A small tendril of flame appeared in the darkness, casting a pool of light. Two great yellow orbs became visible, staring at him, their oval irises as black as the night. The ovals narrowed until they were barely more than slits. Slits that were locked on him. Bernard dropped his lantern, which spluttered out, leaving him in darkness. He clutched the pitchfork with both hands as though his life depended on it.
The beast’s eyes sat above and to the sides of a long snout containing the most wicked-looking set of teeth he had ever seen. The flame, almost hypnotising as it danced, cast a buttery sheen on the edges of the scales that covered all that he could see of the beast.
He knew what it was. He had heard rumours of one having appeared several villages over, but like everything that was said to have happened several villages over, he thought the stories were most likely to be untrue. He knew what it was, but he could not bring himself to say the name, even in the quiet of his own head. He felt warmth run down the inside of his legs, but ignored it. His eyes were fixed on those yellow orbs that seemed to study him so intently. He knew what it was. Something from legend, from a time when the tales of men merged with fantasy.
Dragon.
The flame disappeared and the night was plunged into darkness once more. He heard nothing. Had he frightened it off? He thought of Martina, probably tucked up in bed only a few miles away. If he looked to his right, he could probably see the village’s lights, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the inky black where the dragon had been moments before.
A thought came to him—if he couldn’t see it, perhaps it couldn’t see him. He took a step back, as quietly as he could, tensing every muscle to react if he stood on a twig or anything else that would reveal his location.
The flame at the end of the beast’s snout returned, larger now, casting a greater pool of light. The sight of two more creatures behind the first one filled Bernard with a sense of utter despair. They had killed a cow each—despite the danger he was in, he could only think of how he recognised the markings on one, and could remember the day he pulled her out of her mother by the hooves during a difficult birth.
The other beasts ignored him, but the first, the one with the gentle stream of flame coming from its nostrils, kept its eyes locked on him. Bernard thought of shouting again, of shaking his pitchfork at them, but something told him it would make no difference. Something told him nothing would make any difference. Tears streamed down his face; he wished that he’d asked Martina to step out with him at the spring dance. When the jet of flame hit him, he wondered who was going to look after his cows. He felt growing heat for a moment, then nothing.
CHAPTER 2
Covered in gore, sore in every place that had feeling, Guillot hadn’t felt much like conversation on the way back to Trelain. Solène seemed equally exhausted, so their moods complemented each other as they both spent the last of their energy to get back to a hot meal and a warm bed. Guillot’s horse trundled along at a pace barely faster than a man would walk, towing behind it a makeshift litter bearing a large burden covered with a blood-soaked blanket.
Guillot well remembered the stories of how valuable dragon ephemera had been in the old days. The scales had a variety of uses, from armour—extremely expensive armour—to potions and elixirs. The bones had less value, but the carcass would be a treat for the multitude of wild animals that lived in the valley.
If he’d been able to return with the entirety of the dragon’s remains, he would have become a wealthy man. However, he had given in to the pain in every limb and the exhaustion that made him wish for sleep above all else. He primarily needed a trophy, something to show everyone that the beast was indeed dead, that they no longer had to live in fear. The head was the only option, so that was what his tired horse now obediently dragged behind her.
Even in death, the dragon’s head—with its curved, needle-pointed horns, shiny scales, and wicked teeth—filled him with primordial fear. Being terrified of these creatures seemed like a sensible thing. The dragon had nearly killed him, despite his magical advantages.
He glanced at Solène, whose posture suggested she might be asleep, upright and on her horse. The last few days had been nearly impossibly difficult for them; it was no surprise that she was no longer able to fight off exhaustion. A few strands of her copper hair escaped the cover of her cloak’s hood, but he could see nothing of her face. It struck him as ironic that he had saved her from an execution pyre and she had then been instrumental in keeping him alive. Perhaps the gods had not forsaken him after all.
Another glance back confirmed his cargo was still secure on a litter of roughly tied branches. He had killed a dragon—and he was the only person alive who could make such a claim. Everyone had said winning the Competition was a lifetime achievement that could not be topped, but this? It was beyond consideration. He still had difficulty believing what had happened. He had done what the heroes of his childhood had done. It filled him with a burgeoning sense of pride that made him uneasy.
He had lost everything he had valued because of pride and arrogance. He’d believed that he was strong enough, skilled enough, smart enough to do as he chose without even thinking about consequences. He had drunk and caroused with the idiots he had once called brothers and friends, and not spent his time where it truly mattered. What would he give for one more moment with Auroré? Yet he would give up even that if it meant she and their child might live. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and he sneered at how wonderful hindsight was, how easy it was to be foolish in your youth. Why did self-awareness come only when it was too late?
He wondered if slaying a dragon redeemed him. Did he deserve to be redeemed? Was he being too hard on himself? He had not done anything intentionally wrong or particularly bad, he had simply been young, stupid, and drunk too often. He had been following the example of his brother Chevaliers. All the wonderful things he had thought he was achieving were working toward his undoing. At least Guillot’s father hadn’t lived to see his fall. Wife, unborn child, career, position at court; a lifetime’s work all gone in a matter of days. Then he’d squandered what little he had left, neglecting his estate and his people. Now they had been taken from him too.
All he had to show for it was the snarling, disembodied head tied to his litter. What a success he was.
When Trelain’s walls loomed up from the horizon, Guillot felt a flutter of nerves stir in his gut. He had not given much thought to their return to the city beyond his desire for food and sleep. When they had left, Trelain had been on the verge of panic at the prospect of a dragon attack. Those who had the means to leave were packing up and going, and Guillot had seen more than one or two characters who looked as though they were waiting for the right moment to start looting. There might not even be anyone still there. Would that be better than a city full of people, and their reaction to the news that their homes and families weren’t about to be burned and devoured by a dragon?
There was a time when Guillot had loved being the centre of attention. When you were as good with a sword as he had been, in a society where that skill could bring limitless advancement, you grew accustomed to fame at a young age—and quickly came to expect it. Now? The thought terrified him. He had spent the better part of half a decade wanting nothing more than to be left alone; to be forgotten. There was no chance of that happening now. He was the first person in nearly a thousand years to kill a dragon, to restore the countryside to safety. What chance did he have of being left alone now?