“The first is to assemble a band of hearty villagers to confront the dragon when next it descends upon us.”
This option was greeted with boos, hisses, and a cry of ‘sign me up!’ from one man who sheepishly declared that he thought the Alderman had said to assemble “randy, horny pillagers” instead of a “band of hearty villagers.” Given the slim chance that a group of men in need of erotic fulfillment would deter the dragon, most of the villagers agreed that it would be good to hear the second option.
“The second is to hire a crew of brave adventurers to seek out the dragon and slay it in its lair. What say you? Option one or option two?”
A chorus of responses rang out, with most seeming to shout “Two!” except for a few lusty, and apparently still confused, fellows shouting “One!” The resulting cacophony made it impossible to definitively declare a winner.
“Call for a show of hands, you brainless goatherd!” shouted the Widow Gershon helpfully.
Alderman Wooddunny, who was, in fact, a goat herder (one amongst many of his talents and occupations), cleared his throat and held up his hands for silence. “The Widow Gershon is, once again, correct.” He bowed to the frowning woman. “Thank you, Widow, for your, ah, helpful suggestion.”
“Get bent!” replied the Widow Gershon, spitting a wad of tobacco near the Alderman’s right foot.
“Of course, madam,” said the Alderman, somehow remaining polite. “Raise your hands if you support option one.”
About a quarter of the people in the room raised their hands. The Alderman nodded. “Hmmm. You do understand that there is no sexual congress involved, correct?” Most of the men lowered their hands. “Now then—raise your hands if you support option two.”
The remainder of the people in the room raised their hands, including one man who had already raised his hand for option one.
“I’m sorry, Gerard,” said the Alderman, “but you can’t vote for both options. It won’t affect the outcome, but, ah, given that this is on the record, I’d like to make sure the tally is accurate.”
Gerard gave him a blank look, scratched his head, scratched his crotch, and then sniffled. “What was the question?”
It really wouldn’t have been a tragedy if the dragon had chosen to eat everyone.
“We’ll call that a vote for option two,” said the Alderman. “Very well—it is decided: the Village of—”
“Town!” shouted a bearded man near the back of the room.
For the first time, the Alderman showed a hint of annoyance. “Fine. The Village, the Town…whatever…of Skendrick hereby declares that it will seek aid from a group of adventurers to slay the dragon that has plagued our fair vil…er, tow…ah, place that we live, to be rewarded from the city’s treasury.” He turned to an elderly woman seated in the front row. “Loalia,” he said, “how much do we, ah, have in the coffers for this purpose?”
The Village Treasurer rose shakily to her feet with the aid of a cane. She couldn’t have been a day over four hundred years old. “Once we pay for the damage caused by this most recent attack…well, let’s just say we’ll have to hope there are some hard-up adventuring groups running end-of-year sales. Then see if we can get a discount.”
The Alderman, as enterprising a person as there was in Skendrick, which is a little bit like saying he was the kindest orc in the grope (“grope,” of course, being the technical term for a group of orcs, for reasons it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out), ran his hand over his chin in a pondering pose that would have been hackneyed if it wasn’t being described by a bard of such incomparable skill. “Well, how about we think of it as an opportunity for an, ah, up-and-coming group of adventurers to make a name for themselves, and the real reward will be the reputational benefits that will redound to them if they defeat the dragon. Oh, and all of the treasure they can plunder from the dragon’s lair, of course.”
Chapter 4
IT IS A RARE BREED THAT CAN COMPLETE AN EPIC DEED
Truly legendary warriors are not born; they are forged in the crucible of combat, tempered in battles that call for fire in the heart and ice in the veins. Sure, they build their skills in the same way a fletcher or wheelwright might, starting with the basic building blocks and gradually learning more and more sophisticated techniques. The stakes, however, are much higher for adventurers—failure means not merely the loss of occupation or income, but rather the loss of limb, or even life. Thus, it is only the bravest and heartiest (and, some might suggest, foolish) individuals who seek this path, for what sane person wishes to face down a dragon’s fire, dodge a bolt of lightning flung from an evil wizard’s staff, or take on a horde of orcs who threaten to overrun the land of civilized folk?
Fortunately, there are those among us who are willing to take on such challenges, and who have the courage, instincts, and talent to survive their earliest adventures so that they might mature into the types of warriors who can complete even the most impossible quests. It is just such a noble group that this tale is about, a group that came together at just the right place and just the right time, driven together by a combination of coincidence and necessity.
Before those heroes were ready to aid the good people of Skendrick, however, they needed to complete another quest, one that would test their mettle and their commitment and instill them with the confidence they needed to take on an even more daunting mission.
If, that is, they could survive…
Chapter 5
NOW, I’M NOT SAYING THEY WEREN’T HEROIC, MIND YOU…
Bards smooth the rough edges of reality and make even the most bumbling idiots look like heroes. We like to think of ourselves as beacons of knowledge, illuminating every corner of the world by sharing insightful tales of the human condition, but, really, we’re just glorified ale sellers. Ultimately, our job is to entertain patrons whom the owners of the taverns in which we ply our trade would prefer to drink heavily. Each story has a comforting rhythm to it, a familiar cadence that soothes and lulls unsuspecting patrons into having a third (or fourth, or fifth) ale. To do that, we obscure and ignore certain facts, particularly the mundane and boring parts of adventuring (with rare and generally perverted exceptions, no one wants to know how and where heroes pee), while taking a little creative license to jazz things up. In this instance, though, I think the boring and mundane parts are pretty entertaining, and you’re still welcome to drink heavily while I tell it.
The adventuring group that would eventually answer Skendrick’s call for help was undeniably brave, but they were far from legendary, or even particularly experienced. In fact, the group had only recently come together through circumstances that, in and of themselves, would make for an interesting tale, though I’ll save it for another occasion. (That’s right, printers—there’s already a prequel ready and waiting for you; I’m the kind of woman who thinks ahead…or, behind, I guess…and maybe occasionally about behinds, but only if they’re really spectacular, and generally only if they’re dwarven.) I will, however, tell you about an incident that happened just before they took up the quest to slay the dragon, which will give you some idea about both the group itself and the adventuring life in general.