Hallborn the Berserker had a choice. Either head east to slay the dragon that had been terrorizing the Kingdom of Perith, or to stay in the capital and be beheaded by the King.
When he thought about it, it really wasn’t much of a choice. When your raiding party is defeated and you’re held captive by a monarch, you don’t really get much of a choice.
So it was off to the East for Hallborn, accompanied by a retinue of clanking knights, not to help him but to make sure he wouldn’t try to escape instead of completing the so-called quest.
They traveled for a few days, the knights watching him closely, only ever letting him out of their sight for his ablutions, and even then they made sure they could see his head and shoulders. Hallborn told them his people didn’t run. Running was the highest dishonor; running like a coward meant he would never make it into the Hall of Heroes with the rest of his kin.
Still. They watched.
When they came to the town on the outskirts of Perith, near where the dragon was rumored to live. (In a cave, of course. Don’t all dragons live in caves?)
The men wanted to rest. They found a tavern with a lovely barmaid and a good stew, and it was easy enough to convince the knights to “relax,” Hallborn boomed. “Have a few drinks.” Especially when the mead started to flow.
There was wine, a woman, and song. Hallborn drank with the knights and the knights drank with him begrudgingly. Then they drank some more until they were all good friends. Then more and more they drank until the knights were snoozing comfortably on top of each other, a heap of chainmail and armor.
“Well, what do you know,” Hallborn chuckled. “Turns out the Good Knights of Perith can’t handle their drink very well.”
Hallborn paid the barmaid to keep an eye on them, a pretty trinket from his land. “They won’t wake before I’m back,” he assured her. And he would be back. All Hallborn wanted to do was to bathe and to oil his locks in peace.
And so he did. The barmaid pointed him in the direction of a spring of water, “nearby,” she said. “Just follow the sound.” He arrived at it and sat in its calm waters for a while, singing low a song that his mother used to sing.
Before the drink and the quiet gave way to nostalgia and sentimentality, Hallborn heard it. A stirring in the woods. Footsteps. His hand flew to his axe--he raised it above his head--“Who goes there?” he boomed. And to his surprise he saw a maiden there, with fiery red hair and flashing green eyes.
“I’ll be askin’ the questions here,” she said, in a rough brogue that amused Hallborn. “Who are you and what are you doing in my spring?”
“Your spring?” Hallborn echoed. “I didn’t know this was your spring.”
“Well, now ye know. Now put on your knickers and get out of there before you pollute it.”
He did as he was told, put on his clothes and stepped out of the spring. The maiden wasn’t the shy sort. In fact Hallborn got the impression the woman would route him if he tried anything funny.
He asked her name. “Lasairfhíona,” she said. He told her his name, and asked her if she knew where the dragon of Perith lived. She scoffed. “Aye, and I imagine the King has sent you to go slay it, has he?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck to ye. No one has survived yet.” And she turned to leave the spring, but Hallborn took her hand.
“Stay. Abide a while, Lasairfhíona. This might be my last night, if you’re right. Will you at least keep a dead man company? Tell me your story, and let me tell you mine.”
She looked at his hand, and looked at his face. “If that’s your dying wish. We can gab away like hens instead of you getting ready for your fight.”
“That is my dying wish,” he said. And so she stayed.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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Cyttafa, the Guardian Dragon Tray
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In a land untouched by time, in the farthest reaches of the South, a dragon sits, guarding her secret hoard of treasures. Her name is Cyttafa, a Drakaina said to be the sister of Python and Echidna, whose beauty was… SEE MORE