Page 1 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter One

I t’s a slow night at the Rusty Nail, but I bend in a deep bow and straighten my cap as if the queen herself is in the audience. I claim the stool center stage and begin plucking the familiar tune, “While the Fisherman’s Away.” It’s one of my bawdier songs and doesn’t require much effort with my vocal range. It isn’t my finest work, but it’s a crowd pleaser.

Not that there’s a crowd tonight.

Summer nights usually draw in stray travelers and traders—the folks eager to wet their whistles and listen to my songs. But my talents are wasted on my employer, Kingsley, and our regular, Petey, who’s well into his cups.

No matter. The show must go on.

My lute is smooth beneath my hands as my fingers dance over well-rehearsed melodies. I might not perform in Lindale, where bards like myself are swimming in riches and treated like nobility, where one’s ears is but a footnote in an extensive collective of attributes, but I take pride in my work. It takes a certain level of artistic flair to entertain the likes of Hollowden. Salt of the earth people, they are, without all the fancy trappings of city life. Even if they find me a bit odd, a bit unsettling. It matters not, because a true artist transcends these obstacles and relates to the masses. And I—

Petey slumps over, fast asleep.

For fuck’s sake.

My fingerpicking takes on an agitated edge. My callouses can handle it, but I’m not sure my strings can.

“I’ll probably close up early, eh, Syl?”

I halt my playing. Kingsley frowns at a spotty tankard and wipes it with vigor. The hanging candelabrum adorned with melted wax highlights the grays dotting his black hair and beard. Kingsley and his wife, Brigitta, are just about the only people in town who never balk at the sharp point of my ears. He’s never asked for more than professional courtesy, and he’s always been kind to me. A giant of a man, and when he laughs, his entire body shakes, but I’d bet every coin Petey owes to the gamemaster that he’s killed a man with his bare hands. I’ve tried to get him to spill his secrets, but he knows me well enough to be wary. Secrets don’t stay secret very long with me. I have songs to write, inspiration to find, and all that.

“What about my set?”

Kingsley abandons his quest for the cleanest tankard in town to glance around the empty tavern.

Point taken.

“Someone might roll in, pockets heavy and throat parched.” And easily plied with enough alcohol to part with their coin. My cup is looking rather desolate. Is that a cobweb on the rim?

Kingsley shakes his head. “I can’t pay you to sing to Petey in his sleep.”

“But you enjoy my playing, don’t you?”

I take his silence as humbling awe of my talent.

With a sigh, I pull my velvet cap from my head. My hair, neck, and forehead are damp with sweat, and the relief is instantaneous. But I’d rather play sweaty and uncomfortable than go hungry, and when seeking coin, it’s best if my ears remain hidden. Their shape is the most obvious trait of my elven heritage, a fact, I’ve learned, that isn’t well-received in most places. Even in Tarrgein. Superstition about the ancient elves of old might not have followed me too closely across the sea to this country, but that hasn’t prevented ignorant prejudice from taking root. Normally I wouldn't dare remove my cap mid performance. Even around here where I’ve stayed long enough people have finally accepted I won’t use my “evil she-elf magic to bewitch them,” I always get more appreciation when I keep my ears safely tucked away. That and my red cap made of crushed velvet with a large black plume is gorgeous. Since our only customer is fast asleep, I bundle my long blonde hair into a knot and cast another glance at my empty cup. “When will the season pick up again?”

Kingsley shrugs, stacking the now spotless tankard with the rest and wiping the bar top, carefully avoiding Petey’s unconscious form.

Summer has its ups and downs in patrons. The larger cities have festivals, and with First Fruits Day right around the corner, everyone has probably headed for grander accommodations. Still, it wouldn’t kill our patrons to show loyalty to their local tavern, would it?

I abandon my stool and march across the faded wood of the stage, avoiding the loose board that always creaks under foot. Slinging my lute onto my back, I fan myself with my cap. I’ve grown used to this town, or rather, I haven’t been booed off stage yet, and so long as I keep my ears covered, no one hassles me.

I don’t ask for much. Food in my belly, recognition of my work, a bevy of adoring fans. Shades, I’d settle for food in my belly. Kingsley won’t let me ever truly go hungry, but he isn’t exactly swimming in riches. He and Brigitta manage and try their best to include my needs, but I know it puts a strain on their coin purse. Sometimes I imagine how it would feel to know my next meal was all but assured. As it is, I must swallow my pride and accept the charity each time Brigitta “accidentally” makes extra. This tavern doesn’t have a kitchen, so no sneaking off plates here. I can’t complain. Two years back, I played in Birchfield for a time, and when the owner caught me eating abandoned scraps, he tried to arrange what he claimed to be a “mutually beneficial arrangement.”

I have a good thing going here.

My belly grumbles as if in rebuttal.

“We could host themed events.” I sit on the stool next to Petey, leaning my elbows onto the freshly wiped bar top. “Draw in some customers.”

“What sorta events?”

“Hmm… what about poetry readings?”

Kingsley laughs, his whole body shaking.

Evidently, he doesn’t appreciate my suggestion.

“What if we host competitions? Like testing strength and stamina?”

He raises a graying brow at me. “Stamina?”

“Sure!” Now that I have his attention, I need to reel him in. He’s always so opposed to new ideas. “We could have drinking contests.”

He snorts and waves toward Petey. “Every night is a drinking contest one plays with themselves.”

“But we could offer incentive.” I’m losing him, I can feel it. Jumping atop the bar, I pace back and forth. His grunt is the only indication of his displeasure, despite just wiping it down. He probably loves every chance he gets to clean the bar top. For a tavern in the middle of nowhere, it’s absurdly clean.

“The incentive to drink is drinking,” he says, crossing his massive arms. “Let it go. Business will come. It always does.”

There’s nothing inherently wrong with the simple structure of this establishment. The daily hook for my hat, so to speak. But as I glance around the empty tavern, noting the mismatched wood of the chairs Kingsley built, the pitch in the floor from where the ground softened, creating a slanted effect that makes dropped bottles roll to the other end of the room, I can’t help but imagine the potential if we only drew in more coin to cover expenses.

“This place could be more. The Rusty Nail could be the crowned jewel of Tarrgein! Warriors and nobles from the Western Isles, Dwarven merchants and architects from Hawthok, they would all flock to our establishment. Lindale would be a thing of the past while Hollowden takes center stage. Just imagine”—I drop to sit on the bar, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as if showing him the path ahead—“your tavern, swimming with patrons. You could retire and hire some cocky young-blood to tend the bar. You’d have more time at home with Brigitta, and, oh look! She’s swathed in silk, samite, the finest fabrics this side of the Jürdan Sea. A proper lady!”

Kingsley chuckles and disentangles himself. “Brigitta is no lady, and I like it that way.” A suggestive smile curves against his mouth.

Ew. I don’t need to picture whatever he’s thinking to plant that expression on his face.

“You’re missing the point—”

“Sylvaine.” He only ever uses my full name when he’s annoyed… which is most of the time. “I’m not changing things.”

I should let it go. He’s made up his mind, and that’s that.

“If you would just listen—”

“Enough. Go lock up.”

Rolling my eyes, I trudge to the door, dragging my feet with every step. It might be a bit dramatic, but hunger and neglect of one’s art will do that to a person. “May Welkin’s guardians bless my weary soul.”

“No prayers until you lock up.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Kingsley has little patience for talk of religion, even going so far as to prohibit it from the tavern during working hours. Says it causes too many bullshit arguments he hasn’t the time nor energy to deal with. It’s just as well; I tend to blaspheme according to the sentiments of most faiths in these parts. My goddess, the mother of wisdom and strength, is a false idol, Welkin’s guardians are demons, and any mention of nature’s energy earns a hiss and spitting in my direction.

When I reach the open door, I lean against the threshold and stare off into the darkness. The summer night is thick with the lingering heat of the day, but at least there’s a breeze. We’ll lock up and let Petey sleep here. He doesn’t crash here every night but often enough that if he wakes before we open, he’ll help himself to a recovery drink, equal parts liquor and bad habits, and wait for one of us to add it to his tab.

Before I can shut the heavy door, a light bobs into view, far in the distance. It swings back and forth in the dark forest, a beacon in the night. The clip-clop of horse hooves meets my ears.

Riders. That means customers.

I spin around just in time for Kingsley to sigh and toss me my hat.

Ducking my chin, I place my cap just right, hiding my ears and letting my finger graze the large black feather.

It’s showtime.