Page 2 of The Ballad of the Last Dragon

Chapter Two

P erched on my stool, lute in hand, I await my audience. I pluck a gentle tune, something inviting, and glance at my cup.

It’ll be full in no time.

A tall man skips through the door. Skips . As if his excitement propels him. He wears his long red hair loose and spilling over his shiny armor. Custom made, I’d wager. His broad grin lights up his whole face, straight white teeth on display. I find myself smiling back. He’s handsome, but the eagerness he wears with abandon makes him utterly adorable.

“I’ll have a bottle of your finest brew!” he calls out loud enough to startle a snore from Petey.

Kingsley raises his brows but sets to work pulling from his most expensive reserves. It’s Bjovian wine, and I’ve only tried it once when he was in a particularly good mood.

It tastes like shit.

The red-haired man notices me, and his grin widens. He dips his chin in acknowledgement and leans against the bar to watch me play.

I might show off a little with an extra flourish of my fingerpicking.

“Ye could have tied yer own horse,” a woman calls out in a thick brogue. A portion of hair above her ear is shaved to the scalp, the rest hangs down in a dark curtain. Rather than sit at the bar, she tugs a chair out with her boot and sits at the table in the center.

When she glances my way, a thick scar cuts down one side of her bronze face, from forehead to jaw. It does nothing to dim her beauty, but a scar like that, and on the same side where she keeps her head shaved gives me insight on this stranger. She’s survived the edge of a blade, and she wants the world to know.

I’ve been accused of inventing stories. In my line of work, an active imagination is an asset, but I’m certain I’ve pegged her accurately.

“You know I’m dreadful with knots.” The red-haired man takes a swill from his wine, trying desperately to hide his grimace. “Are they coming in?”

She juts her chin toward the door just as two men appear.

One wears an easy smile on his umber face, dimples creasing his cheeks. Hair cropped close to the scalp, the chiseled lines of his cheekbones and jaw are on full display. He gives me a wink and runs his hands together as he saunters across the tavern, his wiry frame moving with smooth elegance. A bow and quiver are strapped to his back, and his green cloak billows behind him, revealing the set of glinting daggers at his hips.

Hm. We have a crew of well-armed folk. Best be sure they enjoy my songs.

“I owe you five silvers,” he says, clapping the armored red head on the back and flagging Kingsley down. “I thought for sure this was a private residence.”

We get that a lot. To be fair, this was little more than an alehouse once, but Kingsley expanded his home, built the bar, changed the layout, and turned it into the Rusty Nail. When I first found this place, there wasn’t even a stage for me to play on. It only took six months of begging and odd jobs to get him to build it for me.

So lost in my memory of the time I had to coax Kingsley’s cow, Honeysuckle, back into her pen, I almost forget the fourth stranger in the tavern.

Broadly built and nearly as tall as Kingsley, the man is huge. His black hair cuts just above his wide shoulders, most of it pulled into a knot at the back of his head. A tight beard hides his jaw, and the floorboards groan under his heavy steps.

He doesn’t so much as glance my way, sitting beside the woman and scowling at the wall.

Well, my keen ability to read people tells me this is a right bastard.

When I end my song, three sets of polite applause greet me. I bow my head in thanks and kick out my cup toward the edge of the stage just in case they need the reminder.

I begin my new song, “When Night Calls.” I haven’t sung it for anyone apart from Kingsley, but I have a feeling it’s my best work yet.

“ When Night Calls

Will you be there to answer?

When it’s all quiet

Will I be alone there?

In the dark, can you trace my scars?

Close your eyes, can you feel my heart?”

I glance toward my audience. It’s important to connect with my soon-to-be fans. The woman has her head tilted, a posture I recognize as intently listening. The men at the bar whisper to each other, occasionally taking a drink. Some people prefer to listen while engaged in activity, I understand. It’s less intimate than being in the moment with me. Petey still slumbers at the end of the bar.

But the dark-haired man, the scowling one, refuses to look at me. His sights remain fixed on the wall. His hands curl into fists atop his thighs, and I trip over the next pluck pattern. His expression darkens, like thunder clouds rolling in.

Does he really hate my song that much?

I sing even louder. He can pretend he can’t hear me, but I won’t make it easy for him.

When my song ends, he stands abruptly, scraping his chair across the floor. His large frame towers in our little tavern, and I get the urge to knock him over to see how hard he’d fall.

“Are we done, Aeron?” His voice is deep with a gravelly edge. I hope it’s because his throat is sore.

My stomach sinks and the tips of my ears burn. I’m used to rejection by now. The way of an artist is to bleed for the masses while thickening one’s skin. It’s a precarious balance but one I’m sure I’ve struck.

Most days.

“Patience, Jaromir. The dragon will wait.”

The bastard, Jaromir, heaves a gusty sigh and stalks out of the tavern.

I’m about to start my next song when curiosity overtakes me. He said dragon, didn’t he? There hasn’t been a dragon sighting in over a century. There have been tales of the dark times when they prowled the land and soared through the skies. One of my favorite stories is about a bard and his wayward brother who slayed a dragon, but they’ve long been hunted to extinction. I have heard rumors of a lost hoard from a few travelers. But no one has ever found such a thing, and maps forged for trickery are a copper a dozen.

The way this man speaks… it’s as if he knows something I don’t, a fact that doesn’t sit well with me. If there’s a story, I want to commit it to memory. Perhaps the dragon is nothing more than a moniker or code for something else, but I itch to know for certain.

“Dragon?”

Aeron, the red-haired delight of a man, gives me another of his heart stopping smiles. “Oh, yes. We’ve embarked on a dangerous quest. Fraught with peril! I’m sure a lady such as yourself wouldn’t want the details.”

I hop off my stool, leaning my lute against the wall. I’m a storyteller, and this sounds like a story worth telling.

“You’re hunting a dragon?” I don’t tell him it’s impossible because dragons don’t exist anymore. Anything is possible if you spin your words just so.

He waves his hands as I approach. “Oh, no. I can’t bear to subject you to such horrors. It’s too perilous for delicate ears.”

I laugh. He has every intention of telling me, but I play along. “Please, tell me.” Some men need to feel like they’re important enough for begging. His over-embellished gestures and demanding volume ring of a man who loves to hear himself talk.

“If you insist.” Aeron leads me to the table where the scarred woman sits. “May I introduce you to Neith.” She studies me with a wry smirk. “And Cadoc.”

Cadoc waves to Kingsley for another round and drops in the chair beside me. “Here we go,” he mutters.

Aeron leans forward. His eyes are brilliant blue with gold around the edges, and he has a smattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose. “There are whispers of fathomless wealth, deep in an unnamed mountain. All who have sought the hidden riches have perished, lost to flame, because a dragon—the last dragon of our age—guards its entrance. Few dare to believe such a place exists anymore, but it’s real. The one who defeats the dragon and claims the treasure will be immortalized. A legend long after he’s gone.” He sits back, watching me carefully.

I try not to let my opinion show on my face. Where were the details? Something to slam me into the moment. He didn’t even draw out the tension!

“What do you think of that?” he asks.

“I’m thinking when I tell this tale, I’ll take some dramatic license with the details.”

“Huh?”

“How do you even know they were lost to fire?” It’s utter nonsense and poorly constructed. But I’ve worked with less. I snap my fingers as an idea comes to me. “I know! Scorched armor! Maybe someone went searching for a loved one who left in pursuit of the treasure and found their scorched armor! Oh, but then that begs the question of how close one can get without the dragon attacking. If the armor is where the loved one can find it, why didn’t the dragon attack them, too? Unless it can sense greed, and our hero is pure of heart! Oh, I love where this is going. Should the loved one be a lover or their child? I recognize the value of a lover, but there’s a beautiful symmetry of a child following their parent’s legacy. Maybe even growing up with thoughts of finding their parent’s resting place?”

I leap from the table and reach across the bar to the cubby beneath where I keep a spare vellum and quill.

“This is good. This is all very good.” I scribble furiously. When I’m satisfied I have the initial forms of this story down, I return to their table.

Aeron eyes me with raised brows. Neith fights a losing battle against her smile, and Cadoc appears torn between delight and confusion. His dark eyes are crinkled while his white teeth and dimples are on full display.

“What are you doing?” Cadoc asks, and his voice has a pleasing quality. Smooth and elegant. Hmm… does he sing?

“I collect stories,” I say by way of explanation. “You spoke of heroics immortalized.” I fan my hands out over my vellum. “This is how it’s achieved. You think it’s the heroes who tell stories of their exploits? No one believes a story one tells about themself. People lie, especially in pursuit of fame. But a story whispered in taverns around the world?” I point to myself. “People like me make your legends. Now, is it a lover or a child who discovers the armor?”

Aeron’s eyes widen, and his knee-weakening grin returns. I can’t help but smile back. He has a cleft in his chin, and I hadn’t realized until this moment what an attractive feature it is.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Sylvaine Abelan,” I say with a flourish. “Syl among friends.”

“Syl,” he repeats, beckoning me with a wave of his hand as he leans in. “How would you like to go on an adventure?”