The Dragon Games

The Raider

Rule #1: all competitors must come from honor 

At an hour to closing, my only company in the Lucky Tavern was the owner and his family: his wife, three sons, and ancient mother. Usually, when the first day of the qualifying tournament finished, throngs of people poured onto the streets and partied well into sunrise. 

This year, the masses took shortcuts home, barricaded their doors, and bolted their shutters. One name was on their tongues, hissed between a string of curses. The raiders.

While I sat at the bar, sipping lukewarm ale, the youngest son saddled up next to me. He was a couple of years older than me, eighteen or so, and had a pimply face that reeked of fish. His interests included woodwork, dragons, and attempting to remove the top buttons of my dress. 

Oh, no, not for me, for you. I don't want you to be uncomfortable, in such a hot and stuffy tavern. Your collar is practically up to your chin! He also enjoyed discussing my face, which was 'not bad' for someone with so many freckles. Hold on, is that a scar below your chin? What's a nice girl like you doing with a scar like that?

A smile played across my lips as I imagined what he'd say if he knew what I did to earn that scar. Or better yet, if he saw my back. Inevitably, the conversation turned to the qualifying tournament.

"You think we have any good contenders this year?" he said. "Any future dragon riders?"

Technically, everyone had two chances in their lifetime to score a place in the Blood Moon Festival — even lowborns from the Burrow, the kingdom's poorest district. 

One, pass the Divine Readiness Assessment. Officials tested every nine-year-old in the kingdom, and if they had high enough levels of Divine, a carriage whisked them away to begin training in Court. 

But no one from the burrow has passed the DRA in decades, so the second chance was far more likely. At eighteen years old, win the qualifying tournament.

"I wouldn't know," I replied. "I only went for the food."

"Ha," he snorted. "Didn't we all?" Free food was a rare occasion in the burrow. For many, the qualifying tournament was the only time all year they would fill their bellies.

At around ten, the owner's wife began tiring of me. But to be fair, the woman looked tired with life. Her wire-thin frame was painful to look at, and her reddened knuckles were worked to the bone.

"Is your friend close?" the wife said.

I wished I had not seen her knuckles. Now I kept picturing the wife on her hands and knees, spending all day scrubbing the floors and all night staring at the ceiling as stomach pains kept her awake. I knew all too well what that felt like.

"Dear?" the wife repeated, looking concerned now. "Your friend?"

"You know what?" I said. "I think... I think I made a mistake. I think I was supposed to meet him at a different tavern."

But just as I stood, the door kicked open, and Marcus walked in. He was thin and gangly, around my age, and had at least five piercings in each ear. But his most notable feature was his tattoo. His shirt was open to his navel, exposing thin chest hair and a ram skull tattooed across his neck.

The wife's eyes went wide when they landed on his tattoo. "Raider!" she gasped. She grabbed the old woman and scrambled to the back of the tavern, hiding behind the spirits shelf. The men jumped to their feet, all but the youngest, who remained at my side.

"Not to fear," he whispered, circling his arm over my shoulders. "I'll protect you."

"Hmmm," I mumbled, dropping back into my seat. I tilted my head back and downed my ale all in one go. I would need something to dull my senses... Meanwhile, the men demanded Marcus leave.