The Dragon Games

Collecting Firewood from the Mountains

rule #2: unwarranted violence is never allowed

At the crack of dawn, I met a Steward boy at the castle gates to begin our trek to the mountains. His name was Tristan, and he bragged that the small fortune he made upselling court-owned weapons was well worth the punishment, but his good humor vanished the moment we looked into the distance.

The mountains rose faintly over the woods, miles from castle grounds. They were so far away that if the tracker dragons did not have my blood, once I reached those mountains I would have kept running and never turned back.

"So what's to stop us from forgetting the mountains, riding into town, and bartering with a local merchant for some wood?"  Tristan said.

"We could get caught and end up in more trouble." A second too late, I realized I probably should have said 'honor and integrity' or some crap like that.

"Oh, come on, how would they know? It's not like there's some special tree that only grows in the mountains."

"You do as you like, but I've got a parlay riding on this. I can't step out of line any time I feel like."

"But how will it look if I return hours before you do?"

"Like you're a very fast hiker?" I offered.

Tristan heaved a great sigh. "A raider hell-bent on rule-following. What's next, will pigs fly? Will rivers burn? Will my father say he is proud of me?"

"Come on," I said, biting the inside of my cheek to hold a laugh. "Hurry and we won't miss supper."

Just as we crossed the gate, a group of knights came storming in. There were ten or fifteen of them, their boots striking the ground in perfect unison. I jumped back, narrowly avoiding getting clobbered by an iron-clad shoulder.

"Bloody hell!" I scowled at the knights' retreating backs. "Are we at war already?" 

"They're evacuating the eastern villages," Tristan said. "A dragon has been spotted by the coastline."

Luckily, the coastline was eastward, and to reach the mountains, we traveled westward. We caught a ride through town on the back of a wagon, then reached our destination with a half-hour walk.

As we hiked up the steep incline, the sun bore down on the back of my neck, and the months of non-stop training began catching up with me. My fear of heights didn't help. Even as I kept inside the path, as far away from the drop as possible, my stomach twisted to ribbons.

Worst of all, Tristan was a whistler, and once he struck up a song, he never stopped. Between the sun, the heights, and my cramping calves, I was one la-la-re-ri from la-la-re-ripping out his tongue or my ears, whichever brought silence quicker.

Tristan's song hiccuped when two Balthasars came into view. They were heading down the mountain, carrying buckets of firewood. Despite the heat, I kept my jacket zipped high to cover my tattoo, but judging by the tightness that passed over the Balthasars' faces, they recognized me anyway.

Tristan waved at them, and the Balthasars looked away, doubling their pace.

"Curs," Tristan muttered.

Then he struck up another chipper tune, at which point I grabbed Sammy's locket and prayed to a higher power for strength. It was a long hike, indeed. Luckily, we found a patch of trees at the mid-way point, saving us from going the full distance up the mountain, and split up to hack some wood.

I had almost finished my pile when my ax lodged deep in the bark. As I crouched over, trying to pry it loose, Tristan appeared behind me. "Remember those two Balthasars we passed at the beginning of the hike?"