Deathsworn Arc: The Last Dragon Slayer

Chapter 1
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The Troll’s Head

Saul wrapped the folds of his cloak around his frozen fingers and gripped his reins harder. The temperature had dropped as the sun had set, the blustering wind only adding to his misery. ‘Two Silavrians and a homeless dwarf…’ As he considered this sombre evaluation of the status of his mission, he thought back to his meeting with the Empress. He scowled as he recalled his ensuing attempts to assemble a band of warriors, suitable for the task at hand. The Empress had told him she felt fairly certain it was a Draconis Nobilus or Noble Dragon, an ancient, almost legendary beast, near invulnerable. When he asked her about warriors, archers and mages; she’d simply told him that due to the orcs massing at the borders of Gharzbad, no soldiers or spell-casters were available and he would need to rely on mercenaries.

Granted, she’d given him a handsome advance to procure supplies and ensure the success of the mission, but even so, it seemed strange to rely on sell-swords. Of course this might have been for reasons of discretion. The reason for her decision didn’t seem relevant now. He thought about the time when he’d entered the ‘Blind Beggar’; his last desperate attempt to hire some assistance, every other alehouse having met his tale of dragons with laughter and scorn. When he’d been given this unenviable task, he’d never dreamt that he’d be thankful for two immigrant dock laborers and a dwarf for taking up the quest. Now they were approaching Trest, supposedly the last place the legendary ‘Last Dragon Slayer’ had been seen. This was his final throw of the dice, to get an experienced warrior to join them.

He only hoped the now ageing slayer would still be fit to swing a sword, and that he would be willing to join this seemingly doomed quest. Especially given that this man had already faced such a dangerous creature in combat, and had undoubtedly witnessed the death of many men at its claws. He listened to the sound of his companions’ horses’ hooves on the soft ground behind him, and peered towards the dim lights in the distance. He felt cold, tired and miserable. At this point, he didn’t care whether or not they found Mendelson, he just wanted a mug of ale and a warm bed. The rain began to get heavier. The riders huddled beneath their cloaks, shoulders hunched against the wind. The horses were packed for travel, their saddlebags bulging.

Twilight had started to set in; both riders and horses were reduced to shadowy silhouettes, caked in mud and utterly drenched. They rode on, shuffling towards the dim lights of the town which lay ahead of them. As the town grew nearer, they could see it in more detail. A makeshift wooden barricade surrounded the settlement, which looked more suitable for keeping wild animals out than for protection from invading forces. Beyond the ramshackle wooden ramparts, timber-framed houses in varying states of disrepair could be seen. Some had glass windows, most had only wooden shutters. Soft candle or oil lamp light could be seen burning within most.

By the time the riders had arrived at the heavy, iron-bound gates, darkness had fallen and they had been barred. The lead rider leaned forward and thumped his staff hard on the gate three times. They heard a brief shuffling from the other side, a few muttered whispers, then a small hatch opened. The guard who peered through looked weathered by the years. What little hair he had left was thin and straggly. His gaunt face showed a network of scars, surrounding a solitary boil on his nose and a patch of warts. His teeth were yellow, black, or missing. He peered into the darkness.
‘Who goes there?’

‘Saul Karza, servant of the Empress, blessed be her name. I demand you open this gate immediately.’ Soaked to the bone and cold, he fought through his misery to sound authoritative. The riders didn’t have to wait long before the bars slid back and the gate opened enough for the horses to pass through. As they rode under the large covered archway, the aging guard closed and barred the gate after them before heading to the small, adjoining guardhouse, out of the driving rain. The guard turned as he reached his shelter and called up to Saul. ‘What’s your business in Trest, Saul Karza?’