Daggers and Dragons

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Okay, well this time it was dragons, but it wasn’t always. Sometimes it was boggarts, or demons, or any other manner of creepy crawlies and unabashedly absurd monstrosities which were fit for the slaying, as Sir Reginald often said. Old man Kerna even swore that he saw a hairy beast with the face of a pig and the ass of a goddess somewhere up in the mountains, but Kerna was known to fancy a drink, so it was anybody’s guess as to what he really saw. No matter what manner of beast decided to stop over in the valleys however, all of the townsfolk rested assured that Sir Reginald and Sir Camdryn, the heroes of the land, would slay them. Excellent knights in their own right, together they were unstoppable. People across the land whispered stories of the Knights of Destiny, the two greatest men to ever live.

Of course, Yarwen knew they were great--great big assholes, that is. They were more vain than a peacock, and no one bought into the idea that they were the Knights of Destiny more than them. On top of their dickishness, Sir Camdryn and Sir Reginald were some of the most incompetent people to ever walk upon the earth. They were great at fighting and killing monsters, but other than that (and sex drives to rival bunny rabbits), there wasn’t much going on in their heads. In the five years that Yarwen had been traveling with them, he had witnessed one of them light themselves on fire on no less than three separate occasions. They were idiots with the egos of gods.

Not that Yarwen’s ever said that to their faces. His mother had practically thrown him at Sir Reginald when he came to town four days after Yarwen's fifteenth birthday, demanding that he take Yarwen on as his Squire. Sure, the prospect had seemed enticing at the beginning, but Yarwen quickly learned that “Squire” was just a fancy word for “pack mule.” Still, there was no way that Yarwen was going to get sent back to his house, where as the fifth son his prospects were two acres of land and one incredibly old and pissed off chicken. Nope, he was stuck being the Knight’s walking satchel.

His foot caught on a root, and it took all Yarwen’s willpower not to fall face first into the pile of horseshit that Sir Camdryn’s steed had so conveniently dropped not a minute before. A hand reached out, snagging the straps of his backpack and righting him. Yarwen grunted in appreciation, and he glanced up in time to see Sandavy--Sir Camdryn’s Squire--roll his eyes.

“The fact that you have yet to impale yourself on any of the numerous sharp objects you currently have in your arms is astonishing.” Sandavy said, releasing his hold once he was sure that Yarwen wasn’t going to drop every single weapon balanced precariously in his grip.

“What can I say,” Yarwen answered, twirling a knife around in his free hand, “the Gods must really love me.” With that, the knife slipped out of his hand and thudded into a tree just to the left of Sir Reginald’s head. The knight whipped around in his saddle to glare at the two squires. Yarwen immediately pointed at Sandavy, feigning innocence. With a glare, Sir Reginald turned back around and urged his horse into a quick trot. Yarwen and Sandavy groaned and picked up their pace.

“Nice going dipshit,” Sandavy whispered as he watched Yarwen struggle to pluck the blade from the tree trunk.

“You could help you know, instead of just standing there like a dead fish,” Yarwen grunted, bracing his left foot on the trunk and pulling with all his might.

“Oh no, you’re clearly the Gods’ favorite,” Sandavy said, crossing his arms across his chest. Yarwen stuck his tongue out and pulled one more time. The blade finally separated from the tree, and he waved it in the air in triumph. Once more Sandavy rolled his eyes. “Come on, before they get so far ahead that we get eaten by an ogre or something.”

Yarwen looked down at his slight frame. “Can’t say I’d make a good meal. You on the other hand,” he said, poking Sandavy’s broad shoulder, “have got some good meat on you.” Sandavy shoved Yarwen’s hand away and the two continued on after their knights. It took them awhile--and several bouts of running, which Sandavy was especially perturbed by--but the two squires eventually caught up with the knights on the outskirts of a small village. Their horses were already swarmed by excited villagers. Sir Camdryn blew a kiss at an elderly lady, who promptly fainted across the road. The knight paid her no mind, turning to blow more kisses at the screaming crowd. Sandavy snickered as Yarwen fake dry heaved at the sight.

The mass of people began to collectively shuffle towards the tavern. Flanking either side of the door was a Paladin, clad in golden armor that shimmered in the sun and just about blinded Yarwen as he and Sandavy picked their way over to the tavern. Inside was well kept, with mounted heads of various animals mounted on the walls.

“Classy,” Yarwen said to no one in particular. He and Sandavy found a small table in the corner furthest from where the townsfolk continued to crowd around the knights.

“There are rumors of dragons somewhere in the area, and here we are, sitting in a bar watching a crowd of people swoon over the Douchebag Duo like they're kings,” Sandavy muttered to himself.

“Of course,” Yarwen mused. “Couldn’t let their egos deflate, now could they?”

Sandavy chuckled. “I guess you’re right.” A barmaid walked over and placed two cups on the table.

“Aren’t they dreamy?” she sighed, eyes fixated on Sir Reginald and Sir Camdryn. Yarwen snorted into his mead. Unfazed, Sandavy pulled a map out of his bag and placed it on the table. Faded ink lines on vellum traced along in intricate patterns showing the network of mountain regions this town was nestled in.

“Where are we at now, oh mighty map reader?” Yarwen asked. Of the party of four, Sandavy was the best at navigation, and they often deferred to him to lead them to their monsters. Once they got to the valley, the Knights would be in their element and make quick work of the beasts, but what was supposed to be a quick fight with a siren two towns over had grown into a month long saga with Sir Reginald at the helm (who had been too proud to admit that he was definitely lost). After that, the task had been given to Sandavy (“Knights can’t be bothered with something so trivial as map reading,” Sir Camdryn had said, “That’s for squires to do”), which meant they actually got to places within a semi-reasonable time.

Sandavy pointed to a small mark on the map towards the center of the vellum. “If I’m not mistaken, this should be Antisead, which means, we have to keep heading this way.” His finger trailed along a winding black line until it butted up against triangles representing the Lam mountain range. These mountains in particular were full of valleys that monsters often camped out in, and if the rumors were true, it was from there that the dragons had supposedly been launching their attacks against the common folk.

“So where exactly in these mountains can we find the beasties?”

Sandavy plunged his hand back into the bag and pulled out another map before putting it flush against the right side of the original. The lines seemed to arch from one page onto the other, filling out the rest of the mountain range. He pointed a third of the way across the second page. “Here.”

Yarwen groaned and dramatically slammed his head down on the table. Even he had to admit that strategically, the dragons had picked a great place. Hard to get to, this valley in particular was within a two day flight for dragons in pretty much every direction if they wanted to terrorize a town. Of course, for humans, getting to that particular valley would take weeks.

“Think we can convince the Douches of Destiny to get us horses?” Yarwen asked hopefully, still not raising his head off the table.

“Doubtful,” Sandavy chuckled. “We might be able to convince them to get us a shared donkey to carry some of the stuff at least.”

“The way the villagers are literally throwing themselves at them like they’re bouquets at a wedding, I bet if Sir Reginald asked they would actually off each over having the honor of the knights selecting their ass. No pun intended," he added as an afterthought. Yarwen lifted his head off the table and watched as Sandavy carefully rolled the maps back up. A loud giggle and the sound of scraping chairs caused them to look over just in time to see the Knights being led off by a harem of scantily clad men and women. The rest of the crowd began to disperse.

“Come on. We still have to pick up supplies, since those two," Sandavy gestured over his shoulder at the door that the soon to be orgy had slipped off into "are going to be too preoccupied to do it.” Sandavy stood up. Fishing into one of the bags, he dropped two bronze coins onto the table and headed for the door. Yarwen scrambled to his feet and gathered up the assortment of weapons and equipment into his arms before following him out the door and into the cold evening air. As he stepped out the door, his foot landed in a pile of horse shit. Looking up, the culprit was none other than Sir Camdryn's horse. In the aura of the setting sun, Yarwen murmured a phrase that he knew in his core had become his signature line:

"Thrice damned son of a witch!"