The Faerie Knight

Chapter One (Part 1)

Halvar fainted.

Aoife smoothed her clothes back into place. She spoke again, and nobody dared to even breathe lest they miss a word: "On its first visit to Fairefield, the beast burned our lord mayor's estate to the ground—with the mayor's family still inside! Then it flew circles round the village, commanding us to surrender our valuables or meet the same fate. It is a terrible beast, pure evil, a true monster."

During the meeting, the tavern's barkeep and owner, Awen, bustled about with pitchers of ale, refilling tankards and cups and even bowls—for the tavern had long since run out of drinking vessels by then. Despite the black hour, she still collected her dues from her patrons, albeit a bit less gleefully than she normally would have; she was nothing if not practical. But at hearing the refugee's tale, Awen paused and turned to face her. "And did you? Surrender your valuables?"

The woman from Fairefield shook her head. "No. And we payed a price all the same."

Awen's fingers tightened around her fat coin purse. "No lizard is going to steal my money or my tavern. I've not worked my fingers to the bone for a decade to give it up now!"

Another voice said, "You mayn't have a choice."

The crowd adjusted itself to view this newest speaker: an old, sagely man whose spoon trembled against his soup bowl with every bite. His robes were finer than the dirty clothes of the peasants around him, and he wore a shiny badge on his breast that read Antiquities Department.

"And who are you, old fellow?" asked a face in the crowd, speaking what everyone was thinking. "Another refugee, mayhap?"

But it was Awen who answered: "He's a scholar from the university in Afallach. Here on some report or another." To the questioning glances of her patrons, she added haughtily, "What? I make it my business to know who sits at my tables and drinks my beer."

"But what of your name, grandfather?"

The scholar chortled. "Oh, I'm afraid I haven't any grandchildren. One son and no more. And the name is Galath, my good man."

"And what, pray tell, brings such an esteemed erudite all the way to Dolaurys, hmm? And at such a dire time, no less?"

The scholar Galath relinquished his spoon, and rubbed his veined, wrinkled hands as if to remind them of warmth. "There is taught at the university all manner of scholarly pursuits and endeavors. There be historians and archaeologists, linguists with their lexicons, botanists and biologists, astronomers and astrologers, moral philosophers aplenty, and many a lifelong student of alchemy and the arcane, if only in the theory of it and not in actual practice—"

"By Ylem, old man, do you mean to talk until the dragon comes for us all?"

Galath, cheeks puffing, gazed about the room as if noticing his audience for the first time. "Ah, yes. Forgive an old man his speeches, for he may not have many left to give. In answer to your question—"

"Finally."

"—I am among the historians. My specialty lies in the age past, the Hi Arcana, when dragon attacks were everyday problems to be solved by the nearest archwizard before teatime. In fact, it is precisely because of a wizard that I have come to Dolaurys. For, you see—"

"Do you know of dragons, Master Galath?" asked a voice far friendlier than those before, and it belonged to a mousy girl no older than thirteen. Such was their curiosity that everyone made room for the girl, small and timid, as she approached the scholar's table.

Galath's blue eyes warmed at the sight of her. "Indeed, I do," he said to her.

"Will it come for us, Master Galath?" asked the girl, eyes wide. "Will it come and burn us like it did Fairefield?"