The Faerie Knight
a novel by MisterVilliers
Chapter One
An Errant Knight
1
Never had the tavern been so full. Villagers crowded around too few tables and insufficient chairs. They stood in the alcoves and sat on the window sills and packed the stairs to the second story, and more were in the upstairs rooms with their ears pressed flat against the floor.
Never had the tavern been so silent.
The townsfolk, whether sitting or standing, were still as statues, their attention commanded by whomever found the courage to address the room, and they took it in turns to speak. This time, it was a grim-faced man in a soot-stained apron, who said, "We have no choice. If we don't run, we'll die."
Numerous voices scoffed. "When you're shoeing the horses, d'you use a hammer or your head? Where could we possibly go where it wouldn't find us?"
The farrier twiddled his thumbs. "The Gloomwood? Surely the faeries would protect the forest—and us, too, should we happen to be in it at the time!"
Several people spat on the floor. Many more made signs of protection as if to ward off evil.
"The faeries don't care for nothing but their own!"
"They'd sooner curse us and laugh as we danced ourselves to death than let a human into their precious wood!"
"And anyway, wood burns, you fool. We'd be worser off, faeries or no."
The farrier, whose chair had been stolen by the lass beside him, reached for his tankard to drown his abashment, but it had been taken also. With a backward step, he vanished into the crowd.
"If we hurried, we could make it to Afallach," proposed another hopeful tavern goer, an ancient, white-bearded gnome named Dimble. He stood only two feet and so many inches high, and he'd been placed upon a table so that he could be seen. He spoke in a high, creaky voice. "It isn't far. Walls, towers, the queens' knights—what safer place is there in all the Duskmeadow?"
"Aye," said another, his tone equally as cynical as old Dimble's had been optimistic. "If ye could make it that far before the beast spots ye from its perch. And what then when it does? Nay. Ye'd be dead in a flash—like that!"
Old Dimble shook his beard at the naysayer in a manner not unlike a large, hairy iguana. "And what of the dozens of families that have already taken to the road? The ones that left at first sight of the beast a fortnight past? What of them? Surely they're safely ensconced in Afallach by now."
"Nay. Dead. The lot of 'em."
"No!"
"Don't leave the village, you say, but we're food for the crows if we do or don't!" cried Halvar, a scrawny reed of a young man who worked as assistant at Dimble's tea and incense shop. "It's a dragon! It'll kill us anywhere, village or road, it cares not!"
"Not if you give it what it wants." A middle-aged woman hobbled out of the crowd and immediately arrested the village's attention. "I am Aoife. I come from Fairefield."
"She lies! Fairefield was burnt to ash not a week ago!"
"Just so," agreed Aoife. "It was all I could do to escape the dragon's wrath. I won this for my trouble." The woman lifted the back of her shirt and pulled aside a stained linen bandage, revealing a wide, blistered, angry burn that claimed her back, the full breadth of it hidden neath the bandage. The crowd hissed and gasped. Then she lifted the hem of her skirt; the burn continued past her waist and down her calf.
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?"
If Galath could feel the weight of two hundred piercing stares, he did not show it. With all the ease and gentleness of a grandfather telling his children's children a story before bed, Galath said to the girl, "I imagine it will come, in time. It is inevitable. But when will it come? Who can say. I do not pretend to know the schemes of dragons, for they are thinking creatures like you or I, and they can be driven by many desires—again, just like you or I, dear child. However, I might venture to guess"—and Galath sought out Aoife in the crowd—"that the dragon that befouls us now is yellow in hue, or perhaps golden?"
Aoife's surprise was all the confirmation anybody needed. "'Twas as you say, master scholar."
Galath nodded. "The greediest of dragons. While it would be both ridiculous and insulting for us ordinary folk, humans and gnomes alike, to be categorized by the hue of our skin and then have listed the abilities afforded to us therefrom, the opposite would be true for dragons, as a dragon's scale is reflective of its nature. Tis a regrettable and unfortunate fact of biology but a fact all the same. However, that is not to say that a dragon's color reflects its morality, which is entirely up to the dragon in question. And, of course, there are many species of dragon, some smarter than others and some more bestial than a dire bear; some are more content to wax poetry or philosophy while others surround themselves with things as rare and beautiful as them."
"But what of this dragon," pressed Awen, still clasping her purse protectively. "Can you speak to this dragon's motivations?"
"Unfortunately, its motivation is quite plain to me, as it must be to all of you: It is a thing of avarice that cares not for life and prosperity, no doubt save for its own. Fueled by greed, it makes a fiery introduction with a village, demands tribute on threat of further destruction, and promptly returns to collect its dues, one way or another. No doubt the same will happen when it comes here..."
The tavern grew so tense and quiet that one would be forgiven the ridiculous notion of believing the whole place and everyone in it had turned to stone. Even the fire in the hearth paused its crackling.
"What would you have us do, then?" spat a fuming patron.
Galath glanced toward the rafters, his gaze growing distant as if he could see straight through the roof to a dragon winging its way to their doom. Finally he said, "As madam Aoife said quite plainly moments ago—give it what it wants."
Though everyone had expected such an answer, it still riled each and every one of them, and they began to mutter amongst themselves. Then a voice shouted from the crowd, "I say we kill the beast!"
Pure, unadulterated chaos shook the tavern as people leapt to their feet, banged tankards on tables, covered their children's eyes and ears, and were shouting all the while. One of the eavesdroppers in the upstairs rooms fell, amidst a shower of splinters, through the ceiling, and Halvar, who had at some point recovered from his fainting, fainted again. Awen, meanwhile, took the opportunity to salvage as many undrunk tankards as possible, pouring their contents back into her pitcher to be sold again. If a person had possessed the power of discerning individual voices from the cacophony, they would have heard a myriad of opinions. Some souls, whether brave, desperate or stupid, were in favor of bringing steel to the fiend and putting the Duskmeadow's troubles to rest once and for all; most, of course, were in divorce of this idea and instead were themselves split on whether to pay the coming ransom or take their chances on the road or countryside. Old Dimble wondered if they shouldn't all split off in different directions like cockroaches before a flame, for surely the dragon couldn't catch everybody that way.
Amidst the clamor, a helmeted figure rose from the boisterous crowd. They were the shortest among those adults gathered and so went unnoticed by most as they pushed through the crowd and slipped up the stairs. A pair of shrewd, blue eyes watched them go.
2
In the upstairs corridor, the armored figure entered through a door at the end and shut it behind them. The room was sparsely furnished: a spindly chair, a wobbly table, a thin bed draped with a thinner blanket. Opposite the door was a little window dappled with the remnants of the morning's rain, through which streaked oblique sunbeams of an early afternoon sun. There was no fireplace.
Off came the helmet, and the knight—for that is most certainly what she was—rested her head against the door. Though a knight, she looked a poor excuse for one, with her sword full of notches and her mismatched, ill-fitting armor rusted at the edges. Yet if there was anything to be admired about the knight upon even the briefest of glances, it was her hair: a mahogany braid, thoroughly brushed and neatly plaited, if a bit flattened by her helm. It was the sort of hair that wouldn't have been out of place at the royal court, though it clashed with the sorry state of her gear.
With a groan, she tangled anxious fingers into her handsome locks. "Why are we here, again?"
Appearing from beneath the knight's rusting breastplate came a streak of color and the low buzz of rapidly beating wings. It was a faerie, and the faerie spoke. " 'Let's go slay the dragon, Twylyth,' she said. 'We'll be heroes,' she said."
Twylyth the faerie was a lithe individual, four inches tall, with wide eyes and delicate, angular features framed by locks of shoulder-length pink hair, which was affixed by a white ribbon into a messy half bun. Their two wings, like those of a dragonfly, shifted through the spectrum of color but beat as swiftly as a hummingbird's. They wore fine clothes tailored especially for them, and hanging from their belt was a drawstring sack just as miniature.
They hovered in the air with their hands on their hips, an amused glint in their eyes. "Not feeling so confident now, eh, Gwen?" Their voice was high but soft and not squeaky, and it held a promise of mischief.
The knight glared halfheartedly. "No, actually, I'm not. But we can't leave now. Wouldn't be very knightly of me, would it?"
"And getting eaten by a dragon is?" Twylyth laughed. "Actually, that's kind of on-brand for a knight."
The tumult of the raging crowd in the common room below grew louder, slipping through the gaps of the floorboards, and Gwen and Twylyth winced at the noise. Then someone shouted for silence, and the racket died.
"You know," said Twylyth with a certain amount of feigned nonchalance, "I'm sure Afallach's Merchant Guard are already on their way, and they're much better equipped to handle a dragon than we are, so... do we really need to get involved here?"
Gwen gave them a look. "C'mon, Twyl, don't be like that. This is what being a knight is all about. Remind me—who was it that's been encouraging me to follow my dream since I was seven?"
Twylyth tittered and fidgeted with their hair. "Yeah, but I wasn't exactly thinking of dragons this whole time."
Gwen rolled her eyes. "So you'd rather me spend the rest of my life keeping dire badgers away from Mister Rhys' potatoes? Hardly a glamorous life, Twylyth."
"But a safe one! And, yo, potatoes need protecting, too! The world would be a darker place without chips!"
Gwen pinned her best friend with a shrewd look.
Twylyth groaned, but because they were so small and their voice so high, it sounded more like a whine. "Fine. But your ambition is going to be the death of you!"
"And what about you?"
Twylyth waved a hand. "Oh, please. Ain't no dragon alive that can catch a faerie!"
3
The gathering ended some time later, though a consensus had not been made, and the villagers had dispersed to their houses and hovels. From the meager comfort of the bed, Gwen, relieved of her armor, had nursed a beer and listened to the villagers through the drafty floorboards. While the visiting scholar had been adamant the townsfolk should give up their valuables in order to keep their lives—their "real treasures," he had said—most of the others had been less pragmatic, continuing to vote in favor of battle or fleeing to Afallach.
As for Gwen, she was of a mind to do battle herself. If she slew the dragon, she would set herself apart from all the other independent knights of Whystaria and win herself a true knighthood.
For Gwen was no official knight sworn to Whystaria's knightly order. Indeed, anyone that fancied it could buy a sword, don some armor and go a-questing; and these self-styled knights went by many names: independent knights, wandering knights, rogue knights, vagrant or vagabond knights, wanderblades, the unsworn—the list was long. While these independent knights were scorned by some, they were largely accepted as a part of Whystarian culture. As they were not true knights of the order, however, they were rarely well trained and so typically came with a what-you-see-is-what-you-get guarantee, though they were usually cheaper to hire therefore.
There were any number of reasons why a person might wish to become an independent knight. Some were assuredly in it for the thrill, others saw it as a hobby, and a few no doubt liked the pageantry of it all. But many, like Gwen, wished to become true knights; for them, this was but a stepping stone to greater purpose.
The problem was that it was very hard to graduate from an unsworn knight to a sworn one. The order usually only took on new members that were trained as squires by the order itself, unless an outsider showed great skill or ability by way of some heroic feat. And it was very hard to be heroic in Whystaria; there were not a lot of heroics to be had nowadays.
And this was why Gwen was at the ass end of the queendom, awaiting a dragon attack and not guarding Mister Rhys' potato fields from dire badgers. This was the first dragon to be seen in Whystaria in—what had Twylyth said?—forty years? Fifty? Monsters were rare, quests few and far between, and the order's chapterhouses usually dispatched their prestigious knights to escort merchant caravans or deliver a granny's knitted mittens to her grandchildren two towns over—hardly valorous work. Indeed, Whystaria was a different place now, in the Lo Arcana, than it had been in Sir Gwilym's time.
Sir Gwilym, the greatest questing knight Whystaria had ever known—Gwen smiled vacantly at the thought of him. No one had been more influential to her than he. Adventure, excitement, heroics—all these and more Gwen desired, but her greatest aspiration went beyond them all.
"Legacy?" Twylyth had said to her, years ago, when she'd revealed her dream, and Gwen could remember exactly the way Twylyth's little face had scrunched in confusion. "Why not fame, money or glory? Or even adventure for adventure's sake? Plenty of folks like to travel."
"Because," Gwen had replied, "I don't just want to be a knight; I want to be the next Sir Gwilym! I want to be an inspiration, like he is to me. A hundred years from now—two hundred!—I want children to hear stories of me and say, 'I want to be like Sir Gwen!' "
Twylyth had smiled. "And I'll be the one to tell your stories, Gwen."
A knock at the door startled Gwen from her reverie.
She cast about for Twylyth and spotted them on the table, spread eagle and snoring. "Twylyth!" she hissed, leaping from the bed.
"Mmm. Five more minutes, Dad," mumbled Twylyth.
The knock came again.
Gwen shook Twylyth awake with a finger. "Someone's at the door. You've got to hide."
Rubbing their eyes and grumbling, Twylyth lazily took flight and hid under the collar of Gwen's shirt.
Adjusting her clothes—a ratty orange tunic, and linen hose—and tossing her braid over her shoulder, Gwen answered the door.
"Good evening," said the old scholar from downstairs, smiling with his eyes as well as his mouth. "Apologies for the late hour, sir knight. May I have a moment of your time?..."
Gwen blinked, her curiosity stirring. "You already have. But you may have another." She stepped aside in invitation. "Please, come in."
He entered. "Thank you kindly. I pray I'm not intruding?"
"Whatever would you be intruding upon, Master... Gareth?"
"Galath, dear sir, simply Galath. I thought I heard voices."
Beneath her shirt, Twylyth stirred.
Gwen cleared her throat. "I was reading."
If Galath saw through her fib, he accepted it with grace. He inclined his head. "Then accept my apologies for the interruption, but I have come to beg your assistance."
A job? wondered Gwen. Here? Now?
She led him to the rickety table and offered him a watered-down beer, which he declined, so she poured herself one. They sat. She introduced herself.
"What can I help you with, Master Galath? It's quite late in the day to be doing business."
Galath sighed with such weariness that Gwen was struck by the age of the man; he must have been at least eighty years old. "With the dragon about, I fear now may be the only time for it. And it's because of the dragon that I have come."
Gwen set her beer down, her blood buzzing with excitement. "You want to hire me to kill it."
Galath chuckled. "Heavens, no! I have no wish to pay you to die, Sir Gwen! No. Rather, I would like your aid in defeating it another way."
Gwen frowned, too intrigued for disappointment. "Go on."
Galath smiled enigmatically. "I know you arrived in Dolaurys just today. I have been here a week, myself. University business. I'm from the antiquities department, you know." He tapped the badge on his robe. "Tell me, Sir Gwen, what do you know of Dinas Myr?"
Gwen shook her head. "Myr was some Hi-Arcanan wizard. Lived around the Duskmeadow somewhere." All children in Whystaria had at least heard the name; Myr was the namesake of Myrsday, the fourth day of the week. Dinas was an unfamiliar word to her, though.
The scholar nodded. "Quite right. But Myr wasn't simply a wizard of the Hi Arcana—he was a wizard among wizards, an archwizard. A contemporary of Sir Gwilym—"
If Galath hadn't had Gwen's attention before, he had it now. She sat just a bit straighter.
"—and he didn't just live around the Duskmeadow. He lived here."
"In Dolaurys?" scoffed Gwen. "Powerful wizard of the Hi Arcana, here?"
The old man smiled. "Well, it wasn't Dolaurys at the time; the village would come later. No, at the time, it was merely a lonely hillock upon which Myr built his tower: Dinas Myr."
Dinas Myr. Myr's Tower.
"Okay," said Gwen slowly, trying to anticipate the direction of the conversation.
"The tower was a masterpiece of arcane architecture, a testament to Myr's power, designed with all the amenities he required: a library for research, a laboratory for alchemical experimentation... and a vault in which to store his treasures."
Gwen felt Twylyth twitch restlessly at the mention of treasure.
Galath went on, a hint of passion bolstering the historian's tone. "Myr's life force, it was said, was tied to his tower, and that upon his death his tower fell to ruin also. The tower is, indeed, destroyed. That is plain to see to any who climbs the hillock at the north side of the village; there, amidst the overgrown plants and tangled vines, lay the remnants of Myr's magnificent tower. When the House of Marigold founded Dolaurys, they built their manor on the broken bones."
"How did he die?"
Galath smiled knowingly, much in the way a parent might when their child asks a question in the middle of an exciting story. "Some say he got lost in the Gloomwood on a quest for rare mushrooms, or that he offended a dragon he'd been hosting and it ate him. Others claim that he was locked up by the queen of the time—Queen Modron, as a matter of fact—and died in prison."
Gwen raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement. "Fabulous archwizard couldn't magic himself out of prison?"
He raised his hands, palms up. "It is called a legend for a reason, sir knight. There is much about the Hi Arcana that even the most studious scholars have not yet pried from greedy time's clutches... Perhaps I will have that cup o' beer, after all. Nothing dries the mouth quite like a good chat."
Gwen drained the last of her beer and slid the mug across the table. "Apologies," she said as she poured from the pitcher the barkeep had sent up, "only have the one cup. Good thing the pox has moved on, eh?" She chuckled humorlessly.
"Not a worry, not a worry," said Galath with a genuine laugh. "This old man has a hearty constitution anyhow."
Gwen refrained from retorting that plenty of heartier people had fallen prey to the pox.
"Dragon?"
Galath started, eyes frantic. "Eh? Where?"
"No, I— Sorry. You were telling me how Myr's tower is relevant to the dragon?"
He frowned. "I was?" Then his eyes cleared. "Ah, yes!" He took another draft of beer and smacked his lips. "As I said, Myr, like many other wizards of his day, built himself a repository for his wizardly trinkets and toys. And while the tower has since fallen, it is widely believed—well, highly speculated—that the repository remains, buried deep within the belly of the hill upon which the tower once stood!" Galath leaned forward, his gaze piercing into Gwen's. "Sir Gwen, I firmly believe that the answer to our dragon problem lies within the hidden vault of Dinas Myr, and I want your help in locating it!"
The thrill of adventure settled in Gwen's bones. A dragon, ancient wizards, secret treasure—these were exactly the sorts of ingredients that made for the perfect quest. Her maiden quest. She smiled without meaning to.
"Quite a difficult thing to believe, I admit," said Galath hurriedly, mistaking her eagerness for incredulity. "Many have searched for the vault and failed, alas, but Myr's knowledge and powers were unmatched during his time, and there may yet be something of use if we could but find a way—"
"Galath, Galath!" said Gwen, still with a smile and now a laugh. "I'll help you!"
"Oh. Truly? Oh! Thank you, Sir Gwen, thank you! Though, I confess, I have naught with which to pay you..."
Gwen shook her head. "The quest itself is payment enough. Only, if we're going to be working together, you should know," she said, her smile slipping, "I'm an independent knight. I'm unsworn. So you needn't call me 'sir,' strictly speaking."
Galath picked up her smile. "Pardon me for so saying so, sir knight, but I could tell by the state of your arms and armor—they look a bit drab to be the effects of a knight of the order. Bought the lot secondhand, I expect?" He winked. "It's all the same to me, Sir Gwen."
Gwen sighed, relieved if a bit pink in the face. She had never been called "sir" unironically so many times in such a short span. And, even more strangely, she felt validated in a way she hadn't known she needed.
"So, what's your plan, Galath? Assuming we locate this theoretical vault, what are you hoping to find inside, exactly? A weapon?"
Galath made a face. "Hopefully not a weapon, no. I'd rather it not come to further violence. Dragons are a rare species in this part of the world, Sir Gwen. Ever since the Calamity..." He coughed, as if catching himself on the eve of another speech. "Of course, I'm not saying I'd stand by and let a village's worth of innocent lives be burned away just like that, but—"
"I understand what you're saying, Galath," said Gwen. "But if we aren't to slay the dragon, how can we stop it from future attacks? Even if we manage to, to, I don't know, frighten it off, there are other villages in the Duskmeadow it could target. If it turned its sights on Afallach..." Gwen trailed off pointedly.
Galath raised a placating hand. "I realize all that, thank you. If it comes down to it, I'll leave the decision in your hands. If a weapon is to be found, it won't be me who wields it, anyhow." He drank his beer. "In any case, that's only one option. Assuming the vault exists, there are two other possibilities I would prefer."
"Oh?"
"Just so. Instead of a weapon, there may be something else inside, something even more valuable than gold, though I doubt this village has seen much gold in its life."
Gwen raised an eyebrow. "What could be more valuable than gold? Platinum?"
"Platinum, perhaps. But I wonder about something even more valuable, a rare and beautiful treasure, something that even a king would covet—"
At this, the greedy faerie could remain hidden no longer; Twylyth burst from Gwen's collar with a shriek of glee. "Yippee! I'm sold! Gwen, if you don't go looking for this treasure, I will!" They twirled in the air, a dreamy look on their face, mumbling to themself a list of all they would buy with the fortune.
"Twylyth!" hissed Gwen, trying to swipe Twylyth out the air, but they were too fast.
"Oho!" said Galath. "So I did hear another person in here! Hello there, faerie, and what is your name?"
Twylyth alighted on the table, equidistant between them. They bowed. "I, your esteemed wrinkliness, am Twylyth!"
Gwen was sputtering. "Tw-Twylyth! Apologi—!"
But Galath was chortling. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, erm, Master Twylyth?"
Twylyth beamed. "Master is fine. I'll take master. Mistress would sound kinky!"
"Indeed it would! I haven't had a mistress for quite a few years!"
Gwen blushed but, again, Galath was amused. He and they traded another couple witty remarks apiece while Gwen watched, mortified.
"You're not afraid of them?" she asked, finding her voice.
Galath laughed. "Of young Master Twylyth here? Poppycock! I'm not one of those superstition-peddling villagers, treating faeries like demons to be warded off with signs and sigils and muttered prayers. And you needn't worry that I might tell them, either; I give you my word that I will not."
Gwen released a breath. "Thank you."
"Yeah, thanks, gramps!" said Twylyth.
"Think nothing of it. I've known quite a few faeries in my time. We even have a faerie on staff at the university, did you know? Lovely woman. Even better professor. Quite handy with a harp—"
"'Scuse me, Professor Wise Guy," said Twylyth, "but you mentioned a treasure before? Me, myself and I want to know more!" They flopped onto their belly, put their hands under their chin, and kicked their feet into the air, ankles crossed, eager as a gossiping teenager. "How much would you say it's worth, exactly? Specifically, please."
If Galath was at all bewildered by Twylyth's antics, he did not show it. "I'm afraid I haven't a clue if such a treasure truly exists in Dinas Myr."
"Boo!"
"It is only a hope, dear Twylyth, a guess, predicated upon the knowledge that Myr was quite the proliferative enchanter and a collector of all things magical."
"And what would you do with such a treasure?" asked Gwen. "If such a thing existed."
Galath shrugged, but it was the kind of proper, educated shrug only an esteemed scholar from the Antiquities Department might be capable of. "Bribe the dragon? Pay the village's ransom?"
"So a weapon," said Gwen, "or a bribe. You said you had a third idea?"
Galath's lined face looked the oldest and weariest so far as he said, "If nothing else, we can use the vault to harbor the villagers, hide them away until the dragon has come and gone. They might lose their homes, but at least they'll be safe."
A somber moment passed before Gwen dared to say what they were all thinking: "If the vault exists at all."
Galath sighed. "If the vault exists at all."
Author's Note
If you read this far, thank you! There's loads more to come. Before we continue, I wanted to include some important information.
First, I'd like to be transparent with this story's rating. I've marked it as mature because of language and sexuality; however, this story will have no explicit scenes of sexuality. Without going into spoilers, gender and sexuality are themes explored by one of the characters but, again, not graphically. I've striven to keep this novel inclusive, LGBTQ+ friendly, and respectful to the characters and to you, readers.
Second, my update schedule. I'm aiming to update this story biweekly; that is, one update every two weeks, or twice a month. Because my chapters tend to average around 8,000 words, some of my longer chapters (10k+ words) will but cut in half and published independently. For example, you may have noticed this chapter was titled "Chapter One (Part 1)."
Third, I'd really appreciate it if you could support this project by commenting, voting and/or sharing it with others! I'm really passionate about this project, and I'm excited to share it with you! Even if this story isn't for you, that's alright, but please consider giving it a star before you leave to help this story find its way to other readers.
And finally—for those of you sticking around, have fun and enjoy the ride. :)