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“‘When dragonfire destroyed my village, I was forged a warrior.’ And that, my friend, is how Rashida Scalebane first became a hero,” Fola finished with a flourish.

The young warrior M’bari lifted his chin from where it rested on his knees, and shook his head in wonder. “And you are truly related to Rashida herself?”

“Of course I am!” Fola said hotly. “If you trace my mother’s line back to the fourth generation, we connect with the line of Rashida’s mother–when she still had a line. We are cousins. Only she is fighting dragons, and I am here in Kenlo.”

Together the young woman and the warrior looked at their town. The green they stood on was large, paved with short dead grass, ringed with clustered huts made of btumu wood and thatch. The river slid past the green, its water thick as clay slip. Everywhere they saw activity and heard voices and laughter. Children shouted and tossed toy spears through a willow hoop that rolled ahead of them as they pelted across the grass. Adults had brought their tasks out to the area below the tall trees; and now they wove broad belts, or milled grain to a silky powder, or mixed pigments to paint a mask. The cattle the town was famed for moved slowly around the huts, looking for fresh grass.

“Yes, here you are in Kenlo.” M’bari’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “So, Fola, how will you carry on your cousin’s tradition? Will you too slay terrible creatures?”

“If Kenlo were in danger, of course I would do what I could to protect it,” Fola answered solemnly. “It’s my responsibility as Civic Guildmage, and my duty as a cousin of Rashida Scalebane.”

M’bari laughed. “Perhaps it’s as well that nothing happens here in Kenlo.”

Nodding goodbye to M’bari, Fola walked to the edge of the river, almost unmoving in the early afternoon light. Staring into the sluggish brown waters, she urged herself to embrace patience. Already a woman of over four handcounts in age, Fola had yet to do anything of true importance. Yes, she knew more magic than even her grandmother had at her age. And, yes, she was Kenlo’s Civic Guildmage, a position of responsibility and power. But what had she done with these things? Nothing of note.

There was a shout of laughter from the children, but Fola barely noticed. Sighing in frustration, she kicked a flat stone into the river and watched the concentric circles twist and fade in the slight current.

A shadow sliced across the water and over her head, casting an instantaneous chill across her shoulders. A child screamed, then another. Staring upwards, Fola gasped. The shape overhead was huge–longer than Kenlo itself–a long, snakelike form of blue-black coils. Wings cast a dark blue light where the sun came through their thin membranes. Its mouth was huge, filled with multiple rows of ragged teeth.

Stumbling backwards, Fola’s mouth opened in a silent scream as she tripped over something and fell clumsily to the dirt. A dragon. The creature was a dragon.

Fola scrambled to her knees. Parents grabbed their children and ran for the huts. Cattle bolted, and Fola realized she had never known that cows could scream. M’bari and the other warriors ran toward the creature, steel glittering in their hands. Talons as long as a man’s arm slashed down into the warriors; one, Jaleen Firedrinker, screamed and fell.

And as suddenly as it had appeared, the threat was gone. The dragon vanished–phased out as if it never existed.

There was a breathless moment of silence. Fola jumped to her feet and ran toward the warrior writhing in the dust.

With a crack like thunder, the dragon flashed back into existence. It was so close that Fola could smell its hot scales and its carrion breath. Hopping once on the ground in front of the paralyzed warriors, the creature hissed and lunged sideways, leaping on young Jora, who crouched terrified in the dirt, shielding her infant son with her body.

“No!” Fola screamed as the dragon’s talons snatched up Jora. Fola tried to cast a spell, but dust raised by the dragon’s beating wings blinded and choked her. By the time the dust cleared, the dragon was winging northwards, Jora clutched in its talons. She had managed to drop her baby; it lay in the dirt now, crying in a thin high wail. Jora’s sister scooped the miserable babe into her arms, making hushing noises despite the tears that ran down her face.

Fola stared numbly after the retreating dragon. “I failed,” she whispered. “A dragon came, and I did nothing.” Her idol’s words came to Fola again, but this time instead of pride, all Fola could feel was shame. “When dragonfire destroyed my village, I was forged a warrior.” And I was shown a coward, Fola thought.

No, I will not shame my family. The dragon had tasted food here, and would eventually return. Next time, Fola would be ready. She would have to think of something.

Squaring her shoulders, Fola ran to tend the injured warrior.

[What can Fola do?]
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