Thibalt Shevlon never rode to battle unbathed. His grandfather saw to it that he and his brother washed daily, not in tepid water, but in snow melt, throughout the dead of winter.

Stokes the nerves and banishes fear!

Thibalt wondered, as he stared at the ripples in the eddy of the shallow River Della, whether the old man’s philosophy held true for his elder brother, now dead and buried on a nameless battlefield not ten miles north on the Windswept Plains.

Soon he would join his brother, along with his father, uncles, cousins. His mother would be as bereft a woman as war could create.

Thibalt had been promoted up to the chain of command to the head of his troops only one week ago, not out of worthiness as much as desperation, with claims that the army was so close to victory.

They’d called it a propitious promotion.

Water stung his halves as he waded into the river, eddy pulling the tassels hanging from his girdle into the current.

There would be spoils for surviving officers.

The cold water wasn’t deep, and he sank to his knees to immerse himself to the chest.

He’d yet see his blue-eyed boy grow up.

Thibalt threw his neck back and dunked his wild shock of red hair into the river.

Kiss his wife’s sweet red lips once more…

Then he laid back beneath the water, burying himself beneath the surface like a man baptized.

If not for the dragon…

* * *

Even victory in battle was poor reward when men wanted bread. There had been little for any of them following the grueling, fortnight long standoff—could it be called a win?—on the Windswept Plains.

Marching away from the blood-soaked battlefield, and into a Valle of grape vineyards brought gasps of something like euphoria to the mens’ lips. Thibalt could not have held them back, even if he’d wished to.

It was during of the sacking of the vineyards that his scout returned on horseback, bold as daylight.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Nothing but a village and farming community for many miles. Their leaders met me on the road, waving a white bed sheet on a pole. Vineyards for miles! It’s almost a heaven!”

Could they be so fortunate? “No signs of sabotage?”

“I don’t believe so. There’re nothing but simple farming men and besides—”

“Besides what?”

The scout stiffened. “There’s no need to sabotage.”

“Why wouldn’t there be? These farm folk love to feed enemy armies out of their own stores?”

“I don’t suppose,” the scout cleared his throat. “But you might say they’re used to it.”

“Speak plainly man.”

“A dragon occupies the foothills above the valley. Takes three of their young every season—lawfully, by treaty, plus wine, corn, wheat and cattle besides.”

Thibalts throat tightened. “A dragon?”

“Big as the very hills.”

Thibalt grunted. There was the rub! “These farmers don’t want a fight! They want a liberator!”

“The Renandan King’s not sent a knight campaign to fight it in some ten years. They’ll give whatever we ask if we’ll challenge the dragon.”

His army had suffered heavily on the plains. As it was, it was too small, and half starved. They’d never defeat a dragon!

* * *

The Chalbeam army pitched their tents on the south fork of the Della River, about a mile east of the farming village Wynix. A small delegation from the village assembled in Thibalt’s tent to discuss demands. A farmer with a dirt colored beard whose name was Alvan spoke for the rest of the assembly.

For Thibalt’s part, he’d have turned his army around and marched them back, but the promise of food was not something he could decline lightly. They had nothing left and the men were beyond fatigued.

“We’ve lived in the shadow of the dragon’s tyranny lo these thirty years. During that time, King Olanda has sent eight military campaigns. None have defeated the dragon, nor even come close. In the end, the King signed a kind of treaty, basically conceding everything to the beast!”

“Why do you tolerate this tyranny? Let him have the place!” Thibalt asked.

“These plains are the most productive in the region. We’ve grown rich on the wine and cattle, in spite of the onerous tributes we pay annually.”

“But who could agree to give up your own sons and daughters?”

Alvan shrugged. “We give the family a nice basket of goods. Inscribe their names on a plaque. Sacrifice, you know.”

Thibalt stared at the farmer’s generous mid-section. “Have you lost one of your own?”

“Oh yes. I’m no exception. Everyone pays. It’s the law.”

“I see.” He did not see.

“If a campaign of a thousand men can’t defeat the dragon, I see no reason to expect better from my 700.”

“No, I guess not. But the dragon is nothing if not sporting. You need not sacrifice your whole army. We can settle the challenge with a one on one battle. Have you no spirited warriors? No young stripling who wants to make a name for himself?”

Thibalt cleared his throat. “We’re entering our fourth season of war. Unfortunately, we’re fresh out of ambitious striplings.”

“Cannot you send a message back to your superiors recruiting one whose since come of age? You never know what talent is coming along.”

Thibalt sighed. “I suppose I can try.”

Alvan raised his brow. “We’ve seven days to come up with a tribute—er, I mean warrior. If there’s none, he’ll be on the rampage again. There’ll be a lot of destruction.”

“I see.”

“The only way to appease him is with a fight.”

“Which is effectively the same as an offering,” Thibalt said and the men looked at the floor.