The Dragonslayer's Maid

By Elias De La Vega

In the land of Kaldega, there is little difference between a hero and a monster. Justice is decided by those victorious in battle, and Claire isn't one of them. After her parents' death, she is rescued by a legendary hero known only as the Dragonslayer. Terrified of living as another victim, she becomes the Dragonslayer's maid in the hopes of one day sharing his formidable strength. Faced with savage betrayal and an abusive home, she must steel herself without giving in to the allure of cruelty and heartlessness. "The Dragonslayer's Maid" is a thrilling story of a girl learning to be a hero from a man who no longer is one. Become enraptured in this thought-provoking adventure brimming with morally ambiguous characters and intense action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667874067

Book preview

BK90072424.jpg

© 2022 Elias De La Vega

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66787-405-0

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66787-406-7

Contents

Chapter 1: The Tavern Owner’s Daughter

Chapter 2: The House of Darkness and Dead Trees

Chapter 3: Unnecessary Loss

Chapter 4: Room for Self-Doubt

Chapter 5: Ulterior Motives

Chapter 6: Birdsong and Broken Bones

Chapter 7: The Saint’s Exchange

Chapter 8: The Lull

Chapter 9: Danovere

Chapter 10: A Willing Fool

Chapter 11: A Puppet Missing Strings

Chapter 12: Shopkeepers

Chapter 13: Ankara

Chapter 14: The Cost of Betrayal

Chapter 15: The Oath of Sacrifice

Chapter 16: The Freedom to Die

Chapter 17: The Saint’s Angel

Chapter 18: The Dragonslayer’s Maid

Chapter 19: The Farm Boy

Epilogue

Chapter 1:

The Tavern Owner’s Daughter

The frigid wind rushed in, chasing away the final vestiges of a sweltering summer. Snow tumbled down with the reliable persistence of a truly malefic winter and the alleys wailed with a deafening severity only present in total absence. Any of these would be dreadful—the astringent cold, the blinding blizzard, the disheartening, wraithlike howl. Altogether, these things formed a pall that fell over the town, settling across its idle, lifeless form.

Among these things, on the corner of a routinely busy crossroad was a tavern with a jettying second story. Light spilled from its wide muntin windows and the smell of spiced stew and fresh bread drifted onto the vacant street. Inside the tavern, a fire roared in the old stone hearth and a long-since retired hammer rested stoically on the dark wood mantle. These were the same hammer and hearth from which the tavern received its name.

Kneeling near the hearth’s smooth edge, the tavern owner stoked the fire with an iron poker. Sparks filled the air as the embers burst. The fire flared, casting an orange glow over his sharp features and turning his typically sandy brown hair to bright orange. Standing comfortably, the tavern owner brushed the back of his hand across his cheek, coloring it dark gray with soot. Shadows darkened his features as he turned away from the roaring hearth. A satisfied grin tugged at the corner of his lips when he found his wife standing across the taproom, speaking languidly with a group of regulars.

Catching her husband’s pitying gaze, her natural smile warmed. Suddenly genuine, her pale face flushed as she tucked errant strands of hair behind her ear. Breaking away from the chatty group with practiced ease, she walked across the taproom toward the bar, sparing glances to summon her husband wordlessly. The tavern owner arrived after his wife, rested a firm hand on the polished counter, stepped close, and wrapped the other around her slender waist.

Matthew and Cecilia weren’t typical tavern owners, middle-aged with potbellies enlarged by a loveless marriage and frothing mugs of ale. The owners of the hammered hearth were anything but ordinary and were neither middle-aged nor loveless. The two had arrived four years ago in a carriage loaded with elegant clothes, spiced wine, unexplored ale, and their elated little girl hanging from the carriage’s back, the would-be tavern owner’s only daughter.

Speaking intimately, they moved away from the bar toward the kitchen. Patrons stifled crude jokes and thick logs crumbled in the ever-hungry hearth. Hugging her legs and resting her chin on one knee, the tavern owner’s daughter leaned against the frosted windowpane. Melting frost nipped at her skin as the cold liquid seeped through her honey-blond hair while waves of indirect heat rolled gently over her exposed toes.

Claire!

The tavern owner’s daughter jolted in her chair. Pulled from her reverie, Claire searched the room and quickly found the disturbance source. Mark stared at her from the middle of the room with his mug raised to indicate its emptiness. Lowering her feet to the softwood floor, she climbed down from the chair and made her way across the tavern. As she approached, Mark smiled expectantly. Thanks, little lady. I don’t know where that dad of yours went. Mind topping a guy off? he asked, raising his mug and a questioning brow. A wicked grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Claire nodded. Not taking the offered mug, she stepped away quickly and moved toward the bar. Grabbing a fresh cup from under the counter, she placed the pint beneath the keg’s tap, pulled the lever, and let the golden ale flow until it poured into the sink below. The excess foam slopped over the side as she scraped a beer comb over the mug’s rim. Finally, she marked an x beside Mark’s name in a ledger and returned to the table.

Excitedly waiting with a thirsty grin, Mark watched her approach with his hands outstretched as if she were handing him his firstborn. He wrapped his work-callused fingers around the mug with physical relief, either uncaring or unaware of the sticky ale coating it. Oh, shit.

He didn’t know. Claire went back to the bar, wet a rag, and quickly returned to the table. Mark snatched the cloth impatiently from her hand and she stepped away, clasping her hands behind her back. I’m sorry, she said, turning her face downward as Mark wiped his hands, then the mug and table. Catching Claire’s agitation, he straightened and turned her way with charming nonchalance.

Don’t worry about it, little lady. A sticky mug is a good thing. Means the owner isn’t cheap. His smile widened as he gestured toward the kitchen and leaned forward conspiratorially. Your mom would never pour me a sticky beer. Claire’s fingers unwound and she returned Mark’s sly smile. One hand covered her mouth as she laughed softly, then she took the empty mug and damp rag back to the sink.

Seeing Claire standing before the glistening wall of bottles, the patrons sat straighter in their seats and called for drinks. Moving instinctively back and forth across the shelves, she found the familiar bottles, poured the drinks, and placed them uniformly across a round serving tray.

The atmosphere livened quickly and conversation spread around Claire. Most discussed politics and the increased monster activity following the rise of the bandit emperor. Claire couldn’t be less interested in bandits, dead kings, or the squabbles of noble houses; she had only one thing on her mind—The dragon slayer. It had been three years since Mayor Wilmot announced the dragon slayer had purchased land only a mile outside of town and would be building his permanent home there soon. Everyone in town was excited; the girls whispered about the dragon slayer with bright eyes and rosy cheeks. The shop owners and members of the workmen’s guild talked about the money he’d bring in. The tavern’s patrons competed to see who could tell the best stories.

During the months that followed, Claire had listened to a thousand stories about the dragon slayer and had discerned what he looked like. According to the stories, he had hair whiter than fresh snow and eyes that burned as if the sun were trapped within his mind and could escape only through his piercing gaze. The patrons told her many other stories, but she wasn’t naive enough to believe them. Someone had even tried to convince her the dragon slayer’s skin was mummified from bathing in dragon blood for a thousand years with no food or water.

After the announcement, caravans began rolling into town with tools, strange metals, crates of glass balls, and, most surprising, a small army of Kuur warriors and Lanesh artisans. It wasn’t strange to see the occasional Kuur or Laneshian, but to see them together was unheard of; this alone had sparked a thousand rumors and a lot of questions about what kind of man could bring the Kuur and Lanesh together and how much he paid them. It was incomprehensible.

The dark-skinned Kuur warriors rode into town on black steeds, wearing hooded shirts of heavy leather that stretched past their knees. Thick iron swords swung on their hips. Lanesh craftsmen wore silk shirts and overcoats with collars rather than hoods and thick fabric instead of rough leather. But if you looked past the Lanesh finery, their features would be indistinguishable from their Kuur neighbors. Despite the craftsmen’s finery, they had their own coarse aesthetic to accompany their hardened work ethic and burly beards.

Together the Kuur and Laneshians had erected the dragon slayer’s manor in only one month. The workers and guards stayed on the property, brought food, camped on the land, and dug a well practically before anyone could ask if they needed anything. The caravan left just as fast as it had arrived. Months passed without word and slowly people began to wonder if the dragon slayer was still coming. Two years passed and they stopped wondering. He wasn’t.

While Claire was dancing between tables and twirling around suddenly rowdy patrons with the heavy tray balanced on her delicate wrist and her light brown dress flowing around her knees, Master Timon beckoned her to his small corner booth. The gesture looked as though he was stroking his long gray beard in deep philosophical contemplation.

Claire half skipped over to the old man, knowing it would remind him of his beloved granddaughter. Claire was about her age, and they looked impeccably similar when her honey-blond hair turned to auburn in the shifting firelight. She arrived before Timon could even lower his shaking hand, bent at the knees, and cupped his hands gently in her own.

How are you, Master Timon? she asked the retired guild leader. Tension seeped from his hand in response to the familiar face and gentle voice. Timon shifted to face her, his chest beginning to stutter as he pulled up the necessary words, his cracked lips moving slowly behind his beard.

I don’t want to bother you, dear, Timon spoke slowly, each word hard to balance in his slipping mind. Claire waited for him to continue, keeping patient eye contact. William gave me soup, he said without elaborating. She traced his shallow eyes to the empty bowl on the table, understanding. Tightening her grip around Timon’s shaky hand, she smiled her warmest smile.

I’ll see if there is any more, she said and pressed Timon’s palm flat against his leg with both hands. Claire took the bowl from the table and left. The kitchen door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges as she passed through. The smell of stew lingered heavily in the air, emanating from a deep pot that sat half full on the stained wood counter beside the stove. After peeking into the pot to confirm there was indeed stew, she headed for the back door.

The cold wind met her at the entrance and she immediately regretted the decision to leave her coat comfortably lounging in the warm tavern. A pair of footprints led from the kitchen to the staircase behind the building, evidence of her parents’ daring escape from public view. Claire hoisted the canvas tarp off the pile of firewood by the door. Snow tumbled off the tarp as she held it above her head and piled three logs onto her dainty arm. Retracing her steps, she marched to the kitchen and closed the door behind her while stomping snow from her stark red feet.

Shaking the snow from her hair and shoulders, Claire tossed the firewood into the empty side of a large wooden box with a divider in the center. It separated the dry logs from the wet and cold ones. She rubbed her hands together and warmed her stiff fingers with her breath before picking up the defrosted firewood waiting in the box’s opposite side. With an armful of firewood and her feet slopping against the stone floor, she made her way to the stove.

Kneeling in front of the stove, Claire settled the small logs beside her on the floor. Hot coals still burned in the stove’s belly and, with only the slightest coaxing, the fire reignited, ready to swallow the unsuspecting tinder. The tinder began to catch and she placed the firewood into the stove slowly, trying not to overwhelm her shy fire, and closed the small iron door.

After several minutes of warming by the stove and stirring the leftover stew, she arranged three bowls along the counter with spoons beside each. The stew simmered and popped, filling the air with the smell of potatoes, carrots, and assorted spices. Claire held a bowl up to the pot’s side as she scooped out the stew, blew on the top, scattering steam, and poured in a quarter cup of cold water before bringing it to Timon.

Timon waited patiently in his booth, his hollow eyes still set on the spot where his bowl had been as if he hadn’t noticed it was missing. Claire set the bowl on the table gently, careful not to startle the tired old man. Tim, she said softly while lightly squeezing his shoulder, your soup is ready, Master Timon. Coming methodically back to life, Timon took one shallow half-breath as his shoulders pulled back almost imperceptibly under his frayed old jacket. Some of the fog left his eyes and his cracked lips worked the shaky words in his mind.

Thank you, he said simply and began to eat.

Claire left, knowing pity would benefit no one. Two other customers requested soup as well, so she returned to the kitchen, filled the remaining bowls, and brought them out, still steaming. After marking the appropriate names in the ledger, she began going over the numbers, making a point to round up the exact amount each patron owed on their tab and placed a date for her father to collect. When Claire began serving, her father had quickly implemented tabs, knowing people would try to take advantage of her quiet nature. No matter who they were or how poor, everyone paid, and if anyone so much as raised an eyebrow at one of Matthew’s girls, they’d regret it.

Time passed briskly as the satisfied patrons played card games, sipped ales they didn’t want to pay to replace, and told stories, some of which might have even been true. Claire sat behind the bar rereading The Fundamental Doctrine of Sacrifice, quite possibly her favorite book, despite it being disliked by everyone who wasn’t her. The Fundamental Doctrine detailed what people knew about the Saint of Sacrifice and the philosophy that drove him. Admittedly, it wasn’t the most exhilarating read. After all, it was a religious text likely written by a shut-in who’d seen the sun only on special occasions. But, despite its somewhat dull writing, Claire loved it.

Drifting through the sea of words with excessive familiarity, Claire pondered how she might act in the Saint’s situation.

Good book? Mark asked from the other side of the bar.

Yes, it is, Claire responded stiffly, finishing her sentence before placing the bookmark sideways just below the section she’d finished.

Do you want to join us for a hand? Mark asked, holding up some cards and smiling his charming smile.

Not really, Claire answered shortly as her thumb brushed back and forth across the bookmark. Mark’s smile wavered as he noticed the impatient gesture.

Come on, my friend wants to meet you and I bet you’d be good at it, Mark pressed.

"I would really like to focus on my book," Claire said, stressing her point.

Not taking no for an answer, Mark leaned on the bar. You don’t even have to play; just come sit with us. You can even read if you want. Seeing the argument wasn’t going anywhere, Claire relented.

Sliding the bookmark upright, she climbed down from the stool and came around the bar with the book. As expected, not much reading got done. After greeting Mark’s latest fling, Natalia, Claire took a seat and made it through only two sentences before being interrupted with questions, nonsense about the weather, no less. One hour and as many pages later, she resigned herself to her fate.

Mark tells me the owner is your dad? Natalia asked with more excitement than was reasonable.

Yes, he is, Claire responded with imitated enthusiasm.

That must be so exciting. I heard you all came from the capital? Natalia asked, not noticing Claire’s mocking tone.

No, Claire answered stiffly, shaking her head. We lived at the edge of the Estes Plateau, near the border of Cydrill. Mark and Natalia shared a confused look. Near the Highlands, to the southwest.

Natalia looked uncertainly at Mark, who shrugged obliviously.

What are the Highlands? Mountains? Mark inquired.

Realizing why people spend so much time telling tall tales, Claire set her book down on the table. The Estes Plateau is a desert with lots of hills with flat tops called plateaus. She watched them take in the new information. Mark nodded intensely as if understanding entirely, then took a deep breath.

More beer? Mark waggled his eyebrows, his gaze darting from Claire to Natalia and back. Natalia declined avidly. It’s all up to you, then, little lady, he said, continuing with his eyebrow questioning. Claire refused. Mark insisted, then begged, then pleaded by the Saint.

My mom says I’m not allowed, Claire stated, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as Mark continued his shameless pleading.

That’s because your mom hates joy, he said adamantly. Laughing at the resolve in Mark’s voice, Claire relented a second time. With unfiltered excitement, Mark leapt to his feet, insistent on getting the drinks.

How did your parents meet? Natalia asked while Mark ran to the bar.

I don’t know, Claire shrugged, watching Mark with his dopey grin pretending to be a bartender as he poured the two drinks.

Why did they get married? Natalia continued as Mark clunked the drinks onto the table with gusto.

Claire took the mug in both hands as if it were tea and sipped the foam off before drinking. Setting the mug down gently on the table, she answered, depends on who you ask. Mom said it was because she got pregnant and Dad said it was because they were drunk.

Mark roared with drunken laughter and nearly fell out of his chair. Natalia stifled a laugh and smacked Mark’s arm playfully, not quite able to keep the amusement from her face. Claire heard footsteps on her right and looked up at the staircase. Her mother’s fiery eyes focused intensely on the mug of beer on the table. Matthew murmured something in her ear that seemed to scatter the flames rising within her as he swept by calmly.

Claire’s chest tightened as her mother and father separated at the base of the stairs. Cecilia headed to the bar, taking the time to give her daughter a look that would have been a curse if it were a word. Claire’s father approached the table at a leisurely pace that told her he was contemplating his words carefully. When he reached the table, he stopped, his cutthroat expression silencing the room.

Markus, did you give my daughter beer? he asked rhetorically.

Claire opened her mouth to speak, but her father’s eyes turned down on her like falling stones, halting her excuses. Mark’s alcohol-addled mind was slow to act. He looked around the room as if to find help. But, although all eyes were on him, he couldn’t catch a single one. Mark stammered a bit, then gestured toward the half-full mug in front of Claire.

Panic tightened his throat. She said it was okay.

And that meant it was to you? Matthew asked with increasing severity. Mark turned to Natalia and Claire for his defense. But Claire had rediscovered how attractive the table was. Natalia was learning to make a curtain out of her hair and couldn’t decide whether to add braids. Seeing he’d become isolated with Matthew; Mark went on the offensive.

If you had been tending the bar, this wouldn’t have happened! he yelled frantically, slamming his hands on the table, and rose from his chair. Claire looked up from the table, not knowing what might happen. No one had ever yelled at her father. Matthew looked at Mark for a long moment, then reluctantly took a deep breath, looked at his daughter, and struck the boy. Mark spun and crashed into Natalia, sending them both to the softwood floor, which now didn’t seem very soft. Mark tried to scramble away without taking his eyes off Matthew, kicked Natalia recklessly, and slammed into chairs, scattering the furniture.

I shouldn’t have to tell you you’re not welcome here anymore, Matthew said as he removed a rag from his apron and wiped the blood from his knuckles. Mark nodded while blood poured from his nose and dripped from a cut across his cheek. Then go, Matthew commanded, waving toward the door.

Natalia helped Mark up and his legs shook with each step as he fled. Then, sighing deeply, Claire’s father ran his hands through his short, unkempt hair. He was so full of sighs recently. Not that it was a wonder why.

I’m putting an extra ten kuics on each of your tabs; I expect better of you louts, Matthew said, smiling. The patrons raised their mugs in confirmation, grinned, nodded solemnly, or apologized.

Claire shrank in her chair as conversations resumed. Her father picked the chairs back up and took a seat. You going to finish that? Claire’s eyes shot up to meet her father’s questioning gaze. No? Oh, thank you. I need a beer; my fool daughter’s been drinking, and I’m terribly upset. He shook his head, smiling coldly.

I’m sorry, Father, Claire whispered. Matthew drank the beer quietly with his eyes closed. A few moments passed uncomfortably, and her fingers fidgeted beneath the table. I won’t do it again, she added a little louder. Matthew chuckled softly and set the mug down.

Of course you will, he smiled. You are young still and will do lots of things you shouldn’t. Matthew set his feet on the table. And when you do, I’ll be here to embarrass you, he finished as he pulled his socks off. Now go wash the dishes, floors, tables, and bar, and dust the bottles. Tomorrow, you can clean the windows and wash the laundry. Matthew’s tone confirmed he was punishing her.

Claire had expected worse. Yes, Father. She trudged toward the kitchen. After finishing the dishes, she cleaned the pantry, knowing her father had forgotten to list it. Hours of cleaning later, she began to wonder which was worse—the rag or the fist—but she didn’t want to find out. The night wrapped up and the patrons began to shuffle out, wishing her luck as they did. It would have been worse if her father