A Tale Told by Hussst

From the hillside, sitting on our horses, we looked over the fields with disappointment. The fields, once lush with green and amber, showing the richness of the harvests to come, were now brown and barren. A quick ride to the tribute site showed that they villagers had still filled the wagons, as they did every year at harvest time, but the fruits looked withered and dry, and the grain wasn’t plump and full, as it should have been, but rather dusty and broken.

We rode to the tribute site. A crowd was there, smaller than usual, but still enough to show respect. In the front stood the village elders, their heads bowed and their arms folded in front of them to show that they were unarmed and ready to let us take the annual tribute. This, at least, was normal.

Frankly, the withered fruit and broken grain was starting to be normal, too. This was the third year where the tribute looked sickly. And not just for this village, each of the 12 villages in our thrall was the same. And it was getting worse every year. The winters were now so cold that the villagers had to burn coal in smudge pots to keep the crops from freezing and dying, and the dirt on their faces reflected this. But, I knew that coal for the pots was also getting hard to come by.

Then our chieftain, Baba, spoke, “The tribute is weak and inadequate.” The villagers looked horrified and scared, “But, it is clear you have tried, and so, for this year and this year ONLY, we will take only half of the tribute.”

The villagers, to a man, gasped in disbelief, and fell quickly to their knees to show their appreciation, fearful of what was coming next.

My fellow bandits remained stern and quiet. We were all shocked, but we were disciplined, and we would never challenge Baba in public, not a single one of us displayed concern. Every one of us wanted to know what he was thinking, but every one of us also knew that he was thinking and we trusted him.

No, what followed was shocking, but the shock did not come from us. The shock did not come from the villagers. It came from the other side of the village, and took the form of thick black smoke. The village was being set ablaze.

Then, we heard the anguished screams of villagers, the ones who were not in front of us. Baba’s fingers jabbed forward and to a man, our troupe charged forward. We were bandits, raiders, used to token opposition which might require a show of force to remind the peasants that we were not to be trifled with. But, what we saw wasn’t a token opposition, it was a raid by a different gang.

Bandits do not raid other bandits villages. It simply isn’t done, there is an immutable code of honor between the gangs. That’s how we keep the villagers from playing us against one another. And this village was well known far and wide to be under our control. But, there they were, torches and weapons out, causing chaos and destruction.

There were three times as many of them as there were of us. But, we were disciplined and Baba kept us trained to handle any opposition we might face. We drew our arrows and fired a first volley. Several of the newcomers fell immediately.

Five of the survivors, however, charged me, swords drawn. They were too close for my brothers‑in‑arms to shoot for fear of hitting me. Five against one were virtually overwhelming odds. But, the odds were actually in my favor, not theirs.

They had looked at my green scaled armor and my odd helm and thought I was just a lone fighter. They did not realize that the scales aren’t armor, they are my skin. For I am a dragon-born, half human, half dragon. When the charge got close enough, I let loose a blast of dragon breath.

A fifteen foot cone of thunder burst forth; the air so agitated that light rippled in the space. The blast hit the oncoming enemies with devastating force, killing all of the riders and sending the badly damaged ponies running in panic.

I could see the battle raging about me. We were good riders and good with swords, but outnumbered. Good enough that we might win the day, and fierce enough to make them regret attacking a village under our control, but the cost would be high.

I took out my bow, ready to nock an arrow when I saw an axe flying at me. It was obvious that the axeman was an expert with the weapon. Instead of flying end-over-end, the way most thrown axes were, this one spun flat, maximizing the area it could damage. The owner had added whistle holes to his ax to install extra intimidating terror to anyone being attacked by, or even hearing the sound of the ax. Instinctively, I tried to parry it with my bow.

The bow snapped like a twig, useless beyond repair. But, that parry managed to alter the spin of the ax just enough that the wrong end hit me. The blow from the handle striking my chest was incredibly painful, but it left a bruise, not a wound.

As I drew a deep breath and reached for the sword in my scabbard, another of the enemy fired an arrow at me. Half-way between us, it lit on fire as only a magical arrow could do. The arrow managed to lodge itself in one of my scales but only deep enough to cause a few drops of blood to flow. I felt the searing heat from the arrow, and together with my bruise from the ax handle, I was in excruciating pain.

I pulled the arrow, still flaming from my chest. But, as I pulled it out, I felt a strange sensation. I stared at the arrow for a second and with a force of will, I could feel myself putting out the fire. I’d never felt this sort of power before. Something within me was changing, fueled by the magical arrow and its fire, but I didn’t quite know what or how.

Another arrow whizzed past my ear, its flame hot and angry, as I began to cough. The first cough was normal enough. The second cough contained smoke. With the third cough, I noticed a small flame emerging from my mouth. Then, I coughed a fourth time. What emerged was no symbolic flame, it was a full firebolt. Inspired, I tired coughing again and directed it at the archer who was shooting at me. With satisfaction, I noted a firebolt hitting the archer full in the chest. Wounded, he turned and fled in panic.

Our enemies, despite their superior numbers had serious wounds and fatalities. My brothers had taken only moderate damage and all were still up, most of them on their ponies, a few unhorsed but still standing. The enemy, now realizing that I was far more formidable with my dragon breath and lightning bolts, decided that it was time to flee.

We let them.

The villagers who saw this were looking at us like we were heroes instead of like we were bandits. It wasn’t something we were used to, and frankly, did not know how to handle.

Well… Baba knew. I could see in his eyes that he was high on adrenaline, pleased with our victory, and upset to have had to have a victory to be pleased with.

He gathered us and we left town with the half of the tribute he had accepted.

“Why?” I asked, “Why did you take only half the tribute?”

“Did you see how emaciated the villagers, even the leaders were?” He asked. “They didn’t have enough to feed themselves. If we took the full tribute, next year, instead of food, we would have seen bodies at the tribute site. That does no one any good.

“That’s why the other band tried to take over our territory. They were not able to get enough tribute from their villages and were trying to add villages to their turf. If something does not change, everyone will starve.”

Then, Baba, went on to reveal the kind of vision that only he was capable of. “The era of the bandits is coming to an end. Our way of life cannot go on. We are starting to turn on each other, because there isn’t enough to eat. We must learn another way.

“And that way, for us must be the way of the warlord, strong and martial, but taking care of our villages. Still taking tribute, but carefully. And, we must protect our villages from others who would ravage them and leave them for dead.

“Today, we took the first steps. By being generous and by saving the village we turned from bandits to protectors. The village ceased to be our victims and instead, came under our protection. When word spreads, other villages will ask to come under our protection, and willingly pay tribute for us to protect them. What we lose in tribute from each village will be made up for in the number of villages that look to us.”

I marveled at his thinking. What he said next both terrified and excited me at the same time.

“I had a vision last night, Érzi,” he said (every time he called me “Érzi,” “son” in draconic even though I knew he was human and I was not, I felt a thrill of connection with him.), “I dreamed that the powers of your ancestors would begin to flow through you, and when they did, it would be time to reveal your purpose.” For a dragonborn magic springs at some point in our lives, but we never know when in our lives it will happen or what form it will take.

“When the magic flaming arrow hit you, it triggered those powers, more will grow from there. Don’t ask me what they will be, but they will emerge.

“The vision told me that this meant that it was time to send you off as the emissary of our gang… no, now we must call it our ‘clan’ to go with our new status… to find the source of the winter that is destroying our lands. I need the rest of the clan, here. But, you are ready to go forth and when your task is done, there will, as always be a place for you with us.” I nodded. Baba’s visions were gifts from… well, from somewhere.

“Don’t try to do it alone. Find allies. And remember, peasants may merely be peasants, but treat your new companions with loyalty and respect. This is a sacred rule among us.”

“So, leave us now, and may Bi’an, bless you. Zhīdào nǐ zài wǒmen xīnzhōng” (know that you are in our hearts!).

That day, I embraced my brothers‑in‑arms, and took my leave. A new adventure started.