The Dragon Games

The Raiders

Usually, when the first day of the qualifying tournament finished, throngs of people poured onto the streets and partied well into sunrise. Then they dragged themselves home – or to the nearest available bench – and got a couple of hours of shut eye before returning to the tournament and doing the whole thing again. This year, people took shortcuts home, too disturbed by recent sightings of the raiders to linger on the streets after dark. The raiders were a group of criminals marked by a ram's skull tattooed across their neck. They were the reason people barricaded their doors and bolted their shutters. Even local business closed up early. The Lucky Bard, known for parties that raged on until early morning, shut their doors by eight.

At half an hour past closing, Regan was the only one left in the tavern, beside the owner and his family: a wife, three brothers, and an ancient mother. She claimed to be waiting for a friend, and while she sat at the bar, sipping lukewarm ale, the youngest brother saddled up next to her. He was a couple of years her senior, eighteen or so, and had a pimply face and breath reeking of fish. His intrests including woodwork, dragons, and removing the top buttons of Regan's dress. Oh, no, not for me, for you. I don't want you to be uncomfortable, in such a hot and stuffy tavern. He also enjoyed discussing her face, which was 'surprisingly pleasing' for someone with so many freckles. Is that a scar below your chin? What's a nice girl like you doing with a scar?

Around ten, the tavern owner's wife began to tire of Regan. But to be fair, the woman didn't look like she had much life to begin with. Her wire thin frame was painful to look at it, and her knuckles were pink and worked to the bone.

"Is your friend close?" the wife said.

Regan's mouth wavered. She couldn't look away from the wife's knuckles. Couldn't stop imaging the woman on her hands and knees, spending all day scrubbing the floor, then all night staring at the ceiling as stomach pains kept her awake.

"Dear?" the wife repeated, looking concerned now. "Your friend?"

"You know what?" Regan said. "I think... I think I made a mistake. I was supposed to meet them somewhere else."

But before she could stand up, the door kicked open, and Ghost walked in. He was a huge man, nearly as tall and wide as the doorway, and despite being on the younger side, he had snow-white hair. Odd, but his most notable feature was his tattoo. His shirt was open all the way to his navel, exposing thick chest hair and the ram's skull tattooed across his neck. At the sight, the wife grabbed the old woman and scrambled to the back of the tavern, hiding behind the beer shelf. The men jumped to their feet, all but the youngest, who remained at Regan's side.

"Not to fear," he whispered, circling his arm over her shoulders. "I'll protect you."

Grimacing, Regan tilted her head back and downed her ale all in one go. Meanwhile, the men demanded Ghost leave. When Ghost ignored their orders, their demands escalated to threats. One of the brothers hurled a chair at Ghost's head. The chair sailed halfway across the room, only to freeze midair, suspended on its axis. The brothers reeled back. Then the chair slammed into the floor, shattering upon impact. The wife clutched her chest, a startled squeak escaping her throat.

Regan's hand was angled at the chair, her eyes consumed by black. She blinked, and her eyes returned to their normal stormy grey. Then she nudged the youngest brother. "You mind?"

The boy's face had frozen in shock. People from the burrow had heard of the Divine, but they rarely, if ever, saw it in person. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the shattered chair pieces. The most he could manage was to lift his arm, letting Regan slide off her seat. She crossed the tavern to stand beside Ghost.

"Are you mad, girl?" the owner said. "He's a raider. It's not safe to –" His voice fell off when he finally noticed her throat. Regan had removed her bonnet, exposing her ram skull tattoo. The owner's eyes darted between Regan and the shattered chair, putting two and two together. His face turned beat red, and his fingers twitched toward the shank hanging from his belt.