A Fistful of Dragons

Part 2: My Mistake

Gobber Belch, blacksmith, gunsmith and hotelier of Berk stared at the stranger carefully. The man was tall and lean, his lanky frame carried with poise and an unconscious grace and he was clearly furious. Beneath a very battered hat, his messy dark auburn hair was dusty from the ride, cut above the collar and his stunning forest green eyes were cold and focussed on the men who had terrified his dragon. A shiver ran down the old blacksmith's spine: he wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that glare. The face was younger than he guessed close to-maybe only twenty-with a little scruffy stubble and a small pale scar on the right side of his chin, just below the lip. And he looked down on his luck, with a patched green shirt, a scruffy sheepskin waistcoat and a pair of battered black jeans over brown, scuffed boots. Even the pistol on his hip was worn, for all that it was polished and slung professionally.

The dragon whimpered again and Gobber walked forward. Expert eyes saw a bad injury to the wing that certainly prevented the poor creature from flying but also affected walking, since Nightmares walked on their wing-joints as well. And the creature was clearly suffering, probably unable to travel on again.

"Ah think we should mebbe get him inter the stable, laddie," he offered softly. "Poor beastie needs somewhere quiet and safe just now..."

The head moved and the stranger-Ryder-gave the faintest hint of a smile, fleeting and then gone. 'Thanks," he mumbled, patting the dragon then trotting across the plaza to retrieve his strewn belongings-scattered in the dirt and lightly scorched. His saddle bags, bedroll and saddle were all gathered silently and then he walked back. "Not your fault, buddy," he murmured and accepted Gobber's help to get the listing dragon into the stable. Once there, Red gratefully collapsed onto the stone floor, his eyes closing in weariness. Gently, Ryder crouched by him and rubbed the hideous face again, gently muttering reassurances. Then he rose and walked into the hostel.

"Wow. I've seen tidier places after a tornado!" Ryder commented, peering at a sticky bar, dirty glasses and overturned tables and chairs. "Is this a saloon or a rubbish dump?"

"Yer can always share wi' the dragon, laddie!" Gobber shot back. Sighing, Ryder righted a table and chair, dumped his belongings on the table and walked to the bar. Gobber watched him find the two least dirty glasses, wipe them on the edge of his poncho and slosh mead into both, downing the shot in one gulp.

"That'll take the scales off a Nadder!" he wheezed.

"That's me finest home brew!" Gobber growled but Ryder sloshed another measure into his glass and necked it like the first.

"And if I go blind, I'll shoot you by the sound of your voice!" he promised. Cracking a smile, Gobber almost floored the lanky man with a huge pat on the shoulder.

"I like ye, laddie," he said and his face grew serious, "so let me do ye a favour. Get outta Berk. This place is doomed and if ye stay here, ye'll end up dead." Ryder scratched his chin and inspected the older man.

"And I thought we were getting on so well," he sighed. "Why are you running me out of town?"

"I ain't," Gobber admitted, "but this place is dangerous."

"Isn't the Sheriff up to the job?"

"He ain't the boss of Berk," Gobber sighed. "Not bin a shadow o' himself these past twenty years since he lost his wife and his son were taken. Before...mebbe he would've struggled more but now, well, he just lets it happen..."

"What happened?"

"Berk is run by two gangs," Gobber explained. "The Outcasts are gun runners-got the the finest selection of dragon and man killing ordnance this side of the Capitol. Their leader is Alvin the Treacherous...but then, you've already met his men..." Ryder stiffened and his eyes fired with anger...but he forced himself to speak calmly.