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quickly to a spatter of blood and a few scraps.
    When Garth had eaten his fill he rose, tossed a gold coin on the table, and walked back out into the plaza. The circle of villagers parted before him, then coalesced into a single mass and followed him out—all save the innkeeper. He had not expected to be paid, and took a moment to hide the coin before joining his fellows.
    Half a dozen villagers were watching in fascinated revulsion as Koros licked the blood from its paws. They were maintaining a safe distance, Garth noted; he was pleased by that. It showed that they respected the beast’s power.
    â€œWhose goat was it?” he demanded loudly.
    A woman timidly raised a hand in an affirmative gesture. He tossed her another of his gold coins, which she caught deftly and quickly pocketed.
    A boy at her side whispered something and was hushed. Garth noticed men and women staring at him, at the warbeast, and at the broadsword on his hip and the battle-axe slung on the saddle. He looked around, but the spokesman was nowhere in sight. Choosing a man at random, he remarked, “I take it you see few warriors around here and fewer overmen.”
    The man gaped at him, then gathered enough wit to reply. “Yes, my lord. Very few. The dragon keeps them away. No overmen, ever.”
    â€œI would think that many would come to try their skill at dragon-slaying.”
    His unhappy respondent glanced to either side, but saw no sign that any of his townspeople were willing to take over the burden of the conversation.
    â€œNo, my lord,” he replied, “not anymore. Long ago there were some, but the dragon killed them all, and after a time they stopped coming. There were never overmen, though; only the men of the Baron of Sland, or roving mercenaries and adventurers.”
    â€œThey stopped coming?” Garth said, encouraging him to continue.
    â€œYes, my lord. After all, there is no reward offered, no great prize to be won.”
    â€œNothing but a chance for fame and glory, and the risk of death, more easily found elsewhere, to be sure.” Garth nodded, then swung himself up into the saddle.
    â€œForgive me, my lord,” the man said, gathering his courage, “but why ... ah, why have you come here? Why do you bother with our accursed and wretched valley?”
    â€œYour valley does not seem wretched to me, man. I have come here out of boredom, people of Orgûl; I grew weary of a life of quiet and decided, on a whim, to come here and aid those the dragon oppressed. I have lived for more than a century and adventured in many lands, but never before have those I came to aid tried so hard to turn me away.”
    â€œBut, my lord,” someone protested, “we seek only to prevent the loss of another brave—”
    â€œEnough, human,” Garth interrupted. “Tell me, now, which road is most likely to lead me to this vile monster?”
    Reluctantly, the man pointed to the western road, and with a word in the warbeast’s triangular ear, Garth rode on.

Chapter Three
    The road he took from the plaza appeared to run through the village’s commercial area; the houses on either side held small shops, displaying fine rugs and fabrics in their many-paned windows, or delicate carvings, or gleaming pots and kettles, or other goods. A blacksmith’s forge trailed smoke into the blue of the sky, but the smith was not at work as the overman passed.
    Even though the people he encountered shied away from him, averting their eyes and hurrying out of sight, he enjoyed the ride. This village, it seemed to him, was more the sort of place he might have liked to live in, if he were to live among humans, than the wastelands of the north. Skelleth might be flourishing, but it was still cold and dirty and gray, huddled on a barren plain against the long harsh winters; this village was bright and cheerful, trailing off without a border into the surrounding green of field and forest, rather