The Dreadstone King

I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

The line was from a play or story, said by one of the heroes, and was supposed to be funny. The audience would laugh because they knew something exciting would happen and it would be a grand adventure.

But this was different.

Allira swallowed against the unease as she stood with the horses while four “heroes” headed into the Dreadstone Tombs in search of the Dreastone King’s Relic, all in the hopes to buy themselves a bride and a better life. Allira couldn’t help the roll of her eyes. Nothing good ever came from ‘buying’ someone with stolen treasure.

But men were often seduced by gold and riches of legend and the Heroes of Capstone Creek, the nearest settlement to the Dreadstone Tombs at only 300 leagues, were determined that this year they would find the Relic, and win the hand of the princess.

Or one of them would. There were thirteen of them in all, and surely one of them would make it back alive.

Allira groaned and shifted her weight on her feet. There were better ways to be a hero than to raid an old tomb of some guy’s junk.

And not the good junk, either.

Unfortunately, this year, Capstone Creek decided there needed to be a lucky thirteen heroes for the Festival of the Relic. Thirteen fools to go to the Dreadstone Tombs in search of the magical artifact, but they only had twelve guys ready for the adventure. Allira had the skills, the experience as a fighter and warrior, and ‘nothing better to do’ so she was conscripted as the thirteenth warrior to go along.

Except she didn’t want to go on a fool’s errand to raid some creepy tombs for treasure when no one ever came back from them. It was like a reverse virgin sacrifice to a dragon, except it was arrogant and swaggering men with nothing to lose but their lives.

And lose they did. Every year. Every one of them. Perhaps not always physically, but if they did come back, they were broken, haunted, or lost in a fugue state.

And here I am, with them, which pretty much means I’m not going home to Mima and Nanna, and I won’t be able to help them improve our estate.

She could only hope the promises made in exchange for her conscription would be fulfilled and her grandmothers would have all they needed. Goddess knew Allira’s efforts at being a warrior for hire hadn’t paid nearly as much as she’d hoped, even though she was as good or better than the men.

The problem was the ones doing the hiring were also men, and they seemed to have tunnel-vision when it came to who they thought were capable at fighting and offering protection. Hell, they’d hire a skinny, pimple-faced green boy who’d never picked up a sword before they’d consider her with her years of experience and capability. It was infuriating.

Almost as infuriating as being threatened and conscripted to do this stupid quest for prizes she didn’t even want.

Despite her credentials, she hadn’t been treated as a full warrior by the others. They first tried to treat her as the cook, but she pointed out that they were a team and teams took turns preparing meals. At first, they’d scoffed, but when she said she could easily leave and go back to Capstone Creek, thus making them the unlucky twelve, they backed off insisting her role as the menial worker.

Well, mostly.

Markus Swindell hadn’t let it alone and tried to get the other men to either reduce Allira to their personal squire or the one who made sure camp was set up and clean. It worked the first two nights away from Capstone Creek, but on the third night, she made the remark that only a mama’s boy couldn’t set up his own tent, care for his own horse, and make his own meal. She’d raised her eyebrows and asked why they were supposed to be ‘heroes’ if they needed someone to help them. It was a wonder they’d ever survived any of their campaigns.

After that, only Markus bitched about doing ‘woman’s work.’ She remarked that cooking and cleaning were life skills not wife skills, but obviously they all just needed their nannies. It took a woman to adventure in comfort. But if they wanted to go without, it was none of her business. That shut them up quickly.

But they still needed someone to stay with the horses when they went into the Tombs, and she was more than happy to do the work. It kept her out of the creepy dungeons full of creatures who’d made them their home.

Which these idiots are invading under the pretext of treasure and a lost throne.

Yeah, what could go wrong? Allira shook her head and leaned back against the Tangle Tree growing out of the boulder on which she sat and wished she’d brought a book to read while she was waiting. Instead, she arranged herself comfortable, but easily mobile, and let her eyes unfocus. Maybe she could work on her meditation practices while the idiots got themselves killed.

On the bright side, I might get a few new horses out of the deal.

It wasn’t funny even in her head.