The art of dragon killing
The art of dragon killing:
Dragons have been eating humans for centuries. Now heroes throughout history stalk their legendary foe. Learn how to hunt, kill, and eat the wild dragon. Never before has revenge tasted so good. A literary feast for the bloody-minded.
In Janet Morris' anthology on the art of dragon killing, seventeen writers bring you so close to dragons you can smell their fetid breath. Tales for the bold among you.
HEROIKA 1 -- DRAGON EATERS, an anthology of heroic fiction edited by Janet Morris, features original stories by Janet Morris and Chris Morris, S. E. Lindberg, Walter Rhein, Cas Peace, Jack William Finley, A.L. Butcher, Travis Ludvigson, Tom Barczak, J. P. Wilder, Joe Bonadonna, Milton Davis, M Harold Page, William Hiles, Beth W.Patterson, Bruce Durham, and Mark Finn.
[excerpt from Bring Your Rage by Janet and Chris Morris from Heroika: Dragon Eaters]
When I first saw Rhesos, he came riding a horse white as sunlight, a black dog at its heels, between two breast-high piles of dragon carcasses, toward the Paeonian way-station where we combatants all gathered. He wore no armor, only a cap made from the scalp of a fox and a multicolored zeira, the billowy Thracian riders’ cloak, over pantaloons and fawnskin boots. When the horse shied at the skinned dragons smoking over firepits in the morning glare, he clapped his legs against his mount’s sides.
Now when a horse shies sideways in a single jump, an unwary rider is fast unseated; a half naked rider, with no surcingle, no toe loops, oft comes tumbling to the ground. Not this man: he rode as one with his horse, deep-seated, his buttocks, thighs and calves tight to its barrel. In his right hand he carried an ash spear, and this he rapped against his mount’s shoulder, while with his left hand he loosed his reins, urging the horse past the piled corpses.
I had never seen a maneuver like that, but the war-horse knew it well and, with one disapproving snort, lunged on by the bloody stacks, coming straight toward me where I stood on the shelter’s porch. Men seldom impress me by posturing, but this one rode like a god, and looked right at me between his horse’s ears. So I hesitated a moment, nearly smitten, watching, before I went back inside.
This roadhouse, built poor and spare into the berm like the Spartan kind, held a score of men — and now me, once again. The group of us, brought together by choice and challenge, had hunted yesterday, and would again on the morrow; most men were drinking and carousing, boorish and loud. By now they were accustomed to me: I had been here six days and made my share of the kills piled outside, so when I filled a clay cup from the krater by the door and took a seat, none remarked me.
Then in came the Thracian rider, pausing on the threshold, blocking out the light, legs spread, his spear a walking stick, looking right, looking left.
Everyone stopped talking.