"Your duty, Lyle, is to the people, and to the kingdom," Lyle's mother said to him often. Lyle could imagine his mother's smile and his father nodding in agreement. Both of them are still young and had no wrinkles on their faces. People said that there is seven of human expression but, his parents showed him what is right first before the wrong ones. 'Joy' is the name of that expression. Twelve years later, he figured out the rest. Waking up, the twenty-five years old knight dragged his feet down from his feather bed. It's never been easy to wake up. Definitely not after a week of patrol in the plains, through the outskirts of the forests, fort to fort before returning to his home-keep. His vision is still blurry. When he reached the horizon of his sight with his hands, it's nothing. He finally sat. He drank a glass of water that he poured himself. As usual, he prayed to his god, not the gods that the fat priests worshipped, but his own. He prayed sincerely while in his mind is full of inappropriate words and thoughts.

I really hope that those pigs would die an agonizing death, he said to himself. But he knew their gods would protect them for a long time. His god would eventually win their miserable lives, but he's always been an impatient man. His hatred toward them is growing, piled up. They're not a real priest. The real one is the one who they sent to the borders, where the location of the monastery would be deep inside the forest, carved on a rocky mountain, near the catacombs of old times and frontier villages. It was no secret that there was deep hatred between them. That kind of hatred runs deeper than his but somewhat unknown to him. War is run in his everyday's life. People felt it but didn't able to come to their sense that they're in one. He put his mail armour. To wear a full-plate armour he needs to do that before putting on the plate-armour. The plate-armour itself is a masterpiece of its own, he deemed. A shining steel plate-armour with a thickness of his nail, embossed with the crest of the kingdom in the middle---a flower-crowned dragon. The difference gap between a footman, specialized soldiers, and a knight is like between bronze and silver. Three of them did their roles as expected, but a knight is like a nobility, someone who is filthy rich. A knight's knight-service was a form of feudal land tenure under which a knight held a fief or estate of land termed a knight's fee from an overlord conditional on him as tenant performing military service for his overlord. As his father is a lord, it was usual for his household to have servants to attend to his needs. For menial works, there are always servants, even to help him wearing the armour. Usually, he would have the menservants to put the white cloak. But it wasn't necessary as he'll be in a one week patrol. It was almost four if not three and a half hundred leagues. Folding it and only put it when necessary is a good idea to keep it clean. To sum it up, never put things on your shoulder while it's supposed to be lean.

Sir Jack Amberwill, or known among the knights as The Old Jack, was Lord Commander of the city, for almost thirty good years. A son of a house with many heirs social status doesn't seem to hold promise for his future, so he decided to join the kingdom's army. A quick-witted man is always needed. And a quick-witted man of strength worth double. He would rose to the ranks of General if not for refusing to boot-lick the nobles. He doesn't have the gold, and to begin with, he, likes his father, scorns them. The Old Jack was his mentor in this view.

The first time he met the old man, he's just a boy of six. He paged under his wing before squired for another sire and finally took the oath when he has come of age. That's how he became a knight and not fool in an armour suit.

The discipline is a must in the morning assembly in Northwind. In the front of the ranks was the old man and Lyle among his other two lieutenants.

"We will patrol in usual route the day after the morrow," said the old man. "Dismissed."

"Yessir!" the ranks shouted back before dismissed themselves.

And then there was nothing to be done for it. The order had been given, and honour bound them to obey. The Old Jack does not fond long talk, except it's necessary.

"Only if they will gladfully do that," Sir Galwerth said in a sulking tone. "They're green, old man. I saw their eyes. They loved their women but will run like beaten dogs."

"They need a bit of reality. To be a soldier is not a child game. I know that better than anyone," the old man muttered. "Aside from that, what do we got?"

Catching up the pace, Sir Welmar raised his voice, "Reports of brigands in the highway, pickpocketing at city gates, petty robberies. Worst of all, burned fields. No trace of hooves or men's foot. Ten fields of grain burned like a pyre."

"Anything from Adventurer's Guild or our scouts?"

"Monsters attacking wagons. Their numbers are increasing by each day," Sir Galwerth muttered again. Lyle could only listen to what the man said in silence. "Funny, that there is nothing akin to a contraption found in the burned fields. No torch, no flask, no oil puddle. Nothing."

"Boy, what do you think?" the Old Jack suddenly turned on him. "You're my lieutenant now, not a fecking squire. Say something or two that may be useful." Listening to the old man's words he pondered. Monster infestations is indeed a problem. But maybe something has really happened out there.

"This is just a personal assumption but, maybe it's a monster," Lyle said. "It's possible that both cases were done by a monster like a wyvern, sire. Or men using a tamed monster."

Sometimes wyverns descended from the mountain ranges, and prey upon forest animals. They're swift and some breathe flame. Wild wyverns are to be slain as powerful monsters will drive away weaker monsters like goblins, kobolds, and orcs.

"Obviously we can't rule out that possibility," Sir Galwerth agreed. "But still, it could be brigands or some envious farmer who did it."

It was not uncommon for men to do evil deeds. After years of knighthood, old knights must learn to turn their gazes from them. People could easily hire others to do their works. There are merchants who would do anything to get rid of their competitors or to monopolize certain commodities, people who begrudge others, and nobles who may do that on a simple whim. Not to mention that there are nobles that would like to have wyverns as their pet.

"We don't know for sure," Sir Welmar added. "It could be men. It could be a monster. A wyvern, just like what Lyle said. Or--"

"Or a dragon," the old man predicted the possible worst outcome. His voice was cocksure. "My gut feeling told me that if it was not a wyvern, it was a dragon that burned the fields, and caused this abnormal monster infestation."

"Dragon, sire?" Sir Galwerth halted.

"The boy gets it. You both said it yourself," the Lord Commander made his points. "No evidence of man's work. No contraption. Should it be some damned fecking nobles playing their games we would be blackmailed or bribed already."

In comparison, a wyvern is nothing to a dragon. Not mentioning size and raw strength, a dragon is ranked among mythical creatures. Their scales are nigh impenetrable by your normal weapons as they are harder and denser than steel. Their claws can rip through armour. Its tail can swipe dozens of men and dent steel plate. Winds generated by its wings could easily blow away a grown-up man. Lesser magic simply loses its power upon contact with its hide.

Sir Welmar gave a fake laugh. "You sure like to jest, sire."

"Suppose that was true, I bet our ranks would collapse in an instant," Sir Galwerth pressed. "You know that these men are still green."

"Some of them just finished their training two months ago," Lyle added. They laughed and laughed upon dead brigands, put their boots on heads of the dead, and kicked it away. Sir Galwerth and Sir Welmar are sure that half of them will never have the balls, Lyle said to himself. As in old sayings, there is no cure for cunts.

"Even so, what is the chance for us to encounter it?" Sir Welmar asked. "Aside from that, we would be a fool to fight a dragon with no heavy equipment. Even though the men stood and fight, we have no means to fight a damn dragon."

"It will take only just a fool's luck, Welmar." Old Jack replied, almost assuring the three. "Just in case, ask Harald to warn Lord Sieg in Eastwind, and that we may need immediate reinforcement and our heavy types of equipment. Send the fastest bird."

"I will see it done," Sir Galwerth replied. He gave a salute to the old man before running to the inside of the keep.

"And if there's nothing more, sire," Sir Welmar followed. He too gave his salute and leaving the two.

The old man turned to him. "I suppose you will be more of use to inspect our storerooms and armoury," the old man ordered. "After that, report to me in my room by afternoon."

"Yes, sire," Lyle replied. He too saluted, and immediately find his way to the keep's entrance. As he walked, he heard three crows cawing loud.