text: Ingrid’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she made her way back to her longhouse at the edge of Kjareby, her village, after once more being refused a position in the king’s army of dragon slayers. She looked out at the forest darkly, as if daring it to jeer at her. The dragons would never dare to come to town, but that didn’t mean the forest didn’t contain a whole horde of them. There were whispers that had spread like wildfire across the town, whispers of a war with the dragons... and of the mighty warrior who would lead the army to victory. She *knew* she’d done better than half the boys in training. And yet... “Oh, you’re back,” yawned Hilda, the milk delivery girl, sitting on Ingrid’s favourite rock overlooking the forest. “Any luck?” “No,” she said monotonously. “Right,” said Hilda, used to the whole thing by now. “Well, mother needs some help with milking the cows, and what’s an orphan got to do anyway?” “I need to train,” she snapped. “Oh, of course. But you *have* been getting continuously rejected, and I need to help father with the shop, so...” “Fine. I’ll go,” said Ingrid, knowing full well Hilda was not going to *help father with the shop.* She dropped her weapons, and stomped back into town and into Ailse’s shed. “Hello, Ailse,” she smiled at Hilda’s mother, who merely nodded at a pail kept in a corner. Sighing, she got down to milking the cows. “Er- you wouldn’t need a full-time assistant- would you?” she said, unable to bear the silence any longer, milking her third cow. “I was thinking maybe I could have a backup- in case I don’t get into the army-” “He won’t let you in,” Ailse said gruffly. “So stop trying.” She went red. “My parents were warriors!” “Yes, and they fought humans, not dragons. Not to mention,” she turned to her, “they still died.” An hour later, pocket jingling with ten copper coins, she went back to her longhouse and picked up her abandoned bow, arrow and axe. Ailse’s words still rang in her ears. She looked out over the forest again. Strange, it felt like it... was calling to her. She looked around. She was alone. Clearly, Hilda had gone to loiter elsewhere. She turned back to the forest. In the quiet, she could almost hear the faint hissing of a dragon. Of course, if she wanted to prove herself, she could simply try again with the king tomorrow. Or she could slay her first dragon now. She walked forward. She could already hear that cautionary voice in her head, the one that always chided her when she got angry. *What if she didn’t survive?* *Well, what if she did?* She thought. Nobody younger than twenty had slayed a dragon for over a century. If she could do it, well, then, she might just become the Warrior of Men. Not to mention, it wouldn’t be too bad to get some of the treasure they kept with them. Heart thumping, she entered the forest. She’d heard that the dragons nested towards the east, so that’s where she would go. All she needed was one dragon on the way. Taking out the compass in her belt, she began her trek. Several hours later, not only had she not found a single dragon, she was also hungry and thirsty. *Always so impulsive,* began that scolding voice again. Finally giving up, she sat down in a clearing, imagining what the villagers would say when she told them she couldn’t even find a dragon, much less kill one. Perhaps she could tell them she’d just gone exploring. *Fat chance of them believing that.* Well, she couldn’t argue. It was already evening. She couldn’t handle it if she returned and found out there was a search party looking for her. She got up to go. It was then she noticed the small, flaming mud mound. She could almost hear father’s voice, telling her about the dragons of the underworld. *Loratren*, he called them. She still remembered laughing hearing the tale of the *Loratren*, how they made houses in mud mounds and fought with little animals like mice... But it had all been a fairy tale, all of it. Her father, as everyone constantly reminded her, had never actually fought a dragon. He didn’t even enter the forest, only spent his days training in the gym with her mother and their friends. She got down on her hands and knees, examining the mound. She could hear snorting from inside. She touched it. It wasn’t burning hot at all, but only pleasantly warm, just as father used to say. Suddenly, a little flaming red dragon the size of her thumb flew slowly out of it, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he puffed with the effort of carrying his single copper coin away from her. In spite of herself, she laughed. It wasn’t going to be hard to kill *this* dragon, she thought, as she caught hold of it by the torso. It struggled, stinging her hand as it ripped at her with its small teeth. She dropped it and raised her fist. The little dragon looked up at her hand, and then at her face. Then it roared, shot at her hand and attacked with everything it had. She flicked it off and raised her hand again. She was taken completely by surprise. It wasn’t the speed of the dragon. It was the way it looked at her, knowing that she was more than a hundred times its size, and still decided to take her on. And that look. It reminded her of... of herself, fighting the village boys when she was little because they’d called her *orphan* one too many times. She felt the scar above her left eyebrow, the one she’d received in that very fight, the one she’d lost. And withdrew her hand. Lying on the ground wounded, the dragon closed its eyes. She picked it up. If everything else her father had said was true, then- she looked around-a flame had to be what could save this dragon. But not its weak flame, a real one, a-in her father’s words- *living* one. She immediately laid it back on the ground, picked up two stones and made a fire with some dry leaves. “Come on little dragon,” she muttered, laying it into the fire. “Come *on,* Loratren!” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. Had she finally become the very thing she’d fought? Just another oppressor? Was this the kind of warrior she wanted to be? She made up her mind just as the dragon opened its eyes. \*\*\* It had been six years since that insufferable orphan, Ingrid, had gone missing. It was discovered in the morning when the delivery girl went to give her her milk. Initially, there’d been a hue and cry. Search parties were formed. Many lamented how young the child was. Rumours abounded of Ingrid being picked up by a Midnight Longhorn and carried away. Years passed. Life moved on. The incident was soon forgotten. The whole village was celebrating. The Great War was to happen soon. The army of axe-wielding dragon slayers was ready. Blacksmiths had made axes the size of the men using them. Most importantly, the Warrior of Men had been chosen- the prince. He’d had a whole day of parading around, flexing his muscles and whirling his axe, showing off his special bow for all to see. The day of the war dawned gloomy and overcast. The spirits of the villagers, however, were high as ever. Conches blew, children screamed and victory songs were sung as the army marched out of the village and to the edge of the forest, where Ingrid’s longhouse lay, forlorn and abandoned. After two days, in slightly lower spirits than they’d started out in, the army reached the cliffs. Not one of them had taken out their conch when the dragons came. Big dragons, small dragons, Onyx-black dragons, glowing white dragons, dragons snorting smoke from their nostrils, dragons whose breath misted in front of them. And the dragon of the underworld, at least fifty feet tall, breathing in flames, spikes running all along his back up to his tail, scales a bright, blazing shade of orange, baring his ten-inch long sharp fangs at the quaking army. What astonished them the most was the woman riding him. There were scars on her limbs. Dressed in layers of slightly translucent shed dragonskin, her hair flying wildly behind her, holding a battle axe, teeth bared, she hissed at the army. But nobody could mistake the fiery determination behind the glittering black eyes that no one had been able to quench. You see, while Ingrid’s father did indeed have an unexplainable amount of knowledge about the Loratren, he was wrong about one thing. That little dragon, the one Ingrid had almost killed? It was only a baby. The Warrior of the Dragons was ready for battle.