“What’s that make, ten or eleven?” Samma asked. “Eleven, isn’t it?”
“Twelve I thought,” said Tula, then continued channeling the stream of healing magic.
“Only my ninth. You two continually try and inflate the number. Especially you, Tula.”
“‘Only her ninth’ she says,” Samma chuckled. “I don’t know anyone other than Brisko that’s even slain five. Usually lose a limb before that. You’ll pass him soon enough.”
“It’s not a game for me.” She wiped dragon’s blood off her sword then tossed the rag aside. A moment later it burst into flame. “I don’t exactly like killing them, but I don’t see another option. They cause too much destruction.”
The trio skinned the dragon, removed the horns, claws, and teeth. Packed everything worth anything onto their sleds. When they were done only the bones and meat remained. The meat was terrible, even carrion birds wouldn’t eat dragon. Worms seemed to be the only thing that did.
Later, once back at their village, a feast was held. Dancing and singing and food for three days. The first few times this happened she was annoyed. I’m only doing my job, it’s what I happen to be good at. We don’t celebrate the farmers or shepherds or midwives this way, why me? It was after she had killed her sixth that she realized the feast and accompanying festivities were not for her, not really. Her killing a dragon allowed the feast to take place. The village wasn’t so much celebrating her as they were another day of life made possible by her actions.