“The dragons living in the western mountains are known as stone dragons, or grey dragons. The word is the same for both in their tongue, similar to how red and fire dragons are the exact same thing. Thankfully, grey dragons are not like their aggressive red counterparts. In decades and decades of observation, only twice did they leave their mountain to attack people in the Empire. Most of the time, they prefer to rest in their grottos, waiting for miserables wanderers to cross their rocky valleys. Then, if they feel like it, they eat or petrify the poor lads, depending on how hungry they are.

-anonymous traveller”

* * *

Jormas

The capital's west gate was noisy and lively, and it was late in the morning. People would take their lunch in a couple of hours, but for now, they were busy working outside.

The weather had started to get better. Winter was making way to spring, and with spring came once again the soft warmth of the clear sun.

Jormas was loading wooden crates on one of his carriages. He had unexpectedly received an important job recently, one of military importance, even. In a few days, he'd be delivering supplies and equipment to the western fortress, and some soldiers would accompany him. Whatever they planned to do with all this gear mattered little to Jormas, as long as he was paid for the job, but he still felt anxious about going west. The fortress was not far from the dragon-infested mountains, after all.

He stopped to sit for a bit and wipe the sweat on his balding forehead, and yelled something to his apprentice. The damn brat really wasn't any closer to being a proper merchant than five months ago, Jormas thought. He had an odd feeling of deja-vu.

As he caught his breath, gazing at the ground, he saw two feet walking toward him. Somehow, he knew whose eyes he'd meet if he were to lift his head. Yes, this scene felt atrociously familiar.

“Good morning, brave man. How was your stay in the capital ?” an amused and smiling voice spoke.

Jormas sighed and looked up to stare at Azcheron.

“Thank the Second Emperor, it was cold but bearable. Why in hell are you here and how did you know where to find me ?” he asked, knitting his brows.

“Hahaha ! Do not underestimate my information network ! What do you think I've been doing this past three months, bumming around or something ?”

“I don't know. But I have a feeling you are here for only one reason.”

Azcheron crossed his arms against his chest. “Why, of course. That would be, going with you to the western fortress in two days.”

“Nnng, how do y-... Tch. Since you seem to know everything, you also understand that this isn't a civilian convoy this time ? I can't take a kid like you, sorry.”

“Hah ! I expected no less from you, Jormas ! You've been selected for this job precisely because of your work ethics ! We'll be fine.” He had his usual nonchalance, and it pissed off Jormas a bit.

“... Huh ? Did you not hear what I said ?”

Then the brat suddenly took a serious tone. “Did you not hear what I said ? You, and not anyone else, have been selected for this job. Why do you think so ?”

He paused to let Jormas' mind catch up.

“I'd rather not work with a caravan master I've never met, so I used some connections to have you, whose meticulousness and seriousness I know and trust, take charge of the convoy.” He observed Jormas' expression with an amused look. “Who do you think are the soldiers accompanying you anyway ?”

This damn brat. Damn brat ! I'll kill him.

“... You really enjoy making a fool out of me, eh ? That's the second time you practise your theatrics and dramatic revelations and whatnot on me. Brat,” Jormas said, half angry, half amused. He didn't really know what to think of the situation, but at least he understood that he had to thank Azcheron for this job opportunity.

Well, thanking him... That would wait until Jormas came back safely. Knowing that Azcheron was going to the west, and that it was Jormas' job to take him there... He couldn't help but feel an ounce of dread. What did the brat plan, and how the heck did he obtain so much influence in mere months ? Who the hell was he anyway ?

“Well, I can see by the look of worry on your face that you're unsure about this whole thing. Do not falter, for your participation will imply neither warring nor dragon-fighting. From the fortress onward, it'll be only me and a handful of lucky chosen who will get to brave the many dangers of the west,” he said proudly.

Jormas couldn't really think of anything to say. What he had just been told was beyond him. He'd better do as if he hadn't heard that. Yes, that was for the best. Better not getting involved in the brat's mess.

* * *

Azcheron

“That went well,” Azcheron said to no-one in particular. He was walking back to Anton's house after leaving Jormas at the west gate.

He had expected the merchant to get angry – angrier, seeing as he was angry, just not as much as Azcheron had imagined – and maybe wave his pride around, saying things like 'I don't need your help to get jobs like that' or 'I don't want to own my success to anything other than my own abilities'. Things like that. Stupid people things.

But no, Jormas had been understanding. That was the proper reaction for a stern, rigorous man like him. In any case, it was probably a good idea to tell him about Azcheron's involvement now. It might be rude to reveal these kind of things at the last minute. Only Erin and Anton would tolerate that neglected of a timing.

Of course, Azcheron used his connections with the Farril house to make it happen. In the end, it wasn't anything troublesome. Lord Farril was the minister of trade, after all. He only had to ask Darius to have a word with his father, and in exchange for this favour they would have a spar when he came back from the expedition. Azcheron had refused when he first met him, but it wasn't like he had a reason to avoid it anymore. He was simply hungry and angry at the time. Now that Darius was something similar to a friend – an acquaintance ? Azcheron wasn't sure – they could have as many spars as he wanted, as long as he'd let the Saint eat before.

Food was important for a mage, as you needed a clear mind to cast magic properly. You couldn't do much when all you could think about was roasted chicken instead of the chemical manipulations necessary to induce combustion ! Idiots tried, and they roasted themselves in the end. Well, that's what Anton said. According to him, the training grounds were the loudest right before noon, when the students started to lose their concentration and mess up their spells. Consequences went from merry students laughing to horrified students screaming, with the occasional Anton-breaking-fingers-induced screaming.

Well, that was that. He was indebted to the Farril, but the debt would be repaid easily. Azcheron didn't dare imagining what the debt would have been if he had asked the countess Ravilna, instead. She'd probably demand the destruction of a kingdom for each request, or something of the sort. Truly a creepy woman. Were she not a youthful beauty, no one would have any trouble to see that she embodied chaos itself. Alas, people mistook her foxy laugh for seductiveness and femininity, when really it was nothing more than glee and evilness.

Mh. I wonder why I have such an opinion of her. The meeting went well, in the end, and she gave me the soldiers I wanted.

Indeed, Azcheron and the countess had finished their talk at the Ravilna manor the other day. It went as expected, and Beatrice Ravilna agreed to take care of the soldiers. The Saint had asked for men who were at least interested in visiting the Desolate Lands, and if possible eager to do so. That meant the choice would be sparse, and it would not amount to anything more than a mere unit. Not many people actually wanted to go there. Most were crazy or suicidal. But there was no need for an army to come, a small unit would suffice – it was in fact what Azcheron wanted.

The expedition had to be as stealthy as it could be. You'd want to avoid attention, with all the things trying to kill you in both the mountain range and the desert ! Only idiots would send armies there. In fact, some idiots did. Azcheron had read about that while doing his research. Some kings or generals would occasionally try to 'conquer' the west, not that there really was anything to conquest aside from sand and rocks. Needless to say, it never turned out well. The results should have been obvious to most people, but blind greed and careless ambition didn't usually make a man the smartest of the bunch. They were warned, advised against and whatnot, but the dedicated advisors who took it upon themselves to do their job properly – advising – were either fired or hanged. By the neck if they were lucky, otherwise by the crotch, depending on the cultural variations of the manifestation of brainless anger in powerful individuals such as princes and lords.

Some countries really have barbaric ways, Azcheron concluded.

The point was, some – not very smart – people challenged the west, regardless of what other – smarter – people said to them. Naturally, they didn't plan ahead. They didn't envision the obscene logistic issues that would be caused by an army trying to cross a mountain inhabited by dragons, and then said army getting cut off from the supply line because... the dragons ate the supply line, and the people guarding the supply line, and the people who came after to replace the lost supply line, and then the army when it became weak and starved. So many logistic issues, so little planning. Truly a shame. Dragons could be really hungry sometimes, or so it seemed.

By all accounts, the grey dragons living in the westerns mountains weren't the most aggressive among their kin, but would you really act nice and polite when you stumbled upon an army trying to walk through your garden and your house ? No. You'd eat the army, obviously. At least that seemed to be the reason behind the dragons' way of dealing with intruders in their home. You would have some chance of surviving the venture if you came in a small group, which was Azcheron's intention, but an army, no, an army wouldn't pass unscathed.

Then, there was the desert. Amidst the considerably numerous tragedies that were the historical reports of armies trying to cross the mountains, some did succeed, strangely. Only to encounter another form of death. Azcheron found an old diary in the library, that probably belonged to a soldier from these times of bravery and stupidity, in which there was mention of a poll that circulated among the infantry. Said infantry had successfully passed the mountain, and the soldiers were having a debate about what sort of demise they'd prefer to meet if given the choice.

The first choice was being converted into a snack for the dragons. The second choice would be to die of starvation or thirst because the only thing to eat and drink here was sand, or human bodies and fluids. And the third choice was to be stomped on by the stone golems, repeatedly, until death ensued, which would occur very quickly, since the golems were large and heavy after all. Eventually, the results of the poll were evenly spread between the three generous choices. What demise the soldiers actually met in the end, would unfortunately not be known, to Azcheron's great dismay.

The main lesson was that, if there was one major cause of death in the mountains, there were two in the Desolate Lands. Of course, everyone knew that, even Azcheron. Still, the poll anecdote made for a fun story, in his mind.

As for the reason an army had even less chances of survival than a small group, it was because the stone golems were in fact intelligent beings. Humans thought they could use numbers to take down lone golems, but such a thing had never happened. When they noticed a horde of humans barging into their desert, the golems gathered, as to crush numbers with numbers, and an army of golems about to trample you was the last thing you'd want to see. Well, it would actually be the last thing you'd see.

When they weren't feeling like running over small soldiers, the golem simply went away to do whatever they liked, which would be, supposedly, eating mana and walking on sand, like always. There was not much else to do in the Desolate Lands. When the golems acted that way, they merely waited for the intruders to get lost and decease on their own. That meant by starvation, mutiny, asphyxia because of a sandstorm, bleeding to death because of an absurdly sharp rock, suicide and whatnot. The desert could kill an entire army in the most miscellaneous fashion.

Azcheron had to thank the library for all this information. Not that he would have tried to bring an army to the west, but these little things were nice to know. He had to thanks to poor souls that served as a prime example of what not to do there.

* * *

“Ready when you are,” Jormas said.

“We have to wait for Darius, then we can leave,” Azcheron replied.

It was the day of the departure. Azcheron's group were waiting at the west gate, prepared to depart. The cargo was entirely loaded, and the group of scholars and soldiers was complete. Azcheron found no fault in being the leader of the expedition even though he had neither practical experience nor a proper sense of responsibilities, but he believed Erin would somehow manage the 'logistic part'.

The scariest thing was perhaps the fact that their sponsors also found nothing to object to Azcheron handling the leadership. The Saint himself was aware of how careless the whole thing was but in a convoluted twist of logic of which he had the secret, he ended up convincing himself that it was a sound decision. Well, to his defence, he had his plotting and his knowledge of the Dragon tongue on his side. Of course, the others members had no way to know in what kind of mess they got dragged in, yet. They still hadn't got much time to get to know each other, but soon they would.

The trip to the western fortress would take a month, then they expected to take between a day and a week to cross the mountain, depending on the dragons' current location. The mountain was reputed to be tremendously huge, and there were many possible ways to pass. It all came down to which routes were far enough from a dragon's sleeping spot at the time.

Right now they were waiting for their friend Darius, who was supposed to bring them something. The whole situation was cryptic as hell, as neither Azcheron nor Erin knew what Darius had to give them, and not even why he didn't think about it earlier. According to him however, it was important, and that would be the reason he ran back to his manor just to retrieve it. What an imbecile, was what Azcheron wanted to say, but he didn't. Because Roharl was also here. You didn't insult someone's family in front of said someone, especially if he was called the Dragon Slayer.

Why is he even here ?

This question was starting to pop up way too often. At this rate, Roharl's actions would soon become as extravagant and unfathomable as Azcheron's.

That's why I call him my rival. It never had anything to do with magic. Flamboyance, yes. The bastard may be old but we follow the same path.

“Kid, if you actually encounter one of them, don't rely too much on my advice. Talk your way out if you can.”

Mmh. Huh ? Was it Roharl who just spoke ? What ? Who is this ?

Azcheron glanced at Erin to try to obtain an answer by seeing her expression, and he did. She also seemed puzzled. Indeed, 'twas Roharl who spoke.

“This sounds strange coming from you. Talking ? Is this a hidden trial or something ?”

“No, do take me seriously this time. You're lucky that this mountain has only stone ones. They're not too fiery, you may very possibly manage to pass without them bothering themselves with you.”

Roharl's speech was somehow different than usual. The cacophonous merriness was gone. There was a curious respect and solemness in his voice. As if, beyond all the boasting and noisy extravagance, what primed was the reverence for the dragons. As expected of someone who spent his life fighting them, he must have known both their might and their beauty, better than anyone else.

Azcheron smiled. “Do not worry. I don't intend to antagonize any of them. I'd very much have a talk with them if the opportunity presents itself, so fighting shall be my very last resort.”

The Dragon Slayer stayed silent and gave him a long indecipherable look.

While pondering the meaning of Roharl's behaviour, Azcheron noticed Darius running toward them. He looked exhausted. He had to run through half the city, after all. Even though he could use a less potent version of Manasprint that he learned recently, the fatigue wasn't diminished by the spell, and the use's body took the toll regardless.

“Sorry... for... the delay...” he managed to blurt out through his sharp breathing. It looked like he had a pulmonary disease or something.

“Now, now, don't die on us, eh ?” Roharl said, maybe thinking it was smart to give him a slap in the back. It wasn't. Roharl's slaps were like mana blasts. Darius was now on the ground, coughing and looking like he was about to puke his lungs.

“Uughhu...” He finally got up, after crawling away from Roharl and Azcheron. Was he scared ? Azcheron almost felt hurt. “Here... Lady Erin.”

He took out a sealed letter from his pocket and handed out to her. “Don't open it until you're at the fortress. It is very important,” he explained in an uneasy voice, his face red as a tomato.

Erin took the letter without a word, simply bowing her head.

“Well then. May fortune be with you all. Azcheron, I trust you'll come back alive to pay your debt.”

Azcheron simply gave a confident smile. Darius walked away, and Roharl followed him after nodding. No other form of farewell was needed. They had already said their goodbyes to Anton and Tania.

And so, Azcheron, Erin, Jormas and the others departed for the west.

* * *

???

The posterity will note that some detestable authors, in their version of Azcheron's legend, having found an easy opportunity to make the reader pull his own teeth out in annoyance and irritation, depicted Darius' letter as a confession, therefore starting a love triangle, a lot of unnecessary drama, and an enervative series of misunderstandings.

History tells of a much more preferable truth : the letter was merely a missive written by the hand of lord Farril, as to grant our protagonists passage though to western fortress, toward the mountains. Darius' apparent state of uneasiness and blushing was in fact the consequences of the torment he went through, moments before. The letter was given to Erin because she was the sole responsible-looking person of the group.

But the story of the Love Triangle Misunderstanding Letter shall be spoken another time – or not spoken at all, because there's nothing to say anymore ! – for the story of the deadly western expedition is now about to be told.