Oliver vaulted the wooden gate into a field on the side of a hill. It was November, and the icy mud cracked under his feet revealing boggy black slop beneath. His breath almost froze on the chill, and he felt the damp down to his bones. As he waded through the bog, he longed for shelter, fire, some hot spicy mead and a warm body, but they had to wait. His wife would be wrapped up in the furs of their bed next to a dying fire, and it was that which drove him on.

His heavy longbow was slung over one shoulder, and its bottom tip dragged through the bog. His crude sword was at his back and thudded with every stride. The air smelled of mud, pond scum, and horse shit. As he reached the edge of the bog the field dropped further downwards to a thick line of trees and a river beyond. He knew the Dragon he was looking for would be there. Many of the village children would visit these fields. They’d play games with the horses, wade in the river where it was stream depth, pick blackberries and generally hide from their parents for as long as they could. The men and women in the village worked the fields, hunted and gathered. Children not yet of able age would make themselves scarce.

When the white Dragon found villages to harass, it would tear down roofs, steal the meat stock, and take horses, sheep and cattle and sometimes people, often leaving it devastated. He heard the commotion in this particular tribal commune as he was passing and resolved to help. This was a dragon he had been looking for all year. The women of the village were hysterical. They begged and pleaded and pointed in the direction of the danger. The men were already hastily repairing roofs, salvaging animal carcasses and skins. Their High Priest was chanting at his ruined altar with barely disguised anger, children wailing and hanging on to his robes.

Oliver slid his way down the hillside, until he was a short jog to a line of trees. The dragon would often seek a copse or nearby line of trees to finish its meal, there was usually water nearby to wash down whatever living thing it had snatched. The occupants of the village were too traumatised to tell him whether the Dragon had taken anyone, so he made a solid assumption.

The frost was harder at the bottom of the valley and less forgiving under foot. He could see the dragon, the size of a large work horse, pacing up and down the length of the river. Oliver, although exposed by the white frosty ground, was upwind and hadn’t been detected. He partly crept and partly slid to the nearest sycamore tree and crouched. The river was shallow in certain places, where the flow had been broken by ice and exposed rocks, which shone like glossy scarabs in the pre-dawn light. At the bank on the other side he saw a boy, no older than six, he guessed, clinging to a hod of rough grass and branches, knee-deep in the stream. Though the cold would have weakened his scent, it wouldn’t be long before the Dragon found him.

Oliver laid belly-flat and slid towards the edge of the stream, picking up a rock and tapping it until he got the boy’s attention. The boy’s eyes were wide; he knew his predicament, and he was stifling a wail of fear. Oliver put a finger to his lips and the boy understood and his body seemed to quieten.

He slid further forward into the icy stream, careful not to dislodge the rocks and stones around him or otherwise draw the attention of the dragon, who was several paces away, but turning. He could hear it hissing and grunting, as if trying to sniff out its prey. It looked grey in the light, but it appeared to glow an eerie silver as it grew more frustrated. Oliver smelled it from where it was, the familiar scent of molten metal and metal filings mingled with the smell of static electricity, as if before a storm. As it turned back to repeat its patrol, it stretched out its wings to take flight, hitting branches along the way and whipping up the frost that had settled on them.

Oliver looked back at the boy, whose grip was beginning to fail because of the cold, and so he slid further into the stream to reach out for him.

“Yn gyflym, blentyn! Quickly! Take my hand!”

The boy hesitated for a brief moment, focusing on Oliver’s outstretched hand, then closed his eyes tightly and jumped towards Oliver, landing belly first into the middle of the stream. Oliver’s grip was strong and lightning fast. He slid the boy towards him, gathered him up and darted behind the nearest tree. The dragon on the opposite bank sniffed the ground briefly and then wailed a deafening screech in frustration. It took to the air and continued across the line of trees, screeching and violently brushing branches as it went. Oliver and the boy remained motionless for a while, although the boy had begun to shiver violently. The cries of the dragon became distant.

“Come, boy, let’s get you back to your village.” Oliver stood and turned to walk back the way he came. The sun was just rising in the distance, but the ground in the valley was still hard and icy. The boy whimpered when Oliver stumbled, but his grip was tight from fear. They were both numb from the cold, and their clothes were soaked and freezing. Oliver pushed past the pain in his joints and sped up, hoping for his muscles to heat up and stave off the stinging ache. He reached the top of the hill and a dirt trail marked the way to the village. They waded back through the bog and onwards. When they were detoured along another line of brush and trees, Oliver stopped to take a breath and consider his bearings.

“Dilyn, boy. Follow.”

The boy was fairly built, and woefully under-dressed for the outdoors. He’d clearly been snatched from his sleep somehow. Returning him to the village would be his best chance of survival. The boy was not strong but Oliver knew that the march to the village would stave off the cold for him.