Chapter 11: Tribute

The cold autumn air held the sharp scent of woodsmoke and distant rain. Barjuchne stood at the mouth of her cave, scales gleaming in the pale morning light, and stared out at the changed world beyond her mountain. The trees wore crowns of gold and crimson. The valleys below stretched in every direction, dotted with villages and townships that now belonged to her. Not by choice. Not by design. It was simply because she had defeated the man who claimed them first.

She flexed her claws against the stone.

Territory.

The word felt strange in her mind, heavy with implications she did not fully understand. Sure, she had gotten a few stretches of land here and there in the past. But this was more than ever before. The attacking lord’s armies had come to kill her, and she had killed them instead. Now his lands were hers. His people were hers. The thought made her stomach twist with something that felt uncomfortably close to panic.

Was she responsible for governing them now? Surely not. They’ll definitely be fine on their own. She’ll just ignore them.

Behind her, the dungeon hummed with quiet magic. Cracks in the walls sealed themselves with threads of magical energy. Shattered stone reassembled. The collapsed sections of tunnel reformed slowly, guided by the dungeon’s passive construction power. The damage from the siege was healing, bit by bit, without her needing to do anything at all.

Barjuchne turned back into the depths of her home, her massive tail dragging across the stone floor as she walked past a team of goblins hoisting segments of the destroyed obsidian gate back into place with a series of pulleys and crude ropes.

The central chamber glowed with firelight from the braziers her goblins had placed along the walls. Her hoard had grown massive in the days since Parsmuth’s defeat. Armour piled in gleaming heaps. Swords and spears leaned against the cavern walls. Rings, amulets, and jewellery filled three separate chests she had commissioned from the goblin craftsmen. Coins spilt across the floor in rivers of gold and silver.

The sight of it all made her dragon heart sing with joy.

The human part of her just felt tired. She wasn’t a bad person. She’s not happy about having had to kill, let alone so many people. Hundreds of them. But what choice did they give her?

She even put up a sign. What else could she have done?

It was what it was. And so, for this matter, she decided to let the dragon half of her hold control of her heart. It had very few qualms, in contrast.

She picked up a helmet from the nearest pile, turning it over in her claws. The steel was dented, marked by the blow that had killed its owner. She set it down carefully and moved to the next item. A sword with an emerald set in the pommel. Beautiful.

A window shimmered into existence before her eyes.

Barjuchne dismissed the window with a flick of her claw. ‘Subjects’. The word made her want to crawl into the deepest part of her dungeon and never come out. She had never wanted subjects. She had never wanted territory. She just wanted to be left alone with her treasure and maybe Veliah.

The goblin princess is alright too, she supposes.

But that’s it. Nobody else.

Except also the ant princess, obviously. But that went without saying.

But the world did not seem interested in leaving her alone. Such is the curse of dragonhood.

The morning after the dungeon finished healing its main chambers, Veliah approached her with a cloth-wrapped bundle in her hands. The elf moved quietly, her bare feet making almost no sound on the stone. At this point, she had finally stopped flinching every time Barjuchne looked at her.

“The goblins say there are emissaries at the mountain base,” Veliah said. She set the bundle down on a flat rock near the hoard. “People. From Jaesownen Vale. They’ve been waiting since dawn.”

Barjuchne’s tail coiled around her legs. Her scales prickled with involuntary heat.

“What do they want?” asked the dragon, sounding as frightening as ever despite the fact that the question was actually born of deep anxiety about having to talk to strangers.

“I don’t know.” Veliah unwrapped the bundle, revealing a collection of smoked fish and dried fruit. “But they brought gifts. The goblins accepted them and sent word up.”

Tribute?

She stared at the fish, her mind racing through possible responses. Should she go down to meet them? Should she send Veliah? Should she ignore them entirely and hope they go away?

Her dragon instincts supplied an answer. ‘Go. Claim what is yours’.

So, she went.

Free stuff is free stuff, after all. Who could say no to that? Certainly not her.

The delegation waited in the clearing at the base of the mountain, surrounded by nervous goblin scouts who kept their crude spears ready but not raised. Five humans stood in a tight cluster, dressed in the fine woollens and furs of merchants and local governance. One woman wore the white robes of a magistrate. A younger man clutched a wooden chest to his chest with white-knuckled hands.

They all looked terrified.

Barjuchne descended the mountain path slowly, her claws finding purchase on the loose stone. She had meant to appear calm. Approachable. Non-threatening, if such a thing were possible for a dragon. Instead, her nerves made her movements stiff and mechanical. Her eyes glowed too brightly. Her tail lashed behind her with agitation she could not suppress.

The delegation saw a monster approaching.

Shaking, the magistrate stepped forward when Barjuchne reached the clearing. The woman was older, her hair streaked with grey, her face lined with the kind of exhaustion that came from sleepless nights born of her own troubles. She dropped to one knee, her head bowed.

“Great Wyrm,” she said. Her voice shook. “We come bearing tribute from Jaesownen Vale. We beg for your mercy.”

Barjuchne froze. Mercy? What were they talking about? She wasn’t going to do anything to them as long as they minded their own business.

“I—” she began, not sure what to say.

But the sound that came out was a low, rumbling growl instead of the single word.

The delegation flinched as one. The young man with the chest stumbled backward, nearly dropping his burden. The magistrate pressed her forehead to the ground.

“Please,” the woman whispered. “We know you defeated Lord Parsmuth. We know his crimes against you. The Vale had no part in his siege. We are simple people. Farmers and craftsmen. We only wish to live in peace under your rule as we did under his.”

Under her rule?

Barjuchne’s thoughts scattered in six different directions at once.

“No,” she tried again, wanting to explain that this wasn’t needed. Instead, her voice came out too loud, echoing off the mountainside with draconic resonance that made it sound imperious and cold.

The magistrate trembled, thinking their offer had been rejected and that they were all doomed. They all fall, begging for the safety of their families.

What was happening here?

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Barjuchne wanted to scream. Why was this so hard? Why could she not just talk to people without her body betraying her at every turn? She forced herself to take a slow breath to calm the fire building in her chest.

“Please! Please accept this gift, Great Wyrm,” stammered the woman in fear. “A token of goodwill from the people. We would be honoured to provide regular tribute, if it pleases you. In exchange for your protection.”

‘Protection’?

Barjuchne stared at the little treasure chest. Her dragon heart surged with interest at this.

Treasure. Hers. The human part of her recognised this for what it was. A protection racket. They were buying her off, paying her to leave them alone.

Except they had also said ‘protection’. From her, yes. But Barjuchne knows there are other things out there. Bandits. Wild monsters from the deep forest. She could do that. Protect them. It was simple enough. Kill things that threatened her territory. That was just self-defence with extra steps. After all, these people now belong to her. That makes them her responsibility to protect, the same as any other part of her hoard, right?

This line of logic surpasses any, most certainly unserious, doubts about this, in fact, being deeply ethical.

Barjuchne’s claws reached out and accepted the chest before her brain fully caught up with the decision.