Free Dragons vs. Drones by Wesley King Page A

grotesque older woman with heavy eyeliner and no eyebrows, asked, rising from her chair.
    â€œIs this new?” Dree asked quietly.
    â€œI should hope so,” the merchant snarled. “They killed the dragon three days ago. Cost me a fortune for just a few scales, which is why I will be selling it for a fortune as well. Now hand it over, girl. You look like a stray dog in clothes—you can’t afford that.”
    She snatched the bowl out of Dree’s hands and carefully put it back in its place.
    Dree stood there, bristling. She longed to put her hand on the haphazard wooden frame and burn the entire stand to the ground. But she would just end up in prison, and the scales wouldn’t even be touched. What did it matter anyway? The Sage was already dead—killed because of human greed. It probably hadn’t even fought back. Dree felt sick.
    Leaving the stand, she started for Wilhelm’s Forge, scowling and muttering.
    â€œYou people make me sick,” she said, looking around. “All of you.”
    She hadn’t made it far when a sudden gust of wind picked up, blowing a cloud of dust across the road. Dree frowned and covered her eyes as the wind grew even stronger, pushing her sideways. Dirt and trash roared past Dree, and she heard people shouting, though she could barely open her eyes to see them. Just as she was stumbling toward the far side of the street, looking for cover, she heard a startledgasp and caught a glimpse of a boy rolling hard across the cobblestone street. The howling wind stopped instantly, as if it had never been there, and Dree lowered her hands.
    Her eyes fell on the boy, lying sprawled out on the road and soaked to the bone. He was dressed unlike anyone she had ever seen: a green short-sleeved shirt, dark blue pants that seemed a bit too tight, and orange shoes that looked like striped flowers. He had unusual gray eyes, and his mop of ebony hair matched the thick frames of his glasses, while his face was pale and peaked, with light freckles on his nose.
    Marcus looked around, his eyes wide. He turned to Dree and frowned.
    â€œAm I dead?” he whispered.
    â€œUh . . . no,” she said.
    He quickly climbed to his feet and tried to walk, but instead did a little wobble and almost pitched backward onto the street. Dree grabbed his arm and steadied him.
    â€œAre you all right?” she asked, still examining his strange attire.
    â€œNot . . . sure,” he managed. “How can this . . . I knew it! But who are you? Where am I? How is this possible?”
    Dree raised her eyebrows, examining the clearly insane boy in front of her. She was tempted to just leave him there, but he seemed helpless and lost. Sighing, she pulled him toward a back alley where he could lean against the wall and get his bearings without people constantly bumping into him. The crowd was already hurrying past again, shooting him bewildered looks when they saw his clothes and then continuing on.
    Dree led Marcus to the alley and straightened him up. He started to regain his composure, and he scanned over the chaotic street. Shops and homes were tucked closely together, brick and gray stone, while the people wore a mixture of bizarre outfits and wool peasant clothes. The smells assaulted his nostrils: smoke and sweat and worse.
    â€œInteresting,” he said. “It’s like the Industrial Revolution here. Is that a smokestack?”
    â€œWho are you?” Dree asked.
    Marcus turned back to her, and for the first time took a closer look at the girl standing in front of him. She was wearing coarse brown clothes and hide boots, while her exposed arms were sun-kissed and formed like tempered steel. Normally, a girl like that would have caused him to go as red as a fire hydrant and forget how to speak English, but he was a bit preoccupied at the moment. She was very pretty though—like a warrior elf character out of Dungeons & Dragons. Brian would