The phone rang. Crashbang answered it. Stiletto noodled idly on his deadly electric lute.
“Who was it?” he asked when Crashbang hung up.
“The dragon,” Crashbang answered. “He wants to know if we can push the slaying to January.”
The room thrummed with the sound of a half-finished Thunderwave Chord. “No can do. We’re booked. The royal marriage.”
“Does the king outrank the dragon?”
“He does when he’s hired us,” Big Gunderson put in, setting aside his sharpening stone and checking the edge of his axe.
“Old Firebreath is just gonna have to take his lumps,” Stiletto said, tuning up.
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