Chapter 23: Side Story – Blackwater Crisis II

“Begging your pardon, Captain, but isn’t this fucking crazy?” Charles asked, trekking through the light snow beside Kendrick. Due to the retreat of the dragon, the snow would no longer fall down quite as harshly.

“Mind your language,” Kendrick said, shaking his head. Kendrick’s eyes fell to Akrat, who was walking beside Randal. He understood why Charles was questioning him, and why he was giving the look like his Captain was crazy. “He’s an Iyrman with a debt to pay. There’s no need for us to decline.”

“Won’t the King be angry?” Charles asked, wanting to return back to civilisation so he can taste the sweet nectar he has been wishing for. ‘I bet everyone’s celebrating right now…’

“We are to cover the retreat. We have covered it, but we need to make sure it remains safe.” It was a bunch of nonsense, of course, but Charles couldn’t refuse his Captain’s orders. ‘If we really can slay a dragon…’ Kendrick’s fingers twitched with excitement.

“Where did you get that sword?” Akrat asked, glancing towards the large sword which Randal held. It wasn’t quite a greatsword, but it wasn’t far off. The hilt was long and had been made of Black Ivory, a popular wood for Iyrmen, and had been carved with a pattern which had been derived from the Lak family.

“Why are you askin’ about that?” Randal asked, shocked. “There’s somethin’ more important! Timothy! Since when were you a girl?” Randal stared at Timothy, staring at her.

Timothy was short, lithe and nimble, moving with feline grace. Randal had always thought it was weird as to why he liked Timothy so much, but it all made sense. Timothy was a girl.

Timothy remained silent, slowly pulling away from Randal, before she finally disappeared from his sight, though it was just her great skill in stealth which had allowed her to transition against the tree mid walk as Randal passed it.

“The sword is an Iyrman’s sword,” Akrat said, trying to catch the red haired’s attention once more.

“It was given to my uncle by an Iyrman,” Randal replied simply, blinking as he tried to find Timothy.

“Which Iyrman?”

“Uh, I think his name was… Fulrak, Fukrak, uh…” Randal had memorised the name many years ago, but since he never thought about it, it now danced on the tip of his tongue.

“Firlak,” Akrat said, nodding his head.

“Ah, Firlak! That was it!”

“I know the story,” Akrat said, nodding his head once again. “Your uncle, Ranolf the Hunter, saved Firlak after he had clashed with a bandit group, Gordon’s Hands. Firlak managed to slay three of them, but fell to poison. Your uncle appeared not long after and saved him. Ranolf never forgot, and had returned to pass along Blackfyre, the sword within your hand.”

“That’s right! How did you know that?” Randal gasped, hearing the name of his uncle, and the name of his sword. He hadn’t heard the names in a while, his uncle having passed away a few years ago.

“I heard the story when I was a boy,” Akrat replied back simply.

“I heard that Iyrmen learn a hundred stories before they’re ten, is that true?” Randal knew how much a hundred was, though only barely.

“No,” Akrat replied, shaking his head.

“Oh.” Randal frowned. ‘It makes sense that the stories are exaggerated.’

“We learn at least a thousand.”

“Oh.” Randal lips grew into a boyish smile. “They say the Iyrmen always help the wee folk out on the road.”

“Yes.”

“…”

“…”

Randal understood that the Iyrman wasn’t going to continue. “Why?”

“The common people are weak. There is no honour in their suffering. We must ease their suffering, so that they can become strong, like us.” Akrat flexed his muscles. He wore the typical furs and cloths of an Iyrman, which meant much of his body was on display.

“I heard suffering makes people stronger,” Randal said, recalling how all the politicians and Lords spoke about suffering making one stronger while they sipped out of their golden chalices.

“Sometimes.” Akrat understood the sentiment of the words, but he was an Iyrman, so could smell bull shit from a mile away.

“Do you guys really eat your children?”

Akrat blinked, staring at him questioningly. “No, we do not. Who speaks such ills of the Iyr.” His lips formed a taut frown.

“Me ma said if I was bad, that you would eat me.” Randal recalled the tales from when he was young. He realised, as an adult, that it must have been a lie, but it was best to ask while the Iyrman was in front of him.

“We do not children.”

“What about adults?”

“For survival,” Akrat said, nodding his head.

“…”

“…”

“Are you joking?”

“No.”

“Then do you train your children from birth? I heard that the Iyrmen are so strong because you’re born with a sword in your hand right when the angelbird delivers you under the chimney.”

Akrat blinked again, unsure of what he was talking about. “We are not delivered under chimneys.”

“You don’t have chimneys?” Randal asked, gasping.

“We do,” Akrat replied, wondering what Randal was talking about. “Children of the Iyr grow up within the walls of the Iyr, playing as they wish until they are six years old, hearing the many tales of their families. They will not know the suffering of an empty stomach, or the suffering of not having a family. If a child is sick in the Iyr, they will not remain sick for long. If they pass before their time, they are brought back to live a true life.”

Timothy walked closer, leaning in to listen in on their conversation. ‘…’

“Wow! That sounds so fantastical,” Randal said, struggling with the word.

Everyone else understood the absurdity of what the Iyrman was saying. Bringing people back to life? That was something which was frowned upon, but more importantly, it was also extremely expensive.

“I have heard the tales of your Kingdom,” Akrat said. “That you allow your children to starve.” He had struggled to believe the tales from the Iyr, but he also knew Iyrmen did not lie.

“Some children live on the streets,” Randal said, nodding his head. “Some children have no mother or father. Some do, but they were probably kicked out. Some can’t afford to feed another mouth, and so…”

“They’re abandoned,” he said. “A child can be kicked out a family or abandoned? Is that what it means to be civilised?” Akrat tilted his head. He meant no ill will by his words, they were a genuine question.

“Well, we are civilised.” Randal frowned.

“You are civilised because you cannot protect your children?” Akrat was unsure of what the word truly meant considering the context of their conversation.

“Hey! Our Kingdom’s pretty good!” Randal frowned deeper. “They say the Southerners sacrifice their children, we don’t do that!”

Akrat shook his head. “Sacrificing children? That is terrible.” He wasn’t sure how much he should believe Randal, but would put it into the back of his mind to bring back to the Iyr.

George wasn’t sure if he should speak up about certain historical events, but decided against it. John threw him a look, and George avoided his gaze.

“Me ma and pa always looked after me, though. That’s why I’m so big.” Randal puffed up his chest with pride. He was slightly taller than the Iyrman, and slightly wider too.

“You are very big.” Akrat nodded his head, staring at Randal’s body. “Your father must have potent seed, and your mother, child bearing hips.”

“Definitely.” Randal nodded his head proudly, smirking.

“Hey, enough with such useless chatter.” Kendrick rubbed his face. “Anyway, you guys really love your kids, huh?” He exchanged a look with George, who avoided both the looks of John and Kendrick. George caught Charles smirking up at him.

“We of the Iyr had almost been brought to death,” Akrat said. “We are still recovering. To lose one child could mean the death of a thousand others.”

“Aren’t you lucky that the Kingdom created that peace treaty with you?” Kendrick asked, finally managing to score some points for his home.

“No,” Akrat said. “Your Kingdom was very lucky we created a peace treaty with it.”

“Everyone knew you were on your last legs.”

“We created a peace treaty with you and immediately sent hundreds of our people to fight the giants. Even now, we of the Iyr could send thousands to take over your Kingdom.”

“Those are treasonous words,” Kendrick said, clenching his fists. He wasn’t about to draw his sword against an Iyrman, though.

“It is not treason, but the truth. It is only because of the Iyr that the Kingdom of Blackwater exists. Our grandparents assisted your King’s grandfather fifty years ago, dealing with the giants and the silver wyrm Gantalia. Your men remained to defend, but they did not need to defend when the Iyrmen slew all the enemies.”

“What about the battle of North Fort?” Kendrick asked, not elaborating further.

“One hundred giants and the silver wyrm,” Akrat said. It was one of the first stories he learnt about. “The Slaughter of North Fort, we call it. The giants slew hundreds of your soldiers, and wounded as many more. They lost three, and another dozen were wounded.”

“We still won that battle without the Iyrmen,” Kendrick said, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“You lost as many soldiers as we provided,” Akrat said. “Though you fought in the safety of the fort, my people did not. They slew over fifty giants, and pushed back another hundred. Eventually the silver wyrm, which you had failed to kill, surrendered under Great Razfan, or as you call him, The White Wolf of the North.”

“You sure know a lot about the war,” Kendrick said, glancing aside. He was feeling awfully embarrassed that the Iyrman had so easily spoken of the war, which he had learnt, but not to the same degree. ‘Aren’t you guys meant to be savages?’

“I learned the stories when I was a boy,” Akrat said. “My grandfather fought in the war. He died to Gantalia when he assaulted Razfan during his duel with King Votr. He did not allow the silver wyrm to interrupt, keeping it at bay until Great Razfan slew the King. It surrendered immediately after, paying the price for its treachery.” Akrat’s face grew into the widest smile when speaking about his grandfather’s death.

“Your gran’pa knew The White Wolf of the North?” Randal asked. “No way!”

John stared with eyes full of glee as he stared at Akrat. ‘So cool!’

“I met Great Razfan when I was a boy.” Akrat’s lips turned into an even wider smile, threatening to break his jaw.

“Really? What was he like?” Randal stepped even closer, his eyes full of the same glee as John. The other men around him had also stepped forward, far more interested in the story.

“When I saw him, I could see he was powerful. He’s not as tall as you’d think, and he’s quite thin, but he is still extremely powerful.” Akrat raised his chin. “His axes were really heavy.”

“You touched his axes?” Randal squealed, and the other men leaned in even closer.

“I threw his axes.” Akrat’s lips were quivering with the most smugness an Iyrman was allowed to muster.

The men stared at Akrat, green with envy and with reverence. After all, The White Wolf of the North was the most famous hero of the war which had occurred fifty years ago. Even children of the Kingdom grew up hearing of his tale.

‘No children in the Iyr starve?’ Timothy thought, not interested in the story of Akrat throwing the psuedo artifacts known as Frostaxe and Icemaiden.

Akrat described the heft of the weapons, their heaviness and how powerful they were. “When I first touched them, I almost died!” Akrat laughed. “It was really funny!”

The men glanced between one another, unsure of whether they should laugh.

“Then when I was allowed to-“ Akrat stopped, sniffing the air.

George’s ears twitched, and Timothy appeared right beside them.

“What?” Kendrick asked, glancing towards the three. One reason he was alive was due to the pair’s senses.

“The smell of blood,” Akrat said.

“I can hear fighting,” George said, with Timothy nodding her head to confirm.

Akrat’s ears twitched and he grinned wide. “There is a battle!” He bounded forward like a cheetah, quickly leaving the Royal Guards behind him.

Timothy followed after a moment later, managing to keep pace with the Iyrman. She could see the look on his face, the wild grin of joy.

As he charged forward, the Royal Guard looked between one another. “…” They quickly followed suit, their armour jangling in the forest.

“Bili! Bili, run!” called a woman’s voice as she gripped her spear tightly. She wore the black cloth of the black drakken, specifically in the style of the Black Hill Tribe, which wrapped the cloth around their waist several times before wrapping it around their thighs to their shins.

“Traitors!” The drakken ahead of her swung his blade towards her. He was heavily armoured, with plates of metal all around him, and wielded a blacksword, that of his regiment’s name.

The woman managed to deflect the blow, but he could see how her arm was shaking from the effort of it. Behind the woman was her younger brother, barely a man, with a blade in his hand and fear in his eyes.

The drakken stepped forward, thrusting his blade towards her as she tried to attack him with her spear, but caught him in his armour. He grinned as he grabbed the spear, slashing down his blade. “You will pay for betray-“

The drakken’s head fell to the ground beside his feet, before his body slumped and dropped before the woman. The fighting fell silent as all saw the newcomer, a young half orc man, with a sword in his hand. On his forehead was a tattoo, a tattoo of those people.

“Deathsinger!” an armoured drakken exclaimed.

“It’s a Deathsinger!” an unarmoured drakken gasped.

The two groups of drakken turned to face the new threat, their sworn enemy in this war. Though they had been fighting moments ago, the appearance of a Deathsinger was alarming to them all. However, they could hear the jangling of armour as five more appeared, each heavily armoured, with white cloaks on their backs.

“Southerners!”

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“Drakken?” Captain Kendrick said, looking around to see how the drakken had quickly turned their attention to them. “Royal Guard! To arms!”

The five drew their blades, with George grabbing his mace. He glanced around to see the wounded drakken, frowning. There were ten living armoured drakken, and fifteen living unarmoured drakken.

“Those without armour are not our enemies,” Akrat said, his voice cutting through the silence. He glanced to the woman to his side, seeing the spear still in her hands, and her brow covered with sweat.

‘Fighting a soldier of the Blacksword Regiment is one thing, but a Deathsinger? That’s something else…’ She grit her teeth, unsure of how long she had left to live.

“You are safe now,” Akrat said. “For I am here.”

She stared up at him in shock, her eyes wide. She swallowed, unable to call out the strength of her voice.

“Those without armour are not our enemies?” Captain Kendrick’s eyes scanned the area. He had figured the two groups had been fighting each other, but they were still glaring at him. “Civilians and soldiers, is that right?” His sword glowed a translucent red, thirsty for opaque crimson.

“Children of dragons, I am Akrat son of Ikrat!” Akrat raised his sword into the air. “I have come to slay the dragon which binds you! If you wish to live, draw your weapons and follow me! If you wish to die…” Akrat grinned wide. “I will sing for your death!” Akrat had prepared for the war through the teachings of the Iyr. He had heard how the drakken had referred to his people, and the reason why.

“A Deathsinger, fighting for us?” The woman behind him blinked, unsure of what treachery he had planned. ‘No, Deathsingers aren’t like that.’

“Deathsinger! Will you really save us?” Bili asked from behind his older sister, his blade shaking in his hand.

The Blacksword Captain raised his sword, which was as black as death. “A Deathsinger has come to save us? Who does he think he is? If you turn your blades to the Deathsinger, the Dark Wing will be sure to forgive you.”

Akrat grinned wide. “I will not save you,” he said. “You will save yourself, with blade in hand!”

“I am Captain Kendrick of his Majesty’s Royal Guard!” Kendrick exclaimed. “I swear on my name, we will assist you! If you choose to fight us, then…”

“Kill them!” Shouted the Captain of the Blackswords, seeing where the wind was blowing. “I’ll deal with the Deathsinger.”

Akrat grinned, feeling the electric excitement filled his bones. George had healed him after breakfast, so he could move freely once again. He roared like a beast, which sounded more like the song of death to the drakken, before he charged forward to meet the drakken Captain in mortal combat.

“Stand behind me, quickly,” John shouted, darting in to fight against one of the armoured drakken. Randal followed beside him, taking his position as he always had. The youngest pair were a wild lot, and so had been grouped together.

George raised his spear. “Those who do not wish to die, step aside! I will heal the injured once we’re done!” He brought up his shield, deflecting a sword meant for his head.

Charles deflected the second sword which had come for George. “I told you to stop rushing ahead! Are you planning to die as young as those two?”

“I won’t be dying young, not with you by my side, good ol’ Charles.”

“Bastard.”

Captain Kendrick stepped behind Akrat, catching two blades meant for his back, before bringing up his blade with both hands. “Cutting an Iyrman in the back? You drakken sure are a dishonourable lot!”

The last three armoured drakken looked at the fifteen others around them. “If you help us now, we can overlook your betrayal! We will plead to the Dark Wing on your behalf!”

The unarmoured drakken weren’t sure exactly what to do. Yes, they had been attacked by their brethren, but the Iyrman and the Royal Guard were their sworn enemies during the war, and would no doubt point their blades towards them once they were done with the soldiers. Yet, they would have to face the Dark Wing’s wrath for their fleeing.

Akrat met with the drakken Captain, their blades clanging together. The drakken’s blade was definitely not made of the typical metal, though that didn’t mean much to Akrat, who wielded a magical blade. The two clashed their blades together.

“Hah, you’re too young to be called a Deathsi-“ The drakken dodged under a swipe, hearing the way it cut through the air. His eyes met with the Deathsinger’s, and he saw the face of the half orc ahead of him.

Akrat was no longer just a half orc, but a wild beast. A beast full of utter glee. His face was almost entirely red, his tusks jutting out further with how his wide grin was plastered across his face.

His blade bore down against the drakken mightily, causing the drakken’s arm to throb and shake, and the sounds of their metal clashing echoed louder than any other fight. ‘Damn it! This Deathsinger, he’s no wyrmling!’

Even Captain Kendrick, who was dealing with the two soldier drakken simultaneously behind the Iyrman, could hear their heavy fighting right behind him. ‘Did I really choose the most dangerous place on the battlefield?’ He stepped forward, meeting the blades of the drakken soldiers, though swung wildly as the fire of his sword slipped out, splashing across the pair.

“Damn! He’s almost as strong as the Captain,” one drakken said.

The other drakken remained silent, focused on trying to kill the Royal Guard.

“If he’s a Captain of the Royal Guard…” The drakken both changed the way they fought, no longer aiming to kill. If they could capture him, they would be promoted under Dark Wing.

‘Damn,’ Kendrick thought, seeing the way their mood switched.

Unfortunately for the drakken, they had missed something. It was a small mistake. Kendrick inhaled deeply, and brought his entire attention to one of the drakken. “For the King!” Kendrick exclaimed, the battlecry spurring on all the Royal Guard, boosting his five other companions.

It spurred John, who dropped to a knee and caught a downward swing, his the flat side of his sword digging against his palm. Randal behind him swung wildly to cut into a drakken nearby, spraying the kneeling Royal Guard and the caught drakken soldier with the blood of the second. The drakken soldier watched as his companion was cleaved nearly in two. ‘These sheep sleepers are fucking crazy!’

George had been defending quite well, allowing Charles to catch a few jabs at the two soldiers ahead. After he had formed a rhythm, and hearing the signal of his Captain, he smiled. He tossed his mace towards the drakken, who swung wildly at it, his face full of confusion. George grabbed the drakken’s face. “I will pray for you,” he said, feeling his mana rush towards his hand. The blackness seeped out of his fingers and then all across the drakken’s face as it peeled off.

The drakken screamed in the most terrible pain, trying to pull away from the man’s hand, before George let him drop. The drakken threw off his helmet, revealing his ashy flesh which was being caught by the soft wind, before he dropped dead, his bony skull dropping against the stone floor.

The drakken soldier beside watched in terror. “Oh my-“ Charles grabbed the drakken’s mouth, forcing his blade through the chink of the drakken’s armour, and pierced through his ribs with his blade.

Kendrick, having given the signal, had forced his attention to the silent drakken, who reached up with his blade to defend himself. The other drakken beside him, grinned and stepped forward.

“Sorry,” came a whisper along his ear, before he felt a thin blade pierce through his neck, causing him to gurgle out blood. He dropped his sword and grabbed his neck, feeling the hot crimson.

The drakken beside him quickly side stepped, but with the step, the heavy blow which clattered against his blade, caused him to fall onto his back. He saw Timothy’s figure for a moment before a blade pierced through his face, and all went dark.

The Captain had barely managed to catch his two soldiers die passed the Deathsinger, who was still grinning wildly. He inhaled deeply and blasted out black, poisonous smoke. “Retreat! Retrea-euck!” He choked on the blade which had emerged from the smoke. He stepped back, grabbing at his throat with one hand, spitting out blood onto the snowy ground. He gurgled out a gasp as another blade slipped through his back, and turned to see Bili behind him, eyes full of rage.

The three armoured drakken were being beaten by the unarmoured drakken, managing to pierce through a couple, but falling to their blades quickly. George had rushed to the unarmoured drakken which had fallen, quickly healing them so they wouldn’t immediately die.

With the soldiers dead, the unarmoured drakken turned to face Akrat and the others. George could see the looks of the unarmoured drakken, and quickly stepped back away from the unconscious drakken he had been tending to. He kept his shield up, but did not reach for his mace. Charles remained beside him.

Timothy remained beside her Captain, a pair of daggers in her hand. Kendrick remained at attention, counting the unarmoured drakken, who would be easily dispatched by his Royal Guard if it came to blows.

John remained beside Randal, who was wiping his blade against the snow, and activated its fire to rinse the blood off his blade.

The living drakken continued to hold their weapons tightly, unsure of how things would play out. The only thing which could be heard was the squelching of blood as Bili continued to stab down at the dead Captain, crying something aloud in drakken every few stabs.

Akrat watched the young drakken, not caring that there were many drakken still eyeing him suspiciously. “Are you angry?” Akrat asked the young drakken.

“Yes,” Bili said, keeping his blade within the Captain, panting for air.

“Good.” Akrat smiled. “He is dead now. There is no need to waste your anger on his corpse.”

“He tried to hurt my elder sister. He tried to kill her.” His eyes were full of angry tears.

“Now he is dead. Slain by your blade.”

Bili shook his head. “You killed him.”

“Your blade took the kill,” Akrat said, not upset at the fact the glory was stolen by the boy. He had channelled his rage, but it was not personal.

“He died too easily,” Bili said, his lips quivering.

“He did.”

“I’m still angry. I want to kill him again.” Bili stabbed the corpse again.

“You should use your rage on something else. If you keep stabbing him, you will ruin your blade.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Captain Kendrick said, “but we are being eye balled right now.” Kendrick stepped towards Akrat, and the woman with the spear quickly stepped towards her brother.

“Bili, come to me,” she said, not wishing to speak in drakken in case they thought she was plotting something.

Bili continued to pant, but he would not disobey his sister. He quickly stood up, turning his back to the Deathsinger without a thought, and returned to his sister, hugging her tight. She grabbed his head and brushed his hair, holding the spear firmly in her other hand.

The drakken were almost no different to humans, save for the scales which covered half their bodies, and the tiny horns on their heads. However, these differences were already too much for other races, which were always eager to separate others from themselves. Even though many Iyrmen were humans, just like those of the Kingdom, they were always considered a different type of human than the civilised Kingdomfolk.

Akrat sheathed his sword, completely calm. The Royal Guard kept their blades in hand, save for George, who held up his shield still.

“Will you help us?” Bili asked, having calmed down.

“I have offered to help,” Akrat said. “Though I will not force you to draw your blades for your freedom.” He glanced around, checking the dead soldiers. His eyes noted the way they had died, the blows to their armour, and who had killed them. “Whether you wish to become our allies, or our enemies, or you wish to remain neutral…” He picked up a shortsword made of a black metal, blacksteel, Akrat had surmised, and cleaned it. He sheathed it into its scabbard and held it out to Bili. “That is up to you.”

Bili pulled away from his sister and accepted the blade, looking down at the scabbard, before drawing a little of the blade. The blacksteel stared at him, ready for blood.

“We can’t fight,” Bili’s sister said. “We’re no soldiers.”

“You fight well enough,” Akrat said, glancing down at her spear. “I have offered my help, and that is all I can do, for now.” Akrat wasn’t interested in helping those who weren’t interested in helping themselves.

“I thought our goal was the dragon?” Captain Kendrick asked, sheathing his sword. He had guessed that Akrat couldn’t call for peace all the while he had his sword drawn.

“It is.” Akrat nodded.

“The dragon? You mean him, don’t you? Dark Wing?” Bili stared up a Akrat, clutching the blade tight within his grip.

“Daegyar?” Akrat asked, recalling the title of the dragon.

Bili nodded, his eyes hopefuly.

“Is it he who binds you?”

“He came before I was born,” Bili said. “He enslaved us and made us into his minions. We’re his slaves.” Bili swallowed. “We heard the Deathsingers had come, and so we tried to run away. The soldiers found us and…”

“Right, the Iyrmen did rush off here after Antalia,” Kendrick said, nodding his head.

“You’re not here for Daegyar?” Bili frowned, biting his lower lip.

“We are here to slay a dragon,” Akrat said, crossing his arms. “Antalia, Daegyar, or Rogryaen, it matters not.”

“So you’ll help us kill Daegyar?” Bili asked quickly, gripping the shortsword tighter.

Akrat turned to Kendrick. “What say you, Captain? To free the Black Hill Tribe and slay Dark Wing Daegyar? Is it not a good tale?” Akrat grinned wide.

“Liberating a people under the name of the King,” Captain Kendrick rubbed his chin. “Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“The King’ll definitely promote us!” Randal grinned stupidly. “I bet he’ll give us a raise too.”

“Our goal isn’t a raise, but to help the people,” John said, but even he could feel his heart pound with excitement.

“I’m no hero,” Charles said, shaking his head. “This is getting crazier by the second. We should return back so we can rest up and drink, before we’re sent out to die again.”

“If we slay a dragon, what kind of drink would the King reward you with?” George pat Charles’ back. “You never know, he might even open up a bottle of one hundred blukvin for the honoured Royal Guard who slew Dark Wing.”

Charles found himself being seduced by George’s honeyed words. “I doubt it,” he said, though he was finding himself warming up to the idea.

“Even so, you’ve never tasted drakken alcohol, have you?”

Charles closed his eyes. He didn’t want to continue, to risk his life to slay a dragon. He was no hero, he just wanted to go back to a soft bed. If he could have a warm body beside him, that would be nice too. ‘No, no, I shouldn’t get swept up by that bastard’s words.’

George remained silent, his hand on his companion’s shoulder.

‘Fuck!’ Charles sighed.

Kendrick glanced to Timothy, who was looting the dead bodies for any blacksteel daggers. “Seems like everyone agrees.”

“We will train you and lead you against the dragon,” Akrat said. “We will slay Dark Wing, and you will be free to tell the tale for generations!”

The woman frowned. “I don’t know about that…”

“Zili, it’s a Deathsinger.” Bili looked up at her. “If he can’t do it, who can?”

“We…” She stared into her brother’s eyes. “We need to return to the village,” Zili said. “We’ll speak more there.”

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Sorry! I was trying to fix my sleep!

Originally this chapter was meant to be about 2-3K words and I just got so into it. I had to remove an entire scene from it too...

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