Two weeks later, Akrat and the Royal Guard had set off, followed by the soldiers who had returned. There were a dozen soldiers who had joined them, with three youngsters too. They made their way to a nearby outpost, which would house close to thirty soldiers, whose morale would be low, giving them a unique opportunity.

“Seriously…” Charles sighed, crossing his arms. “What, we’re going to slay a dragon and everyone’s suddenly going to welcome us as heroes?” He took a sip of drakken fire, which the drakken had provided. He had been joking to the Captain earlier about wanting to do this, but he was outvoted by the rest anyhow.

“That’s the plan, isn’t it?” George asked, chuckling. He stood in front of the three youngsters. Bili, Rok, and Rak, who were adorned in thick clothing and leathers. The youngest, and least equipped, had been assigned to Charles and he, waiting for the signal.

Charles raised his brow to George, sipping on his ale again. “With these kids at our side? They should be back home, suckling on their mother’s teat.”

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” George said. “We’re about to fight.”

“That’s why I’m drinking.” Charles shook his head. “If they can’t suck on their mother’s teat, I can suck on mine.”

“I’m a man,” the youngest, a boy called Rok said. He, as well as his sister Rak, had volunteered to come.

“How old are you? Ten? Eleven?” Charles asked, glancing between the three of them.

“I’m almost thirteen,” Rok said, crossing his arms and standing taller, trying to tip toe. He had a spear which was far too long for him to hold, and a shield slightly too big and heavy, and a shortsword, which was perfectly sized.

“A boy still,” Charles said, eyeing the three up in their equipment. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“That is my choice to make.” Rok’s eyes narrowed.

“I need to be here. Deathsinger is helping me, I must save myself.” Bili grabbed the hilt of his shortsword.

Charles looked at George, who shrugged at him, before Charles sighed and sipped more of his ale. “Gods, damn it.”

“He wants to fight for his people,” George said. “It’s admirable.”

“We’re not that desperate that we need children like them on the battlefield.” Charles looked away. “They have the face of my brother, George.”

George wasn’t sure what he could say. If Charles was going to mention his brother, then that was the end of the conversation. He placed a hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Then let’s keep them at our side,” George said. “We need to make sure they aren’t killed. That’s why we were assigned the easiest job.”

“I’m even less of a babysitter than I am a hero,” Charles said, sipping some water. He could feel the gentle buzz, the slight ache in his throat. He closed his eyes shut tight, trying to forget.

A horn echoed from the small outpost, and the sounds of shouting and screaming filled the area. The signal had been given.

“Come on,” George said, donning his shield.

The pair of them, along with their trio of drakken, waited for a few moments. George dropped to his knee, muttering a prayer to the gods, before the drakken could feel vitality fill them.

They snuck their way around to one side of the outpost, where Timothy had pulled dropped down two ropes.

Akrat and Timothy had gone ahead to slay a few of the soldiers on watch, before Akrat would then open the gates. As the gates opened, the rest would charge in through the front, whereas Timothy would sneak around the back, picking off the archers, and dropping down the ropes for George and Charles and their small unit.

“I’ll go first,” Charles said, with Bili following on the rope beside him. As he climbed onto the wooden rampart, he glanced around. He motioned a hand behind him, seeing the soldiers fighting with the Iyrman and his allies near the centre.

There were others near them, shouting between one another, and making their way to the battlefield. They only had the time to don a helmet, grab a spear, and a shield. One had tried to put on some mail, but had tied it around his waist instead.

Charles rushed forward, before leaping up behind them. The soldiers heard the thud behind them, and as they turned around, the soldier which had lagged behind gagged as he spat out blood. Charles pulled his blade out of the soldier’s chest, letting him drop beside him to reveal his body to the four soldiers which remained.

“Hello there,” Charles said, readying his blade.

The drakken roared and screeched, rushing forward to meet him in combat. One was shot down by an arrow, from a keen eyed Timothy, who thinned out one of the soldiers for the group, before moving away to find another spot.

Charles clashed with a spear, stepping aside to try and dodge another, which struck a shield beside him.

“Can I ask you to surrender?” George asked, looking over his shoulder with a gentle smile. He held his mace in hand, swinging it wildly towards the soldier.

The drakken shouted something in their language, before pressing forward to meet the two Royal Guards, with the third soldier meeting with three empowered teenagers, who were ready to fight.

“I thought not.” George struck the soldier in front of him with his mace, but only managed to find a shield.

They clashed in combat, Charles and George fighting side by side as they always did. The youngsters behind them formed a shield wall, their spears poking out to deal with the lone soldier, who felt as though he had the best deal. Unfortunately for him, it was difficult to penetrate the wall.

Charles and George fell into their rhythm as they fought. George caught a blow to his shield, swinging his mace out. As he swung his mace, Charles caught the spear meant for his friend, deflecting it upwards.

Blade met spear. Spear met mace. Weapons clattered against shields. Charles kept a portion of his mind behind him, towards the three young drakken.

“Concentrate,” George said. “Do you think I’ll let any of them drop?”

Charles swung wildly ahead of him, cutting into the spear. As the spear dropped, the guard reached down for his blade, bolting forward with it. Steel rang against steel as Charles grunted. “Good point,” he said, spinning the caught blade around his longsword, before cutting into the soldier’s hand.

The soldier wailed, before it was cut off by a sword through the face. The second drakken soldier roared, inhaling deeply, but George slammed his mace against the man’s face, stopping the plume of wicked black smoke from escaping his lips. As he dropped, the pair turned towards the laughing drakken soldier, who was spinning his spear around, causing the three youngsters to fall back.

“Run, little pup-yaorck!” He spit out blood as he reached up to his throat, feeling the blood pour out.

Charles pulled his blade out of the man’s throat. “Are you alright?” he asked, raising his brow. The three should have had an easy time with the soldier, if they stuck to their training.

“Sorry,” Rok said.

Rak dropped down, panting for air. She looked down towards her thigh, which had been struck by a glancing blow by the spear, and was dripping red onto the ground.

“We have no time to rest,” Charles said. “We have a job to do.”

Bili frowned, annoyed at the lack of his courage. ‘If it was Akrat, he would have charged in and cut the soldier in half.’

George checked on Rak, whose thigh had been wounded. He muttered a prayer to the gods, the distant sounds of battle still raging on.

“We will do better in the next fi-eorck.” Rok reached up to his throat, looking down at the arrow tip. He dropped down to his knees, confusion and fear in his eyes.

Charles looked at him, watching the boy reach out with a hand, before the life faded from his eyes, and he landed on his front, two more arrows stuck out of his back. Charles glanced upwards to see another arrow shooting towards Bili, though his arm blurred as he cut through the arrow and Bili dropped aside. “Shields!” Charles cried. “Shields!”

The sounds of the fight had alarmed three drakken nearby, who had quickly appeared.

Charles’ heart was pounding wildly, feeling his stomach churn. ‘Fuck! Fuck! I knew it! We shouldn’t have brought them along.’ He grabbed the shield on the floor and brought it up, taking two arrows, as one glanced off his shoulder. “Run!” Charles shouted. “Run, damn it!”

George grabbed Rak, having just finished healing her, and pushed her frozen form forward. “Come, my child, quickly!” She had seen her younger brother die, just like that.

Charles remained on the scene for a moment longer to draw the drakken’s attention, squatting down slightly as they shot their arrows, before dropping their bows. He rolled aside, feeling an arrow knock against the side of his thigh, cutting the dangling leather, but he managed to escape from the worst of it. He turned and bolted away between a set of buildings, leaving the dead form of Rok behind.

Charles’ eyes burnt as he fought back the tears. ‘Fuck! Gods! Damn it all! I told them! I fucking told them!’

George led Rak away, who was screaming and wailing. What could he do now? What could he say? He picked her up and ran with her, towards the sounds of combat, towards the safety of the Iyrmen and his companions. ‘Forgive me,’ he thought. ‘I should have known.’ It was a moment of negligence which brought a lifetime of regret.

As Charles scrambled away, he ducked under a shortsword, and brought his blade up to Bili, before his blade froze. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t yo-“ He spun around on his heel, narrowing dodging a spear as he swung with his longsword towards a soldier.

The three drakken had appeared, one of them wearing a highly decorated helmet, a higher ranked soldier.

‘Fucking damn it!’ Charles raised his sword up, ready to fight. ‘Not like this! Not like this!’ He would have told Bili to run, but there was only a wall behind him.

Bili held his shield up, holding up the shortsword. In his panic, he had dropped his spear, and he had only heard to grab his shield.

The soldiers stepped forward, and Charles inhaled deeply. He stared at the soldiers, and exhaled the breath. His eyes sobered up, and he began to remember. The soldier’s faces became unrecognisable, faceless, just like from those men back then.

“Do you really think I’m as weak as I was back then?” Charles asked, grabbing his blade with both hands, and stepping forward. He placed some distance between himself and Bili, his back blocking the sight of the threat ahead. ‘This time…’

The soldiers charged forward, shields and spears ready to meet the white cloak. Charles bolted forward, swinging his blade like a savage beast. Even his face and eyes became full of hatred, like that of a Deathsinger. The soldiers faltered for a moment, for they felt the chill wash over them.

“Be careful, he’s-“ The soldier couldn’t finish his sentence as he brought the shield above his head, the shield quivering under the mighty blow. He fell back from the force of the blow, shock causing him to freeze.

Charles felt a spear pierce through his side, but he did not falter. He grabbed the head of the soldier who had stabbed him, and forced his longsword through the underside of her jaw and through her skull. His blade pushed through the resistance, cutting into the brain, before he pulled back and ducked under a spear, letting the body fall.

A spear clattered against the side of his helmet, the bottom half of the spear blade cutting into his cheek and nose where his flesh had been exposed. The fierce pain throbbed as wet crimson fell down his face, but he didn’t waste time thinking about the pain as he swung his blade high, cutting through a soldier’s shin, causing them to wail in pain and drop.

A heavy blow hit his side from the same soldier, and he forced his blade through their thigh, causing them to scream and wail in pain. Charles gasped as a spear cut through his back, and the soldier under him brought up their blade to strike him. He managed to move aside, though the blade cut through his shoulder, causing his grip to falter slightly.

Charles coughed. “Don’t you have a sword?” He grabbed the soldier’s head who was under him and brought the blade through their skull.

“What?” the soldier asked, before he felt a blade pierce through his back.

Charles rolled onto his side and slashed the soldier who remained standing, cutting at his leg, causing them to wail and drop.

“Surrender!” the soldier cried, begging for mercy.

Charles blinked once, seeing the dead face of Rok. He drove his sword through the drakken’s throat. He let go of his blade, which was lodged in the soldier’s throat, and rolled onto his back.

Blood pooled out from him, and he hacked up some spit to the floor beside him. A cut through his shoulder, a spear through the back, just under his breastplate, and his side. He looked up to see a young man, a familiar face, with a bloodied sword in hand. “Akrat,” Charles said, his eyes going blurry.

“Charles!” Akrat dropped beside him. “I have come, Charles. I have come.” When George had come to the battle, dropping Rak off to one side, he had shouted to Akrat, who quickly scrambled up a building to try and find them.

“It looks like,” Charles coughed, “I won’t be there to fight that dragon, huh?”

“No, Charles.” Akrat said, shaking his head. “I cannot save you. Are you cold?” Akrat fought his quivering jaw.

“Yeah. Get me my drink, will you?” Charles had no strength left in his arms, and his breath was growing more ragged as the seconds passed.

Akrat brought the wineskin to Charles’ lips.

Charles sipped through it, and he coughed. “Still burns like a bitch.” He coughed some more, feeling the burn in his throat, which took away the pain from everywhere else. “I told you not to bring the kids to the battle.”

“They wished to fight,” Akrat said.

“I didn’t want to let them die. Rok, Rok’s dead.”

“Even I cannot save them all,” Akrat said, looking down at Charles. “You saved Bili.”

Charles looked to the young drakken, but he saw another face. A face young, and full of happiness. “Yeah,” Charles said, smiling. “This time, I saved him.” His mind was growing foggier, a chill seeping through his entire body. His heart no longer pounded like a drum, but quivered like a faltering trumpet. He tried to laugh, but ended up hacking. “I was never cut out to be a hero.”

“I will guide your soul to the Iyr,” Akrat said. “You died an Iyrman’s death.”

“An Iyrman, huh? That doesn’t…” Charles’ smile remained on his face, but the light faded from his eyes.

Akrat stared down at those lifeless eyes for a moment, recalling his promise. He reached up and closed the dead man’s eyelids. He looked to Bili, whose eyes were full of tears. “Are you angry?” the Deathsinger asked.

“Yes,” Bili whispered, nodding his head.

“Good.”

“Get them!” called some soldiers from nearby, who had managed to gather their armour and weapons.

Akrat grabbed his blade and turned to face them, his eyes completely white, his face red. He had failed in his task of bringing glory to Charles, though the man died an Iyrman’s death. Now it was his responsibility to guide his soul back to the Iyr, where it may rest a warrior’s rest. He gripped his sword tighter. Only the warm blood of life could deal with the chill of death.