A wave of enemy arrows meets their demise in her flames. He saw her command the ocean in Lollardum and now fire. But her deadly magic comes as a cost. He alone knows her secret; a death wish intensified by the heat of battle. But as the enemy unleashes another a barrage of arrows, he realizes they need her. He cuts through the remaining archers with little compassion. If he’s to succeed he can’t consider them people; only faceless enemies.

Passing the archers, he challenges the wave of armored infantry. They swing their swords with deadly accuracy, and they swarm him like a chaotic ocean tide. His horse, Mika, fidgets as they gather close to her rear. But she’s trained for these situations, all it takes is the right moment. When they’re in the line of fire, he signals for the animal to kick, sending the closest soldier to the ground. She leaps forward pushing through the mob, but she bucks; knocking him from the saddle. He stumbles to his feet, back aching and dazed, to see her race off from the field. It’s probably better this way.

Zack slashes, stabs, and beats the soldiers as he forces himself through their ranks. Sweat rolls from his face as he throws a man off his back. It’s difficult without Mika, but it’s better this way. He heaves another to the ground. While the third, with the force of an ox, tackles him to his knees. The broad shoulder terror clamps his fingers around his windpipe. They dig into his throat, he gasps for air, as his lungs begin to ache.

His head spins; it’s only a matter of time before he loses consciousness. With a trembling hand, he grips his sword, lifting it high enough to press it against the enemy’s exposed neck. It’s not pretty or smooth, but his blood spills over himself and the mud. His body aches; his shoulders are stiff. But it’s the desensitization to the breaking of bones that disturbs him.

Until there’s a screech cutting across the sky. Swooping red demons swarm wagons like giant flies, spilling the contents over the field. The men beside him stop fighting, the world pauses as they watch. Soon the dragons tire of wagons and horses and change tactics; darting over the soldiers, snapping at them before plucking them from the ground. A lancer beside him thrusts his spear at a passing beast, but it only summons the creature’s fury.

The long serpent like dragon twists as its wings guide it to the field. He’s seen the likeness on knight’s shields and on crest hanging in a lord’s Great Hall. But nothing compared him to the real beast. Sharp razor like teeth encased in a long sword like snout. Four muscular legs with long toes ending in claws. The barbed tail swishes over the mud, deterring an attack from behind.

Not like the soldiers didn’t try. But the dragon moves with lightning speed, bouncing from soldier to soldier, knocking them off their feet. Once horizontal they’re done for. The claws pry opens the steel armour like it was clay. The panic screams pierce his armour and sends chills up his spine. What happens next, summons bile to his throat. It shoves its narrow snout into the hole and begins to feast. More follow suit, landing among them and begin all over again. He turns away, pushing his way past the men standing transfixed on the horror before them.

Did she know this would happen?

More of them swoop down, following the same pattern. He feels the fire on the back of his neck before he hears it. He ducks, barely avoiding the fire blast zooming past him. He sweats as his armour grows hotter, but when he gets out of range he’s met with a towering black dragon. It shakes the earth, almost knocking him off balance, as it lands on solid ground.

The humid air weighs on his chest. The whiff of burnt flesh and wood drifts through his helmet. This dragon isn’t as agile as the scarlet ones, but the range of its fire does catastrophic damage. He watches his men’s swinging swords and lances fail to pierce the scales. The spiked tail flings the Alexanderian soldier into a burning pile of bodies. He’s seen this dragon before. The spikes on the heavy muscular tail. The midnight scales. His horns twist into themselves, but he’s sure of it. It’s an adult version of Sara’s pet.

This is what Charcoal becomes?

He’ll… kill us all…

She’s risking all their lives. He can’t stop the swirling thoughts from washing over him. She’s putting everyone in danger, its not just this battle. Its their every day lives, their future. Beckham was right. She’s going to bring the whole kingdom down with her. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

A guttural snarl turns his blood cold. A group of Alexanderian soldiers swarm the red dragon. The snapping blades mix with their screams. They’ll kill us all. His blade pulses to life, a warm liquid rush through his veins, rousing his tired muscles with newfound vigor. The creature scoops a man in a navy uniform into his claws. It unhinges its jaw and stuffs the crying man in. As it reaches for a second, his feet spring to life. The weight of the haze, armour, even the battle evaporates, as he leaps into the air; slamming his blade into the dragon’s gapping jaw.

The hiss of betrayal rattles his metal plates. He doesn’t stop, pushing the heated blade, he cuts through the palate. Through the mandible all the way to the other side. Vibrant crimson blood spills over its two rows of teeth pooling on the grass below. It shudders, roars, and the tail whips in a frenzy. The pinpoint yellow eyes glare into his, trapping him there and filling him with rage.

A speck of a black pupil grows, widens into a black crescent. There’s a whimper and then the beast collapses. Taking his lead, more men follow his strategy. Furious roars echoes across the battlefield as they slash its vulnerable underside. But alone, on his knees and wrist deep in sludge and blood, he’s helpless as he watches the men slaughter everything in their wake.

It doesn’t end. The enemy is faceless, all he sees is a weapon swinging at his helm. Somewhere between the downswing and him, his blade strikes. His sword drinks in the slaughter, feeding off each hit, gorging itself on the metallic ringing as it connects with their armour. One bear size soldier swings his battle-axe but it misses. Their weapons slice through the air.

Their dizzying dance, twists, and slashes across the battlefield. The strength behind the thrusts feels like he can win the war single handed. The movements are a blur but their cries ring out. A fiery zeal bubbles in his limbs as he blocks and counters his enemy’s blows. Compared to him, they’re sluggish, but he slashes his enemy’s neck and chokes on the gushing blood raining over him.

The magic coursing through him directs him to a lone soldier confronting two enemies. By the time Zack reaches him, the man disposes of the first; a fatal slash to the upper thigh. Their leather armour doesn’t stand a chance against his chainmail; but Zack can’t refuse the invitation. It’s the only way this ends. When everyone is dead. There’s no resistance, his sword doesn’t falter.

He hears the sword sing out in glee with each strike. A beautiful song sung by angels; one he doesn’t wish to end. He turns to the last man; mud coats his helmet and armour. His shoulders slump, he’s tired and battle worn. He doesn’t see him, it’s the coward’s way. But this is an unholy war; sacrifice is impartial. It wants what it wants.

He holds the slippery hilt above his head, taking aim at the exposed neckline. At the last minute his enemy turns to face him.

“Sir?” The song stops. The swirling world around him pauses. His enemy yanks off his helmet, revealing drenched blond curls spilling to his shoulders. “Sir, what are you doing?”

Theo…

The power drains from his body, causing him to drop his weapon. There’s no answer to Theo’s pleading gaze. He surveys his appearance, racking his brain over how close he came to killing him. The mud, his shape, nothing tells him he’s one of theirs. A worse question eats away at him. It poisons his mind and fills him with a tidal wave of guilt. Which soldiers did he killed today? Before he can answer, a triumphant horn sounds across the field.

“Sir? That’s not ours…” Another horn, more exuberant this than the last. He knows that sound, the familiar call to action played at every tournament. He always hated the overzealousness of it, especially when the kingdom’s champion won. But this time he’s grateful.

“Looks like General Steel arrived.”

Relief takes hold of his heart. They weren’t alone anymore. There’s finally some hope. But Theo motions to the hill, drawing his attention to Moira. It’s the first time he’s seen her since the battle started. Worse yet, she kept her word, and found Kipling first. She’s defenseless as Kipling strikes her with the flat side of his sword. A panicked scream escapes his lips as he races to her; avoiding soldiers, horses, and bodies. Kipling stole his family and his old life, but he won’t let him take her.

“That ain’t a good idea lad,” a stranger blocks his path, “the General will put your head next to hers.” He isn’t dressed as a soldier but if he’s an obstacle then he’s an enemy.

“Either move or I’ll go through you, your choice!”

“If ye insist, but I won’t be going easy on ya lad,” He draws a bronze cutlass. “I’m Tyrann,” he smiles tipping his feathered hat, “and who’s offering me this swordplay?”

“Zack Dawson, Captain of the Alexanderian Knights.”

“Pleased to meet you lad, now let’s get started.”

Zack’s foot slides in the sludge as he blocks Tyrann’s attack. The rapier crashes into his sword but it rolls off the guard and breaks contact. From the corner of his eye, he spies a vibrant light, like intense sunshine, sweeping over them. It silences the deafening fighting. It blinds him. Its warm over his skin, like an uncomfortable hot bath. Moira.

His instincts tell him something’s wrong. His throat is dry and when the light recedes his heart urges him to find her. As the battlefield emerges, it's Tyrann’s determined glare that calls for action. The adversary matches his strikes blow by blow. But he’s finished with games—she needs him, and he’s wasted enough time.

“If you withdraw, I’ll let you live.”

“I wouldn’t rush to your princess if I were you.” He wipes his forehead with his sleeve, “the general would’ve made a bloody scene of her.”

“You don’t know Moira,” he raises the sword over his head and lunges into a forward slash, but Tyrann dodges it.

“Moira? The feisty scrawny Mage? She’s the princess everyone’s trying to kill. Well, I’ll be damned.” The two men circle each other as they continue death’s dance.

“What do you know about her?” he charges but he leaps out of reach of his blade.

“Probably more than you do,” his rapier jabs. Zack blocks. Their steel screeches as they slide apart. “She’s a job. Or was. The money isn’t worth the hassle to kill a princess.”

“She upset the wrong corrupt lord?”

“Somethin like that.”

They parry, clashing blades until Tyrann drops his guard. In that instance he slices into the padded jacket. He yells clutching his arm as blood oozes between his fingers. He screams his battle cry; a harsh thick sound from deep in the throat and charges. His first blow slams against his armored chest. He blocks the feverish strikes as Tyrann's attack climbs higher to his vulnerable neck.

It moves like a wasp darting closer to his face until it jabs his armpit. It finds the gap in his armor but fails to pierce the chain mail. He raises his sword and aims for the lithe shoulder. The air whizzes by his ear as it slams downward. Vibrations rattle his limbs as the heavy sword makes impact with the ground. A jutting pain shoots through the back of his knee. A guttural howl bursts from his throat as Tyrann yanks the blade free. Pushing through the pain and throbbing muscles, he forces himself to remain upright.

“Why get involved in this?" He asks through gritted teeth.

“The ice queen hired me to make sure Kipling succeeds. I don’t got to win. Only keep you busy until the general gets his.” He jabs the sword into his wound again. “He’s a bit more bloodthirsty than the last one. But that’s no business of mine.”

“What do you know of General Diamond?”

“I know he screamed when I took his head.”

His blood boils. His racing heart slams harder against his ribs. He squeezes the hilt. How dare this feathered dandy be Diamond's unceremonious end. A hurricane of fury engulfs the soul as a chasm of darkness demands blood. It calls for men like Tyrann, men for hire who work in the shadows to evade the law. People like Margaret who use her people’s money to fund her twisted plans. But lastly, people like Kipling, who spill blood to see it flow. Kipling stole everything from him; his family, home, and innocence.

His sword shudders to life, pulsating under his flesh but he embraces the bloodshed it's craving. His craving. It radiates; master and weapon in agreement. His attacks are faster and stronger; he witnesses the fear in Tyrann’s eyes. His sword pulsates, and he obeys, slamming the blade against his neck. A blinding yellow light obscures his vision as he feels the blade cut through flesh, then bone, then slices through his’s body. Muscle and sinew unravel at the behest of his blade. But the weapon takes its fill. His body weakens. His mind is a whirl. His vision fades to black as his knees give way from under him.