It had been ten days since the Lindwyrm had gotten inside the defences of Avandun and slaughtered forty-four of my fellow String Guard. Sergeant-Teller Rolfo had done his best to muddy my name further by questioning exactly why I was the lone survivor. With several eyewitnesses attesting that a spear protruded from the eye of the bastard creature as it slunk away into the forest, it had been decreed that the defence was a resounding success, I was a hero, and his efforts were quickly shut down.

  I’d spent most of that time being healed in the monastery of the Physic, the God of healing and life. Their worshippers were optimistic as they were irritating, but their draughts and healing arts are second to none, so they should always be respected. Even I will trade harsh words or blows to anyone who tries to disrespect a Monk or Nun of Physic. After eight days, I’d been deemed fit for lighter duties, and I returned to my section of the wall, with forty-four new faces to get to know more. They were all green as grass, or pulled out of retirement. Usually, the survivor of a wall breach would be moved to another section so that they wouldn’t have to continue serving in the place where their fellow soldiers had fallen in battle. It seems in the chaos of organising so many replacements, Sergeant-Teller Rolfo had forgotten to transfer me.

  Usually, when I meet new faces, they see mine, marked with the Black Wyvern, and immediately go on guard. The fearful ones keep away from you, not even looking into your eyes for fear that you somehow produce a sword and chop them to death with it. The braver ones will see the mark for what it is: shame. They hone in on it relentlessly, with nicknames, insults and ganging up on you until you’re isolated and alone, not able to trust the man at your side and back.

  It’s why I’m such a grafter; I have to work three times as hard to get the same respect as anyone else. One good thing about the breach was the welcome, but inevitably temporary, boost to my general reputation. The Black Wyvern had driven off the Lindwyrm, people said, and a few children had offered me flowers or leaves in thanks while their parents thanked me awkwardly, one man even shook my hand. I would cherish that moment forever.

  For now, though, I kept a watchful eye out of my loosing gap, but I couldn’t help but watch the new door from where the Lindwyrm had burst forth. That wasn’t how it’d got in, however; that was a task left to the Questioners, who no doubt would leave no stone unturned in their inquisition. For a Lindwyrm to get into our defences without challenge was not just an embarrassment but a potential sign of far more potent dangers to come.

  I turned to my new watch partner, expecting to hear the familiar sound of dull teeth tearing old bread, and my heart sank as I remembered how Ulther had met his end in damn near the exact spot his replacement was standing. He was a young lad, a boy of only fifteen years called Elp. An unfortunate name, as the others all took the piss out of him by dramatically shouting for help whenever he walked past. I didn’t join in, though. A name is something special to a person, plus you learn a thing or two about being sensitive to others when your face is marked in the way mine is.

  “What was it like, fightin’ a Lindwyrm by yourself?” he asked softly, his soft blue eyes wide in wonder.

  “I didn’t lad, I had forty-four brave swines at my back, I was just the one that lived” I shook my head slightly, in disbelief, the boy would ask a question harder men know not to ask each other.

  “Were you scared?” he couldn’t take a hint on this one.

  “What the fuck do you think?” I growled, the lad flinched at my sudden turn, and I went back to staring out of my loosing gap.

  “I think I would be…I’ve never even shot a deer,” the lad whispered.

  “Neither did Dervyn”, I said.

  “What’s that now?” he said, his voice louder now as he leaned in toward me.

  “Nothing, you wouldn’t get it.” I continued watching the treeline, at this point hoping that a Lindwyrm or even a Drake would wander out.

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Look, lad, if you’re not scared in any kind of fight, you’re an idiot, a soon-to-be-dead one. If you can be scared but not let it freeze you into place, then you’ll do a better job than most of the other sorry folk caught up in it.” I turned to look him in the eye before giving him a bare smile and a nod. Hopefully, that would satisfy him, and he’d shut up.

  He nodded to himself, and we stood there in merciful silence for a few minutes before he started flapping his mouth yet again.

  “They say you got that mark for killing someone with a sword…”

  Frustrated, I turned away from the gap once more to look at him. I fixed him with one of the firmest stares I could, the kind Peevan would have been proud of.

  “Yeah, I did. So you think the clever thing to do is go wind up the one man in Avandun clearly willing to kill another human like that?” I spat the words out in a snarl. The story of my mark is mine to tell alone, and certainly not to a mere boy.

  “Tullen Fal Barraz, bearer of the Black Wyvern and indentured of the String Guard, you are hereby summoned to the court of King Perek, Noble Protector of Avandun and Lord Presider of the Mine.” A deep, loud voice boomed through the enclosed space, and I turned to see who it belonged to.

  It was a Monarch Mouth, one of the courtiers empowered to speak with the authority of King Perek's voice. When they bore a message or objective from their King, they spoke and acted with his authority within the confines set by him. This one was stick thin and at least two heads taller than me, and I am not a short man. He had long, bushy, dark hair that reminded me of Ulther, if Ulther’d been thirty years younger and known what tooth care was.

  I turned toward the Monarch Mouth, “I am Tullen Fal Barraz, and I will attend.”

  He looked me in the eye, well, just below it where my mark stood for all to see, “Yes, indeed you are, follow me.”

  “See you later, Elp”, I said. I never would, and I don’t know whatever became of that boy. If he died violently, I can only hope it was fast, so that whatever killed him didn’t have to answer any of his damned questions.

  I followed the lanky Monarch Mouth down the stairwell into the gated tunnel. Gouge marks from the Lindwyrm’s claws scraping against the stone were clearly visible and rough to the touch; it would take a hell of a stone mason to sort the marks out, and the guards' stairwells were not a priority for visual improvements.

  We walked through the town square, and the people were going about their daily business, selling various goods, drinking in the tavern or collecting their children from the education house. The smells of cooking meat and freshly baked bread lingered with me as I passed the stalls. This was my favourite walk in all of Avandun; here it smelled of life, of the very best of the Avanish people, here it felt like home.

  I didn’t have time to stop and haggle over meat or flirt with Jillegh, whose laugh made me think of wedding bells and tying flowers in her hair; instead, I continued following the Monarch Mouth to deep within Avandun. There was no missing our destination: the great stone dome that served as King Perek’s fortress was an imposing sight, with regular gaps in the masonry for archers or ballistas to fire from. Not that many of Wyrm or Dragonkind made it past the first defences, but Perek could never be said to be complacent despite his many issues.

  We walked up the drawbridge that led into the dome. I couldn’t help but remember being dragged down it the last time I was here, blood dripping from my new tattoo to the jeers and abuse hurled at me by the people of Avandun I’d now helped save. Still, it beat the alternative punishment, which was death and at least this time, I wouldn’t be leaving with another tattoo.

  The guards at the metal gate waved us through, and I watched with wonder as it easily parted, as if it were no heavier than the thinnest square of wood. An entire gate made out of metal was as decadent as it was irresponsible, but at least Perek had the sense to ensure it was entirely dulled. A Dragon would have a grand, old, frenzied day if it saw a slab of metal like that shining.

  I nodded to the leather-clad guard on my left as I walked through, and was taken aback when he nodded in return.

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  “Nice chest piece”, he said.

  “Thanks,” I replied, before noticing my chest piece was a near-perfect copy of his, so I laughed.

  There are stories of soldiers and questing knights in gleaming metal armour who would sally forth, righting all the wrongs in the world and rescuing beautiful princesses from Dragons. Anyone who has had to actually face one of the bloody things, or been trained by one, knows it’s total wyrmshite. The Dragons were as likely to carry the brave heroes off to add to one of their hoards as they were to just crush them with their own so-called protection.

  Those of us who wear leather have the right of it. It’s light enough to move in, and strong enough to protect from one, maybe two glancing blows with the bonus of not sending the Dragons into a frenzy. If you were important, like this Guard was from his own chest piece, you could have strips of wood or plates, dull, cheap metal pinned into your armour for a bonus.

  I’m not important, so I wore only leather, which I think came from a cow. It means I’m fast, and fast is what counts. That’s how I’d killed a sword master after all.

  We stepped inside the dome into a relatively dark, dull corridor. Sconces flickered on the walls; what was notable was the utter lack of any flag, relief or statement of authority; it was as bare as a prison cell. I did spot the array of murder holes and archer slits covering all of the angles near the doorway, however. If one of those overgrown lizards got in here, it’d get a warm welcome indeed in King Perek’s court.

  The Monarch Mouth held his hand up to keep us in place as the outer gate was closed, hidden mechanisms clicked and whirred as it locked behind us. It took around thirty seconds, which is no time at all, to make sure you were glint-safe. Couldn’t be too careful, especially with how eagle-eyed some of the larger Dragons were.

  Once the gate had locked into place, the very wall in front of us opened at a hidden seam, and it pulled apart, much as the front gate had, by about fifteen feet, a light shining from within so bright I shielded my eyes with my hand. The Monarch Mouth cleared his throat, a nonverbal encouragement to follow him this instant if my experience in the String Guard’s training period was anything to go by. I followed after him, trying to look as courtly and well-behaved as possible. Especially given that last time I’d been here, I’d literally been dragged out kicking and shouting. Honestly, I was lucky to have kept my head.

  “Presenting Tullen Fal Barraz Sire, hero of the Breaching of Avandun!” The Monarch Mouth’s voice reverberated through the dome as if it were a concert hall. King Perek sat in gleaming metal armour, free of any tarnish, dent or scratch. He had long, straight, black hair and the kind of face an overly zealous stonemason could have chiselled. His throne was an opulent, decadent sight, every inch of it covered in diamonds, rubies, sapphires and a half dozen other types of gem I couldn’t put a name to but would give a damn good try of trying to chisel out if I had half a chance. Around the room stood various courtiers and guards, all of whom wore less expensive, but by no means less shiny armour. I was stunned to see that each of the guards here held not only spears but also wore swords at their hips. This angered me; they had a position of great honour, whereas I was barely tolerated. It should be me up there.

  These guards were no Steelweavers. Merely a ceremonial throwback to a time when hordes of soldiers killed each other in the name of one idiot or the other. Still, my palms itched to spar, to test myself and use skills I’d had to bury.

  King Perek beckoned us closer, and we walked across a cushioned red carpet with threads of gold and silver sewn throughout it.

  “Tullen Fal Barraz, you served your King and his Kingdom well when the evil Lindwyrm did try to lay claim to its innocence.” I tried my hardest not to roll my eyes. I’d forgotten that Perek referred to himself in the third person; I expect it made him feel grand or more like a king.

  Everyone looked at me expectedly. Mummer’s laughs, I hadn’t bloody bowed. In a stroke of brilliance, if I say so myself, I promptly dropped to one knee, the one I’d jarred and had fully healed. I faked a brief wince as I did so, with an additional dash of feigned stoicism, so that the pampered nobles could feel satiated by my feigned obeisance. I also gambled that this gave Perek a chance to grandstand as the man of the people who should have been.

  “Please rise, Tullen Fal Barraz, I was personally made aware of the injury you suffered in your heroic duties," he said, holding out his hand toward me.

  I took his soft, uncalloused hand in mine and kissed it gently.

  “I thank you, sire, for your kindness”, I said, my voice heavy with reverence.

  “So tell me, Tullen Fal Barraz, how does one bearing the Black Wyvern balance their past treachery against their fellow man with such selfless service toward them?” He smiled in a pouty sort of way while raising an eyebrow. He left me with the distinct impression that he was prone to speaking whatever was on his mind and that it was considered poignant or insightful. My despair at the fact our kingdom was ruled by an idiot aside, I resolved to pluck what strings I could to get out of this gods-awful, shining cave of a room.

  “Through service, I gained perspective, my King”, I said, paraphrasing the Serf, the name of the Godbody when he’d been alive. By the nods of approval and the smile of Perek, I’d clearly said the right thing and struck the right chords.

  “Yes, good, very good, Tullen. I remember you chose the mark rather than death. A wise choice indeed, for if we cannot improve ourselves, then what use is living? I see that's why Godbody chose you to survive the attack."

  I bowed my head down low, a perfect display of deference, mainly to mask my irritation slipping out. That divine corpse had nothing to do with my survival; my illegal skills did.

  “I’m a new man, Sire, reborn thanks to your insightful justice.” As soon as I finished saying those sycophantic words, I worried I’d pushed it too hard, but Perek merely nodded, no doubt patting himself on his back in his mind's eye.

  “I’ve decided to grant you a token of my favour, Tullen, in recognition of your service.”

  My heart leapt. A token of the king's bloody favour? This was the turn in luck I so desperately wanted.

  “Sire, I…don’t know what to say, thank you. To be free of the mark would be to-”

  The fucker laughed, he actually laughed, right in my Wyvern-marked face.

  “Godbody no Tullen, to free you of the mark would be to say we undid death itself, and we cannot do that, nor rob you of the gift of penance through service. But I recognise that perhaps not all of your restrictions need to apply anymore, in light of your service.” Perek tittered away to himself as I processed what he had said.

  I couldn’t hide my reddened face, which had flushed with anger and embarrassment. Yet I still had the presence of mind to wear a smile.

  “I am not worthy, sire,” I said, hoping I didn’t come across as pained as I was.

  “Tullen, I disagree, and so I have decreed that you shall have the right to own property. While you will remain in the String Guard, the crime of using a sword on a fellow human unsanctioned can never be expunged from your soul. You can at least serve in more comfort than you have been used to.” He smiled, a smile as genuine as Ulther’s had been when offering me bread.

  The King had shown a small kindness for doing my job, and while it wouldn’t remove my shame, it was more than most in my position would ever get. Though I doubted I'd ever afford a house or even a hovel.

  I gave King Perek a deep bow, “Thank you, Sire. Your generosity eclipses my comprehension.”

  I tried not to think about the grief I would get moving back amongst the regular folk of town once my newfound fame and respect were all used up, but I could make the best of it at least.

  At that moment, the walls behind me grinded and clicked as they pulled apart. Stepping through was a round, pale man with red hair, dressed in travelling leathers with the wide-brimmed velvet hat that marked him as a diplomatic messenger. If his colouring were anything to go by, I’d bet my blade arm on him being a Cemfyllian. The Monarch Mouth grabbed me by the arm and walked me to the side with the other courtiers, as King Perek looked up toward the messenger. I noted the breach of protocol in that the messenger had approached our King to within touching distance and still hadn’t bowed. He had balls, I’ll give him that, although messengers were protected by their status as emissaries of their masters so that he wouldn’t face any consequences bar veiled insults.

  “What word has noble King Stallivindium sent this day?” he asked, his voice full of regal authority.

  The messenger reached inside his ample robes and produced a long, flat stone as long and wide as a man's hand. He held it aloft, silent as a wave of shock and concern rippled through the watching crowd.

  A vice gripped around my heart; a messenger bearing a whetstone could only mean one thing. It was a warning to sharpen your swords, because war was coming as if we all didn’t have enough on with the bloody Wyrms, Drakes and Dragons of the world. We hadn’t had a war in hundreds of years. What in the Godbody’s arse were Cemfyllen playing at?

  Silence hung in the air as we waited for what happened next. King Perek approached the messenger and took the whetstone before drawing the knife from his side and running the blade along it, the old way of accepting such a challenge. I liked how King Perek handled himself. He had zero hesitation in a moment that no monarch had dealt with in hundreds of years. The knife made a long, scraping sound that echoed from the hall's stonework.

  The messenger eyed him.

  “You understand what this means, King Perek?” the barest hint of a wry smile on his face.

  “I do, " our King replied, before ramming the blade into the messenger's neck.

  The room erupted in cries of dismay, approval and sheer shock. I stood silently, watching as the messenger fell to his knees, trying in vain to stem the bleeding to his neck. It just goes to show that you can have balls and assumptions yet still end up very dead. The messenger's mouth flapped like a fish out of water as his lifeblood squirted out of his neck in pumps, spattering on the polished stone floor. He raised a shaking, accusatory finger at King Perek in his last moments, but our sire had merely turned his back on the messenger, flicking his blood-soaked hand on the floor. I touched my face briefly, remembering how my hands had been similarly covered in blood so long ago.

  I couldn’t help but think that if the knife had been four times the length, the King and I could have had matching tattoos.

  Mummer’s balls. I was starting to like him.