“I didn’t expect so many drakken,” Captain Kendrick said, seeing the hundred or so villagers who had remained behind. He wiped the fresh drakken blood off of his sword, and even Randal had squat down to wipe the sword clean using the snow, melting it to rinse his blade as he had done before.

Akrat pulled his sword out of a soldier’s chest, letting the drakken soldier drop down. Bili stood behind him, his blade black still, not yet wet from blood, but ready to fight.

The villagers stared at the white cloaked Royal Guard, and their worst nightmare, a Deathsinger. Even now, seeing how they outnumbered the warriors, the villagers didn’t like their odds.

“I am Akrat, son of Ikrat.” The Deathsinger sheathed his blade. “I have come to slay he who is known as Dark Wing.”

The villagers stared at the Deathsinger, shocked. A few of them carried spears, ready to fight, though with unsteady hearts. They knew the tales, the songs passed down through their ancestors.

“Black Rock Tribe, we have come in peace,” Akrat said. “My sword is sheathed, but I am ready to draw it.” He stared up at the tribe, wondering if they would dare to draw their spears. “My companions beside me are strong, and the boy behind me, he will not draw his blade against me.” Akrat spoke with such conviction, as though it were fact.

“We have no qualms against you, Deathsinger. We ask that you leave us in peace.” The village chief stepped forward. She was tall, like most drakken, and well built. She had long black hair, and black eyes, like that of the night.

“I will leave you in peace, but will he?”

Drakken and Iyrmen. Both were warrior people, but the difference had always been who and what they fought for.

The conviction of the drakken had always been to those they had revered, the skywyrms, those who ruled the heavens. Yet, their conviction was never the same as the Iyrmen.

The Iyrmen always fought for one thing, their people. Their lives. Their deaths. Their freedoms. They always fought for their family, though, to live as their own masters.

“You’ve already come here, so our lives are forfeit,” the drakken chief said, sighing. “Dark Wing will learn of this treachery soon, though with your heads, we will be spared.”

The Royal Guard remained standing with their hands ready on their sheathed weapons. They dared not draw their blades yet, waiting on the Iyrman’s lead.

‘Damn, I was promised a good drink…’ Charles glanced around between the drakken, seeing their faces. The heavily wrinkled faces of those a step away from their coffin, and those who were still suckling on their mother’s teat. ‘Looks like their best were conscripted to the army…’

“Yes,” Akrat said. “If you bring our heads, Dark Wing may forgive you.” There was no denying that, so the Iyrman didn’t try to deny it. “Though he will see how few of you remain.”

The drakken chief sighed again, reaching up to brush her brow. Her eyes were tired. Tired of war. Tired of life. “It will be our death either way.”

“He will help us!” Bili shouted. “He’s a Deathsinger! He said he would help! He won’t save us, but he’ll help us!”

“You won’t save us, but you’ll help us?” The chief’s eyes fell across the Iyrman’s eyes once again.

“Only you can save yourself,” Akrat said. “I will help you to save yourself. Our goal is the death of Dark Wing, for the glory it provides. The gold within his hoard, that is merely a bonus.”

The drakken villagers remained watching the Deathsinger, glancing every so often towards the heavily armed and amoured warriors at his side. Their odds grew ever smaller as seconds passed, realising the war machines in front of them. A Deathsinger, and the White Cloaks. “The Black Rock Tribe is willing to listen to what you have to say, Deathsinger.”

Akrat nodded, following the chief. The Royal Guard followed him, glancing around at the villagers.

“So, what do you have to drink?” Charles asked.

Kendrick glared at Charles. He was doing his best to give off an aura which demanded respect, but Charles was a damned buffoon.

“What? Liberation is thirsty work.”

When drinks and food were brought to them, Kendrick and Timothy stared at the food. George brought out an amulet, and started muttering his prayers over the food, just in case it was poisoned.

Akrat, without a single bit of fear, grabbed the flat bread and bit into it, grabbing a cup of wine and finished it with a single gulp to wash it down. He growled as he felt the heat of the alcohol burn the back of his throat, and with that, the Royal Guard reached for their blades.

The Iyrman burped. “It is the first time I’ve had drakken fire,” Akrat said. “It was as good as my uncle said.” Akrat returned back to the food and drink.

Seeing the Iyrman so eagerly consuming the food, the Royal Guard relaxed. John picked at some of the food, trying to see what it was. It was meat of some kind, vegetables of some kind, and the drink was…

Charles coughed up, having sipped the drakken fire. “Sozain take you! That burns like a bitch!” He kept coughing, trying to find some water, for once.

“Mind your language,” Kendrick said, almost backhanding his foul mouthed companion. “We are still Royal Guard.”

“What’s a bit of coarse language when we’re going to be liberating some people, Captain? Think about all the honour we’ll gain.” Charles laughed. Even now, he couldn’t believe he was the kind of person to go along with this ridiculousness. “Can you imagine the face of the Commander when he finds out?”

Kendrick narrowed his eyes, staring at the dark coloured liquid which was dubbed drakken fire.

“Drink it all in one go,” Akrat said. “That is the secret of the drink.”

“You know much about us, Deathsinger,” the chief said, drinking the drakken fire in a single go.

“My uncle, Umrat, had fought in the north ten years ago. He had been a guest of the Black Fang Tribe.” Akrat had listened to all the tales at least a dozen times, which would be regaled during Voidval when the family gathered.

“Against the giants?” The chief recalled the war ten years ago between the giants and the men of the south. A few of the drakken were involved, but they were far removed from the conflict.

Akrat nodded his head. “I know of your cloths and banners,” Akrat said. “Black Hill Tribe, Black Rock Tribe. You are cousins, your villages not many hours away from one another.”

“We know of you Deathsingers, Iyrmen, from our songs.” The chief grew up hearing about them. There was one, a man they called White Wolf of Northblood, from the war many years ago.

“And we know of you, drakken, from our stories.” Akrat smiled, recalling the fights the Iyrman had against the drakken people.

“It seems we are quite similar.”

“And very different.”

“You are willing to help us, Deathsinger?” The chief finished another small cup. “What is your requested pay?”

“Half the hoard,” Akrat said, simply. It was an easy offer to make, an offer which would satisfy all parties involved.

“What is the assistance you are willing to offer?” The chief frowned slightly. Half the hoard was quite the amount, but nothing compared to the freedom.

“Dark Wing will die, but for that to happen, you must all be stronger. We will train you, your young and your old, how to fight. We will assist you in taking on the skywyrm and its minions.”

“All that for half the hoard? You may die.”

“The glory of the kill will also go to us,” Akrat said. “You will pass on my story.”

“A story or a song,” the drakken chief said, shaking her head. “We aren’t so different after all.”

“Once you draw your spears against Dark Wing, we will not be so different.”

The chief looked to her people, who had been so tired of war. A war which was forced upon them, taking from them father and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. “I understand. Please, Akrat, son of Ikrat, help us.”

“I’m not sure about this,” Charles said, swallowing down the fiery drink. “As much as I like their drink, I’m no hero. I’m not out here to liberate people. I don’t even want to fight the dragon.”

“We should help the people,” George said. “It is our task in life.”

“Our task in life is to give up our lives for the King,” Charles said. “Not gallivant up north and die.”

“To kill a dragon,” George said. “It will make us safe from future attacks. Did you forget the King’s Sword had gone to face the Blacksword? Dark Wing is our enemy as well, and we are still at war.”

“Still…” Charles filled up his cup full of the drakken fire again. Once the burning sensation had simmered away, it was a delicious. ‘These drakken sure know how to make a good drink.’ The pain was a good kind of pain, a pain which made him forget.

“If we kill the dragon, we will have liberated a people, and we would have finished our task.” John glanced between his companions. ‘And…’

“We will be honoured,” Akrat said, referring to his promise.

Timothy remained silent, picking at her food. She didn’t trust the drakken people just yet, and she had never seen this kind of meat before.

Randal bit into some meat and tore it apart, chewing it in his mouth loudly. Kendrick didn’t even bother to tell him off.

“What do you two think?” George asked.

“…” Timothy replied. She glanced at Kendrick.

“I don’t know about liberation or nothin’. I’m not here to think, I’m here to swing me sword.” Randal continued to feat upon the meal which had been given to him.

“Then we’ll fight.” Kendrick looked to Akrat. “You have our blades, Iyrman.”

“We will slay the dragon,” Akrat said, nodding his head. He looked to the drakken, already seeing which few would accompany them. They were slim pickings, but they were enough to make a start on dealing with the few drakken soldiers which may be around.

They awoke the next day, having a night full of rest. Akrat had assured them that the drakken would leave them in peace, but they still took watch, all but Akrat, who slept peacefully the entire night.

When he awoke in the morning, Akrat went for a run, then trained with his blade, before calling the villagers together. He had already figured who he would train to take with them, a total of twelve drakken. Bili was part of the twelve, and so were two other youngsters, a boy and a girl. The rest were in their early fifties, past their prime, but had decent builds.

“We will begin your training,” he said, speaking to all the villagers. “We don’t have long, so I will drill into your the basics of combat.” He turned to the dozen he had picked. “The twelve of you will assist us in our journey to kill Dark Wing. For now, I will teach you basic formations, as well as the basics of how to use spears. You will each use a spear and a shield, and you will have a shortsword at your side.”

The Royal Guard watched as Akrat drew on the ground, revealing a few of the Iyrmen formations. Kendrick narrowed his eyes, noting the similarities between the formations on the ground, and those the Iyrmen had employed throughout the war.

“The Black Sword is dead!” came a shout through the village. “The Black Sword is dead!”

The villagers looked at the stumbling soldier, who had managed to retreat from the battle with the Swordbearers. He dropped down onto his knees, panting for air.

A long moment of silence hung in the air.

The villagers all looked to the Deathsinger, whose face was filled with a smile.

There had been a single obstacle in his goal to kill Dark Wing, a warrior he would been slain to. If Kendrick and Akrat had joined forced, Akrat would have still bet on the Black Sword, but now that obstacle had suddenly disappeared.

“Black Sword is dead,” Akrat said, looking up the sky. “What a battle it must have been.” His curiosity filled him, causing his body to shake with excitement. He wanted to hear the story.

“Can we… can we really do it?” a villager whispered, asking no one in particular.

“It’s too good to be true.”

The villagers couldn’t have expected such luck. It was as though the gods were telling them that they were on the drakken’s side. They all looked towards the Iyrman again, who was still shaking.

They walked over to him, glancing down towards the various formations.

Akrat stopped shaking, inhaling deeply to calm himself. “This is the raging bison formation,” Akrat said, returning back to explaining the various tactics to the villagers.

The handful of soldiers who had come saw the Deathsinger, stared at their chief in confusion, before a few villagers explained the situation to them.

“A Deathsinger…”

“Helping us?”

The soldiers glanced between one another. They had been fighting against the Deathsingers for some time, and no they were told they were allying with them to fight against the skywyrm which ruled them.

They sat down to listen.

‘The wind is blowing another way for our people,’ the chief thought, closing her eyes. She could finally see it, a single ray of hope through the dark shadow which had loomed over them for generations.

With the news of the Black Sword’s death, Dark Wing would be busy for a few weeks. He would be trying to find a new lair, and would be aiming to move all his hoard, as well finding the items he would be willing to part with. The chaos of it all had given Akrat a chance, a chance to help the tribes here unite under a single banner, and to fight against the dragon.