My name is Tullen Fal Barraz, and I’m the only living master of the sword I’m aware of.

  It’s that precise quality of mine that led me to be posted on these blasted walls in the first place. A swordsman forced to be an archer. What a joke. Still, I don’t have a sword, not anymore, so I’d make do with a string on a twig and the spear I’d wrapped twine around for a better grip.

  It’s a good job Wyrms are so bloody big, I can at least hit the things with my arrows when the horns are sounded. Avandun relies on archers of the String Guard to do their duty to King Perek. Guarding the enclosed walls is a task of paramount importance; if they stay up, our people live. If they don’t, people die. In my case, the whole of Avandun prays to the Godbody that I and others like me choose to serve our sentence without running into the free forests, those lonely spaces between the Kingdoms and Republics.

  Don’t let the name fool you; the only thing you’ll find in those forests is your death. You may meet one of the nomadic folk if you’re lucky or unlucky, depending on who you are and who you’ve crossed.

  I’d been standing on this wall for eight hours, I was dying for a piss, and my mouth was as dry as sand. The thought that one problem could solve the other briefly popped in my head, but I told the Mummer to run off back to his halls between the worlds and count his prayers.

  He wouldn’t be getting any from me, Gods and their games. I spit on them both.

  Ulther, my watch partner, gnawed on a piece of dry bread. I could tell it was dry because he used the side of his mouth to rip a piece off, reminding me of a fox tucking into a nice bit of rabbit. He only used his broken front teeth on the softest food, or he’d howl the walls down. He was Avanish through and through, his thick black hair rolled over his shoulders in thick curls. He was as wide as he was tall, but that’s not cultural; old Ulther just loves his feasts a bit too much. Hence the teeth.

  We’re a right pair, Ulther and I. Where he’s wide, I’m slim. Where his hair is long, mine is short. The one other difference is that my hair is darker than his. I put it down to my mother having Zellish blood somewhere in her before it spilt over the ground. I don’t remember much about my father other than that he was kind, full of laughter and died sobbing at the tip of the same bloody blade that had opened my mother.

  It’s why I’m so cheerful.

  Ulther grinned, his black front teeth nestled between rows of yellow like a lump of coal floating in a mug of cider.

  “G’on Tull, have a nibble. You’ve not eaten all day.” The echo of his voice from the walls and the ceiling didn’t bother me; I was too used to it after all this time, but his breath still managed to make me flinch. But there was kindness in his eyes. There had to be for him to try and share what little he had.

  “What, so I can wrap my mouth around something you’ve already slobbered over? There are easier ways to kiss me, old man,” I said, grinning.

  “Ah, you got me”, he chuckled before descending into a hacking, chesty cough, spraying droplets of half-eaten breadcrumbs over the stonewall.

  “You eat your old bread, and I’ll watch for a bit; you can barely see past your nose anyway.”

  “Still a better shot than you, Tull.”

  I shrugged; he wasn’t wrong.

  I peered through the Loosing Gap. If you haven’t served on the String Guard, which I imagine you haven’t because you can understand my letters. Then the ‘Loosing Gaps’ are the stripes of long, thin holes you see running vertically from the city side of the enclosed wall, up through the rounded roof, down the forested side of the wall. They repeat every few feet and mean that we can shoot whichever way we’re attacked from, without being fed into the maw of some bastard Wyrm, Drake or Dragon. Unless they break through the stone, which happens sometimes, that’s where our spears come in.

  As usual, I couldn’t see anything beyond the sway of trees, a couple of birds and a particularly brave-looking deer. Peering left and right, I could make out the small fires of homesteads and farms within sight of Avandun’s walls, brave good folk who tended those plots of land beyond the safety of a good, solid stone wall. When a Wyrm is about, a three-minute run still feels like an eternity. I turned my attention back to the deer, which was chewing grass, when an arrow thunked twenty feet away, and the deer ran for deer life into the forest. Further down the wall, I heard a shout cursing the Hunter. Not a good idea if you want to return from your hunt, he’s a vengeful God that one.

  “See anything, Tull?”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “I saw a shot on a deer worse than one of mine.”

  “That’ll be Dervyn, he’s Zellish too, don’t you know? Maybe all your bloodlinks are just shite at bowwork.”

  “I can eat an apple, though”, I grinned.

  “Oh, piss off, Wyvern!” He cackled.

  Ulther naming my greatest shame hurt, but I didn’t show it; it would only lead to the insult being used more. You can’t show softness to other soldiers; they’d seize on the opportunity like a rat on cheese. Besides, I was indentured; I didn’t have the same rights as an honourable volunteer.

  Only four more hours, and I could head back to my small room inside the barracks. It wasn’t anything special, there was a cot, a small chest to put my things in and a bucket to relieve myself in.

  I’d have given anything for the bucket in that moment. Knowing the line in the dirt was fast approaching, I decided to take action.

  “Take over for me, I need to go down and let loose my arrow.” I’d learned not to phrase such things as polite questions because people always pick the wrong answer, usually, when it’s a matter of the privy.

  “Aye, take one for me and all”, Ulther said, crumbs falling from the sides of his mouth as he finished the dry bread.

  I nodded my thanks and ventured down to the privy next to the main gate.

  #

  I exited the privy feeling relieved; it’s not technically dereliction if I had permission, and Ulther had agreed to it. I reckoned King Perek wouldn’t want to hear stories of his String Guard pissing themselves on the walls for fear it might be attributed to cowardice. I walked toward the direction of the stairwell that would take me back to my post when my heart sank.

  Walking towards me was the pompous ass Sergeant-Teller Rolfo and the two slabs of meat he called attendants. As he approached, Gate Guards stood to attention with their backs against the tunnel, only slinking away once they were out of his eyeline. He had his chest puffed out like a pigeon on the hunt for a mate that could put up with him, and the tiny shiny medal he’d won years earlier was pinned to his chest. He was an officer who stayed in his tower, relaying orders through runners, which meant he could happily ensure that anything metal he owned gleamed brightly. It was an act of pure arrogance. Anyone with sense knows that Dragon and Wyrm kind go into a frenzy for the shiny stuff. It’s why I wear little metal, and what scraps I do own are dulled.

  “Well, well, well, look what we have here. Death on two legs itself!” His long blonde hair swished as he threw his head back and guffawed loudly; his honking laugh made me think of a goose. The pig-like chuckling of his attendants joined his honks, and for a brief moment, the corridor we inhabited sounded like a barnyard.

  I stood to attention, “Sir. I was returning to my post. Ulther sanctioned me.”

  “Oh, he did, did he? I suppose he didn’t dare challenge the man-killer, did he? Rolfo leaned into my face, sneering, his breath smelled of honey and wine.

  “Nothing to challenge, sir,” I replied coolly.

  “No, I suppose not, you’ve performed averagely at best and not caused any major issues. Still. You killed one of your own kind; that’s a stain you’ll need more than a few years of the String Guard to wash from your soul.” He reached forward to touch my chin. I instinctively pulled back, but remembered my place and allowed him to turn my head within his grip slowly. So he could inspect my shame, the tattoo of a mythical creature that branded me a Black Wyvern. Dragons were deadly to humans in most cases, but they all had four legs. The stories of two-legged Wyverns with breath of strange properties captured the minds of many a child, but they were just that, stories, until some bright ember had decided to mark those who used the outlawed sword to kill another with the symbol of a child’s fireside tale.

  “Sir?” I asked.

  “Such an odd punishment, Tullen. Isn't it? You’re inked by one of the finest in Avandun and given the great honour of defending our borders. Almost like you’re a man, but you’ll forever be a Black Wyvern to those with morals.” He withdrew his hand and waved me off.

  “Thank you, sir”, I said, boiling with rage.

  “Out of my sight,” he spat.

  I watched as he and his attendants walked into the town square, the people bowing to him wherever he walked.

  It took me a few minutes to compose myself; the last thing I needed was to be seen on the wall with a hot head. Reputations lingered, and I’d done a great deal to work off mine as a man killer, although, as you can see, there was work to do still.

  I was at the bottom of the steps, cursing Rolfo’s name still, when I heard the horns sound, two short blasts, then a long one. A Lindwyrm, there was no repetition within five seconds, which meant there was only one.

  Good, I needed to shoot something. If the horns had only just sounded, I had plenty of time to race up the steps and start loosing arrows at the bastard.

  Then the gate fell inward.

  I’m no expert in building fortifications, but I know that’s not supposed to happen.

  Dust plumed upward, dimming the sconces that lined the stone tunnel while I cursed whoever had built the privy next to the gatehouse. I tried to run to the town square, which this area led to, but whoever was on duty by the Square Gate was aiming for a commendation because the portcullis had already fallen into place. There was a dull boom as the large wooden gates behind the portcullis slammed shut.

  I was glad I’d used the privy, because when the growl of the Lindwyrm filled that tunnel, I would have pissed myself.

  Instead, I ran for the stairwell to my post, where Ulther and the others would be watching for a Lindwyrm which had somehow got right past them all.

  Someone had to warn them; the fact that it was also my only escape route has no bearing on the matter.

  If you say any different, I’ll show you just how I earned my mark.