I was grateful for how worn my leather armour was; the flexibility of regular use allowed me to bound up the steps two at a time. I barrelled through the door, breathless, and slammed it behind me, knowing it would only buy me a precious second or two if the Lindwyrm had decided to follow me. I didn't know if it had, for large creatures, they can squeeze their way through comparatively small gaps and are as quiet as a cat when they put their mind to it.

  “Tull! Get to your bloody post,” Ulther hissed.

  I waved him aside, “LINDWYRM IN THE GATE TUNNEL!” I cried.

  “Oh, right? How would it have done that without us seeing it?” scoffed Abarth. He was a muscled brute of a man. A Cemfyllian who preferred our climate, so he kept saying, but I reckon he had a past; nobody has burn scars on the backs of both hands unless they’re woefully clumsy. I didn’t hold the fact that he was from Cemfyllen against him, even when everything that happened after did. In that moment, though, I considered him an idiot.

  “I DON’T KNOW, BUT IT’S THERE! GRAB YOUR SPEARS!” I shouted, hoping the urgency of my words would kick everyone into action.

  They did.

  As I grabbed my spear from where I’d left it leaning by the loosing gap, the fifteen men nearest to me, Ulther included, retrieved their own spears; the other thirty prepared themselves into an archers' block. Those of us with spears made a block of three rows of five, just as we’d been trained. The front row of spears level, the second row pointing upward, past our heads and the final row lay ready to stab outward. The rest of the String Guard readied their bows.

  I craved the familiar weight of my old sword in my hand, although it’s a poor weapon to use against Wyrms. A sword was a man-killer, and the reason they were outlawed. Humanity hadn’t been at war with itself for hundreds of years. Somehow, the ways of Steelweaving, my particular style of fighting, had survived out of a belief that it was necessary to know how to destroy your fellow man. I was undecided, but then again, I had only killed one.

  It seemed necessary at the time.

  Arrows slipped onto strings behind me. I only knew that because I heard one of the old staves shout at one of the younger ones for holding his bow at full draw without a target. Despite my nerves, I smiled, having been shouted at enough times myself for the same problem. My blademaster used to tell me that good humour was never a bad thing before a fight; it stopped you panicking and stopped your body from making mistakes your mind couldn’t catch.

  He'd have never expected that his advice would relate to charging a Lindwyrm with a spear. But that tough old bastard was dead now, so I couldn't tell him that he'd helped me yet another time.

  It was the breathing we heard first; it was slow and deep. The Lindwyrm’s exhales moved dust and small bits of rock from under the door toward the feet of the first row. I was on the far left side.

  “Well done, Tullen, you’ve brought the viper to the whole damned ducks' nest!” Dervyn snarled, his voice lingering on his arr’s as the Zellish are known to do.

  “A shame you have to do your job for once, Dervyn. Maybe you can fire an arrow twenty feet from it and boil your empty cooking pot!” I snapped back. I got a few nervous chuckles, but it was definitely because the other lads were about to face their deaths in all likelihood. They’d do anything to ease the tension, to clothe themselves in courage, no matter how false.

  We needed it.

  The breathing stopped, before the door splintered with a harsh crack, five claws sprouted out from the wood, each one as long as a short spear, four on top, one below. The Lindwyrm pulled the door inside, and I heard the ruined wooden thing clatter down the steps. The beast sounded a low, deep warbling as it stepped through the door, tasting the air with its forked tongue. As it emerged from the gloom, its skin gradually shimmered from black to a deep stone grey, mimicking the hues of our enclosed walls. Lindwyrms only had two forelegs and a large tail they’d try to catch you with. It pulled itself forward on its legs, while its large, muscled tail coiled around the door frame. It didn’t charge immediately, which was bad news for us, because it meant this beast wasn’t a total idiot.

  We didn’t need a letter signed in triplicate from Rolfo to know what to do next. Thirty String Guard did what they did best and loosed their arrows at the Lindwyrm. I breathed a silent prayer to the Hunter that if the arrows found their mark and killed the thing there and then, that I’d follow him into his forests upon my death and hunt with him for eternity. Either he didn’t want me on account of my piss poor shooting to date, or the Mummer was playing another joke on me because the arrows thudded harmlessly into the flesh of the Lindwyrms' arms and side. It held one of its arms up to cover its eyes as it bellowed in fury, drawing back into the doorway as the tail flexed, cracking the stone.

  You can be drilled for half your life on what to do when a creature the length of four horses springs at you, but in that moment, most people who haven’t been pressure tested will freeze.

  It was like my master used to say. Act or die.

  “BRACE!”

  I like to think my shouted command meant that perhaps some of the lads gripped their spears a little tighter, or put their backs into it with even more enthusiasm than trying not to die would typically get you, but I think it was just sheer luck what happened next.

  The Lindwyrm exploded forward, its clawed hands extended as its maw opened, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. It smashed into our block of spearman so hard, we all staggered back. Many of the spears found their mark, biting deep into the beast's fleshy chest, causing it to scream shrilly in pain as gouts of hot red blood spurted all over the stone ground and the entire front row of spearmen. We’d actually hurt the damn thing.

  I moved back, expecting my row to move with me. I thought nobody would want to slip on the bloody stonework, and my spear hadn’t found its mark yet anyway. I didn’t anticipate that the rest of my row, including Ulther, would hold onto their spears, which proved to be the end of our good fortune.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Taking a deep breath in, the Lindwyrm raised its arms and brought them down hard, snapping the shafts of the spears, leaving their wielders holding wood only suitable for the campfire.

  “You glinted, mother-” were the last words Ulther said before the beast's claws caught him in his rotten mouth, slicing his old head in half. I miss that mangy bastard every day still. The rest of the front rank met similar fates; two of them fell to the beast's mouth as it enveloped their heads at the same time, while the last, a chap named Tommend, who couldn’t play dice to save his life was opened throat to groin, the last few moments of his life were spent lying on his back too shocked to cry for his mother.

  To their credit, the second and third lines of spearmen stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder, to drive the Lindwyrm back with thrusts of the spear, as a second volley of arrows hit the beast.

  I needed to act, not only because we needed every spearhead we could get into that bloody thing, but I’d be damned if they said that the Black Wyvern held back while good men died on the talons of that monster. The sounds of yelling and crying filled the air as deadly talons tore into the String Guard. The confined area reeked of blood, piss and shite as men emptied their bowels due to fear or tried in vain to hold their guts in as they leaked over the floor and their comrades. The creature cried out its horrible warbling sound, and I could swear it was because the fucker was laughing at us.

  Only a few of the spearmen remained standing; the rest were dead or dying. A third and final volley of arrows thunked into the beast, apart from two which struck one unlucky soul in the back between his shoulder blades. He fell to his knees and looked back, mouthing a silent accusation, Poor Dervyn, you were an idiot, but you deserved better than that.

  I heard the archers clattering the bows to the floor and knew they’d be making the precious few steps toward their spear holders.

  Logic told me to withdraw toward them, form part of a rank and stop this beast in its tracks.

  But I am the last master of the Steelweave, and while I carry a mark of shame, I would still hold my honour, and I would do my duty.

  That’s what I tell people I thought in those moments, the reality was, I was the last man standing in our spear rank, and the Lindwyrm would definitely have gutted me in my tactical retreat. I decided to charge it, with my spear couched under my arm, aiming for one of its yellow cat-like eyes. If it killed me, at least I went down fighting, a death worthy of a Steelweaver.

  I wish I could have said something worthy of the sagas, but instead, I just screamed in rage and terror, getting close to the beast before promptly slipping in the viscera of my fellows. I jarred my knee on the ground, but my spear did strike true. The Lindwyrm howled in rage as the point of my spear sank into the flesh beneath its jaw, thunking into the roof of its mouth. Blood rained down over me as the cries of the beast were oddly muted, given I’d managed to pin that jaw shut. A cheer went up from the surviving String Guard, and I heard them charge in after me. May the Godbody, the Hunter, the damned Mummer and the rest of them hold those beautiful bastards' souls in whatever paradise they could find, because their sacrifice saved my life.

  I rolled away from the carnage as the String Guard charged in. I had no weapon beyond an eating spike and a knife, my knee ached already, and I knew I’d pay for slipping tomorrow morning, if I made it that far.

  The Lindwyrm tore into my fellows; I couldn’t see much beyond its bulk, and I am shamed to say I was glad too. The least a soldier could normally do was bear witness to the sacrifice of those he served with. Instead, I searched around for something to arm myself with.

  That’s when I found it, half of a broken spear, the pointy half, thank the Godbody, and I felt a fire ignite in my chest when I saw it was close to the length of a broadblade. One of my favoured swords. It wasn’t a sword, of course, and definitely not the beautiful old blade that was lost to me, but it would suffice.

  It had been years since I slipped into the Steelweave, as I was forbidden on pain of death, but there was nobody around to witness my craft, and I would surely die anyway. I felt the cold familiarity of my breathing, my feet slid into place, and I slowly moved the half spear to my side. The last sounds of the dying ebbed away, and the Lindwyrm turned to face me. Its face, arms and chest were bloodied, with deep slashes and gashes from where the String Guard had left their mark. They were all dead, everyone.

  “Not doing your fucking warbling now, are you?” I growled. I knew in my heart that death was close, and I hadn’t a spit's chance of surviving, but I wasn’t going to roll over.

  At least when I died, I’d do it in the Steelweave’s embrace, just a pity it wasn’t a sword my hand was curled around.

  One of the first things my master, a crotchety, grumpy Orlish man called Peevan, had taught me was that most of the opponents you’d face in a duel will have a preconceived idea of how the fight will go, informed by their previous experiences.

  In a Lindwyrm’s case, it’ll be used to being the bottom of the pile against most Wyrm’s, Drakes and Dragons, but against humans, it would have as easy a time as I would fighting a group of three-year-olds. So the last thing it would expect a lone human to do, after watching its entire group die, is charge it.

  That’s exactly what I did.

  I felt the weave hold me in her arms as my patterns and thoughts fell into place. I was going to stab it in the eye or die trying. As I sprinted forward, I put aside my feelings of pain, fear and terror. I focused on my breathing, exhaling on alternate steps as I landed. The beast had the presence of mind to look surprised as I charged. Personally, I think it could have anticipated this, given I’d already charged it once before, but I won’t begrudge any fortune the gods I refuse to worship deign to send my way.

  As I closed in, the Lindwyrm reared back and raked its claws toward me, intent on cutting me clean in half as it had poor Ulther’s head. I dropped into a knee slide, heedless of the additional regret I’d face the next morning, before rolling forward, then springing up into the ninth strike, an upward lunge that plunged right into the creature's left eye.

  The spear sank in like a foot into quicksand, puncturing the creature's eye, and a river of blood cascaded over the wooden shaft as it shrieked in pain. I struggled to hold the spear in my grip as there was no twine wrapped around the shaft, and so it fell from my hands.

  I swore because I hadn’t managed to drive the spear into its brain, which would have killed it, but the creature thrashed around as it felt real pain and the terror of a life almost lost. I’d have had more words to say, but the Lindwyrm turned heel and ran, its tail swatting me aside in its haste like I would when fending off an insect.

  I sailed through the air before hitting the wall and crumpling to the ground, my mouth full of blood. I rolled to my side, clutching my bleeding head as I watched the beast disappear into the doorway my entire section had died defending. I gasped for air as blood fell from my throbbing mouth; I’d managed to bite my tongue, and I couldn’t focus my vision.

  I wondered if I might die right then as the blackness claimed me.