Tired, war-weary and worn, he longs for peace—and home. But the smell of blood reaches him as he travels: a giant, half-dead dragon—and a gang of bandits guarding it. 

He swore to never kill again. 

But once again, he faces a choice. Because today, someone must die. 

A wistful story about promises and peace, and the precarious nature of both.

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Oath Keeper

The metallic scent of blood reached him through the sharpness of the snow. For a moment, his heart leapt and he thought the battle was still raging, the cries of dying men filling his ears and stopping his senses; but no. The mountains up ahead were the foothills of home, and there were no people around, no sounds, no battle cries. 

Easing his shoulders under heavy mail—he hadn’t dared leave it behind, old Tom would curse him halfway to the grave if he returned without it—he trudged on.

The path crested and he spotted the source of the blood-scent easily: a great dragon, rear half skinned, muscle and sinew left exposed to the elements. Blood had seeped into the snow around it, tinting it pink.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d been at battle for nine and a half months. The war was supposed be over. Coming home was supposed to be the end of all the carnage. 

But no, someone had to drop a stinking great dead dragon in his path. He gritted his teeth, hefted his pack, and trudged towards the beast. 

Halfway there the bushes off the side of the path rustled. He barely had time to check that his sword was still in its scabbard before five scruffy-looking bandits appeared, three bearing equally scruffy swords covered in nicks and dings. The other two held rough-hewn bats, and one tried for menacing as he tapped his bat against his free palm. The soldier sighed and eased his sword free. He could take the five of them with his eyes closed—but probably not if he tried to keep them all alive. Gods, he was so tired of death.