Somehow, Yerodin ended up as a wagon guard.

A few hundred years ago, a Knight of Resh would never end up as an actual guard for people such as Yerodin's current employers. Use them as bait, maybe, but never take a regular job protecting them. Times like this, however, left Yerodin few other options. He needed the money for more alcohol.

As he sat at the front of the second of the two wagons in the line, he thought about all the opportunities he passed up. He could have had a wife, not just any wife but a rich one, as a wealthy merchant he saved once offered him his daughter, and Yerodin got along with her quite well. But, the thought of being stuck in one place formed a dark cloud in his mind, and he ran away.

There were other situations. Becoming a personal bodyguard for a minor noble. Taking the position as the captain of the city guard. Leading a crew of bounty hunters. Any of these could have saved him from ending up where he was now.

A younger version of himself wanted only to follow the Knight's code, what little of it he learned from his mentor before the old woman passed, knowing full well the order was long dead. Still, he wanted to preserve what was left, and so here he was, middle aged and still wrapped in armor, his sword - longer than he was tall, made for someone not of his below average height - sitting across his knees as he watched the barren countryside slowly roll past. If he was lucky, the trip would go by without incident. Two more guards – people he didn't know – rode on the first wagon in the line, pretending to be on the lookout with their crossbows sitting beside them.

Before the two wagon caravan, the road ahead curved around a bend far in the distance, a hill obstructing their vision. If someone was going to ambush them, that was the obvious place to do it. He had heard rumors of bandits not far to the north, which is why this group of traders had purchased the services of three guards. Yerodin scratched his chin, standing up to get a better view of the road. Too far from the capitol to be fully stone, the road was coarse dirt with two rows of stone bordering it. Beyond that stone lay knee-high grass with patches of mud from last night's rain. The bend before them was an obvious place for an ambush, but it would be more effective if-

Before he could even finish the thought, shapes rose up out of the grass. “We're under attack!” He yelled, jumping off the wagon, coming crashing down on the road with his sword in his hands. Three of the muddy, grass-covered attackers in front of him hesitated upon seeing him armed and fully armored, challenging them.

Then he heard a series of sounds that sunk his heart.

A crossbow cracking as it launched a bolt. Someone screamed in pain. Shouting. A riding crop smacking the back of a horse. The idiots were running, following the road, around the blind corner in a desperate attempt to get away from their attackers, leaving Yerodin alone. They didn't realize him jumping down meant they should stay and fight here. Why would they? Guards like them didn't think that far ahead. The merchant family that owned the wagons could only think about running. Yerodin stood alone against seven attackers, three in front of him and four behind. With an excited yell, three of them ran off, chasing the wagons. He did not follow – what point was there, clanking after them in armor, when neither he nor they would catch the horses? Fools.

Not as foolish as the four that stayed behind, though. Looking more closely at them as they moved to surround him, Yerodin saw he was fighting children. Barely into their teens, the bare-faced, mud covered, lanky things held daggers and clubs, not proper swords. He stood with full armor and a greatsword. He sighed. “I don't want to fight children. Drop your weapons and piss off.”

The largest of the bunch, holding a long, thick club, ran at him, swinging wildly. Yerodin grabbed the weapon with his hand, reaching out to intercept it before the boy could build momentum with the swing. When he tried to yank the weapon out of his hands, the boy let go and dove at him, trying to grab his legs. Yerodin kicked him in the face, sending him rolling backwards with a broken, bleeding nose. “This is a joke. What do you really expect to accomplish here?”

Glancing at the youth to his right, the tall one pulled a short knife out from behind him and the two started to advance, slowly. With the other two behind him, Yerodin decided this one had enough chances. He surged forward, swinging his sword at the tall boy. The reaction was there, but poorly executed. He brought up his dagger in an attempt to block the swing, but Yerodin's sword snapped the small blade, taking the wielder's hand with it. The boy screamed.

“I'll give the rest of you ano-”

Something hit him in the back, impacting his breastplate just below his neck. A little higher and they would have hit him in the head and actually done something. Yerodin spun, finding the second boy right in front of him, already swinging his knife at his head. Taking his right hand off his sword, he slapped the child, gauntlet-clad hand striking soft flesh, sending him tumbling to the ground. A third rushed at him, only for Yerodin to reach out and grab him by the neck. Hoisting the white-haired child up, he glared at him, fingers threatening to crush his neck.

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“Let him go!” A high-pitch voice yelled, as the last one rushed forward, fast. Yerodin turned, but too late. This one approached from his right, where he couldn't reach, and drove a dagger into the gap in his armor under his raised arm.

He let go. The child fell to the ground, scrambling away. “Run!” The other yelled, and the boy stood up and fled. Yerodin turned to this one, the one that stabbed him. Unarmed, the knife still in his side, this one stood, glaring at him defiantly, out of his range. He looked at this one more closely. Pointed ears jutted out from orange hair. A Hatharen. He had heard about them, but never seen one before. None of the stories mentioned their children.

It didn't matter. Yerodin laughed. He could feel himself bleeding. He was dead. If he pulled the knife out, he would only make himself bleed faster. “You got me. You won.” He said, and sat down on the road. The Hatharen stared at him.

Yerodin put his sword across his knees as he sat, his right arm held up at an uncomfortable angle. No stranger to being stabbed, the pain didn't bother him. He was fairly sure he didn't even care that he was dead. He was entirely certain he didn't care at all about what happened to the wagons. “You. Boy. What's your name?”

The Hatharen stared at him, suspiciously, before glancing at the boy on the ground. The one he had slapped. The boy's head was twisted unnaturally far. Unlucky for him. “Ferene. Not a boy.”

“Ferene. Weird name. That little one your friend? You only fought when I grabbed him.”

She nodded, looking over his shoulder. The big one with no hand should be back there. Kid might have gone into shock. Might be dead already. She didn't move, instead looking back at Yerodin.

“You fought to protect your friend. I like that. You killed me, even. Lucky for you. What's your plan now?”

She just stared at him. She didn't have a weapon, with him in possession of her knife. “What do you want?”

“I'm going to bleed to death, just like the one behind me. Thought I'd get to talk with the one that killed me. You're young. You killed people before?”

Her fingers twitched. She looked him up and down, eyes settling on his sword. “Yeah. They weren't armed.”

“Farmers? Merchants? Children?” She nodded. “Innocents that didn't do anything to hurt you?” She hesitated, then nodded, frowning. “The adults make you do it?” She nodded. He laughed. She jumped backwards at the sound, her eyes fixed on him once again.

“You think they made you do it. You just killed me, though. You could kill them, too, if you wanted. You're fast on your feet. Do you like killing helpless people?” She shook her head. The girl looked scared. Scared of a dead man. Funny. He could still kill her, though. A thought came to him. “Hey, you want my sword?”

She looked down at his sword, then back up at him. She nodded.

“Well too bad. I won't give it to you. Unless you promise to do what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“Want you to kill those bastards. Want you to get away from them. Want you to stop killing innocents. Make the promise, and you can have my sword.”

“If I don't?”

“I'll get up, walk over there, and kill you just as dead as those other two. I have enough strength left to do that.” He wasn't sure if he did. It didn't matter. He was going to die, and she was afraid of him. She stared at him, her lips twitching back and forth. She nodded. “Say it.” He demanded.

“I'll kill the leader and run away. And I won't kill anyone that doesn't deserve it. I promise.”

One handed, he tossed the sword across the gap. It landed in the dirt in front of her. “I deserve it, you know? For killing kids today. Kids young as you don't know any better. But you will, after this. That's a cursed sword, you know?” He laughed. She didn't look like she believed him. He didn't care. “I'm the last of the Knights of Resh. I'd tell you what that means, but it would take too long. You can't be one, even if you have the sword. But a bunch of dead people are watching that sword. Use it wrong and you'll pay.” He laughed again. Yerodin was never good at stories. Never good with children. Never good at much of anything aside from killing and drinking. The truth was he didn't deserve those other opportunities. Bleeding to death on some unnamed road, killed by a child, that was what he did deserve. “Have a good life, Ferene.” He yanked the dagger out of his armpit.

It hurt. There was a lot of blood. He leaned back, laying on the road, looking up at the sky. Yerodin wondered if any of it mattered.