An enthusiastic Reralt and a whimpering, complaining Narro drew steadily closer to the source of the fire.

  They could already hear it clearly—

  the crackle of burning wood, the panicked shouting, and the wet, slobbery sounds of meat being devoured.

  Just one more bush and they’d have a clear view.

  “My good friend!” Reralt bellowed back at Narro, who lagged behind atop what had to be the laziest horse this side of Givia.

  “Find yourself a good vantage point and take notes!” he added, striking a pose mid-trot.

  Narro didn’t argue.

  His horse—miraculously inspired by the reduced odds of becoming barbecue—suddenly found a suspicious burst of energy.

  ***

  They crested the final hill and looked down upon a gruesome battlefield.

  A full dozen men—armored and armed with shields, swords, polearms, and crossbows—were locked in brutal combat with a massive green dragon.

  The remains of at least a dozen more were strewn across the field.

  "Strewn" was generous—most were in pieces too small or too far apart to confidently match.

  Reralt surveyed the carnage with the kind of awe usually reserved for sunsets and victory speeches.

  Glory. Heroism. Valor.

  Narro, meanwhile, leaned over the side of his horse and retched violently.

  Reralt—usually the cause of such devastation rather than its spectator—tilted his head in confusion.

  “Are you sick?” he asked, genuinely concerned his newest companion might miss this golden opportunity.

  Narro couldn’t look at Reralt.

  Couldn’t look at the dragon.

  Couldn’t even look at the warrior bits that used to be inside people.

  So he stared firmly at his horse’s neck and gave a trembling thumbs-up.

  “You fight,” he mumbled, pale as chalk. “I’ll… take notes.”

  That was all Reralt needed.

  With a heroic yell, he charged the battlefield—wearing nothing but a sleeveless bodywarmer, leather pants, and a look of dangerous optimism—straight at the dragon.

  ***

  Reralt was a hundred meters from the dragon when he reached for his sword.

  As usual, it was very stuck.

  This time, however, he’d remembered to undo the strap.

  Galloping at full speed made that less helpful than he’d hoped.

  By the time he wrestled it free, he was fifty meters out.

  The oil he’d rubbed on his muscles had slicked the hilt.

  Reralt briefly wondered if it was flammable.

  The dragon roared—and answered that question for him.

  A jet of fire engulfed him.

  He let himself fall from the horse and rolled through blood, ash, and shattered bone until the flames sputtered out.

  Amazingly, he got up with just a minor burn—and a faceful of hot mud.

  With two muddy fingers, he dragged a dramatic smear across his cheek.

  Then turned and pointed at Narro.

  “Good detail for the ballad!” he shouted.

  Narro sat frozen on his horse.

  There was absolutely no way anyone could survive that.

  He gave a hesitant thumbs-up and pretended to scribble notes.

  Reralt, now swordless again, dug through the muck.

  “You here to help?” asked a bloodied, limping knight.

  “Of course!” Reralt beamed. “Just as soon as I find my sword.”

  At that moment, the knight was bitten clean in half and spat across the field.

  Reralt retrieved his sword and began circling the dragon—at a very safe distance.

  “What are you doing?” another knight yelled, stumbling back from a failed charge.

  His armor was slick with gore and trailed intestines that likely weren’t his.

  “Making sure it doesn’t escape!” Reralt called, chest puffed with heroic smugness.

  “These things are cowardly.”

  “You’ve fought one before?” the knight asked, wiping something sticky from his visor.

  “Dozens,” Reralt said confidently.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Back at the castle, peasants often played the dragon in his training drills.

  They always fled.

  “What should we do?”

  “Keep pounding it, good man!” Reralt boomed. “I’ll guard the rear.”

  He paused.

  “And keep away from its ass!”

  The knight nodded, clearly relieved to have an expert present.

  He charged again—

  and was promptly incinerated.

  Reralt turned and waved at Narro.

  Narro, still pale and nauseous, surveyed the field:

  The dragon—wounded, bleeding.

  Six fighters left.

  And one idiot.

  He gave a small wave to the idiot.

  Reralt grinned and waved back.

  A mounted knight rode near Narro, visor fogged with breath and blood.

  “Why isn’t your lord engaging?” she barked.

  Narro glanced at her. Then at Reralt—who was now circling the battle like a confused tourist at a murder site.

  “No way either of them’s surviving this,” he muttered.

  Then looked up.

  “He’s guarding the rear,” he said flatly.

  The knight nodded and galloped back into the fray.

  Moments later, her head landed a few feet from Narro’s boots.

  He gagged and retched again.

  Silence fell over the field.

  The dragon, no longer feeling threatened—

  with only one unarmored heap of mud stumbling its way—

  unfurled its wings and crouched to take flight.

  That’s when Reralt screamed:

  “AAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

  And charged.

  He aimed straight for the dragon’s wounded underbelly.

  Heroic.

  Glorious.

  He tripped over a discarded pauldron—possibly a leg—

  and dove face-first into a steaming pool of blood.

  Overhead, the dragon soared past.

  “Shoot,” Reralt mumbled, as bubbles rose from his gore-caked mouth.

  ***

  Narro rode over to Reralt, doing his best not to look at the carnage strewn across the battlefield.

  A knight—barely breathing—raised a trembling hand for help.

  Narro’s horse trotted directly over it.

  He didn’t notice.

  He dismounted beside Reralt, who sat cross-legged in the mud, happily chewing on some candy he’d looted from a corpse.

  “I told you they’d flee,” Reralt said proudly, waving a hand at the now dragon-less sky.

  “Why did you try to stab the dragon in the rear?” Narro asked.

  Then quickly added, “You know... for the ballad.”

  Reralt blinked.

  “His teeth aren’t back there,” he said, genuinely baffled.

  Narro stared.

  “Right. Of course.”

  He sighed. “And why, for the ballad, did you wait so long to charge?”

  Reralt met his gaze, steady and sincere.

  “I was waiting until it was just me and the dragon. Alone. That’s a story.”

  “But wouldn’t they have had a better chance if you’d, you know, actually helped?”

  “Of course,” Reralt said, patting Narro gently on the head.

  “Then they surely would have won.

  But Reralt does not share glory.”

  He stood, hands on hips, chin tilted skyward—mud-caked and magnificent.

  Narro studied his face, searching for something—

  Guilt.

  Remorse.

  A flicker of basic self-awareness.

  Nothing.

  Just pure, unfiltered Reralt.

  By accident, obviously.

  Not through skill. Not through strategy. Not through sense.

  Just sheer, unrelenting Reralt.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked out over the battlefield—

  torn, smoking, and silent.

  Only the idiot was still standing.

  ***

  Reralt and the Dragon’s Rear

  Often censored mid-performance in polite taverns

  That afternoon, brave Reralt rode through fields and farms once more,

  Where armored men were fighting hard a dragon with a roar—

  Oh yes, a thunderous roar,

  With fire, claws, and gore.

  He cried out, “Fear not, good lads! Your hero now is here!

  Dragons always flee from me—so I shall guard the rear!”

  Yes, he would guard the rear.

  The burning men were bitten clean, the rest were flung and thrashed,

  Reralt helpfully called out, “Whatever you do, avoid its ass!”

  No, don’t go near its ass.

  When all fell still and none survived, the beast took off in flight.

  “A shame,” said Reralt, “Had I joined in, they surely would’ve won the fight.”

  Yes, they surely would’ve won.

  The dragon would have fled in fear—

  ...Or utter confusion.

  “Keep your sword sharp, your looks sharper, and your wit even sharper… ehh… er.”

  Next… Dr. Reralt explains how things work.