Lance

 

He found the lance in the tall, yellowed grass. Buried by the earth, it showed no signs of serious damage; the point, not significantly chipped, gleamed in the sun. He thought of luck, or an incredible coincidence. Or both at once. With a deft movement—despite the searing pain throbbing between his ribs—he plucked the shaft from the ground and, with a spectacular flourish, placed the weapon on his shoulder, thanks to the sling. "This is a sling, a piece of junk, not a rope or a loop. A fucking sling, understand?" rustled through the frayed scrolls of his memory. He cursed softly and headed toward the trees.

The stench of charred flesh sickened and darkened him, mingling with the smell of burnt trees and undergrowth. He walked slowly, breathing heavily. He wiped his forehead, beaded with sweat and cut by a trickle of blood, with the back of his hand. The clot had already matted his hair, trapping clods of earth between them like hardened lava. The bloody setting sun cast long, distorted shadows across the dry earth. Dusk was fading. Dust hung in the air, dancing lazily over the corpses and remnants of waving vegetation. And falling over everything in a thin layer. In time, it would cover everything, he thought.

He walked north, despite everything. Now it was completely irrelevant. From behind the crooked teeth of the snow-covered mountain peaks, the moons were slowly emerging, both faintly red. His grandmother always said that this foretold war. No wonder no one had seen a moon other than red for a month now. Besides, few people were still looking hopefully at the sky. There was no help there anymore. He looked around for a place. A place to stay. Something comfortable and safe, if possible. Placed somewhere high above the ground, in a tree, for example, or among the rocks. Especially after he passed the first traces of ghouls.

He bandaged his foot, first staunching the blood and cleaning the wound. He looked at the bayonet inquisitively. It wasn't magical, and it didn't look as if it had been coated with any poison. He'd heard that sometimes they dipped them in ordinary shit when they placed them in traps. It was possible it would never heal, or that infection would set in before it did. It would all come to the same thing: I'd have to walk slower now anyway, he thought, so I'd probably starve to death before I caught the infection. He adjusted himself on a wide, old branch. He fell asleep easily. He was used to it. It was like sleeping on a back, after all.

A storm. It pounded mercilessly, and he was soaked after only a few seconds of downpour. Somewhere on the hilltop, an old tree burst into flames. Night blurred the shadows, the rain washed away the night. And the shadows... The shadows kept moving, silently and gently. But he heard them. Despite everything. He heard the smacking and crunching, heard the purring and the scratching of flesh. He tightened his grip on his sword, drew up his lance. He also sniffed. Cold, damn it.

Mud. A quagmire. His foot had begun to bleed again. He had nothing to clean it with. He shivered and panted, unbuttoning his clothes, then putting them back on. He was sticky with cold sweat, with old and new filth, and he stank. He feared most that he stank. The intense stench, in a strong wind, could carry far and draw beasts even from the eastern ravines. He limped and hobbled, the sun taking shape. It was going to get really hot soon, he could feel it. Not just from the temperature.

He sat up, or rather, slumped against a rock. He lay still and must have even lost consciousness for a long moment, because when he opened his eyes, he found himself in full sunlight. Emptiness swirled in his swollen head, his blurred vision filled with shadows. Streams of blood gushed from his foot. Black, stinking. He headed toward the summit, where he could hear the source.

The clearing was brightly lit, the green grass smelled of the crystal spring winding between the stones hidden in its tufts. He drank long and greedily, until the ice of the water began to sting his gums. Then he dipped his head. And then he undressed.

He heard the dragon before he saw it. It flew from the north, majestically reflected in the sunlight. It roared with a rhythmic, rumbling growl. It was quite handsome, a handsome creature. He estimated the distance. He jumped to his clothes and armor, hastily fastened the breeches and clamps, and quickly pulled on his boots. He gripped his gloves between his teeth and buckled his belt, drawing up his sword. His hands were sweating slightly. He surveyed the clearing, watched the approaching dragon. Black smoke still curled from its nostrils; it must have been breathing fire a moment ago. Hidden among the pine trees, the tiny meadow by the stream was too narrow for the dragon to land without risking an accident. Although hungry, it would probably have risked it anyway if it saw a human in the open.

The dragon flapped its wings, placing the grass flat on the ground. It hovered in the air, purring softly. It tossed its head, flicked its tail. It presented itself, preened. So it watched him for a moment, pulling its hood, torn by the gust of wind, tighter. The pennant on its lance rustled yellow and blue. It leaped confidently and purposefully at the dragon, though it was still limping. It wrapped its hand in the loose reins, right next to the horse's bits. The dragon, with a practiced, cavalry gesture, jerked its head upward, slightly diagonally. Straight onto its back. It looked uncertainly at the human, its large eyes grimacing. This one, however, sat straight and confidently. In a hard, wide, armored saddle, fastened with a yellow-and-blue caparison. He sat, spurring the dragon for flight.

Powerful flaps of wings spurred them forward, sharp tugs on the bit forced them south. He settled more comfortably in the saddle and breathed heavily. He adjusted his lance, pulled up his sword. He lowered his hood, let the wind tug freely through his hair, and opened his ears to the song of the monotonous roar. He rode, as usual, without the regulation helmet. Despite this, he was back in the saddle and master of the skies. A heavy regimental sword hung at his side, his lance fluttering with a yellow-and-blue pennant. As yellow-and-blue as the regimental banner. He held the reins firmly, listening calmly to the wind. He smiled, despite everything. He was still alive, though mercilessly tired. He was wounded. He was hungry. He was still very young and had already been in the saddle for two years. He was a lieutenant in the Fifth Squadron of the Imperial Dragoon Cavalry. The sun was shining brightly, and the snow-capped peaks glittered in the distance. He was flying south, to the last known positions of his headquarters. He flew because he felt himself slowly fading, and he desperately wanted to report back.