Escape

It had been raining for four days. The barren land, dry for most of the year and covered with tall tufts of faded grass, now became a stretch of shallow, muddy puddles and slowly trickling streams stretching to the horizon. The sparse vegetation, usually devoid of moisture, transformed in a mere twenty-four-hour period into a green carpet interwoven with millions of tiny, colorful flowers. The constant dripping of rain, the squelching of mud clinging to soaked boots, and the sloshing sound accompanying each step in a puddle that proved deeper than the others became unbearable. The lack of a change of clothes, the impossibility of finding a patch of dry ground, and the cold food intensified the feeling of depression and exhaustion from the trek. A hopeless mood and foul weather had accompanied the refugees since they left the mountains, whose silhouettes grew fainter behind them with each passing day. The only consolation was that the days and nights on this sodden plain were much warmer than among the mountain peaks.

The travelers were an oddly matched pair. Leading the way was a short, slender man, dressed only in a sodden sleeveless sweatshirt and muddy camouflage trousers. A heavy sniper rifle was strapped to his backpack. The tattoos visible on his bare arms, the bone beads woven into his braid, and the necklace of dagger-like fangs hanging around his neck left no doubt. This was a hunter, a dragon slayer. Van Zan, in reality, hadn't even reached his twenty-fifth year. However, the last six years spent hunting these insidious beasts meant that his age would have to be multiplied at least twice to explain the prematurely graying locks in his black hair.

A little way behind him, her bright green eyes staring at the muddy sludge beneath her feet, walked a petite woman wrapped in a dark gray cloak that was too large for her. A freckled, tired face framed by a thicket of fiery red curls peeked out from under the voluminous hood. Her gleaming eyes lifted from her feet only to occasionally cast an angry glance at her guide's back. The girl's name was Diarii, and she was not much younger than her companion. Deep down, she knew that only thanks to him had she managed to escape their pursuit. Yet, she couldn't accept the thought of having to leave her hometown, leaving everything she loved behind, to escape a witch-hunting band. Fear, longing, and uncertainty turned into helpless anger, which, for lack of any other outlet, she unleashed on her guardian.

A good two weeks had passed since they left the village, and compared to now, the previous crossing of the mountains could be called a pleasant trip. During that time, she had grown accustomed to her guide and had almost ceased to fear him. However, their carefully built trust shattered when they encountered an ambush. After crossing the final pass on the edge of a deserted plain, instead of their friends waiting for them, they found the burnt-out wreck of a rover and mutilated bodies. The corpses belonged to partisans fighting the despotic rule of the New Religion. The survivors had come to this remote area to help them cross the wasteland to areas beyond the reach of the church's authority. Unfortunately, they were surprised by fanatics pursuing the witch. After an easy victory, they decided to wait and capture the fugitives. This time, things didn't go so well; before the terrified girl realized what was happening, the fight was over. Van Zan leisurely raised his rifle, calmly aimed, and fired a twelve-millimeter bullet straight into the back of the last of the attackers, who had realized the situation quickly enough to try to escape. His three companions were already dead. The shock of seeing blood and corpses reawakened the witch's fear of Van Zan. The girl saw with her own eyes that the tales of dragon slayers were not just legends, she understood the almost reverential awe with which the villagers spoke of them, and she understood what her father meant when he said Van Zan was likely the most dangerous man she would ever meet. Reason told her that her father's trust in the young hunter was based on very strong arguments. However, she couldn't simply ignore the fact that she had lost the ability to decide her own fate. Whether she wanted to or not, she was now dependent on his goodwill; she couldn't simply turn and leave, return to the village. She had to keep running if he wanted to live.

The feeling of hopelessness and helplessness fueled a fury in Diaria that surpassed even her fear and fatigue. Exhausted by the hours of marching, exasperated by the rain, by her clothes sticking to her skin, and by her own helplessness. She gave Van Zan her hundredth icy glare today. She had had enough of the humidity; the desert, where finding water was supposed to be the biggest problem, had turned out to be a nightmarish swamp. "

Desert! We're going to drown here," she said to herself, "how long has this been going on?"

The girl glanced up at the sky, but the heavy clouds made it impossible to tell how high the sun was or how much time had passed since they'd set off that morning. "

Let it stop, let this downpour end!" The words, though shouted, were lost in the ubiquitous drumming of the drops.

She stopped for a moment to straighten her clinging clothes, shook off the water that had gathered in the folds of her hood, which began dripping onto her face again, and with effort, took another step, then another, then another, then another. She was now standing only by force of will. She didn't think about where she was going, she just walked. Suddenly, her shoe became entangled in a tuft of tough grass. She was so exhausted that she didn't have time to regain her balance or even use her hands to support herself, and fell to the soft ground. Van Zan turned, dropped her luggage, and ran to the girl. When he helped her up, she angrily pushed him away, but her legs gave out, and she sat down on the muddy ground. She looked at her reflection in the puddle, then at the worried man leaning over her, then back at her muddy face, before bursting into hysterical laughter. Van Zan crouched down beside her and, without a word, began to wipe her face. A frantic giggle slowly turned into a quiet sob. The hood fell over her shoulders, and rivulets of rain, mixing with tears, slowly washed away the remnants of the mud.

"I'm sorry," the girl stammered, her voice barely audible, breaking. "I'm sorry, but I can't, I didn't mean to..."

She lowered her gaze, and tears began to flow again. The hunter gently lifted her head so he could look into her eyes, wiped her face again, this time of the tears, and pushed away the unruly strands of hair that clung to her face.

"Don't cry... please," he said to the girl; he couldn't think of anything less trivial.

Van Zan spoke little at all. Accustomed to months of solitary hunting, he rarely had the opportunity to talk. Moreover, people avoided his company out of fear, and conversations with those he could call friends were limited, except for drunken celebrations celebrating the survival of another hunt, to the exchange of specific information. He rarely hunted with anyone else. And even then, circumstances demanded silent communication, and the rules were clear: everyone was concerned for themselves. So the situation he now found himself in was as strange as it was troubling. He had never had to take care of anyone before, and he certainly had never run away from people. If it were up to him, he would have ambushed his pursuers and simply killed them one by one. Or, if unlucky, he would have died himself. Every day since he took up his profession, he had considered this possibility. The risks he took were so integral to his life that the fear of death was a concept that was slowly losing its meaning. Van Zan took risks because that was his nature. He did what he did because it suited him. Hunting, fighting, dueling with a beast far more powerful than a human, yet with a surprisingly high intelligence. This was the meaning of his existence. He couldn't imagine living any other way. Being a farmer, a builder, a mechanic, or even a soldier—he didn't think it would ever suit him. His additional reluctance to abandon his current occupation and settle permanently was fueled by the fact that, although thanks to people like him, ordinary people could feel relatively safe in their settlements and villages, dragon slayers weren't always welcome there, especially if the population was prosperous and untroubled by any monster. Gratitude for aid once rendered to a community was something people like him could hardly count on. Human memory was strangely fleeting in such cases.

Much time had passed since the Cataclysm, which caused the destruction of a civilization based on highly advanced technology. With it, great cities fell, and the human population, plagued by constant catastrophes and conflicts, drastically decreased. Few people alive today knew more about the past than that some global catastrophe had occurred and that, some time afterward, beasts appeared on Earth, called dragons by those who remembered old tales and legends. In truth, the past held no interest for anyone. People lived their daily lives. When the dragon population, whether due to the actions of assassins or some other unknown cause, decreased enough that the threat posed by them ceased to be a daily nightmare, some were dissatisfied with the way people had arranged their lives. They decided to teach others what was most important, what they should believe in, to whom they should pay homage, and above all, to whom they should donate their earnings and everything salvageable from the ruins. Thus arose the New Religion, an enterprise led by masters of manipulation convinced of their superiority and destiny for power. Initially, this movement, based on a confluence of ancient beliefs, embodied in newly created legends, often crafted to suit the needs of their creators, stemming from a great cataclysm, had no greater influence on the inhabitants of the settlements than other wandering prophets proclaiming punishment for sins and the ultimate destruction of the world. However, the intentions of its creators were persistently realized, capitalizing on the misfortunes befalling the villages and the ignorance of the populace. Now, it was an undeniably vibrant organization with thousands of blindly devoted followers, reaching out with its claws wherever there was anything of value. The well-organized, yet small and scattered groups resisting the terror introduced by the priests of the New Religion had little chance of effectively halting the expansion of the fanatics; their only remaining option was to defend their settlements against the inquisition's attempts.

"Get up, Diarii, don't stay in the water," he added, seeing the girl slowly calming down. He helped her up. This time, she didn't push his arm away.

"Just a little longer," he said quietly, looking at the tired girl. He had no desire to force her to continue walking. The longer he spent with Diarii, the more he couldn't understand why they'd called her a witch and sent those rabid dogs calling themselves inquisitors to hunt her down. To him, she was so delicate that sometimes he was afraid to touch her for fear of hurting her. He admired her for having managed to get this far and still having the energy to get angry. Besides, he didn't know how to react to her moods. His experience in this regard was limited to fleeting affairs with women who had specific jobs. Diarii was a completely new phenomenon in Van Zan's life.

A witch? Exactly, he thought as he helped her to her feet, "Oh, Ifni, let the dragon eat them all.

" "Soon," he repeated, "we'll stop sooner today, you can rest. We just need to find some sheltered spot."

Which, in this monotonous landscape, bordered on impossible; as far as the eye could see, there was no hiding place.

"No, I can go," Diarii replied in a slightly stronger voice, "I can go, really."

The girl wiped away the remnants of her tears and put her hood back on. The still-falling rain had eased to a fine drizzle. Diarii let go of the arm that supported her and, staring at the ground, slowly moved forward.

When she had taken only a few steps, a long growl reached the travelers' ears. Van Zan immediately reached behind his back. However, he didn't find what he was looking for. The rifle, like the rest of the equipment, lay with the backpack about forty meters away. Their pursuers were much closer. Two enormous saber-toothed wolverines, roaming the desolate plain in search of meat, slowly approached the fugitives, making no attempt to conceal their presence. The killer believed they must have stumbled upon them by accident. If they had been followed, they would surely have noticed sooner. The lack of weapons didn't worry him much. Estimating the distance between them, the unloaded luggage on one side and the hungry animals on the other, left no doubt. He wouldn't have time to reach, grab his rifle, and fire before the predators pounced on the girl. By attacking one animal, he had no guarantee the other wolverine wouldn't pounce on the witch. The hunter decided to stand between them and the girl and wait. Perceiving the threat, Diarii froze. She knew how to defend herself against the wild animals that roamed near villages. These, however, were much larger, stronger, and it clearly didn't matter to them whether they were feeding on a creature that walked on two legs or four.

"There's another one on the left," the hunter whispered. "It's creeping towards us, it'll probably attack first. The others are there to distract us. Don't move and pretend you still haven't seen it. When it leaps towards us, just hide behind me."

The girl nodded uncertainly. She didn't need to pretend; she didn't notice the lurking animal even after learning which direction it was from.

The distance between the predators and the humans was constantly decreasing. However, the hunter moved in such a way as to get within jumping range of the hiding animal long before the other two could catch them. It was as if they were unconsciously walking into a trap set by the wild beasts. The hunter suspected they would try to catch the weaker one first; they surely had a chance to observe them earlier, since they had decided to use a trick instead of immediately jumping for their throats.

It was lucky they weren't so stupid after all, he thought. If they had all attacked as soon as they spotted them, the chances of saving the girl would have been slim, and of them escaping unscathed would have been almost nonexistent.

You were trying to be too clever. Or maybe you're just afraid—he said the last words aloud.

Simultaneously, the killer's hand held twin, curved, claw-like blades. A favorite weapon of the Killers, often handmade. Depending on the need, it could be worn loose or attached to the hand using a special mechanism. In both cases, the blades were a deadly extension of the hand.

A few seconds later, the lurking beast decided to attack. As expected, it leaped straight at the girl. The waiting hunter turned quickly, simultaneously pushing Diarii behind him. The next moment, the gray body, slashed from neck to groin, fell limply into the mud at the witch's feet. The other two, still unaware of their brethren's fate, snarled toward the humans. This time, Van Zan didn't wait until they were closer; a few steps were enough to confront another wolverine. The disoriented animals paused for a moment. Van Zan leaped, landing his heavy, shod boots squarely on the beast's neck. The sound of breaking bones left no doubt as to its fate. Only one animal remained. Ifni had clearly answered the killer's prayers. Seeing what had happened, the wolverine was clearly stunned. Instead of lunging at the girl, it remained snarling and flashing its long fangs, but it glanced around uncertainly, first at its would-be victims, then at its dead brethren. The hunter, however, had no doubts; steel claws once again sank into the flesh, and blood gushed from the slit throat, staining the water in the puddles.

Seeing the danger had passed, Diaria, her heart pounding, cautiously glanced around.

Almost like when they came down from the mountains, only instead of those beasts, there were people. People. But did that even matter, she thought, to Him, certainly not. And to me? How exactly were they different from those wild creatures? That they could talk and walk on two legs. That they could think. And what were they thinking about? How to kill us. Or not even… how to catch me and kill me, sometime later, when they felt like it. Those wolves wanted to eat us, at least.

She looked down at her feet and instinctively moved away from the cooling carcass, only now did she see that she was covered in blood. It no longer made much of an impression on her; she looked at Van Zan. The hunter, emotionless, wiped the animal blood from his hands.

Now he'll probably stop talking to me again, he mused, wiping blood from his iron claws. He sighed and silently went to get his backpack. The girl followed him. The assassin picked up the things he'd left behind, and when Diarii caught up with him, they set off again.

After half an hour of slow, arduous walking, they reached the crest of a small hill. On the other side, some distance from the base, a sudden drop interrupted the monotony of the grass. From where they stood, the distinct line of a vast cliff could be seen. The nearer edge, dropping steeply down, was shaped like an irregular semicircle, curving sharply on one side, while on the other it stretched to the horizon. The other bank was too far away to see, and the bottom of the sinkhole was hidden by clouds of fog. Van Zan turned and said to the girl,

"City, we must have turned too far east." Now he understands where those creatures came from. They wouldn't wander where fresh meat couldn't be found. And in places like that"—he gestured toward the sinkhole—"food is readily available." The assassin himself was surprised by the length of his "speech." However, he noticed that the girl was staring at him, listening intently to what he had to say, instead of avoiding his gaze and adopting a completely indifferent attitude, as she had done before.

Encouraged by this change, Van Zan continued. "I had no intention of approaching these ruins at all, but since we're already here, it might be worth checking in. We'll be able to ask a few questions, and maybe we'll find a few useful things... with a bit of luck. But that's tomorrow. We can't go any further now," he concluded with a hesitant smile.

"A city," the girl repeated. "I mean, one of the cities from before the cataclysm, which the priests say were wiped out because humans angered the god, that the ruins are now inhabited by demons, and dragons make their nests there." She blurted this out in one breath, genuine curiosity in her voice.

"The priests also say that electricity is a creation of Satan, that all machines that are still working are cursed, as are mechanics who study ancient knowledge," Van Zan replied with a laugh, "and that we can kill with our eyes... and that you're a witch and must be burned." He kept the last thought to himself, but it made the smile fade.

The assassin's sneer brought a flush of shame to the witch's face, but she continued to gaze intently toward the sinkhole. The scattering clouds of fog allowed them to see the ruined stumps of concrete and steel towers.

They pitched their tent so that the ridge shielded them from the city. Van Zan told the girl to change and try to dry her clothes.

"You can safely use the gas; we'll surely find fuel in the city. Now I'll look around."

Then he handed her the rifle and headed back in the direction they had come from. The surprised girl held the gun for a moment, amazed that it was so light despite its size. But even more surprised was the fact that she held it at all.

Van Zan knows perfectly well that I can't use it, she thought. He's never made such jokes like this before, he's never done anything that made much sense, and handing me the rifle was probably a rather deliberate move. He probably thinks I'm safe here, since he left everything and flew off to who knows where. But this city, people talk so much, so many strange things, so many terrible things. The proximity of the legendary ruins was unsettling, arousing irresistible curiosity.

She weighed the rifle in her hands again, hesitantly raised it, and, imitating Van Zan, put the scope to her eye. A little disappointed, she lowered the gun and shrugged.

"I guess I need to turn this on somehow, I can't see anything now," she said to herself. Putting the rifle aside, she decided to follow the hunter's advice and opened her backpack in search of the heater. She rummaged through the contents, examining some unfamiliar items. Most of the equipment came from a time when advanced technology was widely available. Some of these items were in their home; after all, her father had been one of those trying to re-understand the workings of pre-Cataclysm machines. But she could only guess at the purpose of many others. Probably half of the assassin's equipment could buy a large village and its inhabitants. Once she had dealt with the fire, she stripped off her soaked clothes and spread them in the tent near the heater. There wasn't much space, but it was the only protection they had against the rain. Although everything was already damp, shelter from the relentless rain was a real relief, and the warmth from the heater pleasantly enveloped her aching body. The girl sat down and covered herself with a thin, yet very warm blanket. The material it was made of also came from a bygone era. No one could weave something like that these days. She untied her hair, which had turned auburn when wet, and slowly began to comb it out. It was quite a challenge; she hadn't had time to do it since they'd reached this plain; getting her unruly, tangled curls in order required much effort and patience. Struggling with her hairstyle, Diarii kept thinking about the city. She'd heard so much about these places, but she'd never imagined she'd ever see one, and certainly never before had she imagined she might find herself in one. The curiosity these mystical ruins had awakened within her seemed to push all other matters to the edge of her consciousness. Eventually, however, exhaustion overcame her, and she fell asleep sitting up, wrapped only in a blanket, still holding the comb in her hand.

Meanwhile, Van Zan reached the cooling corpses, which just two hours ago had been terrifying killing and flesh-eating machines. Surprisingly, the scavengers hadn't yet gotten to them. Before he realized they'd reached the ruins, he'd given them no thought. Still, why let all this food go to waste when we're stopping here anyway?

There's too much, but at least some can be used; it'll be nice to eat something fresh for a change?

He expertly began skinning the animals and carving out the better cuts of meat. When he finished with his catch, he returned to camp. The girl was already asleep; the killer carefully laid her on a bed of drying clothes, took a comb from his hand, and covered her more tightly with a blanket. Diarii was so exhausted that she didn't even lift her eyes; she only murmured contentedly in her sleep.

"What have I gotten myself into?" he thought. "A few more days with her and I can be a babysitter."

He moved the burning heater a safe distance from her hair; in its light, it seemed even more fiery than usual. He looked at the sleeping woman for a moment.

"Well, that's all good news, when she wakes up, her foul mood will probably return," he thought. He adjusted the blanket again and left the tent, immersing himself in the hanging drizzle.

There were still a good few hours left until dusk. With nothing else to do, Van Zan set out for a short reconnaissance towards the cliff. Once at its edge, he began searching for a way down. The walls of the chasm weren't as steep as they looked from a distance, but the swift streams flowing over the edge posed a serious obstacle on the way down. After some time, he finally found a relatively safe gully, free of rock slides and slippery mud. It was overgrown with small bushes, which, as he descended, grew increasingly denser. Reaching about halfway up the slope, the assassin crouched and, using thermal imaging binoculars, surveyed the ruins shrouded in mist. As he had expected, the outskirts of the city were uninhabited. The assassin easily spotted animals standing out among the cold mounds of rubble; larger heat sources and population centers were located deeper, a considerable distance from the cliff.

When he had last been here, the city had been divided into three enclaves. The largest, but also the most devastated, section was occupied by primitive tribes constantly at war with each other and devouring each other. "Primitive" might not have been the right term; "regressive" better captured the truth. But that wasn't important to Van Zan. More important seemed to be which of the other two communities inhabiting this place currently controlled the area they wanted to go to, and whether they were arriving during a moment of peace or if they happened to stumble upon the constant, more or less frequent fighting.

If he were alone, such trivial matters would be irrelevant. However, the witch's presence complicated matters. A woman from out of town was no small prize for traders. The fortune she could fetch in the local market was a temptation that could overshadow not only common sense but even the fear commonly felt towards dragon slayers. Besides, as a guardian and guide, he didn't think anyone there would believe him. They would simply think he'd picked up some stray along the way and was lugging her around until he got bored.

Such were the cities. Inhabited by savages, left to their own devices. They lacked both the wisdom and the courage to leave these ruins and attempt to live by any rules other than the rule of the fist. And no one cared, as long as they remained within the ruins. And no one living outside the ruins had any intention of venturing there either. Despite the fact that the cities constituted the largest collection of remnants of an ancient civilization, expeditions into them were too dangerous to tempt the few who knew about them. For these and many other reasons, the cities were isolated places, and very few inhabitants of the outside world knew what was truly happening there. Thus, another false legend arose, cunningly exploited by the priests of the New Religion for their own purposes. The truth was that the cities were too valuable a source of high-tech information for the priests to allow the common people to become too interested, and that they were still too weak to access the secrets they held.

Seeing nothing to worry about, Van Zan decided to return. On the way back, he surveyed the area again, wondering if he might have missed a more convenient place to descend. However, he saw nothing in sight, and he didn't think it was worth wasting time searching further, since the route he'd explored wasn't so bad.

By the time he reached the tent again, it was starting to get dark. Diarii was still sound asleep, and the rain, unwilling to be unconventional, continued to fall. Encouraged by the witch's example, he carefully and quietly squeezed himself into a corner and covered himself with his jacket.

The girl's proximity, her scent filling the tiny space of the tent, the murmur of her calm breathing, put the assassin in a sentimental mood. He lay for a long time, staring at the glow emanating from the ray. He thought of nights spent hunting alone, years of endless wanderings and ever-new expeditions. The constant pursuit of risk, life on the edge, without worries about tomorrow, without dwelling on the past. Until now, he had cared little for the affairs of others, just as no one had likely cared for his own fate. But this time, he wasn't alone; the future of another being was in his hands, delicate, defenseless, and so full of energy and a will to live. He couldn't think of her indifferently. She was so close that if he moved closer, he could feel her heartbeat, even the slightest. Suddenly, he yearned for it with all his soul. He didn't dare, though. He remembered her explosive nature, but he was more afraid to admit to himself that this was one of the few things he had ever cared about. He struggled with his thoughts for a few moments until he finally fell asleep, listening to the dripping rain and the girl's even breathing