From the sky, the Błędowska badlands appeared an unfortunate blot of ruddy yellow canvas intermitted with specks of green shrubs. Across its scarred surface crawled a black inching of ants, the kind of image that appears in the periphery of one's vision, like a floating black mote that is rubbed with fingers yet never goes away. The heat was unusual, and the thick-leathered party lumbered forward without word. Their feet thrummed at the same pace, the back foot dragging in place of the front foot with a collective thump every time, in a dull heartbeat. Amidst the wagons they pulled, the packs on their backs, the spears that reached high into the air, there rose one vehicle larger than any other. Its shape and color were strange. Smeared black with ash to conceal its smooth gold and teal, the carriage drove the crown of the line. None stored their packs in its trunks. Instead they remained against their shoulders.
A whistle resounded from the pack and one of the mass's inhabitants scrambled from within towards a low rock hill, pulling himself against its back and peering over the landscape with his palm shielding his eyes. When his vision settled he cried out, pointing far in the distance behind. From the front of the line the Rumble horn was blow, and at once a shadow with round dark center and great arched sides blotted the sun. Once it disappeared, a path broke at the black army's center, and a looming shape passed between, the metal of its concealed arm clinking and whirring as a machine. It was a man, or not a man, with jagged teeth ground together above its gums. In vehemence it spit against the ground, saliva black with blood from the night before. With a wide stumbling gate the stranger lolloped towards the messenger on the rock face and threw him down by the scruff of his neck, wrenching him forward and growling at him. In fear the attendant pointed behind him again, and the master's eyes widened.
Stumbling towards the army was a lanky lad. His auburn hair looked as if he had cut it himself, and his face was smeared with dirt and crumpling bits of leaves. His body was wrapped with linen coils, but above he wore a wide tunic and saggy green trousers. Legs and feet were bare and bloodied. The master of the black army looked on him with a smirk as he bowed. Once the boy stood again, laughter and whistles emanated through the ranks. "What a pretty girl," mocked the messenger, but his master beat him in the chest to keep him from speaking again. Then he himself stepped towards the lad, examining him from back and front. In a flash he grasped the young man's hands in his own and felt them. Deep, fresh welts were etched along their lines, and the fingernails were caked in mud. Index, palm, and little finger possessed small callouses. The master chuckled and let the lad go. With a whistle his men followed his tread, and soon they moved again, leaving the lad to stand at the back of the line.
"Wait!" called the boy, and the master of the army turned again. The lad held out his hands and puffed up his chest. "I want to join you!" he breathed. A great laugh blew up from the crowd as they looked towards the master. The messenger lumbered to his leader's side and curled back his lips, exposing long canines. "What should we do with her?"
"I am a man and can fight!" roared the lad in response. "All I require is weaponry!"
At this the messenger let out a guffaw. The master only narrowed his eyes before chuckling himself, looking from one young man to the other. Then he snapped for the messenger to step forward. In confusion the large boy did. Ahead, the auburn lad waited in silence as the master lumbered towards him. When the beast of a human was a foot distance from the boy, he heaved his thick wrist over his shoulder and unsheathed his own long sword, setting it in the lad's outstretched palm. The moment the master let go, the lad groaned and the sword fell to the ground. It was heavy. As the lad gritted his teeth and heaved the blade again snickers rose from the mouths of the army men. But soon the mangled black weapon lay tucked against the crook of the boy's neck. For a moment he played with the sword to calculate its momentum and weight, which was steep. This was a slow weapon, unlike any he had ever used. But now there was no turning back. With a smoldering glance he stood tall and waited.
"Finish him, Eret," murmured the master in the messenger's ear. "The dragon hungers."
"Yes, Drago," responded Eret with a hiss. Unsheathing his own long sword and gripping it in his hands, he stepped towards the auburn boy, and the auburn boy stepped towards him. Taking his knife, Eret cut a thin line in his palm, so that the blood dripped slowly. Then, he spit upon it, and held out his hand for the auburn boy to take. After going through the same ritual, the lad complied, and the promise was made. "If I win," whispered Eret with a grin, "You get to meet a dragon."
"What about if I win?" whispered the lad. Drago chuckled. "If you win, Eret is fed to the dragon."
"Drago!" cried Eret, and the man snorted. "You think you cannot defeat the "pretty girl"?" There was more laughter. Eret gritted his teeth. "I've seen enough battles, sir," murmured the messenger, "to never bet steep unless desperate." Then he turned back to the lad and narrowed his eyes. "Go on, name your stakes."
"I join the group and you leave," murmured the lad. Eret raised his brows but nodded. The opposing parties shook hands before moving to the opposite ends of the dirt ring, constructed by one of Drago's men in the yellowing sand. Across the desert, it seemed, stood more of a bull than a man, gripping its sword tightly in hand. It would not hesitate to kill. But still, the lad swept what was left of his curls from his forehead and tightened his twitching jaw. "On my count, the battle commences," drawled Drago from outside the ring. Then he curled his forefingers around the sides of his lips and whistled. From within the ash-smeared wagon at the center of the army, a strange chair was pulled, constructed of bones and leather. Some of the hides sewn to its back had been boiled of their hair, while others were left furred. The lad averted his eyes in revulsion. Then, unable to draw them away, he managed one more glance. He should not have looked.
Mangled bones of tiny hands gripped the arms of the chair, and across their backs laid a mangy cloak of black. It was then that the lad saw the green cloak Drago wore was not his own. Entwining the two halves of the cloak collar beneath the master's scarred chin was a broach. Within, a trio of bears pursued the backs of fleeing triskelions for eternity. Behind Drago, above the mangy black cloak sprawled across the seat of the chair, there trembled three heads, slack jawed and grey. Had flies not eaten their eyes, they too would have watched the battle, the last moments of their lives painted in their irises. But now, forever, they groaned in silence. As the lad looked on the faces in terror Drago watched him and chuckled, tapping the first, bearded chin with his forefinger. "You like my handy work, lad?"
The boy did not respond. Instead he turned his gaze to Eret, his fists and forearms trembling with anger. Eret laughed as he looked on the lad's expression. But the boy could not hear it. All that resounded within his eardrums was the beat of his blood. His glance stared forward without hesitation. In reply Eret's own smile disappeared. Somber, he picked up his sword and twirled it in his hands. "When do we go?" he asked. Drago shrugged and snapped for a man to bring him water. "When I drink," he murmured. "Whoever leaves the ring loses their head."
Taking the size of the ring in one glance, the small lad gave a nod, gripping the sword again in his hands. Then he stood straight and called out to Drago, "I require cloth for my palms." The army was bent with laughter. But Drago himself tore ribbon from the side of his tunic and handed it to the lad, who took it and wrapped his palms quickly. Eret looked on in disgust. When the lad was still, the water was brought to the master and he held the goblet high. Then, as he wet his lips and slurped, feet began pounding around him, loud roars filtered from desert to ring, chants and yelps until the whole black army rumbled and shook in unrest. Within the ring, the lad's vision was blurred by sweat. Still, he never once let go of his blade. It stayed gripped in his palm as he crouched to the ground and wiped his forehead with the hem of his tunic. Eret stepped towards him with flexed muscles, his long sword gripped in both hands. Then he swung.
With a loud thud the metal severed the air and landed deep within the soil, just missing the lad's calf as he swerved away. Picking his blade from the ground as if it were a feather, Eret lumbered back to the lad whose shoulders tensed as he tried lifting his own. Again Eret swung, and again the lad dodged, sliding Drago's sword behind him as he charged to the right. He knew he could not maintain close combat. He would have to strike from afar, an impossible feat with a long sword. It was much too heavy. Crouching and inching forward with the blunt end of the weapon rested against his thigh, the lad examined Eret as he paced back and forth. Then, as the older boy trundled forward the lad lunged and dug the long sword against his opponent's ruddy knee. Eret gave a yelp and flew back, pressing his fingers around the blood. Then with gritted teeth he pounced.
Chasing the lad along the outskirts of the ring, Eret swung his sword again, in an attempt to catch the lad's stomach. He could not. His dull thwacks were too slow for the youth's spindly frame, which twisted out of his opponent's way like the legs of a spider. The lad lunged again, forcing Eret backwards. A loud yelp came from the crowd, and though Eret could not look behind his feet, he knew that they lay on the edge of the ring. With a howl he rolled to the side, the lad's blade point slicing across his shoulder. Now the youth's hands did not shake. Snarling, Eret charged again. The youth dodged and tripped his opponent, sending dust into his brown eyes and shoving his foot against the bigger boy's ass so that he stumbled just within the ring border. Before he could risk losing his head, he sat on the ground and crawled. Under his breath the lad cursed.
Now Eret hung close to the ground on all fours, his sword gripped beneath him, held by one hand. With his other he disheveled the dirt surrounding and picked up a chunk. Quickly the youth averted his eyes, and the sand Eret threw fell against his back as he sprung to the side. When he looked back the bigger lad was upon him. With all his strength the elder boy grabbed the youth by the shoulders and heaved him out from within the circle. Unable to let go, the lad clung to Eret's frame and bit the side of his neck, making the man roar in displeasure and swivel around. Just as Eret's fist made contact with the lad's side, the youth fell to the ground and crawled backwards, breathing in ragged gusts as he clutched his ribs. From the corner of his eye, he looked out at the men watching the fight and saw their lubricated gaze, the thirst for blood dripping in dribbles of saliva from their lips. But on one of their backs there twinkled a long, thin blade. A rapier.
Eret's fist slammed into the youth's cheek. With a cry the lad curled his face to the side and rolled over, avoiding the brunt of the attack as his antagonist pinned him down with his legs. Now the men surrounding cheered as Eret picked up his blade and pointed it above the lad's nose. But the lad curled to the side, bit Eret in the chest and punched him in the groin, sending the man groaning backwards so that he could scramble from beneath. His long leg met with Eret's back and shoved him forward again. When the bigger boy's face fell outside the circle and the youth pointed, Drago shook his head. "All of him," the master growled, and the youth's shoulders sagged. "Kill him!" roared the crowd. Before the lad could comply Eret jumped up again. Throwing his own blade out from the ring, he slunk forward and picked the lad up by his knees. Then, holding the young man high above his head, he chucked him through the air.
With a crash the lad's spindly frame left the ring and landed on unmarked ground. Howls of wild men surrounded as the army fell upon him, their heads crashing into one another as they tried grasping his auburn hair. But the lad slithered from the crowd like a sharp edged snake, and with a gasp he reached for the man with the rapier and slid the weapon from its sheath. Before its owner could bark in disapproval the lad drove the pointed end of the rapier through the man's eye and into the cavity of his skull. From a second combatant the lad drew a dagger. Then in a swift draw he sliced the man's throat. After these corpses fell, their living brothers blinked in surprise and stepped backwards in hesitance. Holding the rapier over his head and the dagger thrust forward, the youth gritted his teeth and tread with light, bent legs. Two more men were cut down. Then none moved.
"Now I fight with my weapon of choice!" snarled the youth, looking straight into the seated Drago's eyes. They were black and beady, narrowed with contemplation. But a smile played across his lips as he watched the youth's expression change from rage to confusion.
"Any man can fight the weak with a large weapon!" hissed the lad, pointing to all of the men. "Not all men possess great strength. Some possess great skill instead." Snarls descended around the lad's shoulders, but Drago dismissed them and stepped forth from his chair. The lad held his weaponry at ready. Sweat dripped from his brow like flowing tears. But as the master's shadow fell over him, his arms grew weak and dropped with heaviness. The dull clang of sword on clay, a shameful sound, echoed across the sand. In reply Drago chuckled. Then, bending low, he picked up the fallen dagger and rapier and placed them through his belt, sheathed beside the scabbard of his black long sword. Against the word of the men he gave a whistle and told the line to move forward. The lad was left in the dust, as the black army distributed the bone chair back within ash wagon and trudged on, their packs set against their backs again, their weapons sheathed in their scabbards. The four dead were lit afire, and all the while the lad stood behind with fallen shoulders. Even when the pyre burners left the carcasses and rejoined the line, the lad hesitated.
Looking back and growling, Drago snapped his fingers and pointed to his side. Then, with trembling arms, the youth nodded and fired forward on the tips of his toes. Soon he walked at the master's side, watching his great black form as he tread on. In the distance lay a great bundle of grey and black, shot with dashes of red. Its skin was leather, taught in some places but sagging in others. The beast it belonged to to was too weary to hold itself together. When Drago called forth in strange tongue, one of his men drew back a whip. When its wire frame sprung forward and licked the skin of the beast, the massive leather awakened.
With a groan, its grey red skin trembled and stretched. Two powerful wings shadowed the sky, and Drago stepped between them. With one arm he held the reigns. The other he held out to the lad. In fear, the boy grasped the gnarled hand, and was heaved onto the beast's back. Then, the great wings beat the air, and the lad and Drago were transported to the sky.