Once upon a time, Hala Smoków had been the country’s last truly independent city.
“All right,” said Lukasz at last, and Król’s other ear swiveled toward him. “East. We’ll be in the village by sunset.”
If it was still there at all.
Franciszek’s map had been drawn based on a seventeen-year-old memory. And the last time Lukasz had been in this forest, he’d been four years old, fleeing down from the Mountains with nine older brothers. He barely remembered any of it.
He and Król started moving again, and still feeling uneasy, Lukasz stowed the notebook once more in his pocket and unslung the rifle from the back of the saddle. Even if he wasn’t as good with a sword anymore, he wasn’t completely defenseless.
They broke into a small clearing. He had a glimpse of a river before Król whinnied and reared up on his hind legs. Lukasz narrowly avoided being impaled on the silver antlers.
“Damn it, Król,” he growled, dragging back on the reins with his good hand. “What is it?”
Król shrieked and reared again.
“Król—” He slipped off the horse’s back. He grabbed the bridle, tugging the horse down to him. Król’s eyes were rimmed in white, his nostrils flaring. “Król, calm down. There’s nothing here—”
Lukasz turned toward the river. He froze. There was something there.
No. Not something. Someone.
It was a girl. She was almost completely submerged, only her eyes and the top of her head visible over the calm water. Her dark hair was plastered to her skull, and its ends floated on the surface in dark coils. She was utterly silent, staring back.
Her eyes were green.
“Hey,” he called across the water. “Are you okay?”
She blinked. Her lashes, long and black, disturbed the surface. When they came up, Lukasz could see every bead of water on them.
“Are you okay?” he asked again. “Can I help you?”
Without thinking, he turned to Król and unfastened a length of rope from the saddle. When he turned back to the river, the girl was almost at the water’s edge. He jumped back.
“Damn,” he gasped.
She’d moved so swiftly, so silently. And strangely, the water had remained still as glass.
Lukasz could feel monsters in his bones the same way other people could feel the weather, and this was all wrong. Between the still water and the hypnotic lilt of her hair on its surface, everything in him was screaming.
Run.
Her eyes fell to the rope in his hand. Then they flickered back up to his face. The only motion was in her hair, glimmering on the surface with a life of its own. Lukasz knew his monsters, and she burned with enchantment.
And yet here he was . . .
Her eyes were so green.
“It’s okay,” he said. He lowered the rope to the ground. Then he straightened, holding up both hands, palms out. “I won’t hurt you.”
Her eyes slid to his hands.
He swallowed. The right was brown, with long fingers and scars across his knuckles. The left was pale and mottled.
She stared.
“Here,” he said. He knelt at the water’s edge. “It’s okay, I won’t—”
The girl pulled back her lips. Long incisors and dark gums stared out at him, and the rough tongue of a cat. She hissed, and it was the guttural hiss of a wild animal. Lukasz scrambled backward.
“What the—”
The girl launched herself out of the water. Only she wasn’t a girl anymore—
He rolled out of the way just in time for two hundred pounds of fur and muscle to burst out of the river. The lynx skidded on the bank, tearing up the earth, before rounding on him, fangs bared. Lukasz scrambled back to his feet. Król screamed and danced out of the way, but the lynx ignored the horse.
“Listen, I won’t—” Lukasz held up both hands.
The creature—whatever it was—hissed. He still had his sword at his side, but the rifle was on Król’s saddle—behind the lynx. Lukasz weighed his options. Its tufted ears lay flat to its skull. He could see every muscle tensing, coiling, getting ready to attack. His mind reeled.
What the hell is this?
Even through his panic, even with those bright green eyes boring into his, a very small voice whispered:
Franciszek would know.
The creature snarled. It began to pace.
“Easy—” he started. He held out his hands, aware of his left gravitating to the sword hilt. Better to take his chances—
The lynx went still.
Its pupils narrowed, face turning to the sky, and its ears sprang up. For a split second, Lukasz considered making a dash for Król and the rifle—
A shadow fell.
The smell hit him next. He choked on the scent of scorched hair, burned flesh. The air was hot. The rest of the world fell away, even the creature opposite him, and his heart automatically fell into time with wingbeats.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Lukasz raised his eyes and met the gaze of the Golden Dragon.
It hovered about thirty feet overhead, its great golden face weaving down from the clouds. Lukasz wasn’t an idiot. He knew his dragons. He’d killed more dragons and in a shorter time period than any other slayer in known history. He knew this was different.
It was huge. At least three times bigger than any dragon he’d ever seen. Its antlers branched like a forest, with too many tines to count. Its scales rippled like an ocean of gold, and its claws were chipped, stained with soot. Its eyes were pure black, and when its long jaws opened, a black serpentine tongue slithered out and flicked the air. It also defied species—the antlers and head of a Faustian, the body of a Ływern, the color of a—
No, he thought. Nothing is gold. Not like that.
In its own terrible way, it was beautiful.
Wonder hardened into fury. He’d lost nine brothers to this damn dragon, and he wasn’t about to miss the opportunity. He still wore his broadsword at his side, and now he considered whether to go for his sword or the rifle, which was still on Król’s saddle.
The dragon watched his indecision, and then its jaws curved. It took Lukasz a moment to recognize it as a smile. Then the smile widened and it spat a stream of fire.
Lukasz dived for the ground. He hit the grass, rolled over, and careered toward the edge of the bank. Clawing for a handhold, he had a brief—horrible—swooping sensation before he hit the water.
There was a moment of silence. The river was as cold as ice. He could make out golden light through the rippling surface. Then he found his footing and scrambled upright.
Golden flames flickered over the riverbank, exactly where he had been standing. They spread to the trees beyond, swallowing the branches in golden flames. Lukasz shielded his head as a few feet away, a burning psotnik plummeted from one of the branches and hit the water with a hiss.
He pushed his soaking hair off his forehead.
The water was shallow, barely up to his waist, and his hand went to the sword at his side. The dragon hovered overhead, watching, wings beating. He raised it in his left hand, old blood peeling off the blade.
The dragon watched.
His arm was even weaker, and his fingers were too stiff to bend around the hilt. He could see the blade trembling. He wondered if the dragon could see it, too. He changed it to his right hand. It felt foreign.