Cliffside. Flat on our bellies. Dirt in my cleavage and a cramp in my hip. And down there? History doing its usual blood-soaked thing.
Banners rippling like torn silk. Bright reds, sickly greens, gold threads that'll be trampled into shit before dusk. Cataphracts, gods, proper knightly bastards with lances and twelve layers of lacquered armor, galloping like thunderclouds on hooves. Formations tight enough to make a drill sergeant weep. They're charging downhill, flags streaming, ribbons snapping, a whole symphony of hoofbeats and war cries.
Into a wall.
A damned forest of pikes—sixteen rows deep, shields braced, polearms out. The kind of line that doesn't flinch unless the sky itself falls on them. And maybe not even then.
I watch the moment of impact, right where flesh and steel kiss and scream. Horses rear, men scream, splinters fly. It's beautiful. It's hideous. It's exactly what ballads forget to mention when they're too busy waxing poetic about "glory" and "duty" and other such heroic bollocks.
The Dragon, next to me, snorts. Doesn't say a word. Just watches. Wings pulled in tight. Probably remembering some battle five hundred years ago where he roasted both sides and stole the king's underpants.
Me? I just lie there, chin on fists, and narrate to no one:
"This is what they call honor. A few thousand idiots getting skewered for flags they can't even see through the dust. Steel on flesh. Men bred for killing, drilled for slaughter. No one here's fighting for home. Or hearth. Or love. They fight because someone told them to. Or because they want their name sung by drunk bards in shitty taverns. Or because they're too stupid to do anything else. And you know what? They'll die. And someone will write a poem. And someone else will sell their boots."
I sigh. "And I'll be down there this afternoon. Looting the unlucky ones."
The Dragon finally mutters, "Charming."
I grin. "Practical."
"Is Ogden down there?" I ask, squinting at the blur of banners. "I thought I saw his ridiculous blue pennant at the start. The one with the lion that looks like it's mid-sneeze."
The Dragon doesn't even lift his chin. Just flicks his tail. "Your boyfriend? Most likely. Knowing him, he's found a way to look heroic while staying exactly twelve paces behind the actual danger. Probably making himself useful guarding the Duke's concubines. Shirt unbuttoned. Sword polished. Hair windswept."
I elbow him in the ribs. Not that he notices. "He is not my boyfriend."
"Mmhmm."
"He's not!"
"Say it louder. Maybe your ovaries will believe it this time."
I glare. "He's just... fine. Maybe a friend."
The Dragon raises one scaly brow.
"With benefits."
The other brow joins it.
"Frenemy," I mutter. "Frenemy with benefits."
"Ah yes," he says dryly. "The rarest and most emotionally stable of all arrangements."
I kick some dirt at him.
"Also a frenemy that swindled us out of our fair share of illbegotten loot." he smirks.
Below us, the lines clash again. More screams. A standard bearer goes down, trampled before the flag even hits the dust. The blue lion pennant's nowhere to be seen.
"I swear if he dies down there," I say, "I'll kill him."
"That's the spirit."