with gold braid and topped with golden epaulets. He had a shiny black cavalry helmet clasped to his side. Even his appearance was annoying.
Lukasz inclined his head.
“Lukasz Smoków. Brygada Smoka.”
The other man clicked his heels together and bowed.
They must have looked ridiculous, standing on the street of a ghost town. And this perfectly polished and turned-out officer, bowing to a soaking-wet, completely disheveled, sorry excuse for a dragon slayer.
“I know a lot about you, Lieutenant,” said Koszmar Styczeń.
Lukasz raised an eyebrow. “How exciting for you.”
Uninvited, Major Styczeń leaned an elbow on the fence. Lukasz noticed that he wore a seal around his neck: a cast-gold stork and serpent, symbolizing high-ranking officers. He continued, obliviously:
“The youngest of the Brothers Smokówi. At first there were ten, then two. The smallest brigade in Wrony history.” He smiled. He had very long teeth, with slightly too much space between them.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” said Lukasz at last. “This is my favorite fairy tale. But I have heard it before.”
“Of course. How thoughtless of me. You’ll forgive me. It’s a rare day that one meets a Wolf-Lord.” Koszmar replaced the helmet on his head, the vila-hair plume cascading over one shoulder. He glanced over and asked abruptly: “How is your hand, by the way?”
Lukasz felt his jaw tighten.
A group of young women had congregated near the fountain. Their hair was as dull as the stripes on their long skirts, their skin was almost as white as their blouses, and they held thin cigarettes in thin hands. The only things colorful about them were their bloodred boots, vivid against the dull street.
“You’d think they’d never seen Wrony before,” observed Koszmar after a moment.
Wrony was the nickname for the royal army. The Crows.
“They probably haven’t,” replied Lukasz.
Warily, he watched as the women moved a little too close to Król for his taste. Sometimes, the antlers proved too great a temptation.
“I’ve been here for three days,” said Koszmar in a thoughtful voice. “No one stared then.”
“I’m a Wolf-Lord,” Lukasz said without thinking. “People always stare.”
Koszmar turned to him, and for an instant, he seemed almost predatory.
“Yes,” said Koszmar in a very soft voice. “Yes, they do.”
Against the dim haze of the village, Koszmar looked somehow sharper. Only his eyes reflected the gloom around them: pale, gray, and flat.
Lukasz glanced back at the women, unsettled. One of them, maybe a bit younger than he was, was stroking the black horse’s neck. Król turned toward her, ears flicking forward, and she produced a carrot from her pocket. Even from across the square, Lukasz could see the horse’s eyes light up.
“So,” began Koszmar, extracting a pipe from his pocket. It was an expensive little trinket, carved and inlaid with amber. He puffed a few perfect smoke rings in the gathering gloom and asked, with deliberate casualness: “Lukasz. I suppose you’re here for that Golden Dragon?”
God, I wish.
Lukasz curled and uncurled what was left of his fingers. It had taken eight weeks, a trembling blade, and a Golden Dragon, but at least he could start admitting it to himself.
His dragon-slaying days were over.
He shook his head. Koszmar Styczeń watched him closely. His eyes had gone black, and they were set back under brows much darker than his blond hair. It gave his face a hard, closed look.
“Not to point out the kikimora behind the stove, but you are a dragon slayer. Possibly the greatest dragon slayer in history.” A smile unfurled on Koszmar’s face. Then he added: “Lost your nerve, have you?”
Lukasz curled his melted fingers under, out of sight.
“Saw the light, more like it,” he replied. “At the end of a very long hallway, and it turned out to be dragon fire. I’ve retired.”
In the heartbeat that followed, Lukasz decided that he had no interest in elaborating, and simply added, “I’m here looking for my brother.”
Koszmar’s eyes narrowed. Smoke poured out of his nostrils and swirled, as languid as his gaze, toward the sky.
“Your brother?” His brow furrowed. “Which one?”
Lukasz wasn’t surprised that Koszmar knew nothing of Franciszek’s disappearance. Franciszek didn’t like photographs; he was shorter and thinner than the others, and whereas the other nine were instantly recognized as Wolf-Lords wherever they went, Franciszek was often mistaken for a townsman. Besides, he always preferred to remain behind the scenes, to step in when needed, but otherwise, to leave the glory to Lukasz.
Lukasz missed that about him.
“What are they doing?” he asked, changing the subject.
The gravediggers had finished digging, and one at a time, they rolled the bloody, sheet-clad figures