The Dragon War

Looking back, it is the smell that has stuck with me the most. The scent of burning flesh, of charred trees, of rotting bodies has been seared into my brain like a brand on leather. The images become harder to picture with time, but a whiff of a fire, and the exact odor seeps into my nostrils simultaneously with my thoughts on the subject. I will tell you the story once, and only once before I leave this world for the next.

It takes my company four days on horseback to reach the camp behind the front lines. We are a small company. There are only two dozen of us, and most are young like me. It has been less than a week since I was conscripted to fight in the Dragon War. The war is exactly as it sounds: a raging battle between man and beast, scales and flesh, and fire and sword. The dragons speak no English, so there is no hope for any kind of treaty. The king intends for us to kill as many dragons as we can before pushing on farther into their territory. He hopes to regain control of the Ashlands, the region of the kingdom where the dragons raise their young. No vegetation survives there, not with adolescent dragons eager to show off their fire-breathing abilities.

My first day on the battlefield is like no other. The fighting has temporarily ceased, so it gives us a chance to replenish ourselves and our resources. Or so I'm told. Truthfully, there has been little to no training for the boys who have been conscripted. Our ideas of war have been forged by what the king and our parents tell us.

The ground gurgles under the pressure of my boot as it sinks into the craters of mud and a murky red liquid. Blood, I realize. I have never been this close to the front lines before. Hearing the latest news of the Dragon War does not compare to the reality of physically seeing it. I cover my mouth and nose with a white handkerchief embroidered with my initials, J. L.

Rotting bodies and dismembered limbs scatter the surrounding land. The sight makes my innards flop inside of me like fish in nets. I look to the sky for refuge, expecting to see the calming blue which so candidly resembles the sea. It is grey, filled with smoke from blackened pine trees.

A man, dressed in the same navy uniform as I, brushes past me, rolling a wheel barrow behind him.

"What can I do, Sir?" I call to him.

He glances over his shoulder and slows his stride, the only indication of a response. I scramble after him, tripping over a fibula sticking up from the ground as I go.

"What is the wheel barrow for?" I ask the soldier a new question. He looks to be around thirty-two, twice my own age.

"The dead," he says, gruffly. I nod once, though I'm still a little unsure as to what that means exactly.

We walk in silence as I dodge the patches of dried blood on the grass. He doesn't seem to mind, but something about stepping in another human being's bodily fluid feels disrespectful to me. The man stops at the nearest remains of a decaying soldier.

"Help me load him."

The body of which he speaks lies face down. The soldier flips his brethren over and my eyes involuntarily dart away. His features are wickedly distorted, his flesh having been practically melted off his skull. When I look back, I keep my eyes fixed on his leather boots which seem rather unscathed other than for a few scuff marks. I raise him up by his feet while the older man picks him up beneath his armpits. I gently drop his lower half into the wheelbarrow, allowing his legs to limply dangle out the side to make room for his head. The man drops him with a plunk in the bottom of the barrow. The sound makes my heart plummet into my stomach. I search the living man's face for remorse or a grimace at the very least. His expression remains austere and unchanging. How could anyone be so shamelessly unfeeling? A nauseous feeling floods my stomach, but we plow on, repeating the same steps with each new body. They sport no armor, likely having been stripped of it before my arrival. I ask the man, who's name I have discovered to be Baldrick.

"Look around. We wear no armor. It melts into your skin and burns you alive."

"Then what protects us from the dragon's fire?"

"Shields, sometimes. And luck."

"What about God? You don't believe that he will save us from these creatures?"

"What good did God do these men?" Baldrick points to the stacked bodies in the barrow, "And how will he protect you, a boy as green as grass, against the fiery breath of dragons?"

I have no answer and he knows it. Still, I am baffled. What right does a place like this: so empty of life and hope have to exist in this world? Nonetheless, here I am.

The dragons arrive the next morning just before dawn. Only the first brushstrokes of orange and blue have painted the sky. I burst out of my tent, leaving the flaps open and quivering in the wind. Actually, it isn't wind at all, not the natural kind. This gale comes from the beating wings of dragons flying far too close to the ground. There must be dozens of them! Men dash back and forth in search of weapons and shields. Baldrick sweeps by, moving faster than a man as large as himself should ever go. His hand reaches out and snatches the back of my tunic, dragging me along with him in the same manner a mother cat carries her kits by the scruff of their necks.

"Find a shield. Sword, too." He shoves my back and it propels me forward. Before I know it, I'm running.

 The only positive thing which came from the deaths of so many soldiers is the amount of spare supplies. I pick up a sword and shield, adorned with our country's crest. They feel heavy in my wiry arms, especially the shield. Baldrick waits for me from his crouched position behind a tent. The air rings with war screeches from dragons and strangled shouts of men and boys. The beasts fan out and swoop lower to the ground. Even amidst the chaos, I can tell that they are remarkable. Their immense, bat-like wings are over twice the size of their bodies. With the light that comes from their fire, I can see the shimmer of their scales.

Baldrick shouts my name, Joren, and I sprint back to him.

"We have to fight, but stay behind me, and keep your shield up," he says, briskly.

He gives me no chance to answer before he rises to his feet and we enter the open battlefield which was once our camp. The dragons pillage us of our tents, burning them down with each exhale. Someone cries out in pain and I scan my surroundings for the victim. A man probably forty yards away is being swallowed by fire. His entire body is covered in it as if he poured alcohol over himself then lit a match. Baldrick and I bolt towards him, but he falls to his knees and crumples to the ground before we can reach him.

Baldrick freezes.

In the middle of the Dragon War, he is immobilized. He stares with glassy eyes at the soldier lying before him. Shockingly, I realize Baldrick knows him. Not only knows him, but they are friends. He has never shown an ounce of emotion towards the dead before this moment.

From nowhere, a tail whips into Baldrick's back sending him flying ten feet away. I run to him. I feel as if I've been running since I came to this horrendous place. For a moment, I think he is dead. But then he groans, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I wish it had not been so short-lived.

"I- I can't move," he whispers. The wind has been knocked straight out of him.

"It's okay. You're okay." I frantically look at the sky for dragons, and then back to Baldrick as I attempt to come up with some semblance of a plan. I grab hold of his arms, and with all my strength, drag him behind the nearest tent. He clenches his jaw in pain as I do so.

"My spine, Joren. It's broken."

My expression fades from worry to disbelief.

"No. It can't be." I shake my head violently. We may not have gotten the chance to become friends, but situations like this bond people together with the smallest of effort.

"I've seen this enough times to know."

The cries of dragons still echo in the air. It feels as if everything is slowing down. I am no longer afraid of the dragons or death. Not my death anyway.

"I need you to kill me." I swear my heart stops when he says this.

"I cannot - I will not be killed by a dragon. They have already taken too much away from me." His words are thick with emotion. He really means what he says. He needs me to end his life.

"There has to be something else we can do," I say. My voice quivers and my eyes prickle with the forming of tears.

"There isn't. I'll be burned to death if you let me lie here."

I rack my brain for another option. I find none.

"What do I do?" I ask. His eyes drift to the shining sword next to me.

"I wanted to be a page when I was sixteen," he says.

"What?" I ask, confused. Somewhere, a dragon shrieks as its underbelly is split open by steel blades.

"I wanted to be a page. But I figured my closest chance was to enlist in the army. I had no idea that this would happen."

I don't know what to say to him. I have no words that will comfort him before he goes.

"I suppose that's what I'll be in the next life."

"The next life?" It is the last question I ask him.

"Reincarnation." I manage a smile for him. So he may not believe in God, but he believes in something.

"What do you want to be?" He questions me.

"I'd like to be a sailor."

He closes his eyes. A single tear escapes his lashes. With shaking fingers, I lift my sword.

"I'd like that for you, too."