As soon as I had the weapons together, I was back at the horse, sliding them into place and untying the lead rope.

“We need to move, your Highness. Now. Before it finishes licking its wounds and decides to come after us again.” I turned to lead Munter to the road without looking back at His Highness, trusting he would follow. I was too concerned with trying to devise a way out of this situation that did not involve becoming wyvern feed.

I heard the scraping of the prince following me. “Will it come after us?” He asked. “Shouldn’t it be scared of us now?”

I shook my head, the action scattering drops of water from my hat. “Wyverns are territorial, your Highness, and if this one is trying to stake a claim it’s likely to hold a grudge, sir. There’s a chance it won’t return, but not one we should stake our lives on.”

As soon as we reached the even ground of the road, I mounted up and reached a hand down the prince. “Mount up, your Highness. We’ll need to make some ground, sir, and pray we’re not riding deeper into its territory.” I kicked Munter into a canter. I would have loved to spur him on to a gallop, but without knowing how far we might need to travel now I wanted to spare him.

What was weighing on my mind was quite simple: the publican in Zimmerdorf, or whatever it was called, hadn’t mentioned a wyvern and nor had the people seemed frightened. Since wyverns had no problem picking off humans and especially children, that meant it hadn’t troubled them and that likely meant the hamlet was outside their territory, and that meant it was most likely we were riding further into it, not away.

The beast should be wary of us, His Highness was correct, but I was worried its offence would outweigh its concern. I hadn’t severely injured it, which meant its flight may have been more akin to a dog recoiling from a suddenly jumping rat than anything more lasting. Of course, as soon as the dog realised the rat was just a rat it would be the work of one leap and one bite and that would be that.

Up until now I had been scanning the air non-stop, trying to catch a glimpse of the wyvern in flight, but I turned my attention downwards to withdraw the first of the spent dragonets.

“Keep your eyes on the sky, your Highness,” I called over my shoulder as I fumbled with the powder horn for the flintlock. “I need to reload the dragonets and if the wyvern comes in again it’ll come in quick, like a falcon, sir. Shout as soon as you see anything.”

I felt movement against my back and assumed he’d nodded. I returned my attention to the dragonet in my hands, only occasionally looking up to check the road ahead. Munter didn’t need guiding, on a path this clear, and getting the paper-wrapped ball into the muzzle of the gun was tricky. They were made to much closer sizes with the new models, which made them much more accurate, but right now I wouldn’t have minded just being able to throw in the ball, slam the rammer down twice, and call it good.

Despite my fumbling and and adrenaline-filled shaking hands, I eventually had both dragonets charged and ready. The arquebus bounced on its sling next the saddle, far to cumbersome to reload from horseback, and I prayed the smaller arms would be enough.

We had been on the run for perhaps another ten minutes when His Highness shouted out “There!” and my head snapped up, looking everywhere for the beast. I found it where I least wanted it: behind us, and coming in fast. There was no time to veer off, no chance of it missing, it was a predator in the pounce.

I took a deep breath, and tried a trick I hadn’t used since I was a youth doing riding tricks to impress my friends, and never with someone riding pillion. I rose to my feet in the stirrups, ignoring the prince’s startled yelp, and turned from the hips to aim a dragonet behind us, Tunsa-fashion.

Swaying and trying not to lose my balance, I screamed an incoherent yell at the wyvern. It didn’t even react, so far as I could see, and I prayed the next trick wouldn’t see me break my neck and the lizard fly off with His Highness as I cocked the dragonet.

The recoil nearly tipped me over, but I managed to turn it into a bit of a spin and landed in the saddle with a heavier impact than planned, immediately falling flat to hug Munter’s neck. The wyvern bellowed in distress, and a part of me cheered mentally. A larger part was still panicking.

“Down, sir!” I yelled over the din. His Highness didn’t need telling twice, and I felt him lean forward to press against my back. Not a moment too soon, as once again a shadow blocked out the wispy sunlight and the screaming monster passed low enough overhead I could have cut at its talons with my scimitar.

I would have kicked Munter to a gallop, except the poor horse was already bolting and he didn’t need any more fuel added to the fire. Instead I gently tugged the reins to guide him over to the other side of the road, weaving back and forth slightly in the hopes that if the wyvern slowed suddenly we would pass it.

What wouldn’t I give for a boar spear right now? I thought as we thundered along. I glanced up, and nearly swore again—the wyvern was undeterred, circling around above the reaching tree branches for another pass.

Wait. The tree branches!

I leaned forward again, but this time to murmur soothing words in the horse’s ear while tugging gently at the reins. The effect was slightly dampened by the way I kept stopping to look over my shoulder, I suspected, but I also hoped Munter wasn’t smart enough to realise it.

Thankfully, he was made of stern stuff, used to the bloody chaos and thunder of a battlefield, and I slowed him to a trot before the wyvern got around. As soon as I thought he was moving slowly enough not to break a leg, I swerved off the road back into the trees.

This time we didn’t go very far before I spotted what I was looking for and reined Munter in entirely, dismounting as quickly as I could and pulling out my scimitar as I ran.

My target: a tall, slender young tree with a bole only about the width of my wrist. Mentally whispering an apology once again to Fechtmeister Doren for this horrid abuse of the king of weapons, I hacked desperately at the base of the tree. The blade was, of course, sharp, and my arm was, of course, strong, and in only three heavy blows I cleft the trunk enough to push it down and snap it, clearing the last vestiges of attachment with a final chop. I glanced up at the sky again as I moved up the trunk, looking for the wyvern.

Our diversion back into the forest had forced it to call off its next dive and it was circling again, no doubt to come in for a slower landing soon. I hurried, sweat beading under my hat and trickling down my brow. I had chosen this tree partly for its lack of major branches, and with a handful of machete-like chops I cleared most of them away and lopped off the tail of the trunk, leaving me with a three metre length of green ash, thicker than I’d like but serviceable. My last preparation was to carve off a few thick slivers from the end, giving it a point that would not inspire fear but at least was more threatening than a blunt cut.

Sheathing my scimitar—and knowing that I would curse myself miserably in the future when I had to draw it through the crust of tree sap—I dashed back to the prince and the horse, makeshift half-pike in hand. Hardly was I there again when the wyvern crashed down to land once again, right by us on the road.

I snatched the other dragonet from its harness, cradling the pike in the crook of my elbow to sight down the barrel of the gun as though it would help. Trying to shoot sharp with a dragonet was like dicing with your whole year’s pay: optimistic at best.

The dragonet coughed fire, and I prayed I’d scored a hit, but I was not so lucky. I passed the empty gun to His Highness. “Put this away and take the reins, sir, and ride hell for leather down the road, sir. I fear I’m about to do something stupid, sir.”

So saying, I took the pike—and my fate—in both hands, swallowed hard, and took off at a jog. In the back of my head the quiet analytical voice I could never quite shut up noted that it was a lot easier to march towards certain death in a crowd, and more so with a drummer. I was feeling the lack of both quite keenly, only the beating of my heart to keep time and my own ragged breathing to keep myself company.

The same part of my mind pointed out that I didn’t hear hoofbeats.

“Move, your Highness!” I shouted. “Be quick, sir, quick!”

The wyvern had been moving forward at the same time as I, and we were almost in striking distance. From this close, it looked truly immense, taller than I was and armed with a long muzzle full of vicious teeth the length of my fingers.

Of course, the part of my brain that wouldn’t shut up passed the comment that it resembled nothing so much as a giant, underweight plucked chicken.

I drew a deep breath to dispel the thoughts. Clear mind, clear action. Lower your centre. The bullet, or the point, goes wherever you’re looking.

I circled to my right, away from His Highness, keeping the tip of my pike levelled. The wyvern’s long snake-like neck followed me, hissing like a kettle about to boil over. I could feel I was fairly drenched with sweat, waiting for something to happen, anything. The spear relied on the beast making the first move.

I cracked under the pressure and screamed at the blasted lizard-chicken. “Are you moving, you damn brute, or did you land just to waste my time?” It only hissed back.

I feinted at its head, and finally provoked a response. It pulled away from the pike, but after swaying back catapulted itself forward into a lunge at dizzying speed and the best I could do was to smack the side of its head with the pike and duck. Those vicious teeth snapped together bare inches from my head, but any distance was far enough as long as I kept my skin. I threw the pike backwards a half metre while the beast was off-balance to catch it with my hands closer to the middle, bringing the tip back only to drive it forwards again, striking at the wyvern’s chest.

The thrust was barely halfway when its wings clapped with dizzying speed, bringing it barreling down on me above the point of the spear almost faster than I could follow. Reflexes took over and I snapped my left hand at the back of the pike out, bringing it flat across my front like a quarterstaff just in time for the beast’s talons to snap closed around it, each as long and wicked as a dagger.

The spear saved me from being unseamed from waist to shoulder by the claws but could do nothing about the impact, and I crashed backwards to the ground with the wyvern bearing down directly above me, neck almost doubled over to stare directly into my eyes. For a harrowing moment I could feel its cold breath on my face, and then my back slammed into the dirt and I desperately shoved out, trying to dislodge it before it could tear my head off.

The wyvern folded at the knees like it was keeping its balance on a waving branch, head swaying back and forth above mine but getting no further away. In a panic, I switched to trying to pitch it off to the side, praying that even if I couldn’t get it away I could still stop it from balancing enough to bite.

For another perilous second we maintained the dance like some kind of bizarre tango, me pushing and pulling at the monster’s legs by way of the pike and it following my lead. Yet another small part of my mind was hysterically pointing out that I was about to have dragon-spit dripping onto my face, when the butt of the pike gained purchase on the ground. I seized the chance like a drowning man, hauling back on it to flip both myself and the wyvern over.

I nearly tumbled over in surprise when the throw unceremoniously dumped the wyvern off the spear, one titanic wing pressed against the ground and my weight now bearing down on it from above as the other wing beat about my head, knocking my hat askew. It weighed far less than I expected, and now I had it pinned down, the pike shaft locking its talons against its body as it flipped and writhed like a landed fish on its wing.

It felt like the world slowed as I saw what would happen next. It wing was going to push it up, the pike would move, and its freed leg would rip down my abdomen and leg. In that split second, I took another gamble, something I was doing far more often than I would like.

I discarded the pike, leaping back just as the talons whistled past my stomach, close enough if I’d had a pot belly I wouldn’t any longer. The wyvern screamed in anger, clumsily righting itself, but the momentary premonition had bought me just long enough.

The glittering steel of my scimitar arced down in a textbook overhand draw cut, ripping into the scales of the wyvern’s shoulder like soft leather and through, tracing a slender cut a handspan long but only a quarter as deep. I was taken aback—a blow like that could separate a man’s arm from his shoulder—but flowed smoothly into the next strike, Fechtmaster Doren’s advice echoing in my head—for once, not just offended insults at my use of the scimitar. Keep pressing until you win or your enemy regains their balance.

The blade whipped back up, laying another long shallow cut into the wyvern’s chest. It was hissing again now, and I was standing so close up to it neither its fangs nor its talons could hit me. I was too close for the scimitar, though, so I turned and rammed my elbow into the base of its throat instead, hoping to hit some kind of sensitive area. I had no such luck, my elbow bouncing off as though I had just tried to smash down a green sapling with it, but the beast had had enough. With a final scream that left me splattered with draconid spittle as well as rain and smears of blood, it kicked off the ground flew off with a laboured clap of wings, buffeting me to the ground in the rush of wind.

I lay there for a moment, feeling the cold rain gently brush my boiling face. Every bone in my body felt like it had been bruised, my arms ached like I’d just spent three hours training, and my exertions with the pike had pulled open the cut in my shoulder from yesterday. Heavens, it was only yesterday.

My panting slowed, and reality crashed back in with an impact like a falling wyvern. I sprang to my feet—or rather tried to, ending up making an ungainly recovery—sheathing my scimitar with shaking hands for the third time since I’d left the palace, into an increasingly befouled scabbard. I clapped my hand over my shoulder, pressing down on the cut as I took off towards the road at the fastest jog I could muster in my condition on this terrain.

Though it felt like I had been fighting the beast for long minutes, it was only a handful of seconds torturously stretched out to feel that long. His Highness must have been riding while looking back, and probably not at as great a pace as I’d wanted, because he was riding back towards me only a short distance down the road.

“Well, your Highness,” I said, removing my hat to beat it against my leg, shaking off a shower of leaf mould, water, and other fluids, “I believe that will be the end of that.” The effect of my cavalier announcement was, unfortunately, somewhat ruined when I inhaled some of my own spittle, collapsing into a choking fit and thumping my chest with my fist.

“Gefreiter! Are you alright?” The prince asked, shock in his voice. I had to try not to laugh, sure that trying to laugh and cough at the same time would end in disaster. I righted myself just as the prince had dismounted, rushing over the rest of the distance.

“Right as rain, your Highness,” I delivered with as much aplomb as I could manage in the circumstance. “I just inhaled a bit of spit, sir, though thankfully my own, sir.” I snapped off a parade-ground perfect salute with a straight face, holding it until His Highness’s worried look turned into a grin.

“We should be going again, your Highness,” I said, moving towards Munter. “I do believe we are rid of the wyvern, sir, but we still need to get to our stop for the night, sir. We’re not too much delayed, though I fear I’ll have to ride for a minute while I catch my breath sir.”

The prince trailed behind me, still not altogether convinced. “You’re certain you’re alright, Schreiner? That looked brutal.” He said.

“I’m quite fine, your Highness,” I replied. “I really am just a little winded, sir.”

“And the blood? It’s fairly blotting your shoulder, gefreiter.”

I looked down. He had a point: there was a visible spot on my shoulder where the slightly faded black was darkened by blood as well as water. “You’re intimidatingly perceptive, your Highness. I pity the nation that has to face you across the negotiating table when you’re grown, sir. This is nothing to worry about, though, sir, it’s from Nachberg. It’ll take more than an overgrown lizard to put down a Guardsman, sir!”

I sprung into the saddle lithely to make my point, leaning back to offer him a hand up. He still looked thoughtful, but he took it and mounted up behind me. I brought Munter about and we rode through the rain in silence for some time, only the sound of Munter’s hooves splashing and the slowly returning birds rustling to keep us company.

“Don’t do that again, Schreiner,” The prince’s voice came from behind, sounding quite serious.

“I can’t promise that, your Highness,” I said. “I’m sworn to protect your life with my own, sir, it’s my duty.” I paused. The presence behind me felt very small and afraid right now.

“But I shan’t do it if I can avoid it, your Highness. I won’t leave you alone, don’t fret about it, sir.”

The silence fell again, except the trilling call of a starling and Munter sneezing water out of his nose, but it felt lighter.