The grain whipped at his ankles and shins as he sprinted through rolling hills, ferns and branches crashed against his face and chest as he sprinted through deep forest, and when he saw Flatland men, the shut themselves into their homes, latching the door behind them. Let them. There was only one man he was after. And that man was on his way to the East Shore.

He had no name. He could not remember ever being born, and he knew until now, he had never lived. How he knew what he knew at all never occurred to him. He was created, his limbs combined one by one, but his master, and that is who he served. There was nothing more he need know.

Except for that the time of the dragon was near, and dragons brought light where there is only darkness. His master could not have that. He put his head down and ran harder, coming upon a trail that was wide and strong and had the scent of man upon it. He turned to follow it.

Not far from the spot where he emerged onto the path, he came upon a group of men that blocked the road with spikes. They were heavily armored, holding swords and spears, and a number of them had bows and arrows, string and wood--The Arrow grimaced, the closest he ever came to a smile. String and wood. That is what they thought would defeat him?

“Halt,” one of the men said. He was thin, his beard was scraggly, and his colors were bright red and black. He appeared to be the one in charge. “I said, ‘Halt!’--as in, stop running!”

The Arrow sped up.

“Noch arrows,” the man said lazily. The Arrow did not slow down. The man threw up a hand. “Loose.”

Arrowheads zipped around his head, falling to the ground; one bounced off his chest, the shaft cracking in two as a branch is cracked in half over the knee.

The man’s eyes grew wide. “N-noch...! Loose!”

Arrows shattered off The Arrow’s chest.

Another man yelled to the first. “Form up! Spears! Shields!”

Men filed into lines behind the spikes. They thrust spears out between the spikes so that there was a continuous line of sharpened wood and steel ready to pierce flesh. As The Arrow drew closer, he saw men shaking as they beheld him. The man in charge drew his sword and raised his shield.

The Arrow leaped into the air and came down in the middle of the men’s line behind the spikes; the men were facing the wrong way, and so with a swipe of his hand, four men were sent flying into others.

The Arrow drew his sword, and brought it down, splitting another man in half. He closed the distance between him and the man in charge. The man swung his sword. The Arrow parried. The man’s sword shattered into a thousand shards of glass. He held up his shield. The Arrow ripped it out of his hand and threw it at a man running at him with a spear. It severed his head.

“Please,” the man in charged begged. “Jorbert sent me. It was Jorbert. I didn’t even want to be here.”

“Jor--bert?” The Arrow asked. It was the first words he’d ever said.

“Yes!” The man nodded frantically. “Jorbert! Not me. Jorbert!”

The Arrow cocked his head and looked at the sniveling man, begging for his life. Why did he try to cling to life? Why did he not embrace the darkness? The Arrow snarled and raised his sword.

“Please...!”

The man’s head fell with a thump to the path. The Arrow turned. The men left dropped to their knees, put their heads to the ground, and covered their necks with their hands. Others threw down their gear and crashed into the brush, leaving the red and black colors behind them. If men were so weak, The Arrow knew he would make quick work of the man on his way to the East Shore, the man with the Dragon’s Egg.

The Arrow killed the rest of the men behind the spikes with quick and clean swings of his sword And then, once again he began to run.