Margaret Weis - Dragons of Summer Flame

Almost blinded himself by the fire, Steel shielded his eyes with his hand. He had chosen his target, aimed straight for it. The heat was horrific; it beat on the metal of his armor, made it hot to the touch and unbearable to wear. His helm was suffocating him. He yanked the helm off, flung it to the ground. The fire seared his skin. He couldn’t breathe the superheated air that burned his lungs. Still, he rode on.

Chaos wore a breastplate of adamant and glowing hot iron, but the plate covered only his chest. His arms and hands were bare.

“Veer off!” Steel yelled to Flare, tugged the reins to the right, to turn the dragon’s head. “Take me near his shoulder!”

The dragon, lowering her head, soared through the fire of the father god’s beard, spat her lightning breath. Jolts of electricity struck Chaos, further irritating, further enraging him. He knew an enemy was close, began to lash out blindly, flailing with his arms. Steel ducked, protecting himself by hiding behind Flare’s neck.

The dragon lifted her right wing, flipped over, flew so near the glowing breastplate that the heat radiating from it scorched her wings. Steel gasped for air. His eyes watered from the heat, yet he kept them open, kept them fixed on his target.

The dragon flew close to the giant. Steel, leaning perilously out of the saddle, lifted his sword and, with a ringing battle cry, stabbed the blade into the enormous arm.

“He’s done it, Lass! He’s done it!” Dougan shrieked, dancing up and down. “Quickly now! Quickly!”

Steel’s sword was embedded in the giant’s flesh. Chaos bleated and bellowed. Unable to see what had stung him, he jerked his arm back, dragged the sword from Steel’s hand.

A drop of blood sprang, glistening, from the wound.

“Now, Lass, now!” Dougan panted.

“I’ll come with you!” Tas cried. “Wait a moment, though. Let me find the spoon...”

“No time!” Dougan shoved Usha. “Go, Lass. Now!”

“I’ll just be a second.” Tas was rummaging through his pouches. “Where is that dratted spoon?...”

Usha cast an uncertain glance at Dougan and at Tas, searching his pouches. Dougan waved his hand.

Usha crept forward.

Concentrate on the objective. Don’t think about Palin, don’t think about Tas, don’t think about how frightened you are. Think about the Protector and the others. Think of how they died. I never did anything for them, never told them how grateful I was. I left without thanking them. This... is for my family, the lost Irda.

Usha kept her eyes fixed on that drop of shining red blood welling out from beneath the sword.

She drew closer, closer to the huge legs, the enormous feet that stamped upon and shook and cracked the ground.

The drop of blood hung, dangled like a jewel far out of reach.

It did not fall.

Steel’s sword—his father’s sword—stuck like a rose thorn in Chaos’s flesh.

In jerking his arm back, Chaos had wrenched the sword from Steel’s grasp. The blade hadn’t done much damage to the giant. It had drawn only a single drop of blood.

Steel needed to strike again, but first he had to retrieve his sword. His strength was failing, and so was the strength of his dragon. Flare was badly burned, one eye gone, the scales of her head withered and bleeding. Her blue wings were blackened, the fine membrane torn.

Steel couldn’t seem to find air enough to fill his lungs. Every ragged breath came with excruciating pain. He was dizzy and light-headed. His skin was burned and blistered.

He gritted his teeth, bent over Flare, patted her on the neck.

“We have to go in again, Girl,” he said. “We have to finish this. Then we can rest.”

The dragon nodded, too exhausted and hurting to speak. But Flare found it within her to snarl in defiance as she flew forward, forced the tattered wings to carry her and her rider back into battle.

The dragon flew near the wounded arm, dipped her wing at the last possible moment before crashing headlong into the giant. Steel caught hold of the sword’s hilt and, with his last strength, yanked it out of the giant’s arm.

The drop of blood fell, glittering, from the wound.

Usha saw the blood fall. Hope lent her courage. Heedless of the trampling feet, she ran forward to catch the drop.

But at that moment, Chaos, swearing savagely, swung his arm up and swatted at what was to him a stinging, annoying insect.

The dragon lacked the power in her wings to carry herself and her rider clear of the flailing, crushing hand. Chaos smashed the dragon, as he might have smashed a fly.

The dragon, her neck broken, fell from the sky, carrying her rider with her. There came a flash of silver light, and both crashed to the ground near Palin. The dragon’s wing struck the mage a glancing blow, knocked the staff and the spellbook from his hand.

The silver-white light vanished.

The drop of blood, won at such enormous cost, fell to the ground and was immediately soaked up by the gray, parched soil.

Usha cried out in dismay. Going down on her hands and knees, she began scrabbling at the moist, blood-red dirt, trying desperately to recover some of the blood.

A shadow fell over her, chilled her to the bone, froze her hands, numbed her heart.

Chaos could see her now, bending over the spilled blood, the Graygem in her hands.

He understood his peril.

Injured and dazed, Palin searched frantically for his staff, which lay somewhere beneath the dead dragon. The lengthening shadow darkened all around him. He looked up. The giant’s black, empty eyes—now able to see clearly—were focused on Usha.

Palin scrambled to his feet.

“Usha, look out! Run!” he cried.

She didn’t hear him over the giant’s roar. Either that, or she was ignoring him. Desperately keeping her gaze fixed on the bloodstained ground, she tried to salvage a drop to place into the halves of the Graygem.

Palin abandoned the fallen staff, ran to help Usha.

He never made it.

Chaos swept down an enormous hand that seemed to catch hold of the wind as it came, dragged the wind along. A blast of hot air smote Palin, hurled him backward, slammed him into the body of the dragon. Pain burst in his skull.

“Usha,” he murmured, sick and dizzy. He fought to stand, and, in his mind, he was on his feet, but his body lay in the dragon’s blood. His own blood trickled warm down his face, and he was a speck of dust in one of the giant’s empty eyes, and then he was nothing.

Tasslehoff tossed objects from his pouch left and right, littering the ground around him. A bit of blue crystal, a piece of petrified vallenwood, a lock from a griffin’s mane, a dead lizard on a leather thong, a faded rose, a white ring with two red stones, a white chicken feather...

“Where is that dratted spoon?” he cried in frustration.

“Usha! Leave it, Lass! Run!” Dougan screamed.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Tas lifted his head, eager to see. “Am I missing something?”

Usha crouched, piteously digging in the dirt, tears streaming down her face. Palin was a huddled doll, lying in a pool of dragon’s blood.

The giant’s huge, booted feet shuffled, rolled over the ground with the rumbling, grinding sound of gigantic boulders, crushing the bodies of the dead knights, the dying dragons. Usha and Palin lay directly in the giant’s path.

A cold fist—hurtful, like the giant’s fist—squeezed the kender’s heart.

“He’s going to squash them!” Tas cried. “Squash them flat! This... this is worse than Lord Soth! My friends can’t be squashed flat. There’s got to be somebody big around to stop him!”

Tas looked about wildly, searching for a knight or a dragon or even a god to help. The knights and dragons who were left alive were fighting their own desperate battles. As for Dougan, the dwarf was a huddled heap, his head bowed, his hands flaccid in his lap, moaning, “My fault. My fault.... ”