Douglas Niles - The Puppet King

But it was too late for any other reaction. Stallyar’s talons seized both sides of the wyrm’s head, the force of the griffon’s weight smashing downward to drive the monster against the ground. The lion’s paws of the griffon’s rear legs tore at the green dragon’s shoulders while the serpent lay stunned and writhing on the ground. Swiftly the eagle’s beak jabbed down and tore a great gash in the top of the wyrm’s broad, flat skull.

Still, it was the silver sword that did the real damage. As soon as they struck the creature, Porthios drove the blade deep into the snakelike neck. Withdrawing the weapon with a wrenching twist, he slid from the saddle to land on the ground next to the dragon. While the beast squirmed in the grip of the powerful and enraged griffon, Porthios looked for the spot where the hard skull merged into the supple neck. In one powerful, unerring thrust, he jabbed the keen steel deep and severed the monster’s spinal cord.

Shuddering reflexively, the dragon died, oozing blood from its wounds and puffing a small gout of greenish gas from its wide nostrils. Porthios was already scrambling back into his saddle, barely straddling the griffon’s broad back before Stallyar launched themselves into the air again. He saw the second young serpent lift its head above the chaos of the battlefield, yellow eyes flashing with hatred as it saw the fate of its clan dragon. More menacing by far, the elf also saw the massive green monster that had pursued him so relentlessly. Having broken free of the trees, it was once again winging toward the fight, head twisting back and forth as it looked for the elven marshal.

Wicked jaws curled into a mockery of a grin as the beast picked out the lone griffon struggling for altitude. But now many of the other Qualinesti, heartened by their leader’s heroics, were spiraling down to fly with Porthios and Stallyar. A glance showed the marshal that their quivers were nearly empty, but that each still had enough arrows left for a few shots.

“Archers—we need a volley!” he shouted, his voice powerful enough to easily carry through the air above the fight. “On my mark!”

Nearly a hundred griffons were soaring along with him, and as he pointed his sword into the southern sky the target was obvious to them all. Porthios would have liked to launch the barrage from a little more altitude, but there was nothing to be done about that. They would have to shoot well, these brave Qualinesti who were inevitably shaken by the rising nausea of dragonawe.

No single arrow was going to kill a monster like that, of course, but the marshal hoped that the concentration of scores of painful hits would be enough to drive the dragon away, if not seriously injure it. The elves nocked their arrows, the griffons shifting in flight instinctively to make sure that no flier blocked another’s shot.

If the dragon perceived the danger, it gave no sign. Instead, it bored in closer with each beat of its massive wings. Porthios knew he had to shoot at the last possible minute, but he also understood the need to give the order before the beast was close enough to exhale a gout of that lethal gas.

“Archers, now! Shoot!”

Ninety-four arrows arced outward on his command, and more than half of them struck the target. Many drove deep into that hateful head, pricking the sensitive nostrils, a couple even stinging the yellow eyes. Others scored gouges into the monster’s neck or tore through the soft membrane of the dragon’s wings.

The flying elves instantly dispersed in all four directions, insuring that the dragon had no concentration of enemies upon which to spew its killing breath. But it became immediately apparent that the monster had lost all interest in pursuing the attack. Instead, with a howl of elemental anguish, it curled its wings and dived away from the fight, gingerly coming to rest at the fringe of the forest while the flying elves jeered and insulted the proud monster.

That danger temporarily alleviated, Porthios turned his attention to the battle raging on the ground, and with a heartbreaking ache of dismay, he knew the tragic fight was all but over. Every one of the large riverboats had been seized by attacking draconians, and the few surviving elves of the First Division were being hacked down and cut to pieces before his eyes.

General Cantal-Silaster organized a last stand, shouting orders frantically, her own blade red with blood. Porthios dived to help, but could only watch in horror as her plumed helm vanished beneath a press of draconians.

The ambush was a disaster unprecedented during his career as a marshal of Silvanesti, and the loss of life was all the more appalling because those elves, like himself, had fancied this war so close to its end. He had sent these warriors ashore into the very teeth of a powerful enemy, a force that had somehow been perfectly positioned for an ambush.

But there was no time for grief nor self-recriminations right now, not while the Second Division was still ashore on this nightmarish piece of land. Later Porthios would try to decipher how he could have been so wrong about this place, and how this normally disorganized and chaotic enemy could have been so well prepared for the arrival of his legion. Now, however, he had to see to the survival of the rest of his men.

Mounted on their griffons, the Qualinesti archers circled around their leader, exchanging grim looks or staring in horror at the carnage below. With the exceptions of a few riders who had been felled by boulders or spears cast by ogres, these western elves had survived the fight, but they shared the universal knowledge that the battle had been an utter, catastrophic defeat. Still, Porthios wondered if perhaps he and his Qualinesti could exact some measure of vengeance before they departed this bloody field.

The large green dragon was some distance away, enlisting the aid of many draconians who gingerly plucked arrows from the monster’s head and wings. Every so often one of these unwilling nurses would tug too roughly, and the enraged serpent would cuff the offending creature so hard that it tumbled across the ground. Sometimes these battered draconians got up again, and sometimes they didn’t. It obviously made no difference to the wounded wyrm.

The third dragon, the youngster who had continued to fight on the ground, was now busy worrying elven corpses, pulling apart pouches and packs in its relentless pursuit of shiny coins. Already a small mound of the precious metal glittered in the mud beneath the protective, whiplike lash of the dragon’s tail.

“Kill it,” Porthios declared, pointing his sword at the avaricious wyrm.

Instantly a volley of arrows showered downward, razor-sharp heads plunging deep, drawing shrill screams of pain from the dragon. The creature, whose scaly hide was nowhere near as tough as its elder’s, writhed around in pain, its tail and neck lashing as it reflexively fought against the sudden attack.

A dozen griffons swooped low, while other elves shot arrows at any ogres and draconians who ventured too close. Fortunately, these other creatures had already been inclined to stay back because of the dragon’s possessiveness about its plunder, and they showed no eagerness to help it now as elven swords sliced in and quickly finished the work that the volley of arrows had begun. Unscathed, the twelve elves remounted, and the fliers spread across the sky, leaving the bloody remains behind and winging toward the encampment of the Second Division.

“You were driven off by a volley of arrows, then?” asked the young elf, all but sneering in contempt.

“You have the story in my words,” the dragon replied, with a shrug of his great wings.

“Are you not ashamed of your cowardice?”

The serpent growled and shifted his posture, an elaborate gesture that rippled along the full extent of his scaly shape. He remained pressed against the wall by the dragonlance but managed to turn a disdainful glare on the two elves. “I do not like pain. But at the same time, I lived through that fight—and you should know that the battle was not over, not by any means.”