R. Salvatore - If Ever They Happened Upon My Lair

Urshula sprang into a crouch, his great horned head swiveling in line.

Zhengyi marveled that the soldiers did not break ranks. Not one of them fled from the sight of a great dragon. Glad he was that he had come back to the dragon’s lair, for the fortitude of the troop of knights could not be underestimated.

Urshula crouched back, and Zhengyi felt the beast’s rumbling inhalation, the preparation for its first devastating strike. The warriors did not slow, approaching the place where the wizards had set their enchantment. Urshula’s neck shot forward, his jaws opening wide, a cone of acidic spittle bursting forth.

It hit a barrier-a solid, impenetrable wall of magical force-and spattered and sizzled. Only a bit of it splashed over the wall, stinging a few of the warriors. But their charge was not slowed. They parted and flowed around the edges of the magical barrier in perfect unison. On the near side, their troop flowed back together, guided by the armored knights, and closed in on the confused dragon.

Urshula reared and lifted his head high-and was promptly engulfed by a fireball, then a second and a third before he could even react. And when he ducked back down, the warriors were there, slashing, stabbing, and hacking away with abandon. They filtered around the wyrm, cheering and shouting, trying to overwhelm the beast with sudden and brutal fury.

But Urshula was a dragon, after all, the beast of beasts. A sudden frenzy of stamping legs, raking claws, swiping tail, and battering wings quickly stole the advantage.

One knight stood above the fray, barking out orders, lifting his sword high and calling for the warriors to rally around him.

The dragon’s maw closed over him to the waist, and lifted him high for all to see. Warriors cried out for him as his armored legs thrashed helplessly.

Urshula clamped down, and the knight’s lower torso dropped to the floor. The rest came flying free as well, as Urshula snapped his head about, the knight serving as a missile to crash through several ranks of warriors. Those who fell farthest aside proved the fortunate ones for the time being, though, for the armored missile was fast followed by a second blast of acidic spittle.

Men melted and died.

Before he could begin to applaud the wyrm, Zhengyi looked around to see a barrage of energy bolts-green, blue, and violet-swarming the dragon’s way. Urshula’s victory roar became a cry of pain as the bolts burned into him, stabbing through scales that could not protect the beast from such attacks.

The dragon spotted the wizards, grouped inside the tunnel entrance just to the left. Ignoring the stabs from the warriors still thrashing as his sides, Urshula spat again.

Stones all around the wizards sizzled and popped, but the three were protected. One did wince in pain, though he still managed to join his companions in the next missile barrage.

Zhengyi, fearing that the dragon would be overwhelmed too quickly, thought he should intervene.

But Urshula reared on his hind legs and spread wide his wings. He beat them furiously, lifting dust, coins, and pebbles from the floor to fly at the distant wizards. The debris did no real damage, but it prevented any further casting-and more importantly, Zhengyi realized, it worked through the protection limits of their magical shielding.

“Brilliant,” the Witch-King applauded.

The dragon’s reaction was not a surprise to Sir Donegan. Trained by Gareth Dragonsbane himself-a man who had well-earned his surname-Donegan had designed the attack in four specific phases: first, the defeat of the beast’s initial killing breath. Second, the charge. Third, a barrage of magic that should force the dragon’s attention away from the last part, the most deadly part.

The knights Donegan and Bevell sat on their horses back up the tunnel awaiting the dragon’s reaction. As it reared, they spurred their mounts to charge. Lances lowered, the two skilled knights swerved left and right around the magical wall of force, rejoined on the far side of the barrier, and thundered in together at the still-oblivious dragon.

They caught the beast side-by-side in the belly, the weakest point of a dragon’s natural armor. With the weight of their huge steeds driving them on, and the enchantments placed upon those lances, the weapons struck home, cracking through the hard shell of scales and driving deep into the beast’s soft innards.

Down came the roaring beast. But Donegan and Bevell were already moving, turning their mounts aside and leaving their lances quivering in the dragon’s belly. As one, the skilled knights drew forth swords from over their shoulders. Bevell’s broadsword flared with fire at his silent command, while Donegan brought forth a two-handed blade that gleamed with an inner, magical light. As the dragon’s wing descended over him, Donegan clenched his legs tightly and thrust his weapon up with both hands. The beast howled again and retracted.

Bevell found less success against the opposite wing, and though he landed a solid slash, the limb buffeted him and sent him tumbling from his mount and sprawling to the floor.

“Rally to me!” Donegan called his warriors, and those still capable of battle did just that.

The dragon spun to face him, and Donegan nearly swooned, thinking the moment of his death at hand.

But the wizards struck again, a fireball engulfing the beast’s head and a host of magical missiles disappearing into the flaming sphere.

Donegan used the moment to charge his rushing mount in hard against the dragon’s side. He dismounted and slapped his horse away, then took up his sword in both hands and drove a mighty slash against the beast’s scales. All around him, his warriors cheered and attacked, stabbing and hacking with abandon.

The beast was hurt; the beast swayed.

“Be done with it!” Sir Donegan cried, thinking the moment of victory upon them.

But the dragon spun, its tail flying across, slapping Donegan and the others aside, launching them across the stone and dirt floor.

The knight tried to rise. His helm had turned, stealing his vision, and his sword had flown from his grasp. He fumbled about before a hand grabbed his shoulder and steadied him.

He adjusted his helm and saw Maryin grinning at him and nodding. She handed him his sword.

“Let us be done with this,” she said.

Zhengyi enjoyed the spectacle. He marveled at the troop’s preparation and fortitude; few men could stand so long in the face of an angry wyrm. Impressive, too, was Urshula’s resilience and ferocity.

But the dragon was sorely wounded, the Witch-King realized. One of the lances had snapped off, and blood poured from the hole-and no doubt the remaining lance head tore at the creature’s insides.

And those wizards came on again, relentless, their fireballs and energy bolts taking a heavy toll.

Zhengyi had come to serve as an equalizer, but surprised he was to find that it was Urshula, and not the humans, who needed his efforts. He could not allow it to be so easy for them.

The Witch-King slipped back into his shadow form and slid into a crack in the wall.

“Fire, this time,” Fisticus the wizard told his two companions. “When the wyrm lifts high its head, engulf it.”

All three wizards readied their spells, watching intently as Fisticus determined the pattern of the dragon’s movements.

“One …” he counted, “two …”

“Do say ‘three,’ ” a raspy voice behind the trio interrupted.

Zhengyi watched the trio stiffen, and he grinned as he imagined the expressions on their faces. He didn’t let that distract him, though, as he began casting his favorite spell.

The wizards whirled around, right in the face of a sudden burst of intertwined multicolored beams of shimmering light.