David Dalglish: A Sliver of Redemption

“Not yet,” he growled. He was just beneath the wing, and as it flapped he reached up and grabbed another scale, careful to lay flat against the body to avoid the spikes along the bone. When his grip was secure, he pulled his sword free and stabbed it higher. As if scaling a mountain, his sword his pick, he ascended amid the screams of the dying. At last he reached the dragon’s back, its spine protruding through the flesh. He tried stabbing it, but the bone was too hard. His sword only slid aside.

Suddenly the dragon howled and leapt back, shaking from side to side. Antonil held on to the bone and looked to see what was the matter. Bram’s knights had come riding in, hurling spears toward the dragon’s face. The horses still circled, just outside the reach of its tail. When it turned to belch fire, those at its sides lunged in and thrust their swords through the grooves of its scales. As it turned, Antonil saw the priests’ spell had ended, they too having given up on the wall. Instead he saw golden chains lash around the dragon’s claws and face. It scratched and tore at them, but the distraction was enough for the footmen to assault. They died by the hundreds, but inky blood covered their corpses, stab after stab wounding the great beast.

“Its neck!” he heard someone shout, and the rest took up the cry. “Go for its neck!”

The men swarmed its front, and Bram’s knights threw the last of their spears for its throat. As the blood continued to pour, the dragon beat its wings and tried to flee, but then came more glittering shackles. Kept landlocked by the priests’ will, it started flailing and biting, slaughtering more and more in a horrific display of blood.

Forcing himself to look away, Antonil climbed along the spine toward the dragon’s head, stopping only when its flailing was too much for him to move. At one point it reared back, and the ridge of its spine slammed into his chin. Blood filled his mouth, and he swore he’d bit his tongue in two. He turned, spat, and then continued on, his sword still clutched tight in hand. When he reached the neck, he lay flat and found a groove where the vertebrae connected. Before he could strike, the beast shuddered and screamed. Its flesh turned a sickly color, as if it had suddenly lost much of its strength. Not willing to waste such an opportunity, Antonil stabbed the sword with all his strength deep into the spine. This time the dragon’s shriek was a lengthy wail. Its wings crumpled, and it collapsed to the field, whole body shaking. Antonil clutched the hilt and endured the violent throes. The remaining footmen swarmed over it like ants, stabbing and hacking it to pieces. Blood spilled across the battlefield like a black pool.

When at last it lay still, Antonil withdrew his sword and stood atop the corpse. He raised the blade high and hollered a mindless cry of victory to his troops. Bram’s knights did not stay, for they were already riding south, to where their flank had weakened to the point of crumbling.

“Antonil the Dragon Slayer!” someone shouted as he climbed down, and others quickly took up the cry. A soldier brought him a horse, and he mounted it on shaking legs.

“Gather up,” he said. “Back to formations! We still have a city to take!”

They cheered despite the thousands that lay dead around them, nearly a third of their force. He rode to the priests, who had gathered to resume their spell.

“Can you get us through?” he asked.

“We shall see,” Keziel said. A grin tugged at his lips. “I’d hate to disappoint the Dragon Slayer.”

Antonil laughed and slapped the priest on the back, leaving an inky handprint atop the white cloth. Trusting Bram to protect their flank, and the priests to open the way to the city, he rode back to the front and urged his army on. The white beam shot forth, slamming into the city gates. Already weakened, they crumbled and broke, gaining them access to the ground between the two walls. The beam continued, striking the thick stone. Though it seemed almost unaffected, Antonil urged them on.

“K eep them off of me!” Tarlak cried as he dropped to one knee, avoiding a swing that would have cut off his head. He flicked his hand, and a thin bolt of electricity arced into the soldier. As his muscles broke into spasms, Lathaar spun about and cut him down.

“Trying!” Jerico shouted back. He slammed his shield forward, its light flaring over the many attackers. They winced and stepped back, and then he shoved and swung with his mace, trying to clear a space for the wizard to cast. To the other side, Lathaar steadily weaved his sword back and forth, his blade of light shattering swords and ignoring what little armor the conscripts possessed. Compared to the battle-hardened men who fought beside him, having faced demons, undead, and the best soldiers of Mordan, these foes were unskilled and clumsy. But they also outnumbered them by a horrific amount.

Tarlak staggered to his feet, his vision swimming. He’d used nearly every spell in his repertoire, plus a few more he made up on the spot. He’d layered the battlefield with fire and ice, flung boulders, and lost count of how many bolts of lightning he’d thrown. Still they came. All around, they were hard pressed, cutting men down nearly three to one, but it didn’t matter. They were dwindling, might have already crumbled if not for the stalwart paladins.

And every time the dragon roared, he felt their men weaken a little bit more. But this time, that roar seemed different…pained instead of victorious. He chucked a fireball over the heads of the paladins, not caring what it hit or how dramatic the explosion, and glanced back to the city. The dragon lay on the ground, its body swarming with soldiers.

“Not possible,” he muttered, stunned.

“Get back!” Lathaar shouted, grabbing his arm and pulling him along. “It’s a rout!”

The rest were fleeing toward the city, hoping for safety with the greater army gathered there. With no other choice, Tarlak ran along. As he gasped for air, he wondered just how closely they were followed. A conscript could be a mere pace away, his sword ready to thrust deep into his back, all because he was unprepared and couldn’t…

He looked behind to settle his fears. He was wrong. The conscripts were five paces back, not one. This didn’t make him feel much better.

“Faster,” Lathaar urged, tugging on his arm. Tarlak’s breathing quickened. His lungs felt on fire. He wondered how in the world Lathaar could run so long in his plate mail after flinging his sword around like a madman. If he lived, he vowed to drink less wine and try to exercise with Harruq occasionally. Sweat dripped down his neck.

“Can’t,” he said between puffs.

“Keep going,” Lathaar said, glancing back.

Tarlak followed suit. Karak’s army was maintaining pace, and one by one soldiers fell and were trampled underfoot. Jerico was only a step behind them, his shield slung across his back. His look to Lathaar was dire.

“I can’t,” Tarlak said again. He felt a stabbing pain in his side, as if one of his lungs had just rebelled and called it quits. He felt his legs stumbling, his vision swimming, and then he was lifted into the air. After the vertigo passed, he realized he was atop Lathaar’s back, carried like a sack of grain. He opened his mouth to speak, but then dry heaved instead. A bit of spittle ran down his chin. He glanced at their pursuers, who seemed even closer. A spell…surely he knew a spell that might help?

But he didn’t have the chance to think of one. The conscripts suddenly slowed, then stopped completely. Some turned to flee, but most flung down their weapons and fell to their knees. Before Tarlak could wonder why, hundreds of knights rode past them, their hoofbeats thunderous across the grass. They circled those who had surrendered, then gave chase after the rest. Tarlak felt his perspective change again, and then suddenly he was on his feet, held up by Lathaar’s arms.