Death of the Dragon - Ed Greenwood [119]
A shadow fell across the lowering sun, and both men fell silent, staring up into the sky in mounting terror as the Devil Dragon plunged down upon them.
Nalavarauthatoryl the Red was huge, as large across as the main turrets of High Horn, with jaws broad enough to swallow half a dozen horses-and their riders-at a single bite. They were gaping wide now, revealing the dark, vibrating throat from whence the flames would come. Eager fire burned in the dragon's eyes, and its cruelly curved talons were spread wide to strike. In places the wyrm's body was a deep, angry purple, almost black, and men were screaming as its racing shadow fell across them-screams echoed in the raw, mounting roar of fear and defiance that burst from the throats of the warriors on the hilltop, as they scrambled to stand apart from one another and raise their tiny weapons.
The dragon's talons were aimed for the royal tent, but it must have noticed that no one rushed into that pavilion to warn anyone, or hastened forth-and that no bodyguards stood watchfully by its entrance. It veered aside at the last moment to pounce on one man whose raised and ready blade seemed to glow as if alive with magic.
Randaeron Farlokkeir screamed as he died, torn open from belly to chin by a talon an instant before his hands were bitten off, his enchanted sword vanishing with them into a mouth as large as his cottage.
"As large-as-" he managed to gasp, before a sudden tide from within him choked his words-and the world-away.
As the mutilated scout reeled and collapsed in a rain of his own blood, the dragon landed heavily beyond him, its tail sweeping aside a trio of sprinting dragoneers, and a sudden silence fell.
In that strange calm, the dragon looked around with an almost feminine, menacing smile.
"Well," it said, its breath acrid and stinking, "where is the human king?" The voice, too, was female. The loudest reply to it came from the mouths of the Cormyrean officers slowly advancing on it. That response was an eerie chorus of teeth chattering in fear.
"Die, dragon!" one of them shouted suddenly, charging forward with his blade thrown back over his shoulder, ready to chop down.
"Die!" another echoed, starting to run in turn.
Both had seen what the dragon must not have. A lone, bareheaded figure sprinted up behind the dragon, drawn blade flashing as it raced along Nalavara's flank. The Devil Dragon was about to find the man she was seeking.
As Nalavara almost casually smashed her attackers with a wave of one talon, the King of Cormyr bounded into the air and thrust his blade behind the corner of her jaw. His steel slid home easily, gliding with oily ease into the spot where no scales waited. Black blood spurted forth, smoking.
"Here, dragon!" Azoun snarled, his eyes blazing. "Murderer! Despoiler of my realm! Here I am!"
He jerked his blade free, and as the dragon turned her head with snakelike speed and a fearsome snarl, Azoun struck again, thrusting his steel deep into her tongue then plucking it out to leap away, rolling desperately in under the dragon's chin.
Fire roared forth, setting grass afire and crisping an unfortunate dragoneer who was caught in its full fury and sent tumbling away through the air like a burning leaf. The king was gone.
Gone, that is, until the royal blade stabbed upward between the small, soft scales behind the dragon's chin. The sword rose like a bloody fountain through Nalavara's mouth and tongue.
"For Alusair!" the king cried. "For my daughter, wyrm!"
His words were lost in the squall of pain that burst forth from the dragon's throat. She thrust her head up, baring her throat to the furious monarch, but he couldn't drag his sword free in time, wallowing in blood-drenched dimness, to strike before Nalavara twisted away.
A talon longer than the king stood tall stabbed out for him. It missed his shoulder by a foot, no more, as the dragon gathered herself to spring into the air-doubtless for a short flight that would end in another swoop at the hilltop, and more fire, and the death