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Daffyr set off at a quick trot, forgetting the effect that this would have on his injured hooves, and followed closely by Stuart and the Doctor and a number of excited Firbolg.

The dragon had fallen to the ground just within the camp, crushing two tents. It struggled to its feet as Daffyr approached. Its small piglike head turned to watch him with an eye which oozed aqueous humour where the crossbow bolt projected; a slender tongue darted out between its narrow lips to sample the air.

'Be careful, Daffyr,' Stuart cautioned the aggressive warrior.

As it turned its whole body to face this threat, the dragon stamped its four feet, raking at the canvas on which it stood and drew in a long whining breath. Daffyr trotted in close brandishing his sword above his head.

‘Care! Ha! Who needs care?' he cried. He swung the sword in a wide arc against the dragon's flank, cutting a gash in the thick skin. As he pulled the sword away he brought it up through one of the delicate wings, devastating the membraneous network of skin. The creature growled a warning and blew out a. fine spray of noxious liquid at the crowd of onlookers. Catching a glimpse of a spark at the back of the dragon's mouth, the Doctor flung himself to the ground as a ball of flame exploded into the air. He raised his head, sniffed and detected the faint odour of semicombusted hydrocarbons. There was nothing magical about this dragon's fire.

'Still got some fight in you?' Daffyr roared at the monster. He swung the sword again, this time at the dragon's groggily swaying neck. The creature's tail flicked round, searching for a target and caught Daffyr on the flank. He fell with a shout of pain, but as the dragon lunged at him he pushed his sword up and through its neck. It roared and shook, attempting to get free, but only succeeded in doing itself more damage. One of its clawed feet lashed out at Daffyr leaving a bloody wound on his thigh but he struck again and again at the dragon's neck until the head fell away. A shiver ran along the dragon's huge body and then the flaccid leg muscles collapsed under its weight and it slumped to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Daffyr threw his sword to one side and struggled to his feet. He picked up the dragon's head and with its hot, stinking fluids dripping over his hide, raised it over his head and displayed it to his assembled clansmen. A cheer broke out amongst them and then grew louder when he proclaimed that a feast would be held that night.

The Doctor approached Daffyr cautiously, making sure he was not in the way when the dragon's head was dropped to the ground. 'Do these creatures cause much trouble?' he asked.

‘Aye, they are a menace, a pest. They burn crops and houses. It is rare for one to be killed. But I did it!'

'It looked rather weak to me,' Stuart said. Even as he made the comment, and despite its truth, he realized it was not the right thing to say. Daffyr bristled.

'It was a fine specimen, and only a Daffyr could slay it. I shall use its head as part of the emblem of the herd. It will lead us into battle and we shall win.'

'Battle?'

'Well, we shall feast before that.' A broad grin broke the Firbolg leader's face as he examined the slain monster. 'By the gods, a single leg will feed us all!'

For the feast, trestle tables were erected around a huge bonfire on the outskirts of the camp. The Firbolg didn't need seats, they merely settled down on the ground with their legs fold underneath them.

Stuart brought chairs from the farmhouse. It was a strange affair, the feasters illuminated from one side by the rays of the sickly star and from the other side by the dancing flames over which the dragon's leg was roasted on a spit. The first four courses were rather unappetizing to the humans, having an overreliance on the culinary delight of dried grass, but as the feast progressed there was a gradual shift over to meat. At last the dragon meat was ready and a large chunk was cut off and placed before Daffyr.

He tore off a thin strip and flung it into the flames with the words, 'For the Land Mother!