Dragons of the Autumn Twilight - Margaret Weis [204]
Sturm felt the spell leave his body, his muscles his own to command once more. He saw Verminaard turn his fury on Goldmoon, striking at her savagely. The knight lunged forward, seeing Tanis rise, the elven sword flashing in the sunlight.
Both men ran toward Goldmoon, but Riverwind was there before them. Thrusting her out of the way, the Plainsman received on his sword arm the blow of the cleric’s mace that had been intended to crush Goldmoon’s head. Riverwind heard the cleric shout “Midnight!” and his vision was obscured by the same unholy darkness that had overtaken Caramon.
But the Que-shu warrior, expecting this, did not panic. Riverwind could still hear his enemy. Resolutely ignoring the pain of his injury, he transferred the sword to his left hand and stabbed in the direction of his enemy’s harsh breathing. The blade, turned aside by the Dragon Highlord’s powerful armor, was jarred from Riverwind’s hand. Riverwind fumbled for his dagger, though he knew it was hopeless, that death was certain.
At that moment, Verminaard realized he was alone, bereft of spiritual help. He felt the cold, skeletal hand of despair clutch at him and he called to his Dark Queen. But she had turned away, absorbed in her own struggle.
Verminaard began to sweat beneath the dragonmask. He cursed it as the helm seemed to stifle him; he couldn’t catch his breath. Too late he realized its unsuitableness for hand-to-hand combat—the mask blocked his peripheral vision. He saw the tall Plainsman, blind and wounded, before him—he could kill him at his leisure. But there were two other fighters near. The knight and the half-elf had been freed of the unholy spell he had cast on them and they were coming closer. He could hear them. Catching a glimpse of movement, he turned quickly and saw the half-elf running toward him, the elvish blade glistening. But where was the knight? Verminaard turned and backed up, swinging his mace to keep them at bay, while with his free hand, he struggled to rip the dragonhelm from his head.
Too late. Just as Verminaard’s hand closed over the visor, the magic blade of Kith-Kanan pierced his armor and slid into his back. The Dragon Highlord screamed and whirled in rage, only to see the Solamnic knight appear in his blood-dimmed vision. The ancient blade of Sturm’s fathers plunged into his bowels. Verminaard fell to his knees. Still he struggled to remove the helm—he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see. He felt another sword thrust, then darkness overtook him.
High overhead, a dying Matafleur—weakened by loss of blood and many wounds—heard the voices of her children crying to her. She was confused and disoriented: Pyros seemed to be attacking from every direction at once. Then the big red dragon was before her, against the wall of the mountain. Matafleur saw her chance. She would save her children.
Pyros breathed a great blast of flame directly into the face of the ancient red dragon. He watched in satisfaction as the head withered, the eyes melted.
But Matafleur ignored the flames that seared her eyes, forever ending her vision, and flew straight at Pyros.
The big male dragon, his mind clouded by fury and pain and thinking he had finished his enemy, was taken by surprise. Even as he breathed again his deadly fire, he realized with horror the position he was in—he had allowed Matafleur to maneuver him between herself and the sheer face of the mountain. He had nowhere to go, no room to turn.
Matafleur soared into him with all the force of her once-powerful body, striking him like a spear hurled by the gods. Both dragons slammed against the mountain. The peak trembled and split apart as the face of the mountain exploded in flames.
In later years when the Death of Flamestrike was legend, there were those who claimed to have heard a dragon’s voice fade away like smoke on an autumn