Thrall - Christie Golden [78]
He brought to bear more than physical strength and agility. The white hue of arcane magic and the sickly purple of the twilights’ attacks were augmented by other colors—the scarlet of the red’s fire, the emerald poison cloud of the green—as Chromatus fought with the skills of all of the ancient dragonflights.
She could hear the bellows of triumph from the twilight dragons as they fought with renewed enthusiasm. They might have been turning tail a few moments ago, but now they were all deadly purpose and implacable intent.
Too, the simple sight of the obscenity was unsettling. It ought not to be, and yet here it was, breathing fire, using illusions, dealing death in an awkward manner that somehow was brutally and lethally efficient.
Several of Kirygosa’s flight were killed by Chromatus alone. Others, horrified by and fixated on the sight of the chromatic dragon, were careless of the twilight dragons still filling the air. Even as she watched, a blue tried to approach Chromatus from behind, only to have his neck broken with a single, almost careless strike of the monster’s powerful tail. The blue, dead instantly, fell to join his brethren. Anguished, Kirygosa turned away, hiding her face. A hard hand grasped her hands and jerked them away. She turned her tear-filled eyes up toward the Twilight Father, almost but not quite able to make out features beneath the dark cowl.
“Who is laughing now, little blue girl?” he cackled. “Your precious flight—he is barely animated, and look what he is doing! Look!”
He hauled her to the edge of the platform, one hand gripping her chin and the other like iron, binding her arms to her side. “Look!”
At least, Kirygosa thought, her heart breaking, he cannot force me to keep my eyes open.
Thrall could feel the sense of defeat ripple through the blue dragonflight. And he felt it along with them.
It was a dragon, but such a dragon as might have been conjured by a Forsaken’s worst nightmare. No fewer than five heads, each one seeming to be a different color, sprouted from massive shoulders. It seemed jerky, rotten, like Scourge stumbling to the attack. Yet it was alive, not undead. Alive, each of the monstrous heads attacking with such furor that an entire flight, with victory clenched in its claws, had become rattled and panicky.
“What is it?” he shouted to Kalec.
The Aspect did not reply at once; he was too busy fending off a pair of attacks. Then Kalec cried, “A chromatic dragon!”
Thrall recalled what Desharin had told him of such creatures—patchwork monstrosities, bits and pieces of the other five flights. Desharin had said they were all dead.
But this one certainly was alive enough.
Thrall stared for a second at the beast, trying to wrap his mind around what it was and what it was doing to the blue dragonflight—even to Kalecgos, the flight’s new Aspect. It was only an instant of inattention, of shock—but it was an instant too long.
The thing charged at them, five heads gaping. The stench of rotting flesh that emanated from him was almost overwhelming. Kalec dove out of his way. Thrall held on with all his strength. He thought he had made it safely until something slammed into his midsection, swatting at him as if he were no more than a flea riding on a wolf’s back, and he realized that although Kalec’s skillful flying had saved him from a direct attack from the many-headed chromatic dragon, it had not saved Thrall from the power of even this casual brush of the monster’s tail as he dove past.
So this is death at last, he thought, falling from the back of an Aspect to be crushed on jagged rocks.
He closed his eyes, clutching the Doomhammer to his heart, glad that he would die with a weapon in his hand. He wondered if he would even feel the impact that would shatter his spine or smash his skull.
SIXTEEN
Thrall did not feel either. What he did feel was an impact far softer