Death of the Dragon

30

“Loose!” The arrowmaster’s voice was level and calm, his eyes on the river below. The third volley of shafts he’d ordered hissed into the air, briefly sought the sun, then fell in a deadly rain on the orcs struggling below.

Tuskers staggered and fell in water that was already dark with their blood. The heaped bodies of those who’d fallen earlier rose out of the river like a dozen grotesque islets, so choking the Starwater that it was threatening to spill beyond its banks into the mud the orcs were advancing through.

They’d not even reached the front rank of Purple Dragons yet-a bristling line of lowered pikes and bills halfway up the hill that fell away to the river, fangs ready to greet their foe-so the archers of Cormyr could fire freely, raining their shafts on anything in or near the river. Hundreds of tuskers were already down, and still they came on, more afraid of the dragon behind them than the humans before them.

Even the arrowmaster winced at the sight of blinded, maddened orcs striking out at their fellows around them, snorting and squealing like gigantic hogs, with arrows that hadn’t yet slain them jutting out of their eyes. Those who hadn’t been hit lumbered ahead tirelessly, a few of them having wits enough to pluck up the dead and hold them over their heads and shoulders as meat shields against the hungrily hissing shafts.

“How fare you?” a self-important swordlord coming along the line shouted into the whistling din of arrows.

The arrowmaster did not-quite-smile as he replied, “Still standing, sir. No losses yet, and we’ve plenty of shafts still.”

“Why’re those men doing nothing?” the officer snapped, pointing with his drawn sword.

“They’re not doing nothing, sir. They’re waiting, shafts at the ready, you see?”

The swordlord blinked at the silence that followed the question, not realizing an answer was expected, and after a moment asked flatly, “Why?”

“They’re waiting to defend the bridge.”

The swordlord frowned like a lost thundercloud. “But we’re holding the bridge untouched! The tuskers haven’t even reached it yet, thanks to our bowmen down there-bowmen who, I might add, are fighting hard whilst these stand idle.”

The arrowmaster nodded. “Indeed, sir. My eyes have actually revealed that to me, too, sir.”

The swordlord drew back as if he’d been slapped, then thrust his face up against that of the archer, nose to nose. “Are you mocking me, soldier?” he snarled. “Explain why they’re waiting, this instant.”

Without bothering to turn his head, the arrowmaster bellowed, “Loose!”

As the swordlord flinched back with a snarl, another hissing volley of death leaped into the sky.

The arrowmaster gestured after it, to where dozens of orcs were falling, clutching at the shafts that had transfixed them. “This slaughter can’t go on, sir, without something more from the foe.”

” ‘Something more’? What, man?”

“The dragon, sir. If we keep this up much longer, she’ll come, sir. She’ll strike at the bridge first, where men are crowded in and can’t run from her. When it’s clear, the tuskers’ll be across it and up here for us, sir.”

The swordlord swallowed and stared at the arrowmaster’s calm face, then he looked back down at the bridge, and back again at the arrowmaster. Along the way, his face went slowly white.

“Ah, carry on,” he choked out, and stumbled away down the line. The arrowmaster did not bother to watch him go.

His eyes were on the unfolding attack he’d been expecting-and fearing.

The beast the soldiers were calling the “Devil Dragon” was every bit as huge as the talk over the fires had painted it. It was a red dragon larger than any living wyrm the arrowmaster had ever seen, yet as menacingly graceful in the air as a falcon.

It soared into view around the flank of a hill, banked over the killing ground where the archers of Cormyr were working butchery on the orcs, and swooped down on the bridge. The arrowmaster could see the men there cowering as the dragon’s jaws opened.

“At the jaws-loose!” he shouted, but the order was hardly necessary. He’d made his own walk along the line earlier, explaining to each man and maid that the battle could well depend on their bows-at the moment the dragon opened its mouth.

“I want all your shafts down its throat,” he repeated his order grimly, as bows twanged all around him. The hand that could no longer hold a bow itched and ached at his side the way it always did when there was a crucial shot to be made. “Tempus, be with us,” he breathed, clenching his fist around the sharp flint in his palm, to make the blood flow and take his prayer to the war god.

His mouth fell open in astonishment.

The dragon was flying into a hail of arrows, aye, shuddering as many shafts went home in its tender maw, but it was committed. Its wings were folded back to let it glide, its claws out, gushing a flood of flame before it that even now was splashing on and around tall shields that would not be able to stand against dragonfire and were beginning to waver.

Behind those shields, however, men were heaving and shoving as if demented, hurling aside what the arrowmaster had thought were full crates of arrows and shoving other crates in and under what had been hidden under those crates. It was a battering ram that had lain in an armory vault for as long as the arrowmaster could remember. Its rear end had been sharpened, the axe blows so recent that the wood was still bright. The sharp end was now rearing up, as the grunting warriors thrust crates filled with rocks under it as wedges.

Lost in the lust to rend, the dragon saw its peril only at the last instant. It flung itself aside, roaring. The old ram, tipped with ancient, gem-edged dwarven axe blades from the Royal Armory, failed to pierce its breast, but merely gouged open the dragon’s belly. Scales flew away in the dragon’s wake like clay jugs crashing down from a merchant’s bouncing cart.

Screaming, the dragon twisted away, so low that had the Starwater not been there, it would have crashed into the ground. Smoking dragon blood showered down on the Purple Dragons waiting there, open-mouthed in awe, as the dragon turned almost over on its back and fled back north over the forest. The beast trailed a long cry that might almost have been a scream. It crashed through several treetops before it disappeared from view.

Moans and cries arose from the orcs and goblins north of the river, and there was much milling about, snarling, and cracking of whips.

From a little above the arrowmaster, King Azoun looked down on the confusion with satisfaction.

“This is our chance,” he said to the Steel Princess as he turned, eyes flashing. “I’ll lead a foray across the bridge, offering ourself to the goblinkin as if overbold. You take your bladesmen across the river down there-beyond that fire, where its smoke will cloak you-and advance inside the forest. I’ll charge the main orc camp like an idiot swordswinger, and they’ll have to abandon it or stand up and fight me.”

Alusair nodded. “They’re orcs,” she said simply, “They’ll fight.”

Her father nodded. “At the horn call, you bring your blades out to take the orcs from behind. We should be able to slaughter them. If they flee east, our archers can feather them for a good two miles ere they can find cover enough to escape. We can be rid of the orcs by nightfall-and win this war yet.”

Alusair knew her face was wearing a broadening grin to match his. As he took her by the shoulders and shook her exultantly, one warrior to another, she shook her head warningly and reminded him, “We’re gambling on the dragon not returning.”

Azoun nodded, more soberly, then his eyes flashed again and he barked, “Well? Isn’t it a gamble we have to take?”

The Steel Princess nodded. “Of course,” she said, then acquired the ghost of a smile and added in a voice of mock doom, “but your majesty forgets the goblins.”

Azoun grabbed her shoulders again and drew her close. He kissed her fiercely on the forehead, dealt her shoulders a roundhouse slap, and growled, “Get gone with you, and win this thing!”

Alusair knelt, murmuring in flawless mimicry of a courtier’s most fluting and insincere singsong voice, “By your command, O Lion Among Kings.”

She bounded to her feet, whirled, and was gone before the king could cuff her again. His laughter rolled out after her like a warm benediction.