Nadinta wasted little time in rallying her mighty band, running headlong into battle with her sword poised to strike and the battle song of Cordalain, the ancient elven sect of indomitable warriors, on her lips. She struck hard and fast, her keen-edged blade slipping between the scaly, armored hide of the dragon.
The beast roared in pain, whipping its head around and thrashing its tail, which connected with Borgunder Gunderbor and sent him flying into the wall with a sickening crunch, the force of the blow so powerful that even the rock giant’s nigh-unbreakable bones cracked and shattered.
“No!” screamed Whiska, whose tears streamed freely down the long contours of her face as she considered the prone form of her dear friend sprawled across the cavern floor, his arms and legs bent at impossible angles. She channeled her pain into rage and then into magic, waving her hands in arcane, intricate gestures while she invoked words in the language of magic.
Powerful bolts of energy leapt from her outstretched fingers and sped toward the dragon’s chest, striking with explosive force. The dragon’s head snapped up and it roared; the echoes of its rage could be heard for miles and miles, as far as away as the nearest village, whose residents suffered violent nightmares that night, with visions of fire and blood causing them to sit bolt upright in their beds.
The great wyrm turned its attention on Whiska and unleashed its mighty breath, intent on destroying the creature that had dared to cause it pain. Whiska moved quickly, diving away from the blast, though she did not escape harm entirely. Her tail was caught within the blistering flames, and she howled in pain.
Nadinta continued her assault, striking the dragon again and again, but despite the might of her blade, she could inflict only limited damage. Rumscrabble Tooltinker fared even worse, his little mace bouncing off the dragon’s tough hide as though it were made of rubber.
Things looked grim for our heroes. The beast was simply too powerful, too large, too vicious; what could they do against such awesome might?
The beast inhaled deeply, preparing one final blast of fire to immolate the irritating interlopers who had dared to intrude upon his domain.
Suddenly, Nadinta paused. A voice sang out, calling her. Without thinking, she turned and dove into the nearest pile of treasure, pawing at it frantically. She sifted gold to the side, flung bejeweled chalices behind her, and paused only briefly as she hefted a heavy metal candlestick before tossing it aside as well. For beneath that mound of nearly incalculable wealth lay the source of the song, a sword that sang so sweetly that it succored her in her time of stress.
She wrapped her hand around the hilt and it hummed all the louder and, vibrating in her hand, all but forced her to turn back toward the dragon. The beast had completed its mighty inhalation and opened its maw. As the first black belch of smoke issued forth, the prelude to a withering torrent of fire, Nadinta knew she was too late, that she and her companions were doomed to shortly become smoking lumps of charred flesh.
She did all that she could do in that moment, which was to hold the sword aloft and pray to all the gods of Erithea to spare the lives of her companions. Her life flashed before her eyes as the fire washed over her, the heat of the flame so intense that she felt her eyelashes melting.
The dragon finished its blast, the smoke from its attack obscuring everything in the cavern. The great wyrm coughed once, clearing its throat of the last of the steam, which then puffed out through its cavernous nostrils. It gave a satisfied nod and turned its thoughts toward sleep, intent on resuming its nap.
Those thoughts were interrupted, however, by a sharp stab of pain in its gut. For there stood Nadinta, unharmed by the great gout of flame, undaunted by the size of the beast, unbowed by the challenges and trials that had come before. She thrust her sword forward with all of her might, and the magic blade—a legendary blade, in fact, the very sword once borne by Uthremegar the Rager, the mightiest warrior of the northern Camerian tribes, and the weapon with which he slew the terrible green dragon Porthaxatus—caused great pain to Dragonia.
The beast roared and thrashed, trying desperately to escape the sting of that blade, but Nadinta held fast to the pommel and drove it in deeper, knowing that the lives of her companions—who had been spared a fiery death by the sword’s protective nimbus—depended on her to strike hard, strike quickly, and strike decisively.
And strike she did, over and over, until the great Dragonia, the scourge of Skendrick and the surrounding territories, the terrible tyrant responsible for so much pain, suffering, and death, gasped one last gout of flame and fell backward, stone dead, on a pile of treasure so large it dwarfed the royal treasury of the ancient kingdom of Celenia, one of the wealthiest kingdoms that had ever existed.
Nadinta waited a moment before she withdrew the sword. She turned to her companions and nodded, and, as one, they let forth a triumphant yell—for, at long last, the brave band of heroes had vanquished the mighty dragon, and never again would the good citizens of Skendrick feel the pain of its fury.
Chapter 25
NOPE—IT WAS ABSOLUTELY (MOSTLY) NOTHING LIKE THAT
It turns out that the tunnel goblin’s directions were good, and we found the dragon in pretty short order.
You know by this point that one of my main goals in telling this story is to show that the adventuring life isn’t all it’s thought to be. It’s mostly boring, frustrating, dangerous (though not excitingly dangerous), smelly (dear gods, so smelly), and not particularly lucrative. Occasionally, however, it’s exactly how the songs make it sound, and in those moments, it’s easy to see why people—even smart, capable people like Nadi—would devote their lives to doing something so irrational. Let the record show that entering a dragon’s lair for the first time is one of those moments, and it’s fair to say that each member of our intrepid band experienced more than a frisson of excitement as we crept across that threshold.
Side note: “frisson” is one of those fancy words that I normally eschew (not unlike “eschew”), but, in this case, it’s really the only word that accurately captures the feeling. I’m all in favor of using the people’s vernacular, but sometimes the people should get a bigger vernacular and know what words mean. Also, the people should tip more, and maybe bathe a little bit more frequently. I should stop there. I have a lot more recommendations for the people that they probably won’t like, but I’d like them to buy the book, so…you know.
We knew we were getting close when we heard the low rumbles of the dragon’s snores echoing through the narrow corridor that led to its lair. Nadi silently called a halt and then did her scout-ahead thing, returning a few moments later looking pale but resolute. She nodded her head and then spread her arms like wings and pantomimed breathing fire. Or, maybe having eaten something spicy.
Rummy assumed the latter, and gestured to his water canteen. Nadi shook her head, but Rummy silently insisted. Nadi gritted her teeth and flapped her arms more emphatically. This confused Whiska, who grew concerned that Nadi had seen an owl (Ratarians hate owls, whom they view as blood enemies and try to kill at every possible opportunity). She growled softly and twisted her hands in opposite directions to suggest strangling an owl. Nadi shook her head again and tried her fire breathing bit one more time, but this just caused Rummy to reach into his pack for a little bit of bread he had squirreled away at some point and push it into her hands in the hopes that it would alleviate what he assumed was a burning sensation in her mouth from eating a hot pepper.