Dhamon whirled and sped back toward the trail, mindless of the branches that whipped at his face and tugged at his cloak. The young tracker did his best to follow.
“Run!” Gauderic was hollering to the men. “Spread out and run!”
“Fool elf!” Dhamon cried as he rushed toward the river bank. He hurried past a thick clump of willow birches, leaping over a large rock and sidestepping a stagnant puddle. The green of the forest was a blur as he raced toward his men.
“Charge the dragon!” he bellowed. “That’s an order, Gauderic! Charge and fan out! Come at the beast from several directions! Don’t you dare turn tail!” It took him only a few moments to corral the men and force them forward.
And it took another few minutes for half of his men to die.
Those charging well ahead of Dhamon were caught in a cloud of foul chlorine. They fell screaming, twitching, clawing at their faces and clothes, sobbing uncontrollably. A few thought quickly to roll into the river, where the chill water helped to wash away the horrible film of the green dragon’s breath. But most just gave up in the face of all the pain and succumbed.
Dhamon raced toward the front of the line, nimbly avoiding the fallen mercenaries. Bubbles spread across their chins and foreheads like those he’d seen on the elven villagers. Those at the very front had fared even worse, as they had shouldered the brunt of the dragon’s breath. The chlorine gas was deep in their lungs, the chemical so caustic it was eating away at them inside and out.
“Murderer!” Dhamon cried to the dragon.
The great beast cast a long shadow across the trail. It was half-in, half-out of the river, had probably lain in wait for them, rising to surprise them with its cloud of deadly gas. It was indeed much larger than the rogue dragon they were hunting—roughly a hundred feet from nose to tail tip.
The supple plates on the dragon’s belly glimmered like wet emeralds, catching the morning light that seeped through the branches. The scales on the rest of its body were shaped like elm leaves and ranged from a drab olive shade to a dark, bright blue-green that nearly matched the needles of the tall spruces nearby. The dragon’s eyes gleamed dully yellow, and were cut through by black catlike slits. A large crested ridge the color of new ferns ran from the top of her head down her neck, disappearing in the shadow of leathery wings. She had one horn, on the right side of her head, black and twisting away from her, misshapen like an accident of birth. There was no nub where the second horn should have grown.
The few mercenaries left were backing away, mesmerized by the sight of her, afraid to turn their backs to her.
“Fight her!” Dhamon heard himself scream. “Don’t back down! Don’t run!”
The mercenaries paused for just an instant, looking to Gauderic, who was still standing. “No,” he mouthed to Dhamon in disbelief. But Dhamon furiously shook his head at his second-in-command and gestured for them to move forward.
“Fight her!” Then Dhamon charged, his feet churning over the ground, then flying out from under him as he slipped in a muddy puddle.
In the same instant, the dragon darted forward, brushing against the forest giants and somehow not harming them. Her tail cracked out like a whip, striking the trio of elven women who were advancing on her, swords shining and wet from the chlorine that still hung in the air.
Dhamon’s lungs burned. The chlorine threatened to suffocate him. He made a move to rise, but stopped, watching from his prone position the horrifying tableau that was playing out before his eyes. The sounds were overwhelming—the moans of the men, the shrill cries of the birds, the pounding of his heart. Louder still was the sharp intake of the dragon’s breath. The tingling warmth of the scale on his leg was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Not nerves, he realized. Something else.
He saw one of the elven women leap at the dragon, swinging her sword wildly. The dragon exhaled, a second whirling gout of the chlorine gas. Dhamon managed to avoid the brunt of it, rolling behind a dead mercenary and feeling the caustic mist settle on his clothes and chain mail. His skin stung harshly.
But the elven women were not so lucky. The sickly yellow-green cloud billowed and enveloped them. As one they screamed, a horrid chorus that made Dhamon gag. The thumps of their bodies hitting the ground was soft. The cloud continued to drift outward.
“Damnable beast!” Dhamon heard Gauderic cry. His second-in-command drew in close to the dragon’s belly and struck out with his blade. The weapon bounced off the plating and Gauderic nearly lost his grip on it. He redoubled his efforts and struck harder, putting all of his strength into it and this time meeting with more success. The dragon issued a tremendous roar that momentarily deafened everyone.
Only a dozen of the mercenaries had survived the dragon’s last onslaught and had angled in close enough to strike. As far as Dhamon could tell, those brave ones were trying to follow his orders.
“Stay away from its mouth!” Gauderic was shouting. “Stay close to its body. Hit it low and keep moving! Circle and strike!”
The dragon was sweeping her tail through the foliage, brushing the corpses into the river. Out of the corner of his eye, Dhamon saw blood trickling down the dragon’s green scales. Gauderic had opened a wound inside the beast’s rear leg, and its blood ran freely, pooling on the ground. One of the elven mercenaries had managed to plunge his sword between the large scales on its front leg. Not able to pull the blade free, he reached for twin daggers at his side and continued the attack.
Suddenly the dragon reared up and roared. Hope swelled in Dhamon’s chest. There was a chance! However, the scale was becoming increasingly painful. He gulped in the caustic air and tried to move forward, but a knifing pain shot up his leg and rooted him to the spot.
The dragon’s roar changed pitch and faltered. Gauderic cried jubilantly. Through a haze of pain, Dhamon realized his second-in-command was practically covered with the dragon’s blood, and brave Gauderic was continuing to worry at the dragon’s wound.
The dragon thrashed about, head twisting this way and that. Then eyes locked onto Dhamon, and her great, mottled lips pulled back in a sneer. For an instant Dhamon’s heart froze. He managed to scuttle to the side, leaning behind a tree and trying to blot out the burning sensation on his leg.
“Can’t fight like this,” Dhamon spat. “Worthless. I’d be throwing my life away. No help to them.” Then, though a part of him knew better, he turned away from the battle and from Gauderic and hobbled off through the ferns. “No hope for them.”
The sounds of battle grew dimmer. Not only because Dhamon was putting distance between himself and the dragon but because the last of his men were dying. He heard a loud sizzling sound. Then he heard Gauderic’s voice, little more than a whisper now, cry, “She commands magic! The dragon has magic!”
Then Dhamon heard nothing else but the snapping of twigs beneath his feet and the pounding of his heart. The pain in his leg seemed to decrease with every yard he put between himself and the dragon. He wandered in the woods for several days, fully expecting the dragon to track him and kill him, too. But when that didn’t happen, he found his way back to Barter.
It was late at night. Only one tavern was open.
None inside seemed to recognize him, or notice his tattered clothes and matted hair. He’d abandoned the chain mail shirt at the edge of town. Settling himself at an empty table, Dhamon Grimwulf began drinking. Drinking a lot and considering what he would tell Palin Majere.