The dragon roared in frustration. Guillot cast his atheism to one side and prayed to every god and ancestor he could remember that the spear would hold fast. He got both hands on to it and pulled himself up as the dragon started to buck and twist through the air. With each movement, Guillot expected the spear to pull free, but its Telastrian barbs held firm. He knew he could only hold on for so long, but he could think of no way to encourage the beast to land. Not alive, at least.
He twisted his left arm around the spear, then drew his legs and feet up to do the same. Releasing the shaft with his right hand, Guillot drew his sword.
Even with the benefit of daylight, it was difficult to spot a weak point in the dragon’s scales. He had been lucky with the spear, but didn’t dare trying to stab into the same spot for fear of cutting the spearhead loose.
The dragon thrashed and bucked in an effort to throw Guillot free. It scrabbled with its feet, trying to catch him with its talons, but Guillot had managed to find himself a spot the dragon couldn’t reach. As he swung back and forward, clinging to the spear shaft for dear life, Gill looked desperately for an inviting target. He wondered where the beast’s heart might be and if his sword was long enough to reach it. However, a destroyed heart might kill the beast instantly, dropping them both out of the sky, and Guillot still clung to the hope that he might survive the battle.
The lungs would be better. Making it hard for the beast to breathe might force it to the ground. He hoped. This left him with the same problem as the heart—where were they, and would he be able to reach them? He watched the dragon’s huge chest expand and contract with each breath, and knew that was where to strike. As the dragon’s chest filled with air, Gill struck at the exposed join between two scales, pushing the blade in up to its hilt.
The dragon screeched and bucked with such violence that Guillot lost his grip on the sword. He clamped both arms and legs around the spear shaft, hoping to avoid a plunging death to the valley below. The dragon’s breathing became raspy and wet, giving Guillot hope that his sword—now firmly out of reach—had struck home. The beast ceased its contortions, stretched out its wings, and its thrashing climb became a smooth, gliding descent.
CHAPTER 48
Wind whistled past Guillot’s ears, and he wished that he had a free hand to shelter his eyes. All he could do was turn his head away and hope the wind’s growing force didn’t pull him from the spear. Blood splattered into his face from the wound on the dragon’s chest. Its salty, bitter tang gave Guillot hope. If he could make the monster bleed, he could kill it. He would have to get his sword back, however. Assuming he survived the landing.
The ground approached at an alarming rate, and Guillot began to worry that he had overdone his thrust into the dragon’s chest. Perhaps he had struck its heart as well. Their speed continued to grow until Guillot was moving far faster than he ever had, faster than he thought possible. If they hit the ground at that rate, there wouldn’t even be enough of him left to scrape up. At least it would be quick. He gasped as the ground filled his view, and turned his head, bracing for the impact. At the last moment, the dragon angled its wings and slowed, touching down as lightly as a feather.
It took Gill a moment to realise they had landed. Panting, he had to pull his hands from the spear shaft. He had been holding on so tightly that his fingers had locked in place. He backed away from the dragon while it groped at the sword with one of its talons. Never one to let an opportunity pass, Guillot looked for anything he could use as a weapon. Other than a few fist-sized rocks, there was nothing but the dagger on his belt. He drew it, feeling ridiculous—he might as well spit at the beast. The dragon finally caught the sword’s hilt with one of its claws and pulled the blade free, then looked at Guillot and hissed in defiance, as if saying that he might have hurt it, but not enough. It paced forward, slowly and carefully, like a cat stalking a mouse. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and with only a dagger, no way to fight. He gritted his teeth and met the dragon’s murderous gaze.
“Gill!”
He looked around. Solène sat atop her horse, holding his last spear. She threw it to him and he grabbed for it like a starving man reaching for a morsel of food, now delighted that she had ignored his entreaty to flee. He turned to face the dragon, feeling that the spear in his hands put him back in the fight. He was immediately greeted with an inferno that carried in it every bit of the dragon’s rage.
Guillot stood, engulfed by flame, expecting death to take him, but it did not come. The visor of his helmet was up, and he could feel the fury of the heat on his face, but took no harm from it. The super-heated air felt as though it had weight, like coursing water flowing over him. He forced himself forward, against its flow, until the flame stopped.
The dragon’s expressive face showed concern, coupled with amazement that Gill was still alive. The blast of flame had clearly taken a toll on the beast. Guillot wondered if it was starting to question the outcome of the fight.
He launched himself forward, leading with his spear. The dragon swatted at him, but Guillot changed his line of attack and passed beneath the dragon’s talons. It leaped back with surprising agility and Guillot ran harmlessly past. His path took him near the wound he’d made with his sword. Blood gushed from it with the beast’s every movement. Pivoting, Gill tried to drive the spear into the same spot, but the dragon twisted out of the way.
Guillot paused for a moment to catch his breath. Sweat stung his eyes, and his chest heaved. He charged at the dragon again. It looked as though it was going to fire flame at him, but Guillot no longer feared he would burn.
The dragon lunged forward and snapped its great jaws at him, forcing him to roll to the side. He clambered to his feet in time enough to get out of the way of its tail, which ripped through the air with all the sizzle of a drover’s whip.
Guillot charged at the monster again, gasping for breath. Even at his fittest, a fight like this would have pushed him hard. The tip of his spear struck one of the armour-like scales and skittered to one side. He stumbled, his weight too far forward, and fell flat on his face. He rolled onto his back in time to see the dragon’s talons coming for him. Another roll got him almost clear—the edge of one talon screeched along his armour and into the join between plates. It cut into his flesh, sending a jolt of pain through him. Guillot wrenched himself away and struggled to his feet.
The dragon’s tail slammed into his back with a deafening bang, sending Guillot flying. He hit the ground with a crunch, his eyes and mouth filling with grit. He scrambled up, spitting and blinking to try to clear the dirt so he could see and breathe. By the time he could, the dragon was close again. Exhausted, he struggled to bring the spear to bear once more. His armour, which had felt so light, now weighed on him as though it was crudely cut lead. Blood streamed from his wound and he was starting to feel dizzy.
One last charge, he thought, and let the gods decide how the dice will fall. No one could expect more of him than that. He levelled the spear and ran, shouting with all he had. The dragon reared back on its hind legs, then pounced. The spearhead hit its scales but did not penetrate. The impact knocked Gill to the ground again and he was too weary to get up. Rolling over, he looked up at the hulking great beast above him.
Blood flowed more strongly from the sword wound, coursing in pulses with each beat of the dragon’s heart. Guillot wished that he had the strength to strike at it again, but his arm was numb and he couldn’t even feel the spear that was still in his grasp. He was spent.