“Down to the river!” Direfang shouted to Rustymane and Gnasher. “Take the clans to the river. Hide in the water.” He thought the water might protect them from the caustic chlorine of the dragon’s breath … though how would they escape the lightning?
Streaks of fire flew from Grallik’s fingertips, shooting through bare spots in the canopy and striking the dragon’s side. Orvago was busy gesturing too, summoning his own enchantments.
The trees nearest the dragon groaned, and the bark split in places. They grew wider and taller in the passing of a handful of heartbeats, their limbs stretching up and up, grabbing at the dragon’s legs. The beast thrashed wildly as Orvago renewed and repeated his spell, more tree limbs whipping around the dragon and holding it like a spiderweb catches unwary insects.
Panicked goblins darted in all directions, ignoring Direfang and the other hobgoblins, some of them scurrying directly underneath the dragon, where a great exhalation of breath caught the slowest. Well more than a thousand had massed on the bluff and started over the side toward the river, their fear of water overcome by their greater fear of the dragon.
And yet, Direfang noticed, they were not as wild and disorganized in their flight as before. The group was sticking together.
“The dragon suppresses its fear,” Grallik observed as he paused to take a deep breath. “It doesn’t want them to flee this time. Of course, it can’t help that they are wisely and naturally afraid of such a monster.” He turned and headed closer to the dragon, pastel light shards shooting from his fingers, a spell the hobgoblin had not known him to cast before. If the pastel shards achieved anything, he couldn’t tell, the bursts of light were lost in the foliage and another cloud of chlorine.
Goblins swarmed around Direfang, waving weapons high and looking for inspiration from their leader.
“Fight the dragon!” The order was barked by Keth, his wide face etched with grief and fury. He leaned on a branch, his broken leg useless. “For Cari, kill the dragon!”
“No use running,” Nkunda agreed. “Can’t run as fast as the dragon can fly. Kill for Cari!” He wielded a long-handled axe that he’d been using for chopping down trees.
“All die this day,” said Sallor grimly. The Skinweaver nervously rubbed at the nose of an elf head dangling from his belt. “But maybe hurt the dragon before death comes.”
“Yes, hurt the dragon,” Direfang said, raising his dry, choked voice for all to hear. “Stall it at least so the others can be safe.” He motioned for them to spread out along the bluff, covering their comrades who continued to climb down the slope toward the river. They swung into action, eager to fight.
Where is Mudwort? Direfang thought fleetingly. She could help, could do something, he thought. A small part of him was glad she was missing. At least she wouldn’t die that day.
His attention was drawn back to the dragon temporarily ensnared by tree limbs. Rather than trying to free itself by flying higher, it had tucked its wings into its sides and was expanding its massive bulk to break the branches. Cracking, splintering, groaning wood could be heard, along with the roar of the dragon. It crushed the goblins who had been running beneath it, broke trees, and gashed its own side. But it was free and landed on the ground and charged toward the bluff.
Its head shot forward on its long neck as its feet propelled it across the loam, uprooting small trees, smashing goblin homes, and knocking over a tall ash that stood in its path. It breathed poisonously as it moved, the yellow-green cloud glimmering wetly, settling on goblins and burned-out homes and making all the world smell like caustic chlorine.
Direfang closed his eyes for just a moment, centering himself and calling up the image of the doe at the pond, wide eyed and beautiful. The vision calmed him a little, just enough. He reached for his axe and long knife, opened his eyes, and raced to meet the dragon’s charge … certain of meeting his death.
Goblins raced behind him, whooping and shouting, all the noise a bluff to disguise their fear, he knew. Qel managed to pull one wounded goblin out of the way as the horde bolted past. Orvago headed over in her direction, conjuring rain as he moved and directing it to follow over the dragon’s head to mute the effect of the chlorine wisps that streamed from its nostrils.
Grallik hurled more colorful shards against the dragon, the magical bursts of light somehow penetrating its thick scales but seemingly doing little more than irritating the monster. The half-elf wizard gave up on that notion and instead sent another strike of fire crashing down on its head. The wizard ran closer still and began calling forth more enchantments.
Direfang wasn’t the first to reach the dragon. A group of Boarhunters had been faster, plunging in when the great beast reared up on its hind legs and breaking their spear points against its armored belly. The dragon roared and fell forward, burying them with its body. Then its legs churned forward again, and Direfang was at its side, hacking away with his axe and knife, both weapons doing nothing against the scales.
“Be fast! Be deadly!” a goblin yelled.
Hundreds swarmed the beast, like ants to a giant, Direfang thought. Some of the goblins came up only to its claws. The ground slick with blood, the hobgoblin nearly tripped when he tried to advance toward the dragon’s front leg. Goblin limbs sticking out from beneath its belly caught on his feet.
Another whoosh of flame and Direfang risked a glance over his shoulder to note Grallik leaning against the lone standing wall of a crushed hobgoblin home. The wizard looked spent but was working at another spell; he was edging closer still. The wizard’s gaze caught Direfang’s, and Grallik shouted something to him, but the hobgoblin couldn’t hear.
One thing he could hear was the pounding of the dragon’s heart, loud as a war drum. Then he heard the crackle of flames. His long knife and axe head burned like so much kindling, and he almost dropped them, thinking the dragon had breathed fire on them.
“Grallik,” he said, realizing the wizard had done something magical to his weapons. He started hacking away hard and fast, the fire singeing his shoulders each time he drew the weapons back to deliver more power. “Cracked!” Direfang called. He’d managed to crack one of the scales. “Be fast. Be deadly!”
“Be fast! Be deadly!” echoed Gnasher.
“Kill the beast for Cari!” Keth cried. “Kill it fast!”
“Kill for Cari!” dozens repeated.
More goblins swarmed in, buoyed by Direfang’s drawing blood. The Fishgatherers rushed at it, throwing nets at its snout and being rewarded with a spray of chlorine. But one of the nets tangled in its teeth, which bought Flamegrass clansmen a moment to dart in beneath its jaw and stab upward with their spears.
The dragon tossed its head this way and that, swatting goblins against trees and each other, slamming its head down and smashing the Flamegrass clansmen who had tarried too long. It opened its mouth wide, snapping the net, then propelled itself forward and scooped up more than a dozen goblins in one bite, swallowing them whole before moving toward the next cluster.
“Be fast! Be deadly!” the goblins continued to chant.
Only a few fled. Direfang was amazed by their bravery. But perhaps, he thought, they, like him, realized flight would only prolong their final confrontation with the dragon, prolong their deaths.
The fire magic started to ebb on his weapons, but Direfang kept stabbing and slashing, bolstered when the flames surged again. More weapons caught fire in the hands of goblins near him.
“It’s Grallik’s doing!” Direfang shouted. “Don’t drop the knives. They’re hot but deadly!”
“Be fast! Be deadly!” echoed all around him.
The goblins swung faster and harder, with every measure of their strength, whooping when they cracked scales and drew blood.
“It’s going to fly!” a yellow-skinned goblin shouted. He was perched on the dragon’s side, holding tight to the edge of a scale as he jabbed a spear in a gap between two other scales.