Gill ran toward them for all he was worth. He had never been the fastest, and despite his recent exertions, was still very much out of training. It felt as though the world was slowing as the dragon began its death strike. Gill roared, hoping to distract the dragon for just one more moment, but he might as well not have existed. It moved forward explosively, fore talons and fangs leading the way.
At the moment Gill expected the fatal blow to land, Beausoleil somehow occupied the rapidly shrinking space between Val and the dragon. He struck with his lance, letting out a great shout of raging defiance that was punctuated by a splintering crack as his lance gave way under the force of his thrust. The banneret drew his sword, but as he brought it to bear, the dragon reached him, its wicked talons puncturing his armour as though it was paper. Beausoleil let out another great shout, but not of defiance. The dragon tossed him from his saddle, swiped the horse out of its way as effortlessly as a person might shoo a kitten, and bared its razor teeth at Val, who had at last started to back away.
Holding his sword like a dagger in both hands, Gill raised the weapon above his head. He knew he would likely have only one opportunity. Damn Cabham for his cowardice. The dragon screeched and twisted, turning away from Val and Gill, who plunged his sword into the beast’s neck. The Telastrian steel cut the dragon’s flesh like a hot knife through butter. He wrenched the blade up as the dragon’s body continued to roll toward him, trying to cause as much damage as he could—to make that one blow a fatal one.
The dragon hissed and gave one last thrash before its roll stopped with it lying on its side. The tension spilled out of its muscles. Gill gave the body a kick. He looked at Val, who seemed to be fine, his expression of terror aside.
“My kill,” Cabham said.
Gill looked up. Cabham had returned. He was seated on his horse, sword in hand. There was a lance sticking out of the dragon’s flank, buried between two thick, bony scales that didn’t look as though they were yet fully developed. Gill said nothing, still labouring to draw breath.
“My strike was the first. It’s my kill,” Cabham said.
Beausoleil had not moved from where the dragon had tossed him. Without giving Cabham a word or another look, Guillot walked to the younger man’s prone form, knelt beside him, and rolled him over. Beausoleil’s eyes were glassy and his lips were splattered with blood. There were a half-dozen rents in his breastplate, gleaming with blood. Gill closed Beausoleil’s eyes and stood, the bitter taste of anger flooding his mouth.
“One down, two to go,” Cabham said, a broad smile on his face.
“I told you to move in front of it,” Gill said, from between gritted teeth.
“Then it would be me lying there.”
“You had time for a proper strike. It would have given the rest of us the time we needed. All Beausoleil could do was get in its way.”
Cabham shrugged. “It’s dead. I’m sorry Beausoleil is also, but dragon slaying is a dangerous business.”
“You’re an expert now?”
“To the best of my knowledge, there are only two men alive who’ve killed a dragon, and I’m one of them.”
“This isn’t your kill,” Guillot said. “It’s Beausoleil’s, you selfish, arrogant bastard.”
“No need to be like that,” Cabham said, his voice taking on an edge. “But this is my kill, and I’m going to claim my trophy.”
Gill realised his sword was still stuck in the dragon’s neck, while Cabham’s was in his hand. All Gill had was the dagger on his belt.
“Lay a hand on that beast,” Gill said, “and I’ll have your arm off at the shoulder.”
Gill could see Cabham weighing his options. Gill was defenceless, but right now Cabham could claim to have helped slay a dragon, with the unfortunate loss of one of their men. Cut down Guillot, and he would be a murderer. The only question was if he cared, or if he thought he could get away with it.
Cabham forced a smile and tipped his fingers to the open visor of his helmet in salute. “This marks the end of our association, sir. Good day.” He turned his horse back in the direction of Venne, guiding it as it stepped gingerly over the dragon’s neck, then rode away at a brisk trot.
Gill watched him go, angry at Cabham, angry at himself. Angry at the world. Beausoleil had been the man he was most concerned about, and he was shamed to have questioned the man’s honour. When his test had come, he had been found anything but wanting. His courage had gotten him killed, but Guillot was damned if it meant he was forgotten. Cabham could claim what he liked when he got back to Venne, but Gill was the one with the reputation. He realised that Val had dismounted and come up beside him.
“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Val said.
Gill shook his head. “No. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine. I didn’t prepare you all properly. No one really knows how to prepare, but I could have done more. Should have. We’ll see to that when we get back to Venne.” He tousled Val’s hair. “You’re as much a part of killing this thing as anyone. You’re a dragonslayer now.”
The boy smiled uncertainly.
“See about getting my horse, will you? I’ll get the spearheads and put Beausoleil up onto the pony so we can take him back to town.”
“What about that?” Val said, nodding at the dead dragon.
“Let it rot.”
It was early evening by the time they got back to Venne. Gill was starting to hurt from being knocked about by the dragon and his mood remained foul. The village was less crowded than it had been in the morning and people were busy, clearing the wreckage left from the previous night. Gill suspected many of the adventurers were still traipsing about the countryside, looking for a dragon. Gill could sense the beasts—three of those strange pulling sensations on him now—so assuming his theory about the feeling was correct, no one else had managed to kill one. The errant sensation seemed to be coming from the north. He was convinced now that there was a fourth dragon. Still, that was a problem for another day.
As Guillot and Val rode into the village, the people they passed stopped what they were doing to look at them, their eyes filled with the same question. Gill knew he had to let Edine know one of the beasts was dead. His gaze fell on the small church that had provided succour for the villagers during the attack. At least there was someone to look after Beausoleil and carry out the proper rites. Then he remembered his promise to Val. The living were more important than the dead.
“Go see the smith again,” he said. “Get him to make you a short sword, no longer than your forearm from elbow to fingertips. Sharp on both sides, with a pointed tip good for use against plate armour. It won’t be a rapier, but it’ll be better for learning on the job. Off you go.”
Val departed with surprising eagerness, leaving Gill alone to wonder if he should hire more men, or if that was simply inviting disaster, inviting another Cabham. One way or the other, he didn’t need to decide right away, so he slipped down from his horse, hitched it and the pony, and headed to the mayor’s house.
Just as he reached the door, Edine exited the building, closely followed by Cabham. She smiled broadly at Gill.
“An excellent start,” she said. “Well done.”
Guillot nodded, unsure he wanted to dampen her enthusiasm, but clueless as to how he could respond and not do so.
“We killed one of the dragons, which is a positive start, but it cost us a good man—Banneret Didier dal Beausoleil.” He stared at Cabham, but decided there was nothing to be gained by bringing up what had happened. When the Humberlander realised that Gill wasn’t going to say anything, he relaxed. Still, there was something in Cabham’s eyes that told Gill that he didn’t consider the matter dealt with, which was fine with Gill.