by Paul Cude
'Fat chance of that,' he thought.
All the time watching Manson, waiting for another ferocious attack, from out of the corner of his eye Peter could just make out Theobald and Casey putting the last of the laminium into the metallic nets attached to the giant harness. It looked now as if it was ready to go.
'Somehow,' he thought, 'I have to stop that cargo from leaving here.'
The ex-army Major, if that's what he really was, caught Peter looking at the two bullies putting the finishing touches to the cargo. Done with insults and taunting, he just wanted to get on with the mission, leave this human infested hell hole and head back south to the others. Pulling in a deep breath, he instantly expelled a terrific cone of fire that burned blue in the middle as it arced towards Peter. Immediately the young dragon threw himself to the ground once again, but on peering up, and with the crackling cone of fire above him, he had no idea which way to roll to get free of the threat. That was partly because Manson continued to turn his head from side to side, causing the giant arc of flame to continually move back and forth, trapping Peter beneath it. From his position, it was impossible to gauge exactly where Manson was. So he had to gamble, as the intense heat started to become unbearable, affecting not only his movement but his breathing as well. One positive to come out of this surprising attack though, was that he was now warm enough to access a vast array of his dragon abilities, something Manson had clearly not bargained on. Putting on a burst of dragon speed, he gambled and rolled right, hoping that the frenzied dragon had gone the other way. A treble roll later and Peter had his answer. He'd gambled wrong, and smashed clumsily into one of Manson's tree trunk thick legs as he rolled out from the massive arc of rainbow coloured flame. Manson had been counting on his nemesis appearing here and for the first time in the battle he'd got his wish.
Knowing instantly that he had to act, Peter jumped back, trying to perform an audacious back flip, throwing as much of his dragon power into it as he dared, in the hope that it would get him out of the psychotic dragon's reach. A resounding SMACK boomed across the Astroturf, like a plane breaking the sound barrier as the air and everything around it shook. Still the humans watching the fireworks were totally oblivious to the battle taking place in their midst. Every atom in Peter's body screamed out in pain as he flew unceremoniously into the air. His eardrums felt as if they'd imploded, while horrific pain tore out from the left side of his ribs, which if he were able to turn his aching head to look at, he would have done. After a journey that felt as if it had taken months, he landed with a sickening CRUNCH, his fall broken by something very solid indeed. Barely clinging onto consciousness as the awesome pain assaulted his body in waves, he knew something extremely bad had happened to his ribs; he just couldn't seem to clear his head, or move his tangled body enough to look and see exactly what.
Glaring across the icy pitch at the crumpled form of the annoying dragon in human form, Manson could sense that there was something different about this one. Not able to quite put his talon on it, it was almost as if he preferred to be human shaped, which repulsed him to his very core, and would even be something all the other dragons hiding away in the domain deep beneath their feet would find hard to understand. Humans were weak, feeble, lazy and second class, no more than pets at best. They were imposters, thinking themselves top of the planet's food chain, when quite obviously they were not. They shouldn't be allowed to go on deluding themselves. In no short time at all, they would, to a man and a woman... know the truth!
By now a thin layer of mist had settled just above the surface of the synthetic pitch. It was clear to Manson that he'd already won and completed the mission he'd been sent on, something that pleased him no end. Bentwhistle's mangled body lay smashed against the now ruined, green metal fence that would normally have separated spectators from the playing surface. From where he stood, it was difficult to separate Bentwhistle's body from the twisted metal wreckage of the sturdy fence, the damage had been so bad. Manson smiled, pleased with himself.
'I must have thrown him nearly sixty yards,' he thought proudly. 'Perhaps when I'm in charge and the new regime begins, we could make this some kind of regular event... toss a human. Sounds quite catchy.'
With the evil Manson already celebrating his hard earned victory on one side of the pitch, an altogether different battle was taking place on the other. A battle to stave off pain, to remain conscious and in the end... to stay alive.
Quite a feat really, considering the scale of his injuries, he'd managed to sit himself up. The part of him made to look like human blood was leaking all over the frozen pitch, from the injury to his shoulder that had reopened and from the gaping wound around his ribs. Likely he'd broken at least three of them, as well as badly bruising some of his internal organs. He was a mess. Trying as hard as he could in the state that he was in, he tapped into all his dragon magic and attempted to heal some of the damage he'd taken. Realistically he knew that he had neither the time nor the limitless energy required to achieve such a thing.
Fireworks still exploding overhead, for the first time he could hear music from the speakers that accompanied them. From the sound of it, the spectacle was just reaching its finale. As mind crushing pain threatened to overwhelm his false form, he managed to chuckle.
'How fitting that our finales seem to be occurring at the same time. As if it wasn't enough that it would end here for me... on the Astroturf.' Strange as it may seem, and despite being an inanimate object, Peter had come to regard that synthetic pitch as his... FRIEND! Having shared sweat, blood, anger and passion on it as well as performing many outlandish hockey feats alongside his teammates, if he had to die somewhere, on the pitch that meant so much to him was as good as anywhere.
Like puddles of oil beneath a very old car, the blood from his wounds pooled and congealed, leaving bright red frozen ponds all around him. In his confused state he briefly wondered why it was red and not the normal green. Turning his head as far as he could without passing out or being sick, he hoped against hope to see a wave of dragon guards hurtling through the sky, on their way to give Manson the fate he so deserved. All he could see though was the clear dark sky, pierced by tiny pinpricks of light. At that moment, he accepted that he would die here and very soon. Mixed with pain and nausea, regret washed over him. His friends would probably never know his true fate. He'd never get to play hockey again, although it was fitting that he should die here on the pitch that he loved so much. Regret also at never having mated, thus ending his birth line. Instantly his thoughts turned to Richie. More than once in his relatively short life span, he'd imagined mating with her, producing an entire hockey team (well, a seven a side one) of gorgeous dragonlings. In his heart of hearts though, he knew that she was way out of his league and that it would never happen in a million years. But it hadn't stopped him thinking about it from time to time. Just recently however, he'd found himself thinking more and more about the idea. Oddly enough, whenever he thought about Richie and the idea of mating, he somehow got the impression that she would rather mate in human form, possibly even with a human, although he had no idea why this occurred to him. In the here and now, it was quite possible his injuries had taken too much of a toll on him because in the extreme, it was a very daft idea, not least because the coupling of dragons and humans had been strictly forbidden by the dragon Council for over two thousand years.
As the cold bit at his body and hazy sleep threatened to take him forever, a memory slipped into his mind and shook him awake.
'I know where it is,’ he thought, suddenly alert. The memory, from a split second before Manson had hit him halfway across the pitch with one gigantic scaled wing, focused in on the wing bearing down on him, just before impact. In that moment he could vividly remember seeing a brilliant yellow patch, covering a couple of Manson's scales protruding from the right hand side of his underbelly. It was his weak spot!
Every dragon ever born had a weak spot: an area of vulnerability visible only to other dragons, which if pierc
ed will cause unbelievable pain and will very often lead to death. Covered extensively throughout the nursery curriculum, young dragons were all taught to find each other's weak spots and the weak spots of various different dragons who came to lecture them. In his confused state, Peter's mind wandered to his favourite tale, that of George and the Dragon. George had managed to take down the evil dragon Troydenn against all odds by knowing where his weak spot was and hammering a sword down into that exact area. With all this running through his mind, his entire body screamed at him to get up.
'We still have a chance,' it said. 'We know where his weak spot is. We can stop him.'
His head swimming all over the place, he could just make out the music accompanying the fireworks and see the rockets in all their multicoloured glory exploding overhead. More than anything, he just wanted to throw up, or at least that's what his cold, numb body told him.
'Why me?' he wondered. 'Why has all of this happened to me? I'm simply not cut out to be a hero.'
Looking back, he could easily think of several dragons from the nursery ring who all had the attributes of readymade heroes. But not him. He was the last dragon on the planet who should be fighting the forces of evil. As far as he was concerned, there wasn't a heroic bone in his body (dragon or human).
'Why couldn't this have happened to somebody else?'
As his head flopped back against what was left of the separating fence that had so graciously broken his fall from sixty or so yards away, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. Only a few metres away from where he found himself propped up was the olive green light box containing the controls for the floodlights that surrounded the pitch. Straight away he thought about turning them on.
'That,' he thought, 'would surely get the crowd's attention.' Immediately he dismissed the idea, as the box itself was locked and at the moment he didn't have enough strength to pull a cracker, let alone break into the control box. What did catch his attention though, was a rather large, lethal looking icicle dangling down from the underside of the box. It had to have been there for a few days at least, judging by the size of the thing. More than a foot long, it had a diameter of a couple of inches, with the point looking sharper than one of Gordon Ramsay's kitchen knives. Hope, and a plan, welled up inside him.
Tentatively, he pulled himself up against the twisted metal, all the time fighting off the desire to sleep. Glaring across the cold, mist enshrouded pitch, he could just make out Manson talking to Theobald and Casey next to the fully laden harness.
'Perhaps he thinks I'm already dead,' mused Peter. He considered this for a few moments. 'If Manson thought I was already dead, he would just strap on the harness and fly out of here, in which case I've already lost. No,' he concluded, 'it isn't Manson's style. He's going to come across and finish the job, knowing full well I'm in no condition to go anywhere and that he can take his time. Well... let's see if I can surprise Mister All-Knowing, shall we?'
Using his arms to pull himself up into a sitting position, he immediately wished he hadn't when bright spots flickered before his eyes and the pain made him retch. Gritting his teeth, he tried to stand up. His legs were having none of that and instantly gave way, causing him to fall back onto the icy ground with a THUD. Standing, clearly wasn't going to be an option, he thought, looking across to make sure Manson wasn't on his way over yet. Sure enough, the ferocious looking matt black dragon was still confidently dishing out instructions to Theobald and Casey.
Taking in a long, deep breath that seared his throat and the inside of his lungs, he plucked up all his courage and began pulling his battered body towards the control box for the floodlights. It was slow going, with his hands and fingers taking a hell of a beating not just from the constant icy cold, but from the scattered metal shards that had not long ago made up the metal fence. They constantly pierced the palms of his hands and sliced open his fingers as he moved. Doing his best to ignore it, he told himself that at least it was taking his mind off his other more serious injuries.
After a couple of minutes he'd dragged himself about halfway to the control box. Manson had glanced over a couple of times, but continued speaking with the two nursery ring bullies, very much confirming what Peter had suspected, that in fact the murderous shadowy monster regarded him as no threat at all and would come over to finish him off when it suited him.
Continuing on, leaving a thick red trail of frozen blood in his wake, he tried desperately to ignore the incredible waves of pain that parts of his body were generating. Focused on his friends, knowing they were nearby, hoping that would inspire him enough to drag himself to the control box, he thought back to all the good times they'd shared, from their many years in the nursery ring to their relatively short time above ground in the human world. As he crawled painfully towards his goal, images of Tank, Richie, Gee Tee, the nursery ring, hockey, laminium ball matches, everything that he'd enjoyed in his scaly and not so scaly life, flew past.
Before he knew it, he'd determinedly made it to the control box. With his last ounce of strength, he ripped the glistening icicle from the underside of the box with his right hand, gripping it firmly behind his back, while with his left hand he began to scrabble at the locked part of the box, making it look to Manson as though he were making an attempt to turn the floodlights on. This, interestingly, got the evil black dragon's attention. Instantly he strode meaningfully away from Theobald and Casey, eyeing Peter with suspicion. Fumbling with the looked door on the box, making it look as though he knew it was his last chance to save himself, Peter turned to face the fast approaching Manson, immediately recognising the mad, deranged look in his eyes for what it was.
'Here he comes,' he thought, as once again time seemed to be measured in units so small it was impossible to even begin to quantify them.
Halfway between the two bullies and the control box, Manson launched himself forward with one powerful flap of his massive wings. The low lying mist on the pitch around him was suddenly sucked up in his wake, forming tiny circular vortices behind the tips of his wings and the end of his tail as he closed in on his prey.
Peter's face became racked with fear as the impressive homicidal black dragon zoomed towards him with only one thing on his mind. His grip on the icicle behind his back increased, the frozen cold stinging his hand beyond belief as he prepared to strike. Clearing his mind, he urged his body to provide him with the strength he needed for this one last attack, knowing full well that one way or another, the welcome relief of death was not far away. Feeling the brush of air wash over his face as Manson approached at full speed, he knew what he had to do. It was now or never.
Manson opened his huge slavering jaws as he approached the raggedy human form of the irritating pest that was Bentwhistle. So close he could almost feel his razor sharp teeth closing around the battered body in front of him, savouring the delight of flesh and bones crunching in his prehistoric jaw.
Leaving it to the last one hundredth of a second, Peter moved with a speed that betrayed his life threatening injuries. It wasn't the fastest he'd ever moved, that was for sure, but not far off, and an absolute miracle given what his body had already been through. Able to see straight down the black dragon's throat as the open jaws sped towards him, horror still etched on his face, he threw himself forward, diving beneath the terrifying chops that wanted nothing more than to chomp on him, looking more frightening than any crocodile or shark he'd ever seen on the television. As he dived, he willed his body to turn over mid flight. Reluctantly it did so, inflicting even more pain, which Peter wouldn't have believed possible. Even so, he maintained his focus and while twisting over in full flight, below the fast moving scaly body of his nemesis, he brought round the glistening icicle that he'd been concealing behind his back. In the almost total darkness of the underside of Manson's huge frame, he found what he was looking for, a distinctive area covering two of the evil dragon's tiny dark scales. It stood out like a beacon in the blackness, drawing Peter's every action towards it. Having fully
turned over during his daring dive beneath, and knowing that he'd caught Manson totally off guard, he used every last bit of strength that he had to thrust the transparent crystalline form of the icicle into the dragon's heavily shielded body. As the icicle tore into Manson, Peter could feel the satisfactory yielding of dragon flesh, followed by what can only be described as the sound of a huge SQUELCH.
Peter thumped to the hard icy surface on his back, his body riddled with pain and numbness. As his head cracked back onto the synthetic pitch, he watched the fireworks light up the sky beyond the black outline of Manson, relief and regret washing over him one last time. Without turning his head, he watched out of the corner of his eyes as Manson tried frantically to compensate for overshooting his target, only to be struck by the realisation that he himself had been dealt a fatal blow. The fearsome, homicidal dragon wheeled around in the air one last time, not knowing what to do at first. Peter watched, captivated, as Manson flapped his wings in panic and let out the most undragon-like scream he'd ever heard in his life.
As he hovered to the ground, one of his giant legs gave way, causing the huge black dragon to topple over to his left. Collapsing to the ground, the entire Astroturf shook, causing even more ripples of pain up Peter's now useless back.
Tears began to flow like a raging river down Peter's cheeks, most freezing before they hit his chin. Every emotion he'd ever known swirled around inside him, alongside the pain and numbness. Bizarrely, he started to laugh hysterically.
