Bentwhistle the Dragon in A Threat from the Past

by Paul Cude

  * * *

  Peter froze as the fireworks beyond the Astroturf cut through the air, lighting up the entire sky. It wasn't because he was so close to his friends that he could call out, no. It was because the stunning colours and bright lights had backlit the foreboding figure of Manson, stick in hand, skulking towards him. Whilst the sight of Manson was cause for alarm, he kept telling himself he was just a human and that there was nothing to fear.

  'He may be running things,' he thought, 'but there's no way Casey and Theobald would murder me, another dragon. And that's what it would take.'

  Manson, for all his show, was just a common criminal, alright, a pretty scary one at that, but still just a human. No match for a dragon. On his best day he couldn't hurt Peter; he would need the help of the bullies and although he despised them, he knew full well that they wouldn't be party to murder. So, as Manson approached, Peter felt confident enough to give him a big toothy smile, jutting out his jaw in defiance.

  Manson rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger, inspecting the grinning Bentwhistle, before turning to Casey and Theobald.

  "When you said you had a little surprise for me, I had no idea it would be this good," he crowed. "Where exactly did our cold little friend come from?"

  Theobald took a step forward.

  "He was sneaking around the distribution centre earlier. We took the liberty of capturing him, after he told us he was on his own and that nobody knew where he was."

  Manson nodded, pleased, all the time circling Peter, inspecting him like a piece of meat.

  "Very good, the two of you, very good." Turning away from his captured prize, the ex-army major pointed his walking stick at Theobald and said,

  "Just out of interest, I've seen no sign of Fisher tonight. Why is that? I thought the three of you were in this together."

  Paying close attention, Peter picked up the fear and... something else that passed across the faces of the two bullies.

  Casey seemed too frightened to talk, barely able to look Manson in the eyes. It was Theobald who spoke up, albeit reluctantly.

  "He... um... he... um... kind of had a... change of heart, about things."

  "A change of heart?" growled Manson.

  Theobald stammered on, looking straight down at the ground.

  "Yes, a change of heart. After we captured... HIM," he spat, pointing at Peter, "Fisher began having second thoughts, wanting us all just to go to the Council and tell them everything."

  "Did he now?” enquired Manson, a menacing glint in his eyes.

  "He did."

  "So where is Fisher now? Has he run off to warn the Council?"

  Peter watched with interest and more than a little hope. If Fisher had warned the Council, the dragons would be here to free him any minute. It was odd though that Manson seemed to know all about the Council. What was that all about?

  Theobald, head hunched over, staring straight down at the ground, started to shake uncontrollably as he began his reply.

  "We took care of him," he managed to babble.

  Manson opened his eyes wide and raised his eyebrows.

  "Do tell," he demanded in a feigned posh accent.

  Every cell in Peter's body screamed for him to make a run towards the crowd, just the other side of the fence, easily within throwing distance, to get away from the evil that currently surrounded him. Instead he remained rooted to the spot, as a tear creeping slowly down his cheek almost started to freeze.

  Manson waited for the overcome Theobald to continue. Although the air was filled with whooshes and bangs, whizzes and crackles from the fireworks above them, the silence surrounding the small group of beings gathered on the synthetic pitch was all consuming.

  "C... c... c... c... Casey and I, w... w... we... took care of him, Sire," muttered Theobald, to no one in particular.

  "For good?" asked Manson.

  "Yes, Sire."

  'Sire?' thought Peter, a steady stream of tears rolling down his cheek at the thought of what his former classmates had done to their friend. 'What on Earth is all that about?'

  Manson stalked forward towards Theobald and Casey who were standing side by side, shaking from their shoulders down. Stopping in front of them, he pulled their heads up to look him in the eye.

  "If I wasn't sure of your loyal support, I am now. It wasn’t the fault of either of you that Fisher was so weak willed and easily led. You did what you had to. You had no other choice."

  The two bullies continued to shake, as they both nodded emphatically.

  Manson grabbed both of them firmly by the shoulder, letting his walking stick drop to the frozen, sand covered pitch, which because of the freezing conditions was becoming reminiscent of an ice rink.

  "When the time comes... and know this, it will... both of you will be part of the new order of things. You will have wealth, power and the rightful status that your belief and actions deserve. You will both be on the top tier, looking down at everyone and everything. The part you've played here will not be forgotten. Now... back to the matter at hand."

  Both bullies nodded in agreement, buoyed at the thought of the wealth and power that had been promised them, as Manson turned away to pick up his stick. Casey sneakily wiped away a tear or two behind his back.

  Walking straight up to Peter, Manson stood and looked him straight in the eyes. Peter matched his gaze, not flinching once. Staring deeply into Manson's dark forbidding eyes, a torrent of doubt rose up inside him. It all seemed to make sense that Manson was just a common human criminal, in league with Theobald, Casey and F... He'd started to think of Fisher. It was true that he'd never liked him very much, mainly because of the intense bullying he'd received from the three of them through pretty much his entire time at the nursery ring. But even Fisher didn't deserve this kind of sick fate. What on Earth was going on that would get one dragon murdered by his friends, both of whom were scared witless by a seemingly unimportant human criminal? Something was very wrong.

  'I'm missing an important piece of the puzzle. Something I don't know, or haven't seen yet,' he thought, all the time keeping warm images in his head.

  Peter was abruptly startled out of his thoughts by Manson spitting in his face. It was a disgusting act, one which nearly lured him into trying to wipe his face, an action that might well have given away his one advantage. In any case, the two brutes still had a firm hold of his biceps, something that had helped stop his potentially reckless action.

  "Look at you," sneered Manson, only a few centimetres from Peter's face. "You think you're so superior. I bet even at this moment you're planning your escape, and just how you're going to contact your friends over there." Manson pointed towards where he knew the crowd watching the fireworks would be. Suddenly he let out a horrid laugh, more of a cross between a laugh and a giant snort.

  Peter continued to gaze straight ahead, using all his focus to ignore the cold biting his body, and the spit running down his face.

  "It's not going to happen you know. Your friends, I mean. You're not going to be able to reach them. They'll never know how you died, how much pain you suffered and why. Well, they won't know until it's too late."

  Peter's heart (not his real one) was pounding so hard he thought it was going to jump right out of his chest. For the very first time in his life he was scared. Not just a little scared, but genuinely terrified that he was going to die. All along he'd thought he'd had some measure of control over what was happening. He’d always thought that because he was a dragon, he was better than most, almost untouchable... that's what they were led to believe during their time in the nursery ring. Through everything, he always treated what was going on with... contempt. With hindsight, it was obvious now. Mark Hiscock's death should have been his biggest clue. It was his fault. He should have been more careful, looked at things in more detail, been more committed to finding answers, and less easily led. If he'd done all that, then just maybe he wouldn't now be at the mercy of someone who quite clearly didn't know the meaning of
the word.

  Weighing up everything, he decided in a split second that it was now or never, although he considered that the odds were not exactly great. But he couldn't see them getting any further in his favour. Things had gone rapidly downhill ever since he'd arrived on the synthetic pitch, and although he felt a bond to the pitch itself (you'd have to be a hockey player to understand) he couldn't see how that in itself was going to help him get out of the trouble he now understood he was in. That combined with the fact that Fisher had been killed by Theobald and Casey and also the odd way in which they'd both referred to Manson as 'Sire'. Firmly believing that Manson was not going to leave him here alive was enough to convince him it was time. Knowing all he had to do was reach the far edge of the Astroturf, right by the surrounding fence, that should put him close enough to the crowd watching the fireworks, from where he should easily be able to attract the attention of everyone, not least Tank and Richie. Yes, the dragon Council would no doubt have to come in, erase a few memories and clean up a bit afterwards, but that would be a small price to pay to thwart whatever madness was going on here. Fisher's murder would be avenged, with those responsible facing the full force of dragon law. As he prepared to act, all he could think was that he really had no other choice.

  With Manson's face hovering ever closer to his, he gave everything in an effort to look as though he'd given up and, in a gesture of submission, pulled his head back with a feigned sigh. When his head was back as far as it would go, he focused with everything he had and, after a deep breath, brought his head forward with as much power and strength as he could.

  A resounding CRACK very much like a gunshot echoed across the pitch as Peter's head butt made contact with Manson's forehead. He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Knowing there was no time to waste, Peter shrugged off the two men holding his biceps, hitting them both with his opposing free hands as he spun round, his arms whirling like a windmill. His real fear, which he was constantly having to contain, was Theobald and Casey. Now that he knew what they'd done to Fisher, they couldn't afford to leave him alive, and with their dragon powers they would easily be a match for him individually, let alone together. He hoped they would take a few seconds, or more in the freezing conditions, to change into their natural forms because that just might buy him enough time to raise the alarm and get Tank and Richie firmly on his side, both of whom were more than a match for the two bullies. After dropping the two guards, he turned and, leaping over Manson's writhing body, ran off into the darkness, sprinting for all he was worth towards the nearest part of the fence with the fireworks display’s spectators behind it. He knew that in only a few more seconds his fate would be decided.

  Running for all he was worth, he could just see out of the corner of his eye the hired help with flashlights had all stopped unloading and were starting to head in his direction. Pulling in a frozen breath, he put on one last burst of speed. There wasn't one part of him that didn't hurt from being in the van, being out in the cold, and from not having had anything to eat or drink for nearly half the day. Forcing the pain from his mind, he gave everything, not looking back over his shoulder for fear of what he would find. His imagination told him that both Theobald and Casey had already turned into their natural forms and were right at this very moment, swooping down behind him, talons outstretched, jaws opened wide, ready to tear him apart, followed closely by Manson and his goons. Two more steps his mind told him, and he was there. Smashing at speed into the wire meshed fence that surrounded the pitch, he opened his mouth ready to scream for help, and quite possibly, his life. As he did so, the stark realisation of something hit him like a prize fighter no longer pulling his punches. Although he could see the crowd and the fireworks display going on through the hazy mist that encompassed the pitch, he couldn't actually feel any of them with his dragon senses. Not as he should have been able to anyway. Shrugging it off and blaming it on the cold and his battered and beaten condition, only a few feet from the cheering crowd, he shook the fence with both his hands and let out the biggest scream of, "HELP" that he could muster. To his utter amazement, nobody paid him any attention at all, not even the young children that were standing no more than six feet away. Once again he banged on the fence with all his might and let out the mother of all screams. Still nothing.

  'I know the fireworks are loud, but not nearly loud enough to prevent them from hearing me.'

  From behind him came a huge, rumbling belly laugh (think Jabba the Hutt, only MORE!). Scared of what he might find, Peter found the courage to turn around, hoping against hope that it would be nothing like his imagination had pictured.

  The sight that greeted him on turning around was strangely worse than anything his imagination could have mustered. Theobald and Casey hadn't moved at all. The flashlight goons had resumed their unloading. Only the enraged figure of Manson, blood gushing down the outside of his nose from two cuts above each eye, paid him any heed at all. It fact, it had been Manson's giant belly laugh from about twenty yards away that Peter had heard.

  "So predictable and pathetic," Manson spat angrily, blood seeping down his face.

  Peter still could not understand why the crowd behind him hadn't reacted to his screams for help.

  'Surely they must have heard me,' he thought.

  "Do you really think your annoying friends and those precious humans will come to your aid?” fumed Manson, wiping some of the blood from his face. "It's almost a shame that they can't. I would take great pleasure in killing them all. Hmmmm. Looks as though I'll have to make do with just you."

  Still puzzled as to what was going on, there were just too many things for him that didn't add up. And just how was this misbegotten devil in charge of everything?

  Manson stepped closer, the reflected light from the exploding fireworks accenting the features of his grizzled face.

  "It's about time you learned exactly who you're dealing with," the ex-army major bragged menacingly.

  As the words finished coming out of his mouth, something incredible, deeply terrifying and completely unexpected happened. The blood from the gaping wounds that Peter had caused with his crushing head butt stopped running down the side of Manson’s nose. Not only stopped, but actually started to move back up his face towards the source of the cuts. Once there, the blood withdrew into the cuts just before they healed over, leaving no visible sign that they'd ever even been there. Shocked, the hockey playing dragon had no idea of what to make of it. As if that weren’t enough, a vaguely familiar transformation started to occur in Manson's midriff. It looked for all intents and purposes as if his body was folding in on itself, starting with a small part right in the middle of his stomach. Peter had seen this effect dozens of times, but not for many years. In the nursery ring, young dragons learning to take human form, were encouraged to practice in front of a series of mirrors, to try and help perfect their technique and the time it takes to change forms. Peter had done so hundreds of times and startlingly, the effect when he transformed as viewed from outside, was very similar to the transition that Manson was going through right now.

  'Oh crap,' thought Peter. 'He's a flippin' dragon!'

  As the cold from the chain link fence burnt into his back, Peter's senses became somehow heightened as time around him very much slowed. Exhaling, his frozen breath took an age to exit his mouth, as all the time in front of him Manson continued to transform, Peter only able to watch in horrified fascination as the edges around the ex-army major's form started to fold out and gain more mass. With only a few seconds having passed, worryingly, in Peter's mind anyway, was the fact that the transformation was taking considerably longer than it would for most other dragons. Combine that with the size of the mass it seemed to be producing, which already appeared to be... huge. Way bigger than Tank was in dragon form, no mean feat in itself, with the really worrying aspect for Peter being that there was no sign of it abating.

  Looking around, thinking about how to get away, his options seemed limited. It only now dawned on him
that the hazy mist surrounding the synthetic pitch was clearly some kind of magical construct, created by Manson using whatever power he possessed, to prevent anyone from seeing or hearing what was happening within, as much as not letting any light or noise out. Without knowing much more about how it was created, there was almost zero chance that he could counteract it in the short space of time needed to. The emergency entrance that the vans had used to come in on the far side of the pitch from where he stood seemed to be the only way out, as surprisingly it was the only unlocked gate on the pitch, currently hanging open about halfway, revealing the bumpy, muddy track that connected it to the main road. What struck Peter as odd as he thought about the logistics of things was the fact that only two keys for that gate existed: one was kept behind the bar in the clubhouse, while the other one belonged to the chairman of the sports club.

  Unfortunately for him, Peter's wandering mind returned to the nightmarish scene in front of him. The folding out from the middle had stopped, with the edges of the giant form starting to resolve neatly into place. Manson as a dragon was... MASSIVE! He must have been at least three times the size of Tank, who was easily the biggest dragon Peter knew personally. This, however, was not nearly the most frightening thing. Manson's whole body was entirely black. Peter had never seen a fully black dragon, in fact he'd only ever heard of them in stories as myths or make believe characters. Black was just such an uncommon colour throughout the dragon domain. Occasionally you would come across a dragon that had the odd patch of black on his or her body, like a black tail, underbelly, the odd stripe or marking on their head or back. But that was rare. And whoever they were, or wherever they were, they would always be stared at in the most uncomfortable of ways, much in the same way a human would if they had a visible, outlandish birthmark. But a huge dragon like that, totally black from the tip of its tail to the top of its ears was just... incredible!

  The transformation had, by the look of things, finished. More like a dinosaur in some respects, the giant dragon looked unsteady on its feet as its head swayed from side to side, trying to get used to its new surroundings, scraping the tips of its giant wings through the frost that had now formed on the synthetic pitch. Peering beneath one of its wings, Peter could just make out Theobald and Casey still standing where they had been, totally unsurprised at the super-imposing dragon that towered over all of them.

  'That's why they called him 'Sire'; they've known all along what he was. But why haven't any of us been able to sense him?’ Peter wondered, as he legs threatened to give way from both fatigue and cold.

  "Not so clever now, are you... little dragon?" Manson boomed groggily.

  His voice was so loud that it almost knocked Peter off his feet. Optimistic, he glanced round at the crowd behind him on the other side of the fence, hoping that they might have heard it and be raising the alarm right at this very moment, but no, they were still all glued to the fireworks display. Manson eyed Peter, much as a human would an annoying fly, knowing full well he could swat it any time that he wanted to. And Peter knew that Manson was most definitely going to swat him, it was just a matter of... when.

  Crazy as it may have seemed, Peter started to edge forward from the fence towards the black prehistoric beast, having realised that standing right up against it made him pretty much a sitting duck. At least if he moved out a little, he might have more room to manoeuvre or run away when the inevitable attack came. He was also, cunningly, on the lookout for Manson's weak spot. He knew if he got close enough, he should at least in theory be able to see it, not that it was going to help him in any significant way as he had no weapons, was seriously outnumbered, was too weak to transform into his natural state, and even if he could, Manson would still be way too powerful for him.

  'Normally,' he thought, 'I can find something to smile about in almost any situation. Surprisingly, nothing springs to mind right now.'

  Manson's jaws opened impossibly wide, almost akin to a snake eating prey twice its size, giving the effect of a really disturbing smile.

  "Coming to attack me little dragon?" he chortled. "Did you really think I didn't know that you had broken free of your handcuffs? I mean really, you are so naive, even for such a young dragon." Manson dragged one of his giant wings off the floor, pointing it in his direction. "You've been a constant thorn in my side... little dragon. Our plans have constantly had to be readjusted because of you... and now... now you're going to pay the price for meddling in affairs that don't concern you. Don't worry though, you won't be alone. Your death will be the first of many to come. Your precious domain won't know what's hit it until it’s way too late. Got any last words?"

  Peter took a deep breath and calmed himself. With little alternative, he knew he would have to fight, something he was ill equipped and ill prepared to do. Nothing in the nursery ring had readied him to face a giant psychopathic dragon with nothing but murder on his mind. The best he could hope for was to buy himself enough time in the hope that some sort, any sort of opportunity presented itself, whether a chance to attack Manson or to run and escape intact.

  Manson opened his jaws, imitating a big cheesy grin.

  'Here it comes,' thought Peter. And sure enough, it did.

  One of Manson's huge black scaly wings sliced through the air at speed. Peter desperately willed his body to move. Responding slower than normal because of the cold and fatigue, he jumped back and rolled sideways, feeling the air from the movement of the deadly wing just above his head. Gingerly, he straightened up, knowing he'd just burnt the skin off both his knees with his last ditch evasive exploits on the icy, sand encrusted ground.

  A giant roar accompanied by a splutter of flame spewed forth from Manson's mouth as he stamped his feet in frustration, much like a petulant child not getting his own way. He was more than a little upset that Peter had avoided his well timed charge. With a prehistoric snarl buried into his face, Manson opened his mouth again, this time to much greater effect, having let rip with the biggest and hottest stream of flame Peter had ever seen. Caught off guard, the young dragon flung himself to the floor, trying to ignore the pain as he rolled over and over on the hard surface. Shooting pain down his arm, across his back and into his hand told him that his shoulder had been caught on the outer edges of the flame and badly burned. Scrambling along the ground as if completing an army assault course, he knew that ignoring the pain and surviving as long as possible was quite literally a matter of life and death. Rising up to a kneeling position to catch his breath and take stock of his wounds, he noticed the hired help that had been loading the vans had decided enough was enough. Despite what looked like strong threats from Theobald and Casey, the men had all run off towards the van that Peter had been trapped in, the one by the gate that remained open, and were now in the process of attempting to drive off at breakneck speed.

  Manson, clearly distracted, had stopped heaving flame at Peter, the fleeing van more of a priority. Peter knew that he should use this fleeting opportunity to try and escape, but not only could he not see how, but some morbid fascination had taken over, forcing him to see what fate awaited the humans who, up until sixty seconds ago, had been part of Manson's force. Kneeling on one knee, forcing air back into his lungs, he watched powerlessly what he assumed would be the last few seconds of the human conspirators’ lives.

  Manson hated humans. Not hated them a bit, oh no. He really, really, really hated them. Hated them with every cell in his superior body. According to him, they stood for everything bad in this rotten and wrong world.

  'Bentwhistle can sweat a bit more, while I take care of these lying, cheating, spineless... cowards,' he thought, assessing the entire situation all at once. Closing his eyes that were easily the size of beach balls, he rolled his huge head back as he concentrated on the open gate that the van was now heading for. Power and darkness surging through his body, he willed the gate to close and stay closed. Like a shot... it did! The massive gate slammed shut, mystically welded in place, as the driver of the approaching van
slammed its brakes on, surprised to see the exit suddenly cut off. Confusion and panic erupted inside the van as they all argued about their next course of action.

  Opening his eyes in a slow, sure, calculating way, Manson gave one flap of his gigantic wings, taking flight immediately, skimming low across the synthetic pitch on a collision course with the breakaway van that was now reversing away from the steadfast gate. Theobald and Casey watched as their 'master' raced by, a mixture of pride and obedience cut into their faces. The driver slammed the steering wheel round, shooting the van through one hundred and eighty degrees, looking for any other exit. But the sight that greeted him and the others crammed into the front of the van through the steamed up window was nothing other than gruesome, causing him to step on the breaks, bringing the vehicle to a sudden halt. Watching, Peter could just make out four petrified humans behind the windscreen, all frozen with fear like rabbits in a headlight. He really couldn't blame them. Manson was closing in, flying just above the pitch, frosty sand scattering through the air in his wake. One of the humans in the middle of the cab overcame his fear briefly, and tried to climb over his stunned friends to get out. He was too late.

  Manson's entire being ploughed straight into the van, shredding it instantly. The noise of metal, flesh and bones all breaking, blocked out the sound of the fireworks that were going off overhead. Then came the blast. The whole van exploded in a shower of tiny, red hot, metal fragments, leaving a smoking and smouldering wreck that had melted a huge hole in the synthetic pitch, right in front of the locked gate. From out of the fire trudged Manson, using his wings to brush off tiny slivers of flame and red hot fragments from his chest and legs, all the while looking incredibly pleased with himself. If Peter hadn't recognised the trouble he'd been in before, he did now, particularly having witnessed the casual way in which Manson had just taken human lives. He knew that unless a miracle presented itself, he'd very likely be heading the same way.

  From his position back near the fence, Peter surveyed the scene in an attempt to see if there was anything at all that might help him in his current predicament. The smouldering wreck of the van lay along one side of the pitch, blocking off the sealed gate. At one end, roughly in the centre, stood Theobald and Casey, taking in everything that had happened, looking more than a little shaky. Right in the middle of the pitch, strewn across the frozen ground, was another giant harness like the one in the van Peter had been trapped in. Amazingly, this one looked even bigger, as it lay flat on the cold, icy surface, with the large metallic nets either side. One of the nets had been pulled open, and some of the contents of the two vans which surrounded it had been piled in. Wooden boxes and pallets with smaller packages on were spread out amongst the vans, and had clearly been in the middle of being unloaded when the humans had tried to make a run for it.

  'What on earth is in the boxes, and why are the contents being loaded into the nets attached to the giant harness?' Peter wondered.

  Manson, still ever so slightly on fire, motioned to Theobald and Casey to join him. They did.

  "Start loading all the cargo into the harness, ready for departure," he ordered, his breath forming a massive white cloud in the chilly night air.

  Theobald and Casey headed quickly towards the centre of the pitch, but not before they'd stopped to bow to their 'master'. Manson, knowing that his harness was once again being loaded up, turned his attention back to Bentwhistle.

  Watching everything at a distance, it seemed to Peter that whatever was being loaded up in the harness must be extremely important to Manson. He wondered briefly if he'd ever find out what it was.

  Manson turned his huge, prehistoric body towards Peter, his head swaying from side to side almost as if enquiring what the young dragon was up to.

  Standing up from his kneeling position, a wave of pain from the burns on his knees ran up Peter’s legs, nearly forcing him to scream out. But not quite. Managing to ignore it with only a small grimace, he found that despite the cold, he was actually starting to warm up.

  'It must be something to do with the rush of adrenaline, and being near Manson's scorching flame that he let out,' he thought. 'I'm still a long way off being able to turn back into a dragon, or use any of my key abilities to raise the alarm though.'

  Manson couldn't help but notice Peter's interest in the harness and its contents.

  "Still not clever enough to understand what's going... little dragon?" he sneered as he plodded over.

  Peter ignored the jibe, knowing full well the giant, menacing dragon was trying to bait him. He knew that he needed to keep his temper in order to seize that one miracle opportunity should it arise.

  "Not even a little interested... little dragon?" taunted Manson.

  'Obviously he needs to feel superior by instilling fear in others and flaunting his power by bragging about his plan. Well, if he wants to brag, then maybe I should give him the chance..

  "The dragon Council and I know all about your plan," lied Peter, hoping his bluff would at least keep Manson a little off balance.

  "Haaa haaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Then why aren't they here to stop me eh? You know nothing about what's going on here. Even now, your feeble little mind isn't smart enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together. You look at the boxes over there," Manson pointed to the harness that was slowly being filled by Theobald and Casey, "and you have absolutely no idea of their contents."

  Peter crossed his arms in front of his chest and put on his most determined expression, which under the circumstances (standing in the frozen night air in just shorts and a hooded top) seemed utterly ridiculous, but it was all he could think to do. If he could somehow raise some sort of doubt in Manson, then he just might get to live just that little bit longer.

  Manson took a couple of massive strides towards Peter, shaking the ground and raking the ice on the surface of the pitch with his sharp talons as he did so.

  "I know everything you're thinking... insignificant little dragon. You're so predictable, with your schemes and plans of how to get out of all of this in one piece."

  A quivering shudder ran through Peter. Manson didn't appear to be buying any of it. Using all his strength and courage, he maintained the defiant expression, hoping that Manson might give something else away.

  "But since you're going to die anyway, I might as well put you out of your misery, before I put you out of your misery." Manson clapped his huge wings together in front of him, before blowing out a short jet of flame on to them. Peter wished with all his heart to feel the warmth contained within the flame. Manson shot him a knowing look, fully aware that Peter was freezing and longing for the heat that he so brazenly showed off.

  Stamping around in a semicircle some thirty or so feet away, every now and then Manson blew out a jet of flame to ward off the cold. As he did so, he turned towards Peter, looking like some kind of prehistoric predator teasing its prey.

  "You see, my... associates and I have a rather different long term view of how the planet should be governed. While we've had little choice but to bide our time in the past, now we find ourselves with a real opportunity to bring our plans to fruition, helped in no small part by some resources from... Cropptech," Manson quipped, pointing towards the boxes and pallets scattered about.

  Alarm bells started going off in Peter's head.

  'Oh my God,' he thought, 'he's stealing the laminium!'

  A big, smug, evil grin crossed Manson's scaly face, as his bloodshot eyes focused intently on Peter.

  "At last you've managed to work it out. Good for you," he laughed. "Where in the world would we as a group find enough laminium for our goals? Where in the world would we find enough laminium, unguarded and free for taking? Ha ha ha! Here of course. With only a couple of pathetic dragons watching over things, one hopelessly inadequate, the other... fresh out of the nursery ring, with absolutely no idea how things work in the real world." Manson shook his head as he laughed. "Easier than taking charcoal from a hatchling," he goaded.

  Images
of what Manson and his cohorts might do with that amount of laminium flashed through Peter's mind as he stood in the cold, trying desperately hard to look confident. His imagination pictured a world ruled ruthlessly by dragons. Humans decimated by cruelty and sport for the ruling class. Other species wiped out on a whim, by neglect and misuse.

  'Everything would revert to how the world was thousands of years ago,' he thought, terrified at the prospect.

  It was the first time that day that his death, a very realistic possibility, was put into perspective. If he didn't stop Manson getting away with all the laminium, then the world might never be the same again. Everything he loved, his friends, Cropptech, the dragon world, Gee Tee, the nursery ring... hockey, it would all be destroyed. There and then he vowed to himself that he would not let Manson leave with the precious metal, even if it meant sacrificing his own life. In fact, he would gladly give his own life to stop Manson's terrifying plot right now. In Peter's mind, things had changed. It wasn't so much: how could he survive and even get away? It was more: how could he use his own life to take Manson's and thwart him in the process? Manson's loud growling voice brought him back to the present, more determined than ever.

  "So you see it was never about Garrett or Cropptech. They were just a means to an end so that we could liberate the laminium," barked Manson loudly, now flicking out small streams of flame to keep himself warm, much to Peter's consternation.

  Peter nodded, finally understanding the overall scheme of things. He'd never even come close to suspecting what it was all about. He'd been too concerned with the people involved, that is Garrett and Hiscock, when in fact he should have been paying attention to the bigger picture, in particular the... laminium. That was, after all, the primary reason he'd been put there by dragon society and should have been his top priority, even if it had meant that the humans paid for it with their lives. He would have kicked himself if he'd thought his cold, numb legs would have felt it.

  'Stupid, stupid, stupid,' he thought as he gazed across at Manson's infuriating smile.

  As the mammoth black dragon gazed over its shoulder to see how Theobald and Casey were getting on with loading up the harness, Peter couldn't resist a look and followed Manson's example. The two bullies had, from what Peter could see, loaded nearly all of the contents into the nets attached to the enormous harness. Each metallic net was so full that the harness itself now stood a good four metres off the ground, supported only by the full nets either side of it. Empty pallets and wooden boxes lay dispersed around both vehicles, both of which had been left with their rear doors open, revealing total emptiness inside.

  Only then did Peter really get it.

  'That's how he plans to escape,' thought Peter, looking over at the giant harness. 'It would fit him like a glove, and if he can reproduce the masking effect that's encasing the pitch while he's flying, he'll get away scot free.'

  Manson's interest returned to Peter, now that he was sure the harness was loaded and ready to go.

  "I'm afraid it's nearly time for me to depart," he gloated. "And unfortunately that means the end of the road for you, although I can't really say I'm that sorry. You've blundered about and got in the way enough to cause serious disruptions. At least after your death I'll have the satisfaction of knowing all the workers at Cropptech will think you died a traitor, having attempted to poison Al Garrett, only to be stopped at the last minute by... ME! Think of the irony of it. Even your friends will have their doubts about you."

  Peter's temper started to rise. He knew only too well that he should ignore Manson's taunting, but believing that everyone would think badly of him stung him more than he thought possible. Surprisingly, he stepped forward, a rather stupid thing to do under the circumstances.

  "You wouldn't know true friendship if it jumped up and bit you on the tail," he spat furiously. "No matter what the situation or circumstances, my friends would never think badly of me. They'd know that whatever I did, however odd it looked, I did it with the best of intentions. They'd have faith that I would do the right thing, no matter what the situation. You probably don't have a real friend in the entire world," he raved, letting his temper get the better of him. "The only thing I feel for you is... PITY! What's it like to be alone, and afraid? I'll take comfort in the fact that when the dragon Council catch up with you, and they will, you'll die all alone, with absolutely nobody to mourn you."

  Peter evidently hadn't noticed Manson getting angrier as his tirade went on. The gigantic matt black dragon had a look of murder in his eyes as his huge head swayed from side to side in a deranged sort of fashion.

  Rant over, Peter took a breath, only then realising quite how much he'd provoked the dark scaled beast. The two, a bedraggled looking human, barely dressed, and a menacingly colossal, black-as-the-night-sky dragon stood on the synthetic pitch, staring at each other as the fireworks raged overhead, with a crowd numbering in their hundreds standing off to one side, blissfully unaware of what was happening. Hate and rage inside Peter threatened to gobble him up. He wanted to hurt Manson. He had no idea how to do it but, more than anything, he wanted to hurt him... kill him even. He wanted to do it for Mark Hiscock, who Manson had killed. He wanted to do it for Al Garrett and the staff at Cropptech, all of whom had been misled, none of whom were safe. He wanted to do it for the human accomplices that Manson had murdered right in front of him only minutes ago. He wanted to do if for Fisher, who had been slaughtered by Theobald and Casey for not wanting to take part in Manson's scheme any longer. His hatred for Fisher was immense because of his part in the bullying that had gone on for decades during his time in the nursery ring, but nobody, human or dragon, deserved to die like that. Most of all, he wanted to do it for... himself! Manson had made his life a misery for the last seven months and he was planning to change the world beyond recognition. He, Peter decided, deserved to die.

  Manson had rolled his head away from Peter. It looked innocent enough, but was in fact designed to lure his prey into a false sense of security. In an instant, he struck. The one thing it wasn't, was subtle. Manson launched himself like a jet plane towards Peter. The young dragon used up all his luck in moving off to one side as fast as he could, and then at the moment the dark dragon's hooked talons came screeching towards him, he dived head first with all the speed he could muster into a forward roll, carrying all his momentum as far as he could. As he scrambled to his feet, he was grateful that his tactics had worked, albeit at a cost. He'd got out of the way of Manson, and now found himself some thirty or so feet away from the unhinged dragon, who was now over by the fence, with him off to one side. The cost of this had become apparent when he'd turned to inspect his right shoulder, which was throbbing slightly from the impact of the forward roll, or so he thought. It turned out he was mistaken slightly. Manson's razor sharp talons had caught his shoulder on the way past, slicing into the flesh from shoulder to bicep. The torn skin was hanging off, like meat on a butcher's hook.

  Flashing Peter one of his deranged smiles, Manson stood confidently baring his talons and teeth, not far enough away on the synthetic pitch. Peter lifted his right arm into the air, just enough for the messy flap of skin to sit back down on his arm. Closing his eyes for a split second, and, using all his concentration, he channelled what little magic he had available into the wound in the hope that it would heal. Under normal circumstances, he would have hoped that an injury like this would be fully healed in about an hour. His circumstances now were far from normal. He figured the best he could hope for was for the skin to knit together slightly, and for some of the pain to be relieved. That was assuming he didn't have to move or receive any other injuries in the immediate future.

  '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. He was 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. 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. He couldn't quite put his talon on it, but 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.

  He'd managed to sit himself up, quite a feat really considering the scale of his injuries. 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 were still exploding overhead and for the first time he could hear the 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! He'd 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. He knew in his heart of hearts though 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. 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. 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 pierced 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 tak
e 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. He knows 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. He did his best to ignore it, telling 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 Manson 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. He 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 control 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 control 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. He could feel 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. He was 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. He could 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.

  'I've done it,' he thought, 'I've saved them all.' He felt an immeasurable pride well up inside his chest. He'd known that he wasn't cut out to be a hero, but when it counted, when it really mattered, he'd stepped up and given his life to stop Manson and had thwarted his twisted plans for the entire planet.

  As he lay there, unable to move at all on the bone chillingly cold synthetic pitch, waiting to depart for good, his mind began to wander.

  'Strange,' he thought to himself as he looked towards the edge of the pitch nearest to him, 'I'd have thought with Manson's downfall, the mystical haze surrounding the pitch would have dissipated totally. It definitely faded momentarily when I thrust that icicle into him, but why hasn't it gone altogether? The crowd should be rushing in from the fireworks display to see what's been going on.'

  Over the sound of the very best fireworks launched so far, a soft ringing laughter echoed subtly across the misty pitch. It was the kind of laughter that could turn a being's blood cold, or even still a beating heart. Peter had thought he couldn't get any colder. It turns out he was wrong. As his goose bumps got goose bumps and the fear inside him threw itself off the nearest tall building in fright, he just managed to turn his head in the direction of the dreaded mirth.

  The sight that greeted him washed away all his hopes and pride. It felt as though all the remaining intact bones in his body had all been broken at once. Wetting himself straight away, he was amazed that he hadn't done so before now, given everything that had gone on. His hope lay shattered, his pride shredded and any dignity he had was long gone. Worst of all was the fact that he knew in the not too distant future his friends’ lives would be destroyed and they might well face the same fate.

  Manson plodded towards him, clutching the icicle he'd ripped out of his underbelly. He tossed it towards Peter for dramatic effect, not wanting to end things just yet.

  "You showed more courage than I ever could have expected... impressive. It's almost a shame things have to end this way; you might have made a welcome addition to our... cause."

  Peter spat a huge gob full of blood as far as he could in the vile dragon's direction.

  "Yes, I thought that would be your response. Shame really, you certainly seem to have more backbone than those two," he said, pointing in the direction of Theobald and Casey. "Still... never mind."

  Peter lay on the ground, wondering how the hell Manson wasn't dead, or at least near death. He was sure he'd hit the right spot, and had damn well thrust the icicle in with enough power to finish the dark dragon for good. What he was seeing was just not possible.

  Manson watched the helpless young dragon as he lay near death in front of him. He knew exactly what was he was thinking.

  "Would you like me to put your mind at rest?"

  Once again Peter spat in Manson's direction, but only the tiniest of globules came out.

  Manson chuckled at the pathetic attempt and, turning just slightly, pointed to the spot on his belly where Peter had so carefully thrust the icicle.

  "Unlike the poor deluded, weak and pitiful dragons you serve, I belong to a much stronger, smarter breed. You all loll round with your weak spots showing to everybody so that they can all see where to deliver the fatal blow. How sporting," he boomed sarcastically. "That will be the undoing of your dragon community. By the time they realise, it will be too late. You see, the breed of dragon that I belong to would never dream of showing another dragon its weak spot, not when we can mask our weak spots and replicate them on a much stronger part of our body. You see, much as I admire your one last attempt at taking me down, you never really had any real chance. The spot you saw isn't my weak spot, and when my associates and I take on your dragon community in the very near future, they'll find that out the hard way. Anyway, much as this has been... a nice little workout," he bragged, flexing the muscles in both wings, "it really is time for me to go. And I'm afraid, for you, it's time to die."

  Lying on the cold surface, covered in blood and urine, determined to face whatever was coming head on, he knew it would be more painful than anything he'd experienced so far that evening, something he found hard to imagine, but steeled himself for anyway. Craning his neck to look at Manson, he waited for the deranged dragon to leap forward and deliver the killer blow. That murder-in-his-eyes look crossed Manson's face once again as he hungrily anticipated delivering death to the already expiring body strewn out in front of him.

  The muscles in Manson's legs tightened as he prepared to swoop forward and end it all.

  And then, the most amazing thing in the world happened.

  From out of nowhere, it started to snow. Not just a little bit of snow either. Huge, intricate flakes the size of tennis balls rained out of the dark sky, like comets having a race. It was so dense that at first Peter couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Looking up, although he could hear the last of the fireworks exploding above him, he could see nothing but a thick white apron of snowflakes heading his way. The mighty flakes settled all over his body, burning fiercely as they touched his exposed flesh, of which there was quite a lot. This, however, was nothing compared with what the supremely confident, homicidal, deranged Manson was going through. One of the first things to be drilled into young dragons at the nursery ring is the need to avoid all forms of cold, particularly in their natural state. One thing worse than the cold for dragons in their prehistoric, dinosaur like natural state, is... snow. The impact of snow on a dragon's unshielded body has been described by historian dragons as akin to a human being branded with a red hot poker, over and over again, stung by a thousand jellyfish, while at the same time being flogged by a cat o' nine tails. Not very pleasant you could say, something Manson was proving right at this very moment. He'd thought that the dark dragon's earlier screams, which he now knew to be fake, were as bad as anything could sound. Boy was he wrong. The huge evil dragon was screaming and writhing around in absolute agony, trying desperately to bat away the snowflakes as the incredible flurry continued to strike his body.

  Despite the burning of the snow, Peter let out a little chuckle at the sight of Manson in so much pain. From his prone position, he could just make out the foggy haze that encircled the pitch start to flicker.

  'He must be in so much pain that he can't maintain his concentration,' Peter thought to himself. Through the occasional gap in the endless stream of snowflakes, he once again caught sight of the floodlight control box, not three metres away. He had nothing left to give. Most of his bodily fluids were strewn across the sand encrusted, icy pitch, which now had about two inches of snow covering it. He really didn't have anything else to give... honest! At least that's what his body kept saying. His mind, however, had other ideas. With the sound of the climactic fireworks and Manson's howls of agony pounding his besieged eardrums, his body made one last heroic attempt to get to its feet. He wasn't quite sure how it was happening
, but unbelievably he had got up, in a very wobbly sort of way. Swaying from side to side and being pelted at the same time by the torrent of burning snowflakes, he shuffled his feet through the deepening snow towards the control box.

  His mind screamed in pain constantly from the injuries he had already sustained and from the never ending flurries of snow. As if on some kind of autopilot, his legs continued shuffling along, determined to get to their destination. Only the thought of death offering a swift release played through the insanity that was now his mind, almost lost forever. But before madness could consume him fully, some tiny part of his consciousness recognised the object that stood before him. The green box had a covering of snow, nearly four inches deep and getting thicker with every second that passed. It was a thing of beauty he thought, as he stretched out his deeply cut and burned hands. Ignoring the pain and the noise, he gripped the locked cover and with the strength of someone else, casually ripped it off, tossing it to one side, where it landed with a THUD in the soft, thick snow. His vision started to fade as his body gave up, but he knew now that there was no chance of failure. Before him in the box lay four bright red buttons, the buttons that would each turn on a bank of two floodlights. When all were depressed, all eight of the giant lights would burst into life, illuminating the pitch for miles around. Reaching out with his right hand, he depressed all four buttons. In doing so, the pain became too much. As his battered legs gave out and he fell gracelessly into the snow, he gained satisfaction from knowing that he'd switched all the lights on. He just hoped it would be enough.

  Slumped below the control box, covered in snow, his life ebbing away, snowflakes still bombarding him, Peter's mind fed him what limited information it could. Through the barrage of now illuminated snow, he could just make out two human shaped silhouettes clambering over the still burning wreckage of the van by the blocked gate on the far side of the synthetic pitch. In the furthest corner of the pitch, it looked as though a giant figure of something with wings was trying frantically to take to the sky. That was the last thing he saw before everything turned black.

  Flying through the open sky was the polar opposite of everything he'd recently felt. All he'd known was the biting pain of constant cold and chilling ice. But here he was now soaring through the sky, the radiant yellow sun beating down on his back as he cut through the air, executing perfect loop the loops. Sometimes he heard voices, carried on the soft breeze, some that even sounded like his friends, Richie and Tank. It was difficult to understand exactly what they were saying, but occasionally he could just make out the odd phrase, such as, "Hold on," and "It'll be okay, help's coming," but in the main, it just seemed like gibberish. Continuing on with his flying, occasionally he felt the odd burning sensation on his... hmmm. It felt like arms, but he was here, flying. So it had to be... .wings, didn't it?

  'How odd,' he thought to himself, as he continued, getting ever closer to the scorching sun, feeling its warm embrace all over.