Dragonslayer (The Dragonslayer)

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  “Forget about the plan, for a start,” Guillot said, looking up to the beast that hovered above them, still but for the lazy beat of its great wings.

  “How will we get at it up there?” she said.

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Guillot said. “Do your best to keep moving and stay out of its range. Ideally by riding for Mirabay as fast as you can.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” she said, as she tried to keep her horse calm.

  Guillot could feel his horse grow skittish beneath him. His own resolve wasn’t too far behind. He drew his sword, for no reason other than to do something familiar and comforting. He felt his heart leap into his throat when the dragon drew in its wings and dropped like a stone from the heavens.

  Guillot felt fear tingle across his skin like a colony of dancing ants. He remained locked in place, trying to decide which god to pray to, before remembering that he didn’t believe in any of them. They certainly hadn’t ever helped him before. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Solène was frozen as well. He slapped the rump of her horse with the flat of his blade.

  “Ride!” he shouted, before kicking his own mount with his heels.

  He craned his neck to see where the dragon was while he tried to work out where to go. Plenty of valley remained, but he needed to come up with some kind of plan, and fast. The horse thundered along the turf with little urging—she wanted to be away from the dragon just as much as Guillot did. He wondered if she would be cooperative when the time came to turn to face it.

  Another backward glance confirmed the dragon was coming after him, wings outstretched, gliding silently along like a great, dark shadow of death. He knew the flame would be next. The hairs on the back of his neck shrivelled in anticipation. Unwilling to run his horse to exhaustion, he brought her to a halt and turned. His sword felt like a reed in the wind when he stared at the beast gliding toward him.

  It was huge; he could not hope to stand against it. He almost wished he were back in the cave, where its size had seemed less imposing. It was all teeth, claws, and wickedly sharp horns, things concealed by the gloom and smoke in the cave. Then, had he seen all that was now before him with such clarity, he would likely have lost his nerve and fled. Now he felt resigned to what needed to be done and what his fate would likely be.

  Guillot spurred the horse into a gallop, overcoming its resistance to charging toward the dragon’s fangs and glowing eyes. He expected a burst of flame to end him at any moment. He re-sheathed his sword, feeling naive for having drawn it in panic, then took hold of the spear with his right hand and brought it to bear. It had been a long time since he had thrown a spear, but with a target as large as the dragon, he could hardly miss.

  Still, unsure of the power of his arm, he waited until the dragon was so close he could smell its breath, a mix of rotting meat and naphtha. Gill stood up in his stirrups and with a great roar, hurled the spear with every ounce of strength he had. The spear flew true, but disappeared into a jet of flame.

  Reacting as quickly as he could, Guillot urged his horse to the right, but she was not fast enough. The horse screamed as the fire burned her. She had galloped a number of paces before Gill could look back and assess her injury. Her rump was scorched, yet he had felt nothing—no heat, no pain. Had the superb Telastrian armour protected him? Had he turned out of the way in time? Or was this the boon the Silver Circle had enjoyed—a resistance to flame?

  He wheeled the horse around and saw the dragon turning in a long, lazy arc through the sky, its black scales shimmering in the sunlight like fine mail armour. He spotted Solène some distance away, watching everything as it unfolded. Frustrated that she had not taken his advice to head down the valley, he waved at her and pointed, but she ignored him. He had no time to argue with her; he returned his attention to the dragon, which was completing its turn back toward him.

  His horse whickered but held steady beneath him. They had both survived the dragon’s first pass and been emboldened by the experience. He reached for another spear even as he tried to see if the first one had struck true. He wasn’t sure what else to do. The initiation hadn’t implanted dragon-killing instructions in his mind.

  He urged his horse on again until she was heading toward the dragon at full gallop. The pounding of his heart syncopated with the thundering of her hooves and he felt the excitement of battle flush through his veins. To think that he was doing as Valdamar had once done, charging a dragon, spear in hand—to be doing something no man alive ever had, was a thrill like none other. A vestige of his former self wondered if stories would be written about this fight, if he would someday be as legendary as Valdamar, Andalon, and the others.

  The dragon let out a shrieking roar that stabbed into Guillot’s ears. He raised his spear once more, smiling at the sight of the previous one sticking out of the beast’s side. More confident now, he waited, spear poised to strike. Perhaps this would be the one to bring it to the ground.

  Still he waited, until the dragon was so close that it filled the sky. He drew back his arm, preparing to release his spear, then felt a thud on his armour. Something yanked up on his body and his feet came free of the stirrups. He looked down and saw his rapidly shrinking horse come to a confused halt. Panic threatened to overwhelm his already racing heart as the beast’s wings beat down, sending them ever higher. He tried to twist around in its grip, but was held firm in the creature’s razor-like talons. Were it not for Valdamar’s armour, he thought, he would have been pierced through. As it was, the claws barely made a dent.

  Realising that he still held his spear, he stabbed at the dragon’s flank, but the strike had no power. The weapon glanced off the glittering black scales and was wrenched from his grip. He watched it tumble back to the ground, which was dropping away rapidly, and was terror-struck, knowing what lay in store for him if the dragon let go. It occurred to him that was exactly what it intended.

  He grabbed a smooth, curving talon just as the dragon released its grip. Despite his best effort, Gill could feel his leather-gauntleted hand slide toward its tip. He gripped with every bit of strength and dangled from the talon. The beast craned its head down to look at him, and its lips twisted. It shook its foot, and Guillot’s hold slipped right to the talon’s end. The dragon lifted its foot again for what would undoubtedly be a final shake, bringing Gill close to the spear he had stuck into the dragon. He hurled himself at it desperately. His right hand fell short, but with a desperate twist, he caught the end of the shaft with his left.

  The dragon roared in frustration. Guillot cast his atheism to one side and prayed to every god and ancestor he could remember that the spear would hold fast. He got both hands on to it and pulled himself up as the dragon started to buck and twist through the air. With each movement, Guillot expected the spear to pull free, but its Telastrian barbs held firm. He knew he could only hold on for so long, but he could think of no way to encourage the beast to land. Not alive, at least.

  He twisted his left arm around the spear, then drew his legs and feet up to do the same. Releasing the shaft with his right hand, Guillot drew his sword.

  Even with the benefit of daylight, it was difficult to spot a weak point in the dragon’s scales. He had been lucky with the spear, but didn’t dare trying to stab into the same spot for fear of cutting the spearhead loose.

  The dragon thrashed and bucked in an effort to throw Guillot free. It scrabbled with its feet, trying to catch him with its talons, but Guillot had managed to find himself a spot the dragon couldn’t reach. As he swung back and forward, clinging to the spear shaft for dear life, Gill looked desperately for an inviting target. He wondered where the beast’s heart might be and if his sword was long enough to reach it. However, a destroyed heart might kill the beast instantly, dropping them both out of the sky, and Guillot still clung to the hope that he might survive the battle.

  The lungs would be better. Making it hard for the beast to breathe might force it to the ground. He hoped. This left him wit
h the same problem as the heart—where were they, and would he be able to reach them? He watched the dragon’s huge chest expand and contract with each breath, and knew that was where to strike. As the dragon’s chest filled with air, Gill struck at the exposed join between two scales, pushing the blade in up to its hilt.

  The dragon screeched and bucked with such violence that Guillot lost his grip on the sword. He clamped both arms and legs around the spear shaft, hoping to avoid a plunging death to the valley below. The dragon’s breathing became raspy and wet, giving Guillot hope that his sword—now firmly out of reach—had struck home. The beast ceased its contortions, stretched out its wings, and its thrashing climb became a smooth, gliding descent.

  CHAPTER

  48

  Wind whistled past Guillot’s ears, and he wished that he had a free hand to shelter his eyes. All he could do was turn his head away and hope the wind’s growing force didn’t pull him from the spear. Blood splattered into his face from the wound on the dragon’s chest. Its salty, bitter tang gave Guillot hope. If he could make the monster bleed, he could kill it. He would have to get his sword back, however. Assuming he survived the landing.

  The ground approached at an alarming rate, and Guillot began to worry that he had overdone his thrust into the dragon’s chest. Perhaps he had struck its heart as well. Their speed continued to grow until Guillot was moving far faster than he ever had, faster than he thought possible. If they hit the ground at that rate, there wouldn’t even be enough of him left to scrape up. At least it would be quick. He gasped as the ground filled his view, and turned his head, bracing for the impact. At the last moment, the dragon angled its wings and slowed, touching down as lightly as a feather.

  It took Gill a moment to realise they had landed. Panting, he had to pull his hands from the spear shaft. He had been holding on so tightly that his fingers had locked in place. He backed away from the dragon while it groped at the sword with one of its talons. Never one to let an opportunity pass, Guillot looked for anything he could use as a weapon. Other than a few fist-sized rocks, there was nothing but the dagger on his belt. He drew it, feeling ridiculous—he might as well spit at the beast. The dragon finally caught the sword’s hilt with one of its claws and pulled the blade free, then looked at Guillot and hissed in defiance, as if saying that he might have hurt it, but not enough. It paced forward, slowly and carefully, like a cat stalking a mouse. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and with only a dagger, no way to fight. He gritted his teeth and met the dragon’s murderous gaze.

  “Gill!”

  He looked around. Solène sat atop her horse, holding his last spear. She threw it to him and he grabbed for it like a starving man reaching for a morsel of food, now delighted that she had ignored his entreaty to flee. He turned to face the dragon, feeling that the spear in his hands put him back in the fight. He was immediately greeted with an inferno that carried in it every bit of the dragon’s rage.

  Guillot stood, engulfed by flame, expecting death to take him, but it did not come. The visor of his helmet was up, and he could feel the fury of the heat on his face, but took no harm from it. The super-heated air felt as though it had weight, like coursing water flowing over him. He forced himself forward, against its flow, until the flame stopped.

  The dragon’s expressive face showed concern, coupled with amazement that Gill was still alive. The blast of flame had clearly taken a toll on the beast. Guillot wondered if it was starting to question the outcome of the fight.

  He launched himself forward, leading with his spear. The dragon swatted at him, but Guillot changed his line of attack and passed beneath the dragon’s talons. It leaped back with surprising agility and Guillot ran harmlessly past. His path took him near the wound he’d made with his sword. Blood gushed from it with the beast’s every movement. Pivoting, Gill tried to drive the spear into the same spot, but the dragon twisted out of the way.

  Guillot paused for a moment to catch his breath. Sweat stung his eyes, and his chest heaved. He charged at the dragon again. It looked as though it was going to fire flame at him, but Guillot no longer feared he would burn.

  The dragon lunged forward and snapped its great jaws at him, forcing him to roll to the side. He clambered to his feet in time enough to get out of the way of its tail, which ripped through the air with all the sizzle of a drover’s whip.

  Guillot charged at the monster again, gasping for breath. Even at his fittest, a fight like this would have pushed him hard. The tip of his spear struck one of the armour-like scales and skittered to one side. He stumbled, his weight too far forward, and fell flat on his face. He rolled onto his back in time to see the dragon’s talons coming for him. Another roll got him almost clear—the edge of one talon screeched along his armour and into the join between plates. It cut into his flesh, sending a jolt of pain through him. Guillot wrenched himself away and struggled to his feet.

  The dragon’s tail slammed into his back with a deafening bang, sending Guillot flying. He hit the ground with a crunch, his eyes and mouth filling with grit. He scrambled up, spitting and blinking to try to clear the dirt so he could see and breathe. By the time he could, the dragon was close again. Exhausted, he struggled to bring the spear to bear once more. His armour, which had felt so light, now weighed on him as though it was crudely cut lead. Blood streamed from his wound and he was starting to feel dizzy.

  One last charge, he thought, and let the gods decide how the dice will fall. No one could expect more of him than that. He levelled the spear and ran, shouting with all he had. The dragon reared back on its hind legs, then pounced. The spearhead hit its scales but did not penetrate. The impact knocked Gill to the ground again and he was too weary to get up. Rolling over, he looked up at the hulking great beast above him.

  Blood flowed more strongly from the sword wound, coursing in pulses with each beat of the dragon’s heart. Guillot wished that he had the strength to strike at it again, but his arm was numb and he couldn’t even feel the spear that was still in his grasp. He was spent.

  The dragon shifted to one side, then collapsed, shaking the ground on impact. Guillot remained where he was, taking comfort in the simple act of breathing and not having to fight for his life. The sun shone on his face, its gentle warmth a welcome change from the furnace-like heat of the dragon’s breath.

  Another shadow fell over him.

  “It’s dead,” Solène said.

  “Did you kill it?” Guillot said, confused.

  “You did. A clean strike to its heart. It just took it awhile to realise that it was dead.”

  Guillot groaned. “I was aiming for its lungs.”

  Solène laughed. She knelt beside him and placed a hand on his chest. A wave of relief spread through his body. Tired, stinging muscles were refreshed. Aches and strains faded. His wound felt less severe, though it was still bleeding. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at the dragon, motionless on the ground. For a moment Guillot was struck by the tragedy that something so unique and so magnificent had to be killed. He didn’t feel a rush of victory or achievement, just shame. That didn’t detract from the fact that it had needed to be done. Nonetheless, he couldn’t muster any pride in the act.

  He wondered how Valdamar had felt after slaying his first dragon.

  When he got to his feet, Solène handed him his sword, hilt first. “I picked this up,” she said.

  He thanked her and took it. He pulled a handful of grass from the ground and did his best to clean the blade before sheathing it. The feeling of the grass in his hands made him realise that he had worn through the palms of his leather gauntlets, probably while gripping the spear shaft to keep from falling to his death.

  “What do we do now?” Solène said.

  He shrugged. “We take proof of what we’ve done back to Trelain. After that? Whatever we want.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “The Prince Bishop won’t be able to touch us. We’re the heroes who slew the dragon that terrified the w
hole country. When we ride into Trelain with the dragon’s head, everyone will know it’s dead and that we’re the ones that killed it.”

  “That’s it then?”

  Guillot smiled. “Oh no,” he said. “That’s definitely not it. I said he couldn’t touch us. I didn’t say we couldn’t touch him.”

  CHAPTER

  49

  The cave had not felt movement nor heard sound in centuries. Since its last inhabitant had left, never to return, it had been a place of stillness and silence. It was not empty, however. A cluster of three eggs sat, huddled together, on a pile of gold coins melted into a solid mass. Now one of the eggs twitched, knocking against its neighbour, which also twitched. In moments, all the eggs were moving, their nascent inhabitants stirring for the first time.

  Both the sound and movement were meagre, but grew steadily, ending a state of stasis that had existed for a millennium. The first egg split with a crack that echoed through the cave and a baby dragon pushed its snout through the gap, taking its first breath of air.

  BOOKS BY DUNCAN M. HAMILTON

  The First Blade of Ostia

  WOLF OF THE NORTH

  The Wolf of the North

  Jorundyr’s Path

  The Blood Debt

  SOCIETY OF THE SWORD

  The Tattered Banner

  The Huntsman’s Amulet

  The Telastrian Song

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DUNCAN M. HAMILTON holds master’s degrees in history and law, and has practiced as a barrister. He lives in Ireland, near the sea. Hamilton independently published his first trilogy, the Society of the Sword (The Tattered Banner, The Huntsman’s Amulet, and The Telastrian Song) and the Norse-inspired Wolf of the North trilogy, which were released in ebook and audio editions. Dragonslayer will be followed by Knight of the Silver Circle and Servant of the Crown.