NOVEL FROG Dragonhunt 68: Dragonfire
It takes only an instant for Xomhyrk's claw of ice to reach the black dragon's back, and in that instant I realize fully the genius of his armor. He has forged it not out of metal, but of ice itself. My first thoughts back in that silly restaurant, about how ice and metal are more or less the same, were not as incorrect as I eventually dismissed them as.
Water has run up his arm to become the chain and claw. It isn't a separate craft from his armor; that's why I never spotted it. It is his armor, melted and reformed.
Four icy talons pierce into the dragon's black skin and hold firm. Xomhyrk jumps. His chain shortens at great speed, incredible speed.
Xomhyrk flies at the dragon's back.
It can't just be ice his armor's made of, of course. Surely it's been imbued with metal: steel and copper and tin dissolved into it a thousand times over. Maybe it was runes that were dissolved into it, a bit like how Barahtan forged his final craft in the trial. Except Xomhyrk will have done it a great deal more expertly—or so I presume. In truth, I have no idea how he has accomplished this feat of forging.
How could a craft be so malleable, and yet so strong at the same time? What else can it do, I wonder? And what powers does Icemite, made of ice also, hold beyond simple cold sharpness?
The black dragon trembles at the cold claw's touch. In the next moment Xomhyrk slams into its back. He's just a speck, like a beetle on the back of a great blindboar.
He lances Icemite deep into its right wing-joint. The dragon's jaws and remaining eye, just visible from our position, open suddenly. It roars in agony. Blood, gleaming gold and red, steaming with heat, fountains from the wound.
Xomhyrk may just be a speck upon the black dragon, but Icemite is a deadly sting. We raise our weapons and roar in joy, and now we're charging.
“Nachroktey!” we scream. “Drazakh nachroktey!”
“Death! Death to the dragon!”
The black dragon tries to fly. Its left wing, all two hundred and fifty yards of terrible darkness, lifts up then down. A whirlwind of heat howls around us. Its hoard is thrown to pieces: gold coins and crafts of every kind, runic power drained, batter us like stones in a rockfall. But the tempest brings no flight, for the black dragon's right wing, stuck deep with Icemite, can unfurl only a few yards.
Xomhyrk pushes Icemite deeper. The fountain of blood diminishes. The shimmer of heat from the wound becomes less intense. The black dragon roars louder. It's a roar of pain, the loudest roar of pain I've ever heard.
Gutspiercer trembles violently in response. My ruby blazes and becomes like a drop of molten metal. Sweat forms on my brow. My icy armor pushes me forward faster, but I restrain it, remembering Gollor's warning. We are all here to kill the dragon, not just me.
It curls its snakish neck around and snaps at Xomhyrk. Its movement is like a sudden flow of boiling lava, too fast for a creature of such size, but not too fast for Xomhyrk. He throws out his claw at the cavern wall and vanishes an instant before the black dragon's jaws snap around empty air.
The clack of its great teeth echoes. It turns and moves its head in the direction Xomhyrk vanished to. His icy claw shoots out from a completely different part of the cavern—he's repositioned expertly in the darkness. The talons grasp into the black dragon's flank.
He's a blue blur, Icemite extended out before him, its tip a white star. It jabs deep into the black dragon's side.
Many of the Dragonslayers now copy their leader. They spin their own hooks and chains and throw them at the black dragon where they catch deep in the scales. They swing up onto it, slashing and stabbing with icy blades.
The black dragon roars flame onto them. It's not that hot though—an orange wash rather than a white beam. It doesn't want to risk damaging itself, especially wounded as it is. It may have defeated Uthrarzak's forces to the last dwarf, but their weapons took their toll, and the scars have not fully healed.
Davath was wrong—his legion did more damage than they suspected. And perhaps the battle to take the mountain was also not quite as one-sided as rumor had it. Some of the longer scars can surely only have been inflicted by the weapon of a runeking.
“Go for the gaps in the scales!” Braztak yells. “Anyone's weapon can get through there!”
We're closing the distance to the dragon's foot rapidly. We leap over scattered glinting treasure. Thirty feet, now twenty. I can't hold my armor back anymore and put on a sudden burst of speed. The black wall of the dragon's skin is before me—Gutspiercer bites deep into a crevice between two scales. Heat shimmers around the steel. Just above, Braztak's axe slashes apart a half-healed scar.
A dozen more blows follow, then another dozen. The Association of Steel slashes apart the skin on the dragon's leg. Blood hot as fire gushes out. It covers me. I barely feel its heat, though. All it does is make Gutspiercer crazy with joy.
I slam the pick into the dragon's flesh again, again, again. Each stroke bites more fiercely than the last. The dragon's leg, a pillar of black steel, pulls up as it attempts once more to lift off. We suddenly have nothing to strike at and a tempest rushes around us.
Its foot slams back down fifty or so yards distant. Shock buckles the glassy floor. Cracks shoot out, and splinters of jagged stone jump up from them. I'm already leaping over the cracks. I slide at the monstrous foot with incredible speed.
The other guilds are attacking their own targets. One charges its hand, still on the ground to stabilize itself. Their leader—might be Warak with his yellow-runed sword, I can't quite tell in the darkness—slashes into a finger.
The black dragon rears up suddenly. The movement dislodges several Dragonslayers on its side, and they plummet to the ground. Target gone, Warak's guild comes to a confused halt. The dragon glares down at them with its emerald eye.
Warak—I'm sure its him—shouts the order to scatter, but it's too late. A torrent of white heat subsumes him and those immediately around. They are annihilated. The glassy rock under the feet of the rest of his guild turns to a perfect circle of yellow lava. The dwarves sink into it, screaming in agony. Steam jets from their visors and every gap in their armor.
Xomhyrk collides with the dragon's neck and lances Icemite deep. The black dragon's breath splutters. It tries to swat him away, but he's already leapt and swung back into the darkness of the cavern roof.
I'm still charging while all this rages. The dragon's right foot is before me again and I slam Gutspiercer into it. This time I strike directly in the center of a shield-like scale, and the steel goes clean through.
I tear it out, slam it in again. Braztak appears beside me and cleaves down with his axe. The cut he makes is long, longer than he is.
The dragon's ankle buckles slightly. We're hurting it! I laugh and strike once more. The rest of the guild joins me. We're hacking its toes apart. Each is more massive than an abyssal salamander, and the scales are thick armor, but we're succeeding. Its bright blood pools around us.
Yet now we have its attention. I feel a sudden fear, look up to see its emerald eye blazing down at me.
It flaps its left wing to give it some more momentum, and its foot rushes up from the ground. I'm taken aback by the sudden speed. We've dealt so much damage—
No, we haven't. We've torn apart its skin, that's all. A runeknight in broken armor can still move, and a dragon relies even less on armor. The only one who has done any real damage so far, I think, is Xomhyrk.
Its talons hover above us. I scream up at them, but it's not the talons it plans to kill us with. It slams its foot down another fifty yards distant. There's a thunderous cracking sound. Waves of force buckle the rock below us. I'm thrown to the ground, as are many around me.
It opens its jaws. Light builds in its throat, brighter than the burning sun. The dark scars in my vision become hot with pain.
“Scatter!” Braztak screams.
I charge forward. White flame splashes from behind and engulfs me. The incandescent wave carries me on its crest. The heat is terrible: I can feel it through every joint in my plate, and through the cuts Faltast gave the metal also. There it burns my skin like molten wires.
I slam into the ground. My helmet rings like a bell. There's a senseless roaring in my ears. My runic ears have been half-melted just from that instant of flame. I tear them off—don't need them in the glow of magma anyway.
I hurry to my feet and turn around to see if anyone is left.
“No!” I scream.
More than half of us are lying motionless, half-subsumed into dark red magma. Steam and smoke rises from their armor. Even here, thirty yards away, the scent of roasted flesh is horribly strong.
One attempts to pull himself out. He shivers for an instant then collapses back down.
“No!” I scream again.
Only two who took the direct heat remain standing: Braztak and Erak. The latter's golden runes glow brilliantly. They've absorbed the heat—mostly. A few have melted.
As for Braztak—he's standing, but is he alive? He's wreathed in flame, and motionless.
“Braztak!” I scream.
He lifts his head. The flames on his armor ripple as if blown by wind, then vanish smokelessly to reveal a brighter glow.