Sword drawn, Fyan stood defiant, confronting the dragon.
“Today the Talon of Light shall end your darkness in the world!” he shouted.
Fyrelesarde snorted smoke, relaxed his grip on Veramag, and attacked Fyan.
With a powerful stroke the Talon of Light wounded Fyrelesarde’s forelimb. The shock of the sword penetrating the dragon’s hide awoke the burnished red dragon to heightened ferocity. The ancient dragon’s keening scream of pain pierced the ears of all within a mile. Veramag struggled free, but fell to the ground, wounded and spent. In an instant Fyrelesarde spewed fire at Fyan. An immediate shell emanated from the sword that diverted the fiery blast and reduced it to a misty smoke.
Through smoke and fire, he attacked the dragon with speed and power. The sword neutralized the fire, but the snapping jaws, vicious claws, and deadly tail swept the garden of dead statues. Bodies of men fallen in the previous assaults were further broken and mutilated by the dreadful conflict between Fyan and Fyrelesarde.
Sickly yellow light from the midmorning sun filtered through smoke illuminating the painful scene of men twice killed. On occasion Fyan glimpsed a sudden gleam of polished armor that kindled a memory of disillusioned training. No preparation prevented these men from becoming solemn markers of a world in chaos.
Beyond Fyrelesarde, he noticed the Dragonda wedges approaching. He knew if the approaching movement of silver and black engulfed him, all would be lost.
Trumpets sounded. To his right and left repeated chants reached his ears.
“In memory of the Prince!”
“For Standel!”
“Rally to Fyan, defender and healer!”
The trumpets and shouts accompanied banners torn from a ragged cloak. The standards waved in the breeze on his right and left flanks. Every able-bodied young man in his command pressed forward to engage the Dragonda to prevent them from reaching the contest between himself and Fyrelesarde.
All movement, all noise, all time stopped for him, as he redoubled his attack on the dragon. In the background of his mind he saw Veramag stagger into the forest. He viewed Emory and the boy lying dead. He witnessed crashing waves of mottled colors beneath banners of cloth angrily battering one another, sucking individual men from the world of the living. All of the glory and tales of heroic deeds fled before the awful reality of death.
The dragon bellowed and expectorated smoke and fire.
“Mortal you die now.”
Sword drawn, Fyan stood defiant, confronting the dragon.
“Today the Talon of Light shall end your darkness in the world!” he shouted.
Fyrelesarde snorted smoke, relaxed his grip on Veramag, and attacked Fyan.
With a powerful stroke the Talon of Light wounded Fyrelesarde’s forelimb. The shock of the sword penetrating the dragon’s hide awoke the burnished red dragon to heightened ferocity. The ancient dragon’s keening scream of pain pierced the ears of all within a mile. Veramag struggled free, but fell to the ground, wounded and spent. In an instant Fyrelesarde spewed fire at Fyan. An immediate shell emanated from the sword that diverted the fiery blast and reduced it to a misty smoke.
Through smoke and fire, he attacked the dragon with speed and power. The sword neutralized the fire, but the snapping jaws, vicious claws, and deadly tail swept the garden of dead statues. Bodies of men fallen in the previous assaults were further broken and mutilated by the dreadful conflict between Fyan and Fyrelesarde.
Sickly yellow light from the midmorning sun filtered through smoke illuminating the painful scene of men twice killed. On occasion Fyan glimpsed a sudden gleam of polished armor that kindled a memory of disillusioned training. No preparation prevented these men from becoming solemn markers of a world in chaos.
Beyond Fyrelesarde, he noticed the Dragonda wedges approaching. He knew if the approaching movement of silver and black engulfed him, all would be lost.
Trumpets sounded. To his right and left repeated chants reached his ears.
“In memory of the Prince!”
“For Standel!”
“Rally to Fyan, defender and healer!”
The trumpets and shouts accompanied banners torn from a ragged cloak. The standards waved in the breeze on his right and left flanks. Every able-bodied young man in his command pressed forward to engage the Dragonda to prevent them from reaching the contest between himself and Fyrelesarde.
All movement, all noise, all time stopped for him, as he redoubled his attack on the dragon. In the background of his mind he saw Veramag stagger into the forest. He viewed Emory and the boy lying dead. He witnessed crashing waves of mottled colors beneath banners of cloth angrily battering one another, sucking individual men from the world of the living. All of the glory and tales of heroic deeds fled before the awful reality of death.
The dragon bellowed and expectorated smoke and fire.
“Mortal you die now.”
