Page 40 of The Last Dragon
“We need to get it to land,” I say, watching Hunters frantically aiming and shooting their arrows, and Trackers trying to distract the beast long enough for it to land. But there’s no use. The beast remains in the air like it knows its life depends on it.
“Look!” Nida exclaims, grabbing my shoulder and turning me toward the beast.
I focus on the bolt buried in the dragon’s left wing socket. Seconds later, another bolt rams into its wing—and the beast doesn’t plummet.
What?
Why isn’t it falling? I grab the nearest quiver and take out a bolt. It’s been crafted recently, but something is strange. I bring the arrowhead closer to my nose—no scent.
It isn’t laced.
I whirl around and draw a sharp breath, steadying myself as I point toward the first ballistas in sight.Command.
“You!” I yell out, grabbing the attention of two defenders loading the ballista. “Aim at the ground several degrees toward the first marker.” I quicken my pace, passing the first ballista and heading for the second one in sight. “Extend it to the middle of the first marker but slightly to the top.” Commandant Vine barks orders to Defenders, repeating my words, racing back and forth on the mural tower, bracing on the merlons as the tower above us crumbles. I glance down. Below, the field buzzes with movement—units attempting to get into proper formation, around the spread out field markers, their yells echoing off the high curtain walls. A massive ballista groans under tension beside me, aiming toward the outer fields, waiting for the dragon to land. Some soldiers take refuge behind stone barricades scattered across the field, hiding in trenches dug near the curtain walls.
Commandant Vine approaches me, gray hair damp, sweat dripping as he gasps for air. “Got a plan?” he asks, pulling the winch lever on the ballista beside me.
“The bolts aren’t laced,” I manage, throat dry from the heat.
He shoots me a look, a slight emotion cracking through, but quickly he returns to the ballista. Another Defender grunts as he heaves a massive bolt onto the ballista’s loading track, settling it into the groove between the arms.
“Set!” he calls out, glancing at the commandant cranking the winch, each rotation pulling the thick bowstring farther back with a deep creak. The commandant gives a final twist of the crank and locks it in place.
“String’s set! Ready when you are!” Vine yells.
The defender checks the alignment, adjusts the elevation bar, and rests his hand on the release lever, waiting for the command.
Commandant Vine’s eyes return to mine. “Do we need to set out poles?”
“Not against this Redsnout,” Nida answers. “It’s too angry. If it lands, it will ignite almost immediately.”
“We need to make it land,” I say, zipping up my jacket. “Without laced bolts, we can’t bring it down. And ballista bolts are far too valuable to be shooting blindly.”
Vine nods. “The General is on the other side of the Hold. He’s going to want to hear from you.”
I shake my head. “No time. Make sure that at least these three ballistas are aiming at the first marker. The first barricade from the trenches.”
“Only one can turn at the right angle,” Vine says.
“We can make the dragon chase us,” Nida comments, and I meet her gaze. “Make it ignite, and let it run after whoever’s pissing it off.” She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’ll be the bait.”
Vine nods in acknowledgement, but I’m unsure how I feel about that.
“Make sure the beast lands on that marker. The ballistas won’t be able to aim if it’s near the curtain wall.” With those final words, Vine rushes out to the other two ballistas.
We hurry down the stone corridors, two flights of stairs spiraling beneath the battlements, and slip through a side gate that leads onto the outer grounds. The field stretches before us, even bloodier than I imagined—hundreds lie dead, crushed beneath falling tower debris.
The sharp scent of iron fills the air, creeping into my lungs. I pull a cloth mask over my face, but it clings—a smell I know too well, one I never wanted to remember. Still, the scent drags up the memory I’ve buried. The day hundreds died under my command. This can’t happen again.I won’t let it.
I brief the two lieutenants on the plan, and they immediately call for several units to move toward the first barricade marker.The others sprint back to the Stronghold in search of laced bolts and I hope they’ll return in time—before we suffer more losses. Or become losses themselves.
And then we run to the first barricade and scream and yell and throw rocks and fire bolts, hoping to catch the dragon’s attention. Nida grips water bombs in her hand, ready for whatever the beast might do. Eventually, the beast turns toward us, heading our way. At least for the moment.
I place a bolt into the crossbow’s jack. How long were the bolts not laced? Why has nobody noticed it? Or did somebody notice but didn’t say a word? Is this the reason the dragon has survived for so long?
Everyone scatters a few meters apart, forming a semi-stationary line—Nida by my side. If anything happens, the barricade just a few paces behind us will give us cover if it breathes fire. Normally, we’d be a full unit, but half of them are nowhere to be found, and I don’t have time to search. I have to move fast. We have to move fast. We need to kill this beast before it kills us.
The Redsnout flaps its heavy wings toward us, rapidly descending and landing some distance away, the ground trembling under its massive weight. Its snarl reverberates through the air. Scales the color of dried blood shimmer in the firelight, jagged at the edges like shattered glass—but not as sharp as its twin horns curling upwards. Its deep crimson snout flares with each breath as it scans us, considering who to torch first. Steam swirls out of its black tipped nostrils. I aim toward the red amber eyes, following the movement of its long, serpentine neck, avoiding arrows with ease. It roars, digging its long black and hooked claws deeper into the scorched soil. Amber seeps from the cracked ground like blood from an open wound.
