The Spectral Blaze

Then Khouryn shouted, “There!”

Medrash peered, still couldn’t see anything in the darkness overhead, and looked at the dwarf instead. Khouryn was pointing at the left side of the ledge. Medrash looked there and still didn’t really see the wyrm. But he felt it as a kind of festering malevolence.

That was good enough. He gathered his god’s righteous anger and his own and hurled them like a javelin.

White light flared at the top of the rise. Seared by the power, patches of its gleaming hide charring, the quicksilver wyrm thrashed and roared.

But it didn’t drop, and after a moment, when the light faded, it arched its neck over the top of the slope in a way that reminded Medrash of an angler about to drop his hook in the water. And Khouryn was the fish directly underneath jaws that were spreading wide.

Medrash cha

Medrash knew he hadn’t cha

Unfortunately, though, the smoke wasn’t like an arrow that had to be aimed precisely. It would still wash over a substantial area, and for a moment it looked as if the thickest part of it would still stream over Khouryn. But, risking a fall, he swung himself to the side and avoided all but the edge of the misty blast. And though he cried out anyway, Medrash dared to hope that he’d escaped mortal or crippling harm. In the gloom, he couldn’t actually tell.

Nor could he take the time to find out. He’d been lucky, but he couldn’t continue to contend with the dragon while clinging to the slope. He had to make it up onto the ledge quickly and simply hope Khouryn would join him in due course.

Luckily, since a foe had actually appeared, he could use another of his gifts to close the distance. As Khouryn retched, Medrash reached out to Torm, felt the power flow, then scrambled upward. His progress was twice as fast as before because he was flying as much as climbing, or at any rate, skittering like a bug. The Loyal Fury’s power negated his weight.

The effect lasted just long enough for him to heave himself onto the shelf. Instantly the quicksilver dragon snapped at him. He jumped back from the attack and almost fell back over the edge, and the huge fangs clashed shut short of his body.

He tried to riposte, but he hadn’t quite found his balance, and he was too slow. The wyrm snatched its head out of the distance and raked with its claws. He dodged and managed to slice one of its toes. But the wound was only a shallow nick.

The fight continued in much the same way for a few more desperate moments. He ducked and dodged attacks that otherwise would surely have torn him apart or mashed him flat. Occasionally he scored with a thrust or cut but never to any great effect. Even when he drew on Torm’s power to lend force to a stroke or to glue his foe’s feet to the ledge for an instant, his sword never reached a vital spot.

He doubted he could last much longer in that way. Either he’d make a mistake or he’d start to tire and slow, and the wyrm would destroy him. The realization didn’t frighten him, not with his god’s blessing clarifying his thoughts and bolstering his resolve. But it was maddening to know that Khouryn, Balasar, and his other comrades might die, that Tymanther itself might ultimately fall to Tchazzar’s army, if he didn’t find a way to prevail.

Jaws open wide, the dragon’s head hurtled at him. He dropped low, planting his off hand on the shelf. The wyrm’s head shot over him, and bellowing, cha

The blade sheared deep but not deep enough. Blood showering from the new wound, the dragon still didn’t falter. It instantly raised a forefoot to stamp. Medrash scurried, and his enemy pivoted, compensating. Realizing he wasn’t going to get out from underneath, he raised his point to impale the extremity when it hammered down.

But it didn’t. The quicksilver dragon jerked and snarled, and Medrash finally managed to scramble clear. He looked across the ledge. Khouryn had made it to the top and buried his battle-axe in the creature’s haunch.

Together they started to work the dragon in much the same way that the dwarf had taught the vanquisher’s troops to fight the giants and other enormous denizens of Black Ash Plain. When the wyrm’s attention was on one warrior, he concentrated on defense. When its attention shifted to his comrade, he switched to offense.

The tactic by no means guaranteed victory when it was just the two of them fighting in what amounted to a maelstrom of snapping fangs, slashing claws, pounding wings, and a whirling, battering tail. But it took enough of the pressure off Medrash that occasionally, just for an instant, he had room in his head for a flicker of something besides the need to strike the next blow or keep his adversary from scoring on him. And at those moments, he hated the filthy dragon.

That was no surprise. His clan elders had raised him to hate dragons, and Skuthosin and the lesser wyrms who’d served him had done nothing to soften that animosity. But the loathing he was feeling had a different edge to it, and eventually he realized why.

Though he despised dragons of flesh and blood, he couldn’t deny that Bahamut had aided him repeatedly. And by rights, the metallic dragon in front of him ought to worship the Lord of the North Wind and uphold the principles he embodied. It offended Medrash that the creature manifestly didn’t.

As though in response to that realization, he felt another pulse of vileness throbbing from his foe like a demon’s heartbeat. Then he saw a chance to drive his blade into its flank, and the urgency of that swept all other thoughts away.

He landed the cut, but it didn’t slow the dragon down. Both spattered with the blood still streaming from the creature’s neck wound, both panting, he and Khouryn fought on until the tip of the wyrm’s whipping tail swatted the dwarf and bounced him off the cavern wall like a ball.

Medrash caught his breath. But demonstrating the hardiness of his people, Khouryn rolled to his feet, sidestepped the tail when it pounded down in a follow-up attack, and chopped it with his axe.

Still, when he spoke, his voice grated with pain. “Whatever magic you’ve got. Now.”

Medrash realized the sellsword was right. They couldn’t win with steel alone. Maybe if he’d had his shield, and Khouryn his mail, but they didn’t. It was a marvel they’d lasted as long as they had.

But Medrash had been using his gifts. He’d struck with supernatural strength and floated runes of light, symbols to ward a paladin and his allies and hinder any enemy, in the air. What was left to try?

He felt another throb of nauseating wrongness, almost like a nudge. The nudge reminded him of the palpable taint that had clung to Skuthosin and, even more important, to the members of the Cadre.

“I have an idea!” he gasped. “Keep the wyrm busy!”

Khouryn instantly rushed in and attacked. Despite its hugeness and all its other advantages, the startled dragon flinched back from the almost demented assault.

That gave Medrash a chance to back away from the fight. He hated leaving Khouryn to fight alone, but it was necessary.

He focused his resolve and drew down all the power he could hold. What he was about to attempt would exhaust his mystical gifts. If it didn’t work, he and Khouryn would indeed be left to battle without so much as a glimmer of magic to help them.

He shifted his sword to his off hand, raised his gauntleted fist high, and whispered a prayer very much like the one he’d improvised on the drill field outside of Djerad Thymar, on the day the warriors of the Cadre came to ask his help.