the darkness. But it could not reach Hearst. Rock screamed as talons tore it open. The darkness belched as wings endeavoured to unfold, as leather-tough membranes battered against restraining rock.
Hearst grunted, trying to force his sword in deeper. There were no decisions left: his only hope lay in brute strength and endurance. His hands were slippery. He could not tell whether they were wet with sweat or blood.
Then the dragon started to back into the cave. Those massive limbs, with all the dragon's dying strength behind them, forced its weight backwards into the cave. Hearst braced himself, knowing the dragon had just one reason to get its head back into the cave: to ravage the forked creature now tormenting it.
Forcing itself backwards, the dragon, by its own efforts, drove Hearst's sword-blade deep into its body. Hast was that sword, firelight steel forged on Stokos. It cut through sinew and tendon, sliced through blood vessels and nerves, probing between the monster's ribs.
Pain convulsed to agony. The dragon lurched forward, jerking Hast from Hearst's hands. Hearst jumped backwards. Then ran, fleeing from the sweep of the tail which sought him as the dragon plunged forward.
The rock walls of the cave found him, and mothered him, and he clung there, clung to the rock, exhausted, half-weeping, his heart kicking like a baby. He heard a bellow from the dragon, then a hint of daylight diminished the darkness.
Gripping his head with both hands, Hearst forced his head to move to face the cave mouth. His eyes closed against the daylight. He set fingers to his eyes, and was about to force them open, when, in a sudden moment of clarity, he appreciated what a grotesque spectacle his own fear was making of his limp wet rag-doll body.
He was going to die anyway. Here, fear would not permit escape: he was trapped. The dragon would come back, and he would die. So die with pride, then. Die like a warrior.
– On your feet, manroot.
He rose, his feet braced for balance as if he stood on the heaving deck of a ship plunging through heavy seas. He threw back his head, mustered his pride, then gave all his strength to his challenge: 'Ahyak Rovac!'
Echoes pumped back from the rocks of the cave. Quietly, his mind echoed the echoes:
– Ahyak Rovac.
He saw his bloodstained sword lying on the floor of the cave near the cave mouth. Boldly, he strode forward and picked it up. He was ready now. This was his fate, and he knew it: to die in battle. And when all is said and done, a death in battle is no worse than any other.
But where was the dragon?
The cave mouth yawned open, empty.
Slowly, uncertainly, Hearst stepped forward. As he gained the cave mouth, loose scales slithered underfoot. Down below, at the bottom of the steep slope, the dragon lay helpless, racked by the pain of its death-agony. A little sparse vegetation, set ablaze by dragon-fire, burnt with quick, pale flames in the bright sunshine.
Hearst stumbled forward. His boot caught a loose scale, which flicked up into the air, glittering in the sunlight. Then loose stones gave way underfoot, the ground slid from under him, and he sat down suddenly. He stood up, and sheathed his sword in the interests of safety.
The sun was hot. Hearst glanced up at the sky, at the blazing disc of the sun. Then he turned his gaze back to the dragon. Stones clinked as it moved, weakly now, in its last efforts to escape from its pain.
So he had killed it.
He noticed there was blood on his hands. His own? Remembering Hast's bloodstained blade, he unsheathed his sword. He should clean it before sheathing it. Of course. So stupid of him to forget. Go forward, then. Down to the dragon.
He went down the slope to claim his kill.
And there he stood, Morgan Gestrel Hearst, son of Avor the Hawk, warrior of Rovac, song-singer, sword- master, leader of men. His sword Hast was in his hand, with the blood of a dragon-kill on the blade. It should have been his moment of triumph, sweet as his first conquest, sweet as his first kill. But instead he felt numb: empty.
– I would not even care to make a song of it.
'We should leave,' said Garash. 'No,' said Gorn.
'You heard those bellows,' said Garash. i heard them,' said Gorn. 'He was killing the dragon.'
'Impossible,' said Garash. 'The dragon must have been killing him. If it's quiet now, doubtless that's only because it's gargling with his blood.'
'He's a warrior of Rovac,' said Gorn.
'A warrior's ego might be a match for a dragon, but never his sword,' said Garash.
He glanced at Elkor Alish, who said nothing.
'I'm going to see what's happened,' said Blackwood.
'No,' said Garash.
'Someone has to go and see,' said Alish.
Leaving his pack by the rocks, Blackwood went softfoot through the sunlight. Soon he saw the dragon. And Morgan Hearst. The Rovac warrior was picking his way toward him with the uncertain steps of a convalescent invalid. As for the dragon: an occasional twitch indicated there was a little life left in its body, but it was fading fast. Sunlight glittered on its scales, which glistened with a trace of iridescence.
'You're bleeding,' said Blackwood.
'Am I?' said Hearst.
'Here,' said Blackwood, touching.
A scalp wound at the back of Hearst's head had soaked the hair with blood. Blackwood's hand was bloody when he removed it.
'It's just starting to hurt now,' said Hearst.
Who was beginning to feel the pain of other cuts and bruises he had suffered in the struggle with the dragon.
Blackwood walked towards the monster's head. 'Careful,' said Hearst, 'I wouldn't call it dead yet.' Blackwood turned.
'Miphon told me the blood of a dragon, mixed with the blood of a man, cures all ills.'
'I heard that,' said Hearst, i heard that, but I thought it was part of my dreams.'
'No, he said it,' said Blackwood, advancing.
'All right then – but I doubt that the best blood in the world is much of a cure for incineration.'
While they argued it out, the dragon quietly expired, and made not a murmur of protest when Blackwood, gingerly, touched a sluggish trickle of blood slowly weeping from an eye socket.
'That may not be enough,' said Hearst. 'And the blood you got from me may be too dry already.'
'Sure,' said Blackwood. 'And the dragon may have to be a virgin born by a harvest moon, for all we know. I'll try it and see.'
In his hand, the blood of a dragon mixed with traces of the blood of a man. He remembered Miphon's words: the old lore says who drinks this draught of mixed blood will never love a woman and will never hate a man, will never be able to kill – not even in self-defence – and will never call any place home.
'Why do you wait?' said Hearst.
'Because this may be a mistake,' said Blackwood.
'Miphon told me you wouldn't survive the winter,' said Hearst.
Hearing the words spoken, Blackwood knew they were true: he had felt his strength weakening as the long march and the smoke parasite made their demands on his body. His choice was to live or to die. He chose to live, and licked a little of the mixed blood from the palm of his hand.
And swallowed.
He cried out as the blood scalded his throat. Then he felt heat glow in his stomach, as if he had just drunk a flagon of hot mulled wine. Then he felt the heat sweeping through his blood vessels. His heart pumped faster. He felt a thousand pulses beating in his body. The blood pounded in his skull. His femoral artery throbbed painfully. He swayed.
