In that moment, her mind fled to safer ground, pulling her away from the sweltering heat surrounding her. She thought of sparring with Prince Ottone: building her strength and developing her skills, his kind, open face smiling at her and correcting her stance again and again. She thought of her childhood in Syonno Castle, playing games with Cressyda, whispering secrets and sharing everything together. Lastly, and clearest of all, she thought of her father, tall and noble, with eyes that twinkled, recounting tales of glory and danger with a storyteller’s flair. He had made the impossible seem conquerable, had made her believe she could one day stand in those same stories. One tale rose above the others, her very favourite: the Battle of Rowlyn, when her father had described fighting a dragon just like this. His words drifted into her head: ‘The trick is to strike the throat.’
The dragon’s chest expanded, ready to unleash a torrent of flame, and still she lay, caught between memory and oblivion. But her father’s words echoed louder now, urgent –strike the throat– and with that, something sparked deep within her.
‘No!’ screamed a voice. Even submerged in the hazy depths of her memory, she knew who it was – Cressyda.
A stone flew from the darkness, hitting the dragon’s cheek. It was a small, round pebble that bounced off the creature with a lightding, but it was distracting enough to grab the beast’s attention.
The dragon turned its head towards Cressyda.
Alinore saw her chance.
She lunged for her sword, adrenaline flooding her body. Her fingers closed around the hilt, slick with dirt and sweat, and she scrambled to her feet. Without hesitating, she twisted back towards the beast. It had begun to turn again, its head lowering, eyes gleaming with rekindled fury, but she was already moving. With a cry that ripped from the deepest part of her, she drove the sword upwards in a fierce, two-handed thrust. The blade met resistance, then slid past the iron-hard scales and into the vulnerable web of flesh beneath the dragon’s throat. A hot gush of blood, thick and steaming, burst as the creature let out a strangled, guttural roar.
Alinore screamed as boiling liquid spurted across her hands and chest. She staggered back, her skin blistering.
The dragon’s wings flared violently, buffeting the air around them, and it staggered, claws gouging furrows into the earth as it tried to wrench itself away. One talon slashed at Alinore’s shin, stripping back skin, and she fell, her legs buckling beneath her.
A pair of hands grasped hold of her shoulders and dragged her backwards. ‘Alinore?’ Cressyda was shouting in her ear over the roaring of the dragon. ‘Alinore, are you hurt?’
They collapsed against a boulder together, breathless and trembling, their eyes fixed on the beast before them. The dragon thrashed violently, its massive body writhing, sending up a flurry of dust and ash. Its wings flapped, striking the air, and its tail lashed out, tearing up stone and earth with each wild swipe. A final, ragged screech echoed from its throat; then it crumpled. Its head slammed against the ground with a deafening thud that sent tremors through the ridge, and blood gushed in torrents from its throat, hissing as it pooled on ground.
Then all was still.
Smoke churned upwards from the earth, thickening the air in a haze of grey. It swarmed around them, obscuring everything.
‘My sword!’ Alinore gasped. ‘I need it.’
She shook off Cressyda and lurched to her feet, ignoring the blood still trickling from her leg and the smarting sting of smoke on her wounds. She must have her sword; without it, they were completely unarmed. Through the smouldering fog, she saw a flash of silver where the dragon had fallen and she limped towards it, hands outstretched.
But impossibly, the dragon was gone. Its long, coiling form had vanished.
She stopped.
A breeze wafted the smoke from the ridge and the ashen mist lifted.
Alinore blinked, barely believing the sight before her.
A young woman lay in the pool of the dragon’s blood, her throat cut. Black hair fanned around her head and her naked figure trembled as her life ebbed away. At the sound of Alinore’s tread, her dark, familiar gaze focused, and the corners of her mouth lifted in something of a smile. But then her body began to convulse, blood pulsing from the jagged wound at her neck, and without warning, she collapsed into tiny flakes of ash.
Alinore stumbled back, dizzy and sick. ‘That was … that was Princess Tiannie,’ she whispered.
Maylie
DEAFENING SCREECHES SOUNDEDfrom above, bloody, horrifying roars that ripped through the night and echoed across the mountainsides. Just moments ago, Maylie had almost been trampled by a riderless horse, charging wildly through the undergrowth. She had dragged the shaking animal to a halt and tethered it to a tree before tracing its trampled path to the foot of this ridge. She threw her head back now, her frantic heartbeat drumming against her chest, and squinted into the gloom above just as a blast of searing red fire shot into the sky.
She whirled around to face the hamadryad behind her.I am too late!she cried.
The creature shuffled its thin, root-coiled feet.That is not one of the true dragons,it replied.
Maylie hissed in exasperation. She did not have time for the creature’s riddled speech.What do you mean?
It was one of the sacrificed. And it has been defeated.
From above came a rumble as though something large had fallen.
The dragon has been defeated?Maylie clung to this chink of hope.
The creature gave a small dip of its sharp, wooded chin, almost like a nod.Princess Tiannie has been freed,it replied.She has roamed these mountains, trapped, for three hundred winters, becoming more beast with each season. Finally, she is at peace.
