The hillman had stood at the edge of a cliff, pointing to a distant mountain range, black against the blood-red sky. The cold bite of the northern wind had been nothing compared to the chill in his next words.
“A winged host of worms.”
The trail of the orc host – and the prisoners they caried – had gone cold, and they had had little choice but to barter with this crude man of Aughaire for information that might save them days of wandering aimless in Malenhad. But the price for that information had been steep.
“Their mother is a vicious betch. Villagers call her Kanarel, the Blood Wing.”
And so, clad in ancient heavy armour that had once belonged to the lost Northern Company, Belethoriel led his companions to those black jagged slopes. Dolthafaer moved as quickly and as quietly as he could in the cumbersome, unfamiliar plate as he broke away from the others and went ahead to scout the trail that twisted up the mountainside.
Drakes go down as easily as any animal, Nelli, he had assured his trembling companion the night before. You must simply know their weak points.
Picking his way up the path, Dolthafaer tried to remind himself of his own words, but his heart was hammering and his armour was clink clink clinking – but his eyes and his ears were sharp, focused, and his hands were steady, holding his bow in a white-knuckled grip with an arrow knocked to the string. He was afraid, but only a fool would not be. He used his fear. It made him careful.
Dolthafaer had almost reached the end of the path when suddenly the wind changed and the smell of smoke hit him like a fist to the face. He dropped down to the ground and waited, listening intently. There was a hiss, a growl, and a groan. The beat of wings. The earth trembled beneath heavy feet.
He had found the nest.
It seemed to take only a moment for him to return to the others. He led them back up the path, quickly and quietly, every murmur and clink of armour behind him as loud to his ears as a shout in the still night. But the wind was working with them still, blowing in their faces and carrying their scent and their sound far away from the mountaintop. They came upon the first two drakes unawares.
They were powerful, ugly creatures – but young, each the size of a draft horse with skin of ruby red, and mindless with panic when Belethoriel and Sargiel bore down on them from the shadows. The elves cut them down after a quick and dirty skirmish, and then moved on to a third, which put up a hard fight until they finally put it down as well. Know their weak points, Dolthafaer had said, and he know them he did. Eyes. Belly. Wing. Beneath the arm. Every arrow struck true. The blood was still dripping from the others' blades when they crept up to the next.
"Do not forget," their leader told them before they rounded the last bend, "Even the murderer of Cuthalion had slain those worms. We are a company of elves."
"Aye, we are," Dolthafaer replied with a grin. "Elves of Vanimar, no less!"
Kanarel, Blood Wing, was a mighty beast. She was five times the size of the others, her scales a dusky purple and her eyes as bright as firelit gold, and she was crouched protectively over a clutch of eggs, which no doubt had kept her from fleeing at the sound of ringing metal and the dying roars of her spawn. There was no question that she had heard them. She was waiting for them. She was ready.
Belethoriel charged in first, and all at once, the world was lit in red and gold as the drake spat fire at the charging elf. Dolthafaer only had time to shoot a single arrow. That arrow was tipped in a poison given to him by Laurelindo the night before, promising to stop a heart dead within minutes – but Blood Wing had the heart of a dragon, and while the poison did not kill her, it must have hurt her, buried down deep in the crook of her neck, for she did not take wing.
Even before the arrow hit home, Dolthafaer had set aside his bow and drawn his sword, charging the drake alongside his comrades. Such heat he had only felt in the heart of a forge, bent over a red-hot blade with a hammer in his hand. It was a hard, brutal fight; the air was thick with smoke and the deafening roars of the dragon, and at one point, Dolthafaer narrowly dodged a burst of flame, immediately blocking out the searing pain that spread across his thigh.
It was impossible to tell how long the struggle lasted, or even who had struck the killing blow. The entire mountain seemed to shudder beneath the dragon's weight when it came crashing to the ground. When it was over, they all stood around the twitching corpse, gasping for breath and filthy with sweat and soot, staring wordlessly at the lifeless Blood Wing.
Belethoriel was the first to break the silence.
“Who would like to take the head?”
