The pounding of her feet resounds like the drums of war resounds like the beat of her heart burning in her breast. Smoke and ash chokes out the sky above and holds it in wretched darkness. Not even the slender rays of silver moonlight break through the thick clouds to offer the favor of the Valar upon the sight of this war, where fair fey fall and fairer are sundered. The only thing that shatters the sound of drums and the thick smog of smoke and fire is a reptilian screech; a guttural cry that would send more cowardly men to their dishonor and their doom.
Beneath the barren cliff upon which she climbs, she can make out the blazing fire and metal searing hot as swords clash with talons unholy and twisted; upon the battlefield where mettle is tested, a sweeping tail of pike and ire lays waste to another tens of hundreds of lives. Gripping her spear tightly in blistered hands, and throws herself up to the plateau of the rocky outcropping where she can look the serpent in the face and find it unmatched to her own bravery. The beast raises its head, the slit of its fiery eye focused on her.
A growl rumbles from the throat of the dragon as it raises its head, and she releases her own cry of war and duty. “The death-horror shall fall upon you!” As the words pass her lips, she knows there is little time to waste while the dragon has raised its head to behold her. Her footsteps again pound on the ashen dirt as she races towards the beast; dry, brittle root crack underfoot as her shout of dauntless fire is met by that of the dragon. Wicked black lips curl to reveal teeth stained by malice, but she does not falter in her charge.
Not even when the ground gives way beneath her to open air does she stop. The tips of her feet leave the stone behind, and she faces the eye and ire of the dragon with a pointed spear at the ready. With what momentum she has, she crashes upon the blazing scales of the beast but thrusts her arms upwards. Her spear of star-lit white pierces the eye of the dragon, sinking deeper as she gets a slipping foothold upon plate slicked by sweat and smoke. Hatred incarnate roars, but she roars louder.
With a final cry of resignation, she forces the pointed blade ever deeper; the fear of death is gone, the fear of weightlessness is gone, all that remains is the bright beautiful blur of glory as she watches it fade from the eyes of her foe. There is a tremble deep within the earth, and deep beneath her, as she knows the beast will fall - and she with it. Heaving and choking on air thick with ash, she searches for the cliffside that had acted as her final foothold before she gave her fate to flame. As the death-rattle trembles from the neck of the beast, she gives a final, futile leap, abandoning her weapon.
Her fingers scramble to find a hold in the loose gravel of the outcropping before she continues to slip. Her legs flail wildly to find some traction on the side of the cliff, but the overhand is long, and she can find nothing save more open air. A loud crash echoes beneath her, shaking the mountainside, and her grip loosens even more. Desperately, she continues to claw her nails into the dirt in hopes of being able to drag herself out of the heat.
Just as she is certain she is going to go down with her foe, she sees the armored form of another flicker through the halo of flames. Cardanith, bursting out of the forest ahead where the trees are bare of leaf or limb, races towards her with grim ash and determination on his face. He wastes no time in throwing aside spear and shield to lunge for her, digging his knees into the loose soil to hold himself supported. Searing gauntlets grip her arms, but her cries (”Ai! Ai!”) go unheeded as he hauls her up onto solid ground, regardless of what burns may be left upon her skin.
Panting, heaving for breath in the thin air, she remains splayed on the cliff face; she digs her fingers into the dirt and murmurs her thanks to the stars that had saved her. She pulls off her helmet with aching fingers, tossing it aside, and it rolls. It teeters upon the edge of the sheer drop, tempting to fall down after the beast. Cardanith reaches out his hand and puts stop to it, drawing the helm closer to him instead; the plume of crimson that protrudes from it is singed black.
A thick sheen of sweat drips from Mallossel’s face as she drags herself to the edge of the landing, and looks over. Far beneath on the field below, lays spread-eagle the crimson dragon, singed black from its fall into naught more than the ash it had wrought. From the eye of the beast juts out the silver glint of a spear driven deep. Around it, men and elves approach with trepidation, and she finds her breath held. Fearing a cry of outrage from the serpent or a twitch of its talon to prove it yet lives, she instead hears a loud cry of victory raised from the warriors below.
“It is dead,” Cardanith breathes out behind her, and before she has even the chance to answer him, he pulls her up onto her feet. Although she stumbles, he refuses to let her go and instead raises her helm and hand far above for all below to see. “Hail! To ash and fire, we do not fall this day! Duty unto death! To the drake-foe, the bane of dragons; to Dagnirlhug!” And it is that cry instead that floods her ears, that drowns out the drums and the burning in her chest. It is that cry that resounds in the ears of those who hear it, across Ages spanning lifetimes.
