23
In the village of Longshore, where three skeins were about to be woven together, snipped short or spliced, forming a line of Fate’s web:
A wintery dragon shot out of the sky, trailing lightning, ice and high winds. Thatched roofs were torn from the houses at the monster’s first pass, exposing children and old ones huddled within. Its next attack froze Deepwater Tarn clear down to the bedrock, killing everything swimming or buried there.
The dragon looped around for a third strike, then; a pallid white monster with tattered wings and a lashing, barbed tail. Only three functional legs, though, for the creature’s left forelimb was no more than a bent, shriveled stub.
“Slayer!” howled the dragon. “I know you are here! My last oracle died in my jaws, shrieking her prophecy! The charm that I bargained for burns in your presence! Show yourself, elf-lord! Battle me!”
That soaring beast cast a faint shadow in the light of the Seam and the stars. Where its darkness passed over, a tide of vermin erupted. Rats, mice, roaches and flies burst from hiding to swarm and attack the terrified mortals. Wolves began howling in the wooded heights around Longshore. Villagers screamed and attempted to flee, but they were still penned up by Filimar’s stony tornado. A magical landslide, that roaring shield-wall would pulp whoever tried to pass through it... as several did. Their bloody chunks quickly halted the others.
Meanwhile, the icy dragon circled their smoldering village, just over the valley walls. Ice, stone and trees crashed down in its thundering wake.
“I am Jonex the Mighty!” it bellowed. “I have prepared for you, Slayer! Come! Come and die!”
As its flickering shadow slid over the western heights, all the dead arose from a graveyard of cliffside platforms. They dropped from their open-air tombs like hail, falling onto the ground below with a hideous creaking of splintered bones and leathery flesh.
Jonex paid no attention at all. Instead, it swooped downward, blasting daggers of ice that riddled the buildings and ground. Next, banking sharply, the dragon landed on Deepwater Tarn, skidding a bit on the icy surface, shedding a dark, lethal blight.
“Elves, she told me! Cursed elves!” Jonex continued, shaking the valley walls. “But I have tasted the undying blood, and I cannot be slain!”
Naturally, Filimar took that prophecy to mean him. Dropping his shield wall of jagged sharp stones, he sprang forward.
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“An Arvendahl!” shouted the raven-haired lordling. “An Arvendahl to the fray!”
Then Filimar raced for that frozen lake, waving Handy and shouting his ancestry like some kind of magical spell.
“Filimar, wait!” cried Val. “Jonex said ‘cursed’! That can only mean… Drek, never mind,” he growled, raising his own shining sword to sprint after his friend.
“Also, an idiot Tarandahl!” called Valerian, vaulting spears of black ice and crouched villagers in his haste to join Filno.
Derrick watched numbly, standing by a lamppost and blackened crate. He cradled a wounded eaglet in his hands, willing her life and warmth. Filimar and Valerian would face the monster instead of him, for what could a weak, accursed mortal do to prevent them? How could he stop his two friends, much less kill a rampaging dragon? It was hopeless. Utterly foolhardy. He had no chance at all.
Nevertheless, Nalderick gently tucked Kia back into her singed, grubby sling and then bent to pick up the sword that he’d stolen earlier. The delirious guard captain spat at him, coughing blood as he tried to shove Derrick. Fell over, though, too sick to fight.
“S' your doing,” raged the feverish captain. “You burned our food n’ summoned th’ dragon!”
What could Derrick say in response? How could he argue?
“I’m sorry,” mumbled the cursed former prince. “But I’ll do what I can to make things right, if it kills me.”
The blight was affecting him, too, although his wounds had been healed by Valerian. That was something. Better, the plague hadn’t gotten to Bert, Trixie, Wenchie or Curtis. Not yet. They were beaten half-dead, but eager to help him, once Nalderick used a similarity charm to untie his boot-laces and their puffy, scraped hands.
“We’re with ya, Lud Derrick!” raved Curtis, looking wildly around for a weapon. The sounds of wild battle out on the lake… along with those crashing, landsliding trees and collapsing buildings… made it tough to converse.
Nalderick backed away from them, shaking his head.
“Run,” he ordered. “Find a deep cave and block yourselves in. The blight’s come, and you can’t fight that.”
“But… y’r one of us now,” Bert objected, reaching for Nalderick. “We’re practically family!”
Derrick smiled a little and nodded, saying,
“That’s why you’ve got to go. This is all my fault, and I’m truly sorry.”
Wenchie bit her lip, which was already bleeding. She winced in pain, then fished out the grog flask and tossed it over to Nalderick.
“It’ll put some heart in ya,” she said, trying to match his smile. “I’ll mind this lot, Lud Derrick. You take care o’ y’rself an’ them elves. Come back n’ find us, afterwards.”
Nalderick caught the flask and then bowed to the battered young woman.
“My thanks, but hurry!” he urged. “Get them to safety, away from the blight!”
He made sure that they’d left before turning to start after Filimar and Valerian. His former teammates could fly and cast spells. They were brilliant young elves at the height of their power and health.
He was… beginning to bleed from dozens of pinprick sores, coughing red phlegm, and staggering. He couldn’t just soar over jagged black ice, vengeful rats or smoldering timbers. He had to clamber and scrabble around all the wreckage; sweating, shaky, half-blind, but determined.
The sword, though… His stolen blade was starting to shine at its edges. The hilt began to adjust itself to his shivering grip.
“Exterminator,” he snorted, jesting in the face of absolute, no-questions death. “I name you Exterminator… and we’re going to slay us a dragon.”
