Arthur

Chapter Thirty-seven



I let instinct take over. Whether or not that was a good thing, I didn't know. But I was about to find out.



As the two came at me, I flopped straight to my back and watched as the very knife that had been intended for me, drove straight through the thigh of Red Hair. He screamed and dropped his mace and reached for his leg. Blood sprang from between his fingers.



Ignoring his wounded friend, the short guy with the knife, which now gleamed crimson, threw himself at me recklessly. I rolled to my left and his blade slammed into the stone next to me. It snapped in half and, in a bizarre stroke of luck, the broken blade ricocheted back and lodged deep into his neck. The short guy screamed and rolled away as blood pumped from a severed jugular.



I almost vomited, and probably would have if not for a guy on my left charging at me with a raised sword. A sword that appeared much longer than mine.



I hate when that happens.



The new guy lowered the sword point and aimed it straight for my heart. Okay, I really hate when that happens. In the world of sword fighting, they would call what I did next a "parry." Trust me, there was no "parrying" about it. It was just dumb luck and good fortune that when I raised my sword to block his attack that his own blade slid off mine and promptly skewered the guy sneaking up behind me.



Guess his luck ran out. The sword lodged itself into his side and he screamed like it hurt. I had no reason to doubt him.



With his point still lodged into his friend's side, Long Sword found himself at an awkward angle in front of me, and so I took advantage of his awkward angle and punched him as hard as I could in the face. I think I broke a knuckle in the process. Still, the punch did the trick: he went tumbling off the platform, to land in a motionless heap.



The instant he was gone, another replaced him. Another sword, another bad attitude. Another lucky punch, followed by another lucky last-second repartee. The bastards continued coming, and I continued getting lucky. Too lucky. I should have been dead a hundred times over.



After a surprising number of my attackers had fallen away, I saw that only two remained. Unfortunately, the two that remained were bigger and badder than all the others combined. The trouble with this scenario was that I was neither big nor bad. I was medium-sized and fairly good-natured.



I was out of breath. My arms felt leaden. My legs felt leaden, too. Heck, even the sword felt leaden.



They circled me slowly. Neither seemed very interested in giving me a chance to catch my breath. Not very sporting of them, if you ask me.



One wore a sort of leather body armor, the kind of thing you'd find on Brad Pitt in Troy - if Brad Pitt had been a hulking freak covered with curly body hair. The other wore only a filthy loin-cloth, Conan-style. Both were roped with muscle, covered in scars and stood a head taller than me.



I wanted to go home.



Now.



Next to me, Arthur was fighting two men at once. And floating high above, Merlin safely watched everything down below.



Troy Boy attacked first, using a ball and chain, snapping it out like a whip. How the thing missed my head, I don't know. We circled; he snapped. I raised my sword and this time the spiked iron ball slammed hard into the flat of my sword, which, in turn, slammed hard against the flat of my forehead. I saw stars instantly.



I also saw the second man coming at me, swinging his huge broadsword in a great chopping motion.



I slid under the chopping motion, and did something that surprised even me: I smashed his face with the pommel of my sword. And I mean smashed it. His nose shattered, blood spurted, and down he went like a rag doll in loin-cloth.



Jesus, what a lucky hit.



Ball and Chain wasn't done with me, though, and he attacked furiously. Relying on a steady diet of near misses and extremely lucky parries, I somehow managed to stave off the brunt of his fury.



I also somehow managed to end up behind him.



Not exactly sure how that happened, but I tossed aside my sword, leaped onto his back, and got him in the mother of all choke holds. I held on with all my strength as he stumbled back and smashed me hard against a stone wall. He smashed again and again. But still I held tight, choking the life out of him.



He dropped his ball and chain and reached back for me, swinging at me with ham-sized fists. But his strength was giving way, fast. He dropped to a knee, wavered, and just as I was sure he was about to topple over, two things happened simultaneously:



First, a flash of light exploded in my head. And second, something grabbed hold of my shoulders, lifted me free, and carried me out of the church and into the night air.



Chapter Thirty-eight



The dragon was monstrous up close. Admittedly, it was monstrous from far away, too.



Still, from my perspective hanging beneath it, the dragon's wide scaly underbelly seemed to span from horizon to horizon. Its massive black talons, long and sharp as swords, grasped me just under my arm pits. I was reduced to nothing more than a hanging piece of meat. From somewhere above, I could hear the beating of its powerful wings against the whoosh of the cool night air.



I was well aware that the dragon could have easily pierced my chest with those curved talons. Then again, maybe the dragon enjoyed playing with its food, the way a killer whale played with a dying seal before consuming it.



Not quite.



The words appeared directly in my thoughts, much the way Arthur's had. Except these words were loud enough to rattle my skull, and seemed to echo between my ears.



This isn't Arthur, is it? I asked, thinking the words rather than speaking them.



No, it's not, came the answer.



We continued flying. Cold wind whipped through my hair, rippled my bloodied sweatshirt. A smattering of rain slapped hard across my face. The dragon's right talon hung back a little, sort of tucked under the great expanse of its underbelly, itself covered in what appeared to be thick, clay roofing tiles. I reached up to touch one.



I wouldn't do that if I were you, came the voice again.



Why not?



A dragon's scales are sharp as razors.



Oh. I didn't know that.



Now you do.



Who are you? I asked. Who's talking to me?



There wasn't an immediate answer. I found the steady beat of the dragon's powerful wings oddly comforting. My first thought was that my sweatshirt was doing a remarkable job of keeping me warm, until I realized that there was a great deal of heat coming from the dragon itself. Like flying beneath the sun.



Finally the deep voice answered me: To answer your question, little one, look no further than above.



Above? The dragon? No....



In that moment, the creature's great triangular head swung down on a surprisingly pliant neck, and I found myself staring straight into those black, bowling ball-sized eyes I had seen earlier. Long, white fangs, each the size of my arm, hung outside its black upper lip. It looked like a dog on steroids. A lot of steroids. Like twin caves of fire, its flared nostrils emanated a red hot glow. Smoke trailed up from its partially opened mouth.



Although easily the most frightening creature I had ever seen or imagined, the dragon had an odd sort of grace to it. I sensed it had seen much, done much, and that it had been around a very, very long time.



And then it did something I was entirely unprepared for.



The dragon winked at me.