The region known to the Clans of the Redstone as the Ashlands was a vast stretch of volatile lands that went unmapped- no one wanted to venture there for long. Ash, strange gasses and geysers of chemical-laden water belched into the air constantly, the ground trembled and flexed from the hidden turbulence beneath while deadly predators stalked the volcanic wastes, each searching for prey.
The hellish landscape of the Ashlands was dominated by the nameless mountain that rose to pierce the clouds, the mountain that the Dragon Clan believed held the Great Mother Tyrant, the dragon of dragons, the supreme authority.
Many of the Totems the Clans served dwelled in the hellscape; ferocious, deadly predators that brooked no rivals and fought with unrelenting savagery to maintain their position in the hierarchies, and yet all of them fled when the dread shade of the Dragon’s wings darkened the skies.
The dragon’s head rose up and up on a sinuous, serpentine neck, towering over Sheilah.
She could see the flicker of flames behind its teeth even as blood dribbled from between them. Either the shot she’d put through its lower jaw or the one she’d shot into its mouth was bleeding it, but nowhere near enough to inflict a telling, mortal wound.
She should have brought a spear. She should have listened to those that suggested she bring a spear. She should have chosen a different path to take. She should have-
She tore her eyes away from the dragon’s and shoved herself forward, practically kicking with her feet to launch herself forward into a run. She lunged forward even as the dragon shifted, twisting to follow, to keep her in its sights.
She threw herself forward, arms ahead of her, twisting so she slid in the dust and gravel on her back, aiming for the gap between the dragon’s forearm and torso.
She had no idea what she was doing, no thought of strategy or plan, just the desperate throb and animalistic, instinctive need to survive.
The mammoth dragon twisted and shuffled, one of its great, massive wings flexing just above her as she slid. She rolled to her feet and chased the dragon’s hindquarters even as the massive tail, covered in glimmering plates of Dragon Metal and bone spikes whipped her way.
She rolled, diving under the tail, coming back up and yanking back the sinew of her bow to her cheek and loosed, targeting the vulnerable point where the leathery skin of the dragon was softer and less armored at the junction where the leg met the body. She targeted one of the rear legs and watched as the arrow punched into the hide and disappeared inside the body of the dragon.
Blood splattered from the wound and the dragon roared, the air shivering with the immense fury baking off of it.
She glanced around for a place to hide, a vantage, some way to get some sort of purchase that she could use to at least survive-
Realistically, there was none. If at any point she tried to disengage and flee, the dragon would kill her with no more effort than Sheilah would a whelpling.
Win or lose, she was in it until the end.
The dragon twisted, tried to leap, but the leg she’d shot at didn’t seem to behave right and so it stumbled a little.
It was still wicked fast, the difference between heartbeats, but in that spare heartbeat Sheilah threw herself at the hindquarters of the dragon, aiming for one of the spurs that jutted from one of the legs.
Her own legs were trembling, her lungs were on fire and her head was swimming, but there was only one thing in her mind from the start- survival.
She grabbed on to one of the spurs and kicked with her feet against the leg of the dragon to propel herself upwards onto the dragon’s back, but suddenly the dragon''s tail whipped around and its back flexed, forcefully blowing her off the dragon and slamming her into a small, short outcropping of rock.
She let out a cough of blood and moaned in pain; she was fairly certain that something inside her wasn’t working right anymore. Was it a rib?
The pain radiated through her body, her head wanted to drift off in a haze of fog; instead she dug into the ground with sizzling fingers and struggled to her feet. She glanced up at the outcrop of rock and forced herself to climb even as the dragon unfurled its wings with the whipcrack of furiously ripping cloth.
She gained the rise and pulled an arrow from her quiver even as it lunged into the air, whipping a cloud of dust and gravel into the air.
She felt her mouth move; she knew she was saying something, but had no idea what it was. She drew the fletching to her cheek and loosed, watched the streak of the arrow even as her hand nocked another arrow, drew and released.
The dragon roared, twisting in the air.
Some part of her realized that the dragon hadn’t intended to flee, it had launched itself into the air as simply a faster way to turn and deal with her.
Its dread wings spread across the sky, filling her vision, blotting out the dim sunlight. That was her Totem in all its horrifying glory: inimitable fury, unrelenting dread, unsurpassed destruction.
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Its Supremacy slammed into her with a palpable weight, demanding subservience, crushing the weight from her lungs, the blood from her heart.
She loosed again, and the dragon roared again, but this time in pain.
Some foresight borne of terror and instinct caused her to leap forward even as the dragon blew out its rage and pain in a great furious blast of liquid flame, right where she had stood but an eyeblink earlier.
She rolled and rolled, feeling something in her chest snap wetly, even as the dragon slammed into the ground, its great claws scything into the stone near her head.
It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. She wasn’t sure if her arms worked properly, she could feel blood trickling down one of her legs.
She had to keep moving.
Sh pushed herself upright with arms that didn’t feel like they belonged to her, spat blood from lips that felt numb and rubbery, shoved with legs that felt leaden, and grabbed onto one of the hard, bony protrusions that ran along the dragon’s foreleg, still struggling, still fighting.
The dragon twisted, rising up to shake her off, ironically this gave her a moment of purchase where her booted feet could shove off the leg.
She struggled upward and caught the edge of one of the plated scales of Dragon Metal that ran down the dragon’s back and dug her fingers in, clamping down with all the strength she had in her.
The Dragon twisted and shook, Sheilah closed her eyes and held on as it bucked and twisted, feeling her body jerk and flop against the side of the monstrous beast.
She took a pained breath; it hurt if she breathed too deeply, and pulled herself up to the ridge of spikes that ran down the spine of every dragon, whether whelpling, dragonling, or dragon. Her bow dangled from one shoulder; when had she shouldered it? She shoved with her feet, hung on to each spine as she crawled upwards while the dragon bucked and heaved, trying to dislodge her.
She didn’t remember drawing her sword. She climbed desperately, feet seeking holds between the massive armor plates as she yanked herself up the bony ridges of the spine with her hands.
What did she plan to do? She couldn’t remember. There was no plan except survival, and that wasn’t so much a plan as it was a basic imperative.
The dragon unfurled its wings with that horrid rippling snap of webbing stretching to catch the slightest bit of wind, and even through her haze of pain, through her desperate focus for survival, she knew what was going to happen next; the dragon was going to launch itself into the air, was going to fly as hard and as fast and as ruthlessly as possible in order to dislodge it.
Dragons were unsurpassed monsters. They were at the peak, the apex. There was nothing that did not fear the dragon. When their wings blacked the sky, when their shadow fell across the earth, everything got out of its way. They did not know fear, for they were fear incarnate. Even the proud Thunderbird, self-professed king of the skies and lords of the storm fled from the shadow of the dragon.
And yet, Sheilah had taught it something that it did not know before, something simple, something that everything living understood from nearly the beginning: pain.
She’d hurt the Tyrant Dragon. Not just once, but several times. None of them were mortal hurts, but pain was an entirely new experience for the ancient terror.
Sheilah’s blank eyes focused on the jointed bones at the base of the wings and some idea, a concept, a shape of a thought dredged itself up from her consciousness.
Her gaze, once blank, sharpened. This, this was something that she could do. Maybe.
She drove her father’s blade down between the wings, using her tiny weight as leverage as she slashed through the hide of the titanic monster, working the blade.
Stupid human, what do you hope to accomplish?
“You think I’ve never cut up a chicken before?!” Sheilah shouted, digging her blade in deeper. “I cut this one tendon and your friends will be calling you ‘The One-Winged Dragon’. They’ll all laugh at how you were made flightless by an insect!” She screamed. The Dragon roared again and spread its wings- too late realizing its mistake as her questing blade found the tendon and sheared through it. The Dragon’s wing immediately went limp and useless, and the great beast stumbled awkwardly.
She unlimbered her bow and fired three arrows into the weak, unprotected area behind the skull plate. The dragon screamed again, shaking its head, tossing Sheilah off.
Sheilah hit the ground and watched her remaining arrows bounce away from her hand and over the cliff edge.
Her father’s sword was buried in the dragon’s back. Her bow was too far away for her to grab and even if she could grab it, there were no more arrows. The dragon was turning towards her, likely to blast her point-blank with its breath.
There was no hope. There were no more options.
Belatedly she remembered the steel dagger her father had given her. It wasn’t much, but she’d go down fighting.
She yanked the knife from her boot with greasy, bloodstained fingers, pulled herself to her feet and leapt at the dragon’s skull.
There were many stories about shooting an arrow into a dragon’s eye and into its brain, killing it. Truthfully, she''d killed many dragonlings that way. She’d do her best.
She clung to the beast’s head, dangling one-armed from one of its crest horns, and thrust with her dagger.
The dragon closed its eye and the dagger bounced away, skidding on the eyelid. She swung away and then back, swinging her dagger back with all the force she could muster. Once again, the blade skittered across the eyelid as if it was impervious to her attacks.
Well, the dagger was only made out of steel.
As she swung away again, still clinging to one of the dragon’s horns, she noticed its earhole, which was large enough to-
As she swung back, she changed her target.
Her arm went into the earhole of the dragon. She shoved it in deep, all the way past her elbow, and when she encountered resistance, she twisted the knife, shoving her arm even further into its head. There was a crunch that was more felt than heard, and her blade punched through something into something warm, wet, and jellylike. She slashed about with the knife and jerked it out as the dragon slammed into the ground.
She tumbled away from the dragon, which was breathing erratically.
Truthfully, she wasn’t feeling too great, either.
The dragon was spasming, its limbs twitching and convulsing at random; its head trembling. Its eyes popped open and its eyes were dilating, tightening; dilating.
Something was seriously wrong with it.