Tintaglia lifted her head and unlidded her eyes. Outrage that anyone dared approach her while she was sleeping flooded her. Humans, clustering close, weapons raised! She surged to her feet, tail lashing, and roared at the sudden pain that swept her as her injury opened and fresh fluid ran down her side.
‘Leave me!’ she demanded, and as her command washed against the men facing her, the first barrage of arrows struck. She was in motion, but three still struck her face. They rattled off her, one striking her ridged brow, and the two others hitting just below her eye. Plainly her eye had been the target, and in that instant she realized fully that they intended to kill her. She turned her shoulder and flank to them, showing them only the most heavily scaled parts of her body. At the same time, she slashed her tail and men tumbled, either victims of her blow or of their own frantic efforts to avoid it. She became aware of the other men moving up on her: they were trying to surround her!
One man ran forward, a pike in his hands. His face was set in a rictus of fear and determination. One of her ancestors had known such a charge, and so she did not rear back onto her hind legs and expose her softer belly. Her wings she kept clapped tight to her sides lest they see her swollen wound and know her vulnerability. Instead, she threw her head back on her long neck and then snapped it forward, opening her mouth to hiss out a cloud of venom.
But nothing emerged from her wide-open jaws. Her poison sacs were empty, victim to her long illness. The warriors cowered and one man screamed as the mist of saliva engulfed them. When, a few instants later, they realized they were unhurt, they whooped triumphantly and surged at her in a wild charge.
She willed herself to spin tightly, to meet their attack with a savage lash of her tail. Instead, she moved as ponderously as a wounded buffalo, limping as she slowly wheeled away from them. They were on her, jabbing at her with their spears and shrieking. All she could sense from their thoughts was fear and triumph and bloodlust, just as if she were battling jackals for the rights to a kill. She swept her tail, knocking some of them down, while others leapt back and jeered at her.
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Tintaglia lifted her head and unlidded her eyes. Outrage that anyone dared approach her while she was sleeping flooded her. Humans, clustering close, weapons raised! She surged to her feet, tail lashing, and roared at the sudden pain that swept her as her injury opened and fresh fluid ran down her side.
‘Leave me!’ she demanded, and as her command washed against the men facing her, the first barrage of arrows struck. She was in motion, but three still struck her face. They rattled off her, one striking her ridged brow, and the two others hitting just below her eye. Plainly her eye had been the target, and in that instant she realized fully that they intended to kill her. She turned her shoulder and flank to them, showing them only the most heavily scaled parts of her body. At the same time, she slashed her tail and men tumbled, either victims of her blow or of their own frantic efforts to avoid it. She became aware of the other men moving up on her: they were trying to surround her!
One man ran forward, a pike in his hands. His face was set in a rictus of fear and determination. One of her ancestors had known such a charge, and so she did not rear back onto her hind legs and expose her softer belly. Her wings she kept clapped tight to her sides lest they see her swollen wound and know her vulnerability. Instead, she threw her head back on her long neck and then snapped it forward, opening her mouth to hiss out a cloud of venom.
But nothing emerged from her wide-open jaws. Her poison sacs were empty, victim to her long illness. The warriors cowered and one man screamed as the mist of saliva engulfed them. When, a few instants later, they realized they were unhurt, they whooped triumphantly and surged at her in a wild charge.
She willed herself to spin tightly, to meet their attack with a savage lash of her tail. Instead, she moved as ponderously as a wounded buffalo, limping as she slowly wheeled away from them. They were on her, jabbing at her with their spears and shrieking. All she could sense from their thoughts was fear and triumph and bloodlust, just as if she were battling jackals for the rights to a kill. She swept her tail, knocking some of them down, while others leapt back and jeered at her.
‘You will pay!’ she roared at them, and from one or two of their minds sensed astonishment that an animal could speak. But the others were deaf to her words, as so many humans were. They came at her again, thudding their useless spears against her heavy scaling. She turned toward them again, thinking of charging at them and crushing as many as she could with her jaws. But a spear flew, striking dangerously close to her eye, and she knew a sudden jolt of fear. These humans could kill her. They were not shepherds trying to drive her away from their flock, nor hunters trying to defend their prey from her. They had come here to kill her.
She roared again and there was a small satisfaction in seeing some of them hastily retreat. But others set their spears at the ready and ran toward her.
Tintaglia had no choice. She staggered toward them, stiffly and then in a lumbering charge, whipping her head from side to side, sending one man flying into the rushes and flattening another. She trod on her screaming victim as she passed, vindictively flexing her foot to be sure her nails scored him well.
Once past them, there was no escape save the river in front of her. She could not take flight; she needed time to limber her muscles and space to gather herself for that first painful leap into the air. She lashed her tail as she thundered past them and knew the satisfaction of feeling it connect and hearing a man scream. She did not look back. Better to appear that she was merely stalking off rather than fleeing.
The river awaited. She did not pause, but waded into it. Her enemies had nosed their vessels onto the bank downstream of her. So the humans had abandoned whatever quarrel they had with each other to unite in coming after her! She thought about destroying the ships in passing, but doubted her strength. Instead, she waded chest-deep in the water and started upriver. If they wanted to come after her, they’d have to reboard their vessels and man the oars. And if they did come up on her in the water, she thought she could possibly tip a boat over, or at least destroy a bank of oars.
She heard them shouting in frustration on the bank behind her. A spear splashed into the water beside her, and an arrow struck her back plates, lodged briefly between two of them and then fell. Stupid insects, daring to attack her! If she hadn’t already been injured, there would have been nothing but smoking meat and shattered wood left of them and their ships!
She took another step and then the river water penetrated beneath her tightly clasped wings and she trumpeted in furious pain as the icy water found her wound with an acid kiss. Lurching on, she stumbled to her knees as the agony stabbed into her deeper than the arrowhead had ever penetrated. The men on the shore screamed and whooped like monkeys as they watched her sink, her legs collapsing under her. She turned to look back at them, and shrieked a thought out on a wild blast of anger: You will all die! I give you a dragon’s promise unending. All humans who attack dragons die!