The horses' hooves echoed against the cobblestones, matching the frantic rhythm of Bestenar’s heart. He and Oregdor were gathering as many civilians as they could; Oregdor was well-known in the city and had the sympathy of many apprentices, making leadership easy for him. Bestenar looked at him with envy, knowing that he had no support, even in his own city, with memories of his failed rebellion flooding his mind.
He rode the horse of the peasant-turned-master. He carried his greatsword on his back, astonishingly able to wield it, but indeed he could. Perhaps he should thank him for making him carry so many buckets of water to water the horses; it had been a while since he viewed his duties with disdain, as he was now seeing the results. He had also gotten used to carrying a shield on his left arm, a reminder of the battle with the white prince.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a large number of people fleeing toward the desert, a sight Bestenar knew would lead to disaster.
“Citizens of Pellegrin!” he shouted with all his might, attempting to sound authoritative, “You must gather under the palace bridge! By the authority of the queen, I command you!”
A couple of heads turned toward him, but he achieved nothing more. People were scared, shouting, and dispersing, looking for less congested paths. They weren’t listening. Typical of the masses of commoners, moving like sheep. Always needing a shepherd. Oregdor was also trying to convince them to return but was having the same success.
They ended up surrounding them with their horses to prevent them from escaping, helped by a couple of apprentices who had joined their task, those who had found good mounts. The task left little room for the dignity of the people, but if the people gathered in the desert, the dragons would fall upon them. They would have nowhere to hide nor could they run on the soft sand. Only the goddess knew what power made them believe they would be safe there.
The light of a flare put everyone on alert, a small dragon with yellowish scales, barely twice the size of a horse, had slipped away from the battle in search of easy prey. The crowd was a prize for a lesser monster, but still dangerous.
The dragon flew low, filling the roads with flames to block escape routes, trapping them with all those people. Bestenar drew his greatsword and rode toward the beast. But when it was in front of him, it soared out of reach. At least he had prevented it from casting its flames upon the people.
“Oregdor!” he shouted while turning around. “Have the men encircle the people! Do not let the dragon descend!”
“None of them have the means to finish it off!” Oregdor replied, drawing his long scimitar always at his belt.
“But it doesn’t know that! We have to hold out until we find a way to bring it down!”
At least the apprentices obeyed, even through Oregdor, it gave him hope he might one day learn to reign. The few soldiers he had dispersed, brave lads merely for volunteering for training in the first place, in a way, they had enlisted precisely for situations like this. None flinched when the dragon returned over and over from different directions, each time repelled by one or another. They waved their weapons threateningly when they saw it descend to close another path with its fire or attempt to attack the crowd. Bestenar knew they wouldn’t last long like this.
At a certain moment, the dragon struck one of the soldiers instead of ascending again, knocking him off his horse, wounded; Bestenar rushed to his aid at full gallop, passing very close to several civilians, the beast hovering low, ready to finish what it had started. This time it opened its jaws to exhale fire on the poor apprentice.
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Bestenar arrived just in time to leap from Canvas to the ground between them, receiving the fire with his shield, a dragon-slayer shield, made to withstand heat, saving their lives. At that moment, it became clear why Freydelhart never carried it. To wield the heavy steel greatsword, he needed both hands.
The monster landed, scaring the civilians, though the fires it had set wouldn’t let them go far. It began its attack with claws and teeth against the young squire who defended with both shield and greatsword, retreating before the force and weight of his rival. Thinking, as he did well, of a way to win, of course, the biggest problem would be that even if he won, the dragon would explode, killing him and likely many of the civilians.
He blocked a claw with the greatsword while the other struck his shield, tearing it from his arm with a pull. Bestenar felt the sharp pain of the claw tip and the warmth of the blood flowing from his forearm where the shield had been; it was barely a scratch, but it wouldn’t close on its own, he was running out of time, he had to do something immediately.
The fallen apprentice had finally moved away, the others were approaching at a gallop, spears in hand.
“No, idiots!” he shouted as he rolled aside to avoid a flare, “Stay away! Put the civilians under cover!” If they were close, the risk of killing the dragon was greater.
The idea came at last, a very bad one, but he had no other options.
He rose from the ground wielding the greatsword in the closest stance to the hippogriff pose he could manage, the long sword's blade slicing the dragon's skin under its jaw, then a backhand stroke to wound its chest, steaming blood gushing from the wounds as the beast’s attacks grew erratic and desperate. Frey had taught them, “Dragons are not used to resistance, so they get frustrated and enraged easily, make their fury your advantage to win.”
Bestenar retreated, trying to recognize the terrain, looking for a building, a place he could enter with a wide enough entrance. It took him a few seconds to locate what had been a shop, now an empty shell of a building, running in its direction hoping the enraged dragon would follow him. The light of a flare confirmed his hopes. Bestenar managed to leap inside the abandoned shop just in time to avoid the worst of the dragon's fire, slapping out the flames on his pants and gritting his teeth at the burns. If he lived through this night, for the first time in his life, he would wear scars on his once-perfect body. Damn insolent beast.
He shook his head, seeking to regain concentration; the building was small, but the dragon could follow him inside. He counted on that, hoping no one was seeking refuge within as he had no time to check.
The beast eventually broke through, tearing apart the door frames, seeking Bestenar, who was crouched under the former window lintel. Determined, unsure if he could, he rose and adopted his master’s favorite pose, the powerful thrust of a perfect unicorn pose. The steel greatsword pierced under the dragon’s neck, sinking almost to the hilt. Flames erupted from the wound like splashing water, the beast's eyes turned white as it collapsed lifelessly on the stone floor with a dry thud. Before it started to swell, Bestenar tried to leap through the window hole before the explosion.
The blast destroyed the stone building to its foundations, but the ruins managed to contain the force and flames to a smaller area. A rain of stones injured a few people, but nothing more serious than a broken leg. Oregdor and the apprentices searched through the smoldering remains of the former shop for the prince.
They found him covered in rubble, dirty from head to toe. He had instinctively covered his face with his injured arm, making them think for a moment that he had a severe head wound, as it was covered in blood. Oregdor hurried to place a tourniquet above his elbow; he had to see a magician to remove the curse, or he would slowly bleed out. He was bruised and utterly exhausted, but otherwise seemed fine.
When Oregdor helped him to his feet, leaning on his shoulder, those who had witnessed the battle burst into a heartfelt ovation. They showered him with admiration and gratitude. The strange thing was that, for once, he felt humbled by the truth—he had not yet achieved anything; the city was still full of dragons, and people were still in danger. At least, from then on, he found it easier to lead the mission.