“How is that fair?” Sandy asked. He held his hands out at the sparkling monstrosity.

“He rolled a one,” Vlad said.

“Yeah but come on,” he’s brand new. You gave him bad advice.”

“Don’t metagame the campaign!”

“I’m not gonna play, this is stupid. Which one of you wrote this dumb event?” Sandy complained to the whole room. No one spoke up.

“Wait, it’s not just one writer for the campaign?” Robin asked.

“Nope! We all helped. The whole club got together at the start of the season and we voted on scenarios and stuff. Then we generated conditions and triggers for each match. They all got randomized into those manilla envelopes. Only the referee gets to see them until the match is over.”

“That’s so cool,” Robin said. “I wish I’d been there.”

“Yeah, I can see how you’re at a disadvantage since you came in late. How about this, it’s still turn one. If you want, I’ll let you mulligan your first move.”

“What? No, you can’t do that,” Vlad protested.

“I’m the referee for their match, I absolutely can,” Duncan countered.

“Take the mulligan,” Sandy advised. “You’re gonna get wiped.”

Robin looked down at the battle log. His moves were written in pen. He wanted to see what would happen.

“¡Es lo que hay!” Robin said.

“Huh?” Duncan squinted.

“C’est la vie,” Vlad translated.

“Hein?” Duncan joked. “En inglés, por favor Señor Martillo?”

“It is what it is. Let’s play,” Robin said.

“Awesome. I’ve been waiting for this all season,” Duncan smiled. He rolled a big handful of dice.

* * *

With a howl, the air around them ripped away. Young Bobbert was nearly pulled from his feet, a shieldbearer grabbed him by the hem of his robe and yanked him back to earth. The scattered forces reeled, some screamed, some prayed. Barak Breakbow faced his doom with his axe in his hands and a snarl on his lips, charging at the invincible foe.

Then, all was silent.

The war horns in the hills drained away. The hooves of the horsemen fell silent, their savage cries were snuffed. Even Barak’s own growl drained away to nothing. Darkness stole the sun, the tinged a queer turquoise, and the entire army wrenched in place. It felt as if every mote of his being was knocked out of alignment. A flare of searing white light dazzled Barak and a sound broke the silence, like heavy rain beating against a tin roof.

He charged on, totally blind. His sight returned slow, as a blur of shimmering ghosts. Ahead it seemed like an entire mountain was on the move, as the glare faded he saw a great, serpentine bulk tore from the earth. Boulders crashed down, great waves of soil shook from its sides and beneath, faceted scales shone like molten silver. Now it was revealed. The jutting stones were spines. The spiral ridge wound around the chapel was the body of a buried wyrm.

Barak knew their foe. Aravitrimore! The Diamond Drake. Barak’s entire being thrummed with white-hot rage. No weapon could pierce Aravitrimore’s diamond hide. His breath was knives, his strength unmatched, his hunger insatiable. Entire kingdoms of dwarves had vanished into that maw of faceted fangs. The halberdiers trembled and broke in terror. The elves stood frozen in place, hypnotized by the beast’s terrible grandeur. The torrential sound stilled, their ears popped and there was a disorienting moment as Prescote’s orb of occlusion broke and they sprang back to place.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

A great ring of crystal knives surrounded the makeshift army. To the east, an entire wing of Reaver Cavalry was ripped apart, caught in the shardbreath. To the west the second wing of the pincer had broken and fled. Their chieftan screamed at them to reform, but it was hopeless in the face of the great drake.

Fueled by hatred older than history, the dwarves charged forward.

“ARAVITRIMORE! NON TIMEO MORTIS!” Barak roared the ancient challenge. I fear no death!

The prismatic eyes of Aravitrimore eyes fell upon Barak Breakbow and his maw yawned wide in a glittering grin. After his long underground slumber, the berserkers were a perfect snack. He surged forward, the earth quaked with every step.

“Barak!” Cinabinathi cried out and blinked. Their bond freed her from the dragon trance. She put her fingers to her lips and blew a shrill whistle to rouse the other elves.

With their master dead, the Halberdiers charged towards the shelter of the ruined keep, in a race with a broken troop of reaver spearmen. Out of camaraderie between polemen, or more likely, from sheer terror, neither side attacked the other. Certain a lucky shot was their only hope, Hilg ignored the approaching reavers and formed his shieldbearers in a wall between the drake and the Hawkbows. Bobbert the Apprentice buttressed Prescote the Sage, the effort of casting the Greater Orb of Occlusion had drained him so sorely he could not stand.

“Aravitrimore! I never dreamed I’d see one of the great drakes! The time has come. Unhand me boy. Give me the black scroll.”

“Master!”

“Do it!” The sage shoved the boy aside and stood on shaky legs.

“Cinabinathi! Draw the beast to me! I need him close!”

The berserkers were upon the drake now. Runagir and Duandan hacked at the drake’s underbelly, but their axes shattered against the impervious scales. A great claw crashed down, Runagir rolled aside but Duandan was done. He was crushed, scooped into the drake’s mouth and chewed up in a peal of shrieking armor. Incensed, the blackest of rages threatened to overtake Barak but he needed his wits. Seeing their strikes were fruitless, he sprang onto the drake and began to climb. The scales were sharper than blades, they sliced through his gauntlets and bit into bone, but Barak climbed on.

The berserker was less than a flea to Aravitrimore. Ignoring the dwarf, he wheeled at an approaching tide of tribesmen and drew a deep breath. The reavers raised their shields, but the stretched hide and reindeer bone was no protection against the knife breath of the diamond drake. They died to a man. The drake wheeled, his tail struck three berserkers and split them like a scythe. He thundered towards the shieldbearers, ready for a feast. Again he began to draw breath.

“Barak!” Cinabinathi cried again, not from fear, but amazement. Weeping a trail of blood, Barak scaled Aravitrimore’s long neck and crawled between the great drake’s eyes. The prismatic irises crossed, unable to focus. With a crimson grin, Barak drew his axe back and hacked at the drake’s slitted pupil. A nicatating membrane flicked over the eye to protect it but the heavy axe cleaved through and bit deep. Blood and goo flew as Barak hacked again and again, he dug deep into the jeweled eye.

With a roar of pain, Aravitrimore brought his claw across his face and swept aside the crazed insect. Barak hurtled through the air, crashed into the dirt and was still.

“Go for the right eye!” Cinabinathi cried. The hawkmoons took aim and launched a volley of shrieking arrows. All fell short save hers, which pierced the black of the dragonseye.

“Run!” she cried.

The elves took flight, the dwarves were too slow to react. Enraged, the blind drake charged forward and plowed through the shieldbearers. His great claws cut furrows into the ridge where the Hawkbows stood. He howled, loud enough to burst eardrums and squinted his damaged eye about, looking for Cinabinathi.

Instead, he found Prescote the Sage. Prescote was unperturbed by the roar, for his hearing was nearly gone anyway. He stared at the drake, pitting his aged eyes against Aravitrimore’s ancient orbs. Prescote invoked the final sigil on the black scroll. As he spoke the ruinous words, the scroll disintegrated into motes of blinding light. So to, did Prescote. In a single, all-consuming spell he transmuted his entire being into raw power and cast himself upon Aravitrimore in an avalanche of unbearable light. With a great roar, Aravitrimore turned aside but it was too late. His diamond scales grew luminous as stars and broke apart in a thousand explosions of pure white light.

All over the battlefield, the disorganized forces reeled, witness to a triumph that would last for ages, a sacrifice that would be never be forgotten.

Aravitrimore, the Diamond Drake, was slain.

* * *

"Welp. There goes the campaign," Vlad shook his head. "Check and see if his dice are loaded."

“No. Effin. Way,” Sandy moaned as Robin turned the rhinestone-studded dragon figurine on its side.

“Language!” Una barked from the doorway. The whole room flinched.