The Shield Bearer paused in its stride as it became aware of the avalanche of evil approaching it and turned to face it, raising its sword in preparation. Its eyes, each the size of a man’s head, scanned the sky to the east and spotted a cluster of tiny flying shapes, silhouetted against the brightness of the rising yellow sun. The shapes grew larger as they approached, becoming clearer and more distinct until their true nature was apparent, and the giant’s face became set in determination. It recognised that the creatures speeding towards it were strong enough to destroy its material body, but it wasn’t worried about that. It just meant that its spirit would be returning to its true home a little earlier than expected, where it would continue to fight the forces of evil in other ways.

     Then the dragons spotted it and angled in towards it, their burning red eyes gleaming with excitement. They hadn’t been told what they were going up against, and thought that it was just another humanoid giant, isolated communities of which were to be found in desolate, isolated spots all over the continent. Dragons are highly intelligent creatures, and several of them had wondered why it took a dozen of them to kill one giant, but few of the Shadowlord’s commands made good strategic sense and they assumed that this was just another example of this. As they were about to find out, though, assumptions can be extremely dangerous.

     Despite being fifty feet tall, the Shield Bearer was still dwarfed by the flying reptiles, each of which was between three and five times as long from nose to tail as the giant was tall. Had he been an ordinary giant, as the dragons thought he was, the blast of flame from the leading red dragon would have turned him into a roasted fifty foot corpse, but the flames were reflected harmlessly by the barrier of holy power the Shield Bearer had erected around itself, and as the astonished reptile flashed past at a dizzying, unbelievable speed the huge sword swung and a long gash was opened in the dragon’s side. Blood and entrails spilled out, splattering the rocks lining the valley walls, and the dragon wavered in its flight, unable to believe what had happened to it. It lost consciousness, flipped over and plummeted three hundred feet to smash into a long, rocky outcrop, making a sickening crunch that echoed up and down the valley and was heard even in Belthar, where the last units of the Imperial Beltharan army were regrouping in preparation for their transfer to their new postings.

     The other dragons were horrified by the loss of their fellow, but had already begun their own dives and were unable to pull out of them. Some of them veered off to the side, narrowly escaping crashing into the valley walls, but the largest of them, a huge, ancient creature scarred from a thousand other battles, continued on, determined to avenge the red. A stream of almost invisible blue fire shot from its gaping jaws, but it was also reflected from the giant’s holy shield to scorch the surrounding rocks, setting a wide area of shrubby foliage ablaze. Again the sword swung as the dragon flashed past, severing the last thirty feet of the dragon’s tail. It fell to the ground, where it twisted and writhed like an agonised earthworm, and the dragon, unbalanced by the loss of so much of its body weight, had to struggle to maintain level flight and make a safe landing half a mile away. Blood jetted from the raw stump until a juvenile, one of its great grandchildren, landed alongside and cauterised it with a blast of flame.

     The other dragons circled uncertainly above the giant. This was obviously no easy victim, as they’d been led to believe. Their breath weapons were apparently useless against it, and the only other weapons they had were their teeth and claws. That would mean going in close, though, and they’d seen what the giant’s sword was capable of. Had they been left to their own devices they’d have given up and gone off to find an easier victim, but the Shadowlord was insistent. The valley had to be cleared, and it didn’t matter how many of the flying reptiles were lost in the process. The Demon Prince increased the power it was exerting over them, therefore, and the dragons wailed as they were forced to obey.

     Two more dragons, another red and a smaller forest dragon, dove at the Shield Bearer, the green dragon leading and separated by five hundred feet from its fellow. It wasn’t a flypast this time, though, but a direct attack in which the flying reptile aimed itself directly at the middle of the giant’s chest. The hollow boned reptile knew that it was sure to suffer all kinds of injuries from the collision alone, let alone the giant’s sword, but the Shadowlord’s command was simply too strong to ignore. If the giant could be knocked off its feet, it would be an easy target for the others.

     The Shield Bearer dodged sideways at the last moment, but the forest dragon still struck the giant’s shoulder, knocking it aside and smashing one of its arms. The dragon then smashed into the almost sheer rock face with another crunch and then the red, following close behind, landed on top of the Shield Bearer, searching furiously for a gap in its armour with its teeth and claws.

     The holy giant was tremendously strong, and even with a broken arm it was able to throw the giant reptile aside and run it through with its sword. The other dragons, meanwhile, seeing their enemy temporarily weakened, began to dive in turn, each of them suddenly eager to be the one to destroy such a powerful opponent. They were too slow, though, and the Shield Bearer had time to pray to Samnos for healing, repairing its broken arm, before aiming its sword at the diving reptiles. A flash of light leapt from the tip of the sword and the leading dragon exploded in a shower of blood and scales. The sword flashed again, and again, and again, and the dragons scattered in terror, fleeing for cover behind crags and spires of rock.

     The Shield Bearer searched up and down the valley, looking for their hiding places. He forgot about the corpses lying around its feet, one of which stirred weakly and raised its horned head. It had suffered massive injuries in its collision with the rock face, smashing most of its bones and rupturing its internal organs, but the Shadowlord wouldn’t let it rest. The Demon Prince filled the dying reptile with his unholy power, urging it on to one final, supreme effort, and the forest dragon had no choice but to obey.

     The Shield Bearer was standing less than twenty feet away and the dragon summoned the last of its strength to stretch out its long, serpentine neck, bruised and bleeding in a dozen places. Its head slipped inside the giant’s shield of holy power, designed to keep out breath weapons rather than flesh and blood, and it drew in a deep breath, wincing as each broken rib dug deep into muscle and tissues. That last effort was too much for it, though, and it died, the breath whistling out from between its slack, broken jaws and carrying with it the dragon’s breath weapon; a cloud of poison gas.

     The giant’s holy shield, designed to be a barrier to dragon breath weapons, contained the cloud of green gas and trapped it around the Shield Bearer’s body. The Shield Bearer itself was spirit, almost immortal and all but indestructible, but to exist in the mortal world it needed a living body and that body, no matter how powerful, had to breathe. The Shield Bearer had taken a breath of the poison gas before it knew what was happening and suddenly its massive lungs were aflame with agony.

     The other dragons saw it clawing at its throat, realised what had happened and launched into a new, joyful attack, once more eager to destroy the hated enemy. The giant collapsed its holy shield in an attempt to dispel the gas, and a blast of flame caught it directly in the chest, turning it instantly into a fifty foot inferno. The huge sword lashed out one last time, though, severing the dragon’s left wing and one of its back legs, and the mortally wounded reptile crashed into a pile of boulders, blood spurting from its stumps. The young red landed next to it, intending to cauterise its wounds as it had its ancestor's tail, but the older dragon had lost too much blood and it died later that day.

     It lived long enough to see the Shield Bearer’s end, though. Its rapidly darkening eyes sparkled with malevolent hatred and glee as one breath weapon after another hit the giant; more gouts of flame from the reds and clouds of poison gas from the greens until the mortal remains of the Shield Bearer were reduced to a large black cinder on the cracked and blistered rocks. Even then the dragons weren’t finished, though, but took additional revenge for their fallen comrades by falling on the remains and tearing them apart.

☆☆☆

     To the observer up on Kronos, it looked like a pack of monstrous vultures fighting over the carcass of a rabbit. Captain Foss was almost in tears as he described the scene to Resalintas, but the old priest had neither the time nor the patience for such an emotional outburst. “How many dragons dead?” he snapped.

     “Seven,” replied Foss, struggling to regain his composure. “Seven dead, one mortally wounded, one injured and grounded and three still healthy and flying.”

     “Keep me informed of any new developments,” said the old priest and severed the telepathic connection.

     “Eight down,” he murmured to himself. “Four left.” It was about what he’d expected. He had hoped that the Shield Bearer might take a heavier toll of the dragons, maybe even kill all of them, but he’d known that that had been an unrealistic expectation. Still, eight dragons dead and one reduced to slithering around on the ground would make a serious dent in the enemy’s forces. It was no secret that the enemy’s dragons, flying free and unopposed in the heart of Belthar, was one of the things the empire’s commanders feared most. Now that threat had been reduced by more than half.

     And now, of course, the rest of the Shadowarmy would be on the move, entering the valley in their hundreds of thousands, and there was now nothing and no-one left to stop them. Belthar’s soft underbelly was exposed to the enemy, and the only chance they had to escape total defeat was Field Marshal Haines’s desperate plan. The next couple of weeks would tell whether they had a chance for survival, or whether Tharia was indeed fated to become an undead world. Resalintas stood and marched out. He had much to do and far, far too little time in which to do it...

     A messenger came running to catch up with him. “Sir, a package just came in...”

     “Not now!” snapped the old priest, waving a hand dismissively while continuing to march.

     The messenger walked silently a step behind him, though, the fingers of his hands twining together nervously. Clearly torn between his duty to pass on his message and his fear of the old priest. His young face was twisted in an agony of indecision as he tried to summon the courage to speak and Resalintas cursed himself for the effect he had on loyal, valiant people. He knew he should be more approachable, but he couldn't help being what he was and was usually too busy to try.

     He tried to put his troubles out of his mind for the moment, therefore, and stopped, turning back to the messenger. "I'm sorry," he said. "What is it? What package?"

     “Sir, it’s from one of the wolf pack teams down near Pastora. Centaur team. They sent in a package by special courier...”

     Resalintas froze and the messenger's eyes widened with terror. Then the old priest spun around and grabbed the messenger by the lapels, his steel grey eyes gleaming with feverish excitement and his hands trembling with emotion. “Where?” he demanded. “The package! Where is it?”

     The messenger could only gesture vaguely in the direction of the Quartermaster’s office and the old priest ran, actually ran, to the Quartermaster’s office, staggering at one point as arthritis sent a sharp spike of pain through his newly ancient joints. He dismissed the pain with a grimace of annoyance and made himself run again, shoving aside anyone who got in his way. People stared at him in wonder. No-one had ever seen him run like that before. He only ever ran in the heat of battle, or around one of the practice tracks during his daily fitness regime. Other than that, Resalintas marched everywhere. To move about in any other way was undignified and bad for discipline, his own and that of his subordinates. Now, though, he ran without a thought for the effect he was having on those around him, his one thought to get the package that quite possibly contained the last hope of the world.

     He burst into the office and grabbed the Quartermaster by the shoulder. The next day the poor man would have livid purple bruises there, so fierce was the old priest’s grip upon him. “A package came for me!” he puffed, breathing heavily from the exertion of the run. It hadn’t completely sunk in yet that he was now twenty years older than he’d been just a few days ago. “A package from Centaur wolf pack. Where is it?”

     “What?” said the Quartermaster in surprise. “Oh yes. It’s down here somewhere.” He began rummaging around under his desk.

     “Hurry, man! Hurry!” cried Resalintas impatiently, and the Quartermaster came up a moment later with a package wrapped in soft leather.

     Resalintas snatched it from him and tore the leather wrapping away to reveal the casket that Thomas Gown and his friends had recovered from the Ruby Keep. He tried to open it but it was locked shut. He prayed to Samnos with a grimace of irritation and tried again.

     This time it opened, and inside he saw a sheaf of timestained papers, the Scrolls of Skava. He glanced quickly over them, just enough to be sure of what they were, and then he fell to his knees. Both his knees. Not just one as was his usual custom.

     “Thank you, my Lord!” he cried, his aged, craggy face turned up to the ceiling. “Thank you!” and the Quartermaster was astonished to see that there were tears flowing down his veined and sagging cheeks.