The Halfling

Chapter 15

There Pire lay, his hide a scintillating honeycomb of jutting scales. The scales on his stomach gleamed a fiery white-gold in that bristling, luminous night. The spikes on his spine burst out like snapping woodwork as he breathed clouds of orange flames, killing more of the paltry beings before him.

His fingers snapped. From the loam and the metal about them, dummies emerged, an amalgam of rot-kissed stone and vine-lapped metal.

It made him laugh. These beings, whose eyes glowed and dilated when gazing at his treasure—his treasure, mind!—could not even handle the weakest of his summons! A pity!

Another cloud of flame, a thundering sight in the immense, dark halls. "How," he howled, "worthless you all are!"

Spears lurched from the battered soldiers, which scratched pitifully at the dragon's skin. Then, they skittered into useless sparks, metal grating against metal.

The air around them warmed, boiled, as if it was a simmering dog day and not nearing the start of winter. The dragon's stomach reddened, ready for another monstrous conflagration to be unleashed on these peasants. It would be the final blow. For ally and foe alike.

The dragon bent, his spine twisted, his head lurching so far back that his neck resembled a gnarling branch of oak. Now his body snapped forward. The flames coruscated amid the tenebrous whirls of dark sky-clouds, coiling into miniature lizards and snakes, all scorching, all broiling, all destructive.

It flew. It beamed. It ceased.

Only a cloud of smoke flitted by the halls. The room smelled of those oils and fires which swirled and crashed inside the beast's belly, forging those hundred-handed fires he had just launched.

Pire was satisfied. Like a cat, he rounded his hoard of jewels and stones, closed his eyes and made for sleep.

A spear flew from the ash-gray cloud. Now tens of them, wrought in the finest of Dwarven-craft, bulleting when the beast was careless. They broke into his skin, removing many of the ivory-white scales.

He roared. "Who dares! Who dares! Who dares! Show yourself!"

The smoke dissipated into small storms of dust. A boy emerged from the drapery of ash and soot, his face a bronzed face, kissed with bits and pieces of coal and detritus.

"You!" Pire roared. "It's you, boy! I know it! I felt you entering this place! Weeks ago—I should have burnt you to a crisp then! Hosed you in flames to the ground! Who are you!"

The boy raised the staff. It glowed. "I'm the one who'll slay you."

The dragon's wings flicked over him like a white chrysalis and he burst into the air, displacing stones and sculptures and ornaments, all of which crashed onto the ground with a drumming thud.

Another furious burst of fire. It landed. It landed! Surely, it must have!

The clouds disappeared. The boy stood still, his face set, grave.

The beast now saw what happened. The flames emerged from his mouth just fine, whirling and clawing as they should. But when they reached the boy, his staff emitted a bluish light that fashioned something which created the cloud of smoke.

"All very fine trickery, boy!"

It saw now what had happened: the flames emerged just fine, whirling and clawing. But, when they reached the boy, his staff emitted a sort of light which parted the flames and dissipated them.

And though they got past him, the flames never even licked one of the men! They just floated off into thin air, harmless, as if a puffy cloud fondling your face. First they came like a great flood's crashing, but were then reduced to the pall of a candlelight flickering out.