Caspar slapped Jerad on the shoulder, stared into his eyes. Jerad did everything he could to maintain eye contact with the man’s dazzling golden gaze. Caspar went down the line and did the same with the rest of his companions: Huru; priest of the Owl, Dunja; wizard of the Protectorate, Twilight; deepscout and expert on dragon killing. Caspar himself was a Warrior of the Retaliation, and next to Jerad, he was a golden god.
Jerad had joined a few adventuring groups before. He’d even wet his spear on a goblin last spring. Sure, it was the Autumn already, but he’d been busy rolling in the hay with farmer Bearoot’s daughter. What was her name again? Anyway, he’d gotten a head full of self esteem from that early adventure and the easy treasure gathered from it. Ultimately, that may have led him to overestimate his ability, perhaps even… stretch the truth of his abilities, to Caspar and the other Vindicators.
When the round of potions came to him, Jerad didn’t question, he drank. The first soothed his aches, the second made him feel light, and the third? The third was perhaps the best thing he’d ever felt in his entire existence. All of his worries and problems dropped away. He was going to slay a dragon. He was going to be a hero. He focused on what Caspar was saying.
“We stick to the plan and get out of here alive and far richer than we dared imagine.” He drew his shining steel blade, gripped his golden shield. “Jerad, stick close to me and I’ll watch out for you. When I say stab, you stab. Got it?”
Jerad nodded. “Got it,” he said, surprising even himself with his newfound confidence.
“Good,” Caspar looked into the narrow corridor. By all measures the dragon slumbered. “Glory to the Vindicators. Go!”
Caspar led the way down the tunnel and Jerad followed close behind, finding in his amazement his feet were not touching the ground, like Caspar, he was flying. It made him queasy. The potions he’d consumed rumbled in his stomach and he fought the gorge in his throat. The others followed behind the two warriors, also airborne. Exhilaration surged through Jerad. Now this was being a hero! Yet, somewhere at the back of his thoughts, the real him was screaming and knew: without the potions he’d have been terrified at the prospect of flight. The prospect of falling really. Not to mention charging a dragon’s lair. Yet, all of that had left his mind. Replaced with an almost childlike confidence in the face of danger.
The wyrm below was immense. It had been a terror of the Old Kingdom and had only recently reawakened to pester the citizens and surrounding countryside of New Haven. Caspar and his Vindicators were contracted to slay the beast and had taken Jerad on because they needed a spearman. And frankly he was the only one stupid enough to think he could ride The Vindicators’s success.
The long sinuous body, lit by Huru’s spell, was a mass of shining black scales. Great leathery wings lay folded along massive flanks, and the sick acrid smell permeated the air around it. It snorted as the group approached and Jerad wondered. The great beast lifted its head, its eyes popped open, and Jerad felt the knotted twinge of fear in his gut at the confirmation. The wyrm had awakened or worse, was never asleep.
Whether his proximity to Caspar, or his new found liquid courage, Jerad stayed his course. There was no way to change now. At least that’s what he thought in the moment. Potions and glory were a hell of a drug.
The great wyrm reared, twisting its massive bulk as easy as a garden snake dodging a rake. Wings unfolded and the head came in line with the rapidly approaching paladin and spearman. The acrid odor spiked and Jerad felt his insides beg for release.
“Stay behin—” was all he heard Caspar say. Jerad had positioned himself as instructed, and when the blast of liquid washed over them, it was Caspar’s shield it hit. The spray was largely diverted, but the screams from behind him—from Dunja he thought—told him not all had been as lucky.
Jerad’s armor smoked where droplets of the potentially deadly liquid splashed. A steady stream of gray smoke poured from Caspar’s shield, but this had not stopped his advance. This was not Caspar’s first dragon.
“Ready!” he called out and Jerad gripped his spear, which had taken minor damage from the blast.
“Ready,” Jerad yelled. Caspar closed on the dragon, slashing his blade into the scaled hide, and cutting into and between scale and muscle, opening a cut along the creatures side. Jerad felt a rush of exultation.
“Stab!” Caspar shouted above the dragon’s massive roar. Jerad drove his spear downward, burying the spear tip deep into the open wound. The corresponding roar of pain rocked the cavern.
The plan had worked. For the moment.
In its rage the dragon reared up, extended great leathery wings outward, filling the chamber from end to end. Then, they flapped, and the wind created sent Caspar, Jerad, and the rest of the Vindicators caroming off the walls of the cavern. Caspar slammed into Jerad, the force of the blow knocking the breath out of him. He’d lost his spear and, in the moment before he slammed into the cavern wall, saw it was still sticking out of the great black wyrm’s side.
Caspar lay motionless, slumped against the cavern wall. A slow shaky hand lifted, moved to the paladin’s chest, and he intoned a word. Vigor filled Caspar and, without sparing a glance Jerads’s way, the plane-touched warrior charged back into the battle. Twilight was next to him, firing arrow after arrow at the black dragon. Jerad found himself wishing he’d brought a better backup weapon than the short sword inherited from his town watchman father. He drew the blade. He still had the power of flight and—to his detriment—was still imbued with the heady mix of potions swirling in his stomach.
The others continued the fight as Jerad got his bearings. Dunja, the wizard, narrowly dodged a blow from the dragon’s immense tail. It slammed into the ground near her and she was saved as a translucent bubble formed around the wizard, keeping her from great harm.
In the tumult, Huru appeared next to Jerad. The half-orc bent down and said a prayer to the Owl. Jerad’s confidence resurged. In an unexpected turn, the priest handed him another spear. This one was of better make than his own spear, which the dragon had just pulled from his hide and tossed away like a toothpick. Jerad grasped the spear from Huru, who smiled, the sharp canines of her orcish heritage showing.
Sheathing his father’s blade and gripping the spear in two hands he flew back into the battle.
Caspar flew about the dragon’s head, shield still smoking from the dragon’s acidic breath. Jerad focused on the gaping wound at the dragon’s chest. Caspar had explained the chest was heavily armored but with the appropriate damage they could get to the vulnerable heart beneath.
A black fletched arrow flew past him and into the dragon’s hide. Dunja shot a bolt of lightning, which scarred the scaly hide and made the dragon roar in pain. Jerad aimed his spear at the wound and focused his will on the spot. He would slay this dragon.
Flying high, Caspar hit the creature across the face and the dragon rolled, knocking the paladin away from him, and moving Jerad’s target out of line. He was unable to stop his inexorable flight toward the creature and plunged the spear into the scaly armor of the creature’s back where it stuck fast.
From his vantage atop the dragon he could see his companions shooting, casting spells, and harrying the monster with every weapon in their arsenal. Caspar was down on the ground, near the dragon, Huru rushing to his aid. He’d taken a thrashing in the last exchange. Jerad realized he needed to get away and placed his feet against the side of the dragon to assist in pulling the spear free. It didn’t budge.
Then, two things happened. The dragon spoke a word. Jerad did not recognize the speech immediately, but the effect was obvious, as he was now hanging from the end of the spear. Yet, his confidence remained, and instead of falling to his death—he merely gripped his spear more intently. He was unsure if he should feel invigorated by the giddy feeling the dragon had canceled out his magic when there were so many of veterans arrayed against him. Perhaps that first thrust with the spear had made him wary.
The dragon took to the wing, flying up higher in his lair chamber, as everything below became engulfed in darkness. Caspar, Huru, Twilight, and Dunja all disappeared from view. A shaking grunting came from the dragon and, to his horror, Jerad realized it was laughing. The darkness blocked the Vindicator’s line of sight to the monster. He was on his own.
He heaved with all his might, pulling the shaft downward as his legs scrabbled against the side of the great dragon. Laugh transformed to feral roar and the great wyrm flapped its wings harder, gaining momentum and altitude. When it struck the ceiling of the chamber, boulders crashed below. His right hand came loose from its purchase as the spear shaft snapped in two. His left arm burned from the effort of supporting his fully armored weight.
The dragon dropped to remain in flight, but Jerad saw it had not gone far, in fact it had gone just far enough to repeat the maneuver. He strained his arm until he finally caught an edge of scale with the right hand and pulled both hands together on the stuck weapon. The dragon went up again. The chamber shook and Jerad felt his arms going numb, it took all his will and liquid courage surging, just to maintain the hold.
He was dizzy. A smaller than boulder-sized rock hit his helm in the last exchange with the ceiling of the lair. Jerad had a sinking feeling the dragon was winning. He held on in the daze, unsure if the golden bolt rising out of the darkness below was a hallucination or the result of magics hereto unknown to him. Then, realization came. Caspar charged through the darkness from below at full speed. The dragon’s breath now nearly eaten through his once great shield, a grimace of determination writ across his golden face, his sword blazing with vengeful flame.
Out of the dissipating darkness, three other forms emerged. Twilight, his longbow singing, shot arrows in a high arc at the monster. Huru cast a spell, a whirlwind formed, and flew at the dragon. A ring of flaming rocks surrounded Dunja, when she pointed, three flew at the dragon leaving streaks of fire in their wake.
Jerad held on for dear life.
The dragon rocked with the new impacts. Jerad was only tangentially aware of the battle, his whole will turned to gripping the spear. An explosion rocked the cavern. Jerad felt himself fall, though he held fast to the spear. He heard a voice and obeyed it.
“Let go!” it said, and he did. Instead of falling, he was again rising, a strong armored arm around him. Caspar. He’d dropped the ruined shield and caught Jerad. The dragon fell through wisps of lingering dark and slammed into the cavern floor below. With a great shudder, it died.
Jerad could hardly stand and was glad when Caspar placed him steady on the ground. The others landed around them.
Twilight whistled, his eyes catching and reflecting the light. “That was some crazy shit, Jerad the Dragonrider,” he said. “I can’t believe you survived.”
“You did well, Jerad. Not many would have the fortitude for such,” Caspar said. “Steady,” he added, letting go of Jerad, but keeping a hand on his shoulder. Huru steadied him and spoke a word. The magic made him feel suddenly much better. The half-orc reached into her satchel and opened it, drawing forth a spearhead and long shaft, nearly identical to the second spear still in the dragon. She shrugged.
“We go through a lot of spearmen,” she said, handing the spear out for him to take. He was numb, he took the spear, but the sudden revelation would sit in his mind and stew. His bravado was not meant to last forever and when it dissipated he would recall: they expected me to die.
“Okay, everyone, make sure the area is secure. We have a trove to locate and distribute. Check every nook and corner of this place.”
The team broke into groups. Twilight with Huru, Caspar with Dunja, and Jerad by himself. He tried not to think of this as a slight. After all, they had all expected he would die, why would they bother to become attached? He put it out of his mind. He’d lived, he’d helped slay a dragon, and the horde awaited compiling and distribution.
