Daffyd and the Dragon

Swallowing hard, Daffyd took a couple of faltering steps back, feet slipping on the rocks just beneath the water’s surface almost causing him to fall. A flash of light caught the periphery of his right eye, something glinting just beneath the surface of the shallow stream, Sir George’s the sword, there, almost within reach, handle nearest him. If he could just get his hands on it, he might be able to defend himself.

The saurian creature moved toward him quickly, eating up the ground between them at an alarming rate, sleek muscles undulating and rippling as it rushed forward on all fours toward the boy, splashing and spraying the shallow water as it drew closer.

Time dwindling, he looked from the dragon to the sword, hastily realizing his options were all exhausted and making a diving lunge for the blade. Effort rewarded as he felt his fingers curling around the handle in the cool water as he rolled, coming up on a knee, the cold water making his gasp as he levelled the cold steel blade between him and the approaching dragon.

The beast haltered, drawing up, the end of the sword no more a foot or two from its elongated nose.

“Shoo!” Daffyd shouted holding the heavy sword uneasily with his left hand, tip still raised between the dragon and himself, as he pushed himself up with his right hand and rose cautiously to his feet. The great saurian beast moved its head from side to side, making an odd chuffing sound in its throat, baleful golden eyes regarding him intently.

“Go,” he said, stabbing feebly in the direction of the dragon, sword shaking in his hand. But the dragon didn’t back away, head still swaying in time with the blade, merciless reptilian eyes locked onto the frightened boy.

“Please,” Daffyd said softly, almost pleadingly, more scared than he could ever remember being before in his life, “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, shaking his head not certain he could harm it even if such was his intent.

The dragon elongated its neck forward and growled, a low menacing sound deep in its throat and Daffyd feared it might be readying another gout of flame with which to turn him into a cinder. Despite the intense want to run, he held his ground, yielding space very slowly. Not that he wanted to stay and necessarily fight, let alone kill the dragon, he just didn’t want to be killed by the dragon. But each time he took a step back, the dragon took one forward.

He jabbed forward with the sword, tip not coming close to the dragon, though he hoped the gesture might force it to back off. He had no idea where the horses had gotten, though suspected they were smarter than him and ran off.

The dragon reared back, flapping it wings in his direction, spraying him with cold water from the stream and lunging forward and sweeping a hand at him, stretching the wing membrane attached to its forearm taut as it lashed out.

Teeth chattering, whether from the cold water or fear, or both, Daffyd moved backward, stumbling uneasily over the unsure footing of the slippery stones underfoot. The dragon kept pace, jaw opening and closing, making a snapping sound.

“Be gone,” he commanded shakily, then he slipped, foot sliding off a rock and dropping him flat on his butt. Before he raise the blade, the beast was on him, talons curling around his chest and midsection, momentum carrying them and driving him onto his back bringing its crushing weight down directly on him, submersing him in the frigid water. Frantically, he tried to pull the razor sharp talons apart, slicing his fingers on claws like tempered steel.

Then he was weightless, borne aloft as the dragon spread it wings and took to flight, him looking at the leathery belly just above him, smeared in dark ichor from the wound Sir George inflicted. Hands that had scrambled to wrest open the wicked talons, now clutched desperately to hold onto them. He dreaded what he was sure was about to happen next, the dragon would take him high up into the sky and then drop him, just as it had done with the knight and the thought of falling filled him with a terrible fear reminding him of the time he had stood in the bell tower of the King’s Chapel, looking down from the great height had filled him with vertigo he thought for sure would make him fall. Craning his head to the side, he watched the ground get smaller with each flap of the beast’s wings, rising up over the trees far beyond the height of that tower.

“Please, please don’t drop me,” he babbled, clinging even more desperately to the dragon’s foot. From his vantage directly under the beast, he absently wondered why Sir George had called the dragon a female, he couldn’t discern anything indicative about its gender one way or the other.

He shook his head and frowned as he dangled beneath the beast, stupid the things to think about when death was imminent he thought sourly.

Higher and higher the creature climbed, ascending so high he could see over the hills of Crag Mor until they passed into a thick billowy cloud, the freezing mist numbing his already cold bloody hands and making it hard for him to keep a tight grip. Any moment now, he steeled himself, eyes screwed shut, fearing the dragon would simply open its claws and let him plummet back to the earth where it could pick leisurely at his bones, yet still they continued to fly,  force of the claws steadily tightening and squeezing the air from his lungs, making it increasingly more difficult to breathe. As he saw spots bursting before his eyes, it filled him with some comfort he would not be awake for the fall or if he wasn’t to be dropped, then when the beast devoured him. Embracing the darkness willingly, he blacked out.