A Wyrm, not a Worm (2)

Ol-Lozen danced around his dragon, considering its weapons.

Teeth, claws, spiked tail, flame, bulk, wings ending in claws; every part of the creature’s anatomy was proportionally lethal. From moment of birth it was perfectly suited to tear flesh from bone, an apex predator of all that drew breath and lived through keeping its blood inside its skin. Orkan were no exception, and through generations of trial and error – triumphs, funerals, and wisdom past down from parent to child – had managed to survive, thrive, develop tactics, eventually upsetting the established food chain, and driven the dragons to extinction.

Now, the world belonged to those born green and bipedal; Ol-Lozen intended to illuminate for this derivative wyrm why that was – through force of arms.

Daigay pointed to him, her finger following the movements of his legs. “Watch child. See how he moves.”

And move he did. The wyrm first thought to snake its head down, catch him in its jaws and fling the body like a ragdoll. To do so it opened those jaws and gave the game away. Ol-Lozen, knees bent and limber, ducked to the right keeping a measured distance, and the only prey those teeth found were his winds. Seeing an opening he slashed upwards with his bloodsword at the wyrm’s eye but the sword only glanced off the harder scales of its chin. There’s one, he thought, dodging back, narrowly missing a three-taloned swipe that would have plucked his knee like an apple.

“The hind legs flex, digging in – it winds up for a blow.”

“The wyrm’s tail!” shouted Mouse.

“Do not tell. Command.”

Rotating sideways, the tail lanced past Ol-Lozen harmlessly. He struck again with the bloodsword as the tail retracted, reverse-angled spines forcing him to shuffle lest a bloody trail gouge out across his chest. The blade bounced off, rattling his arm. There’s the second.

“Why? The fight’s not turning on him.”

“Execution and refinement. You lack experience – that is why. Execution will let you learn what is right or wrong. Refinement will clever your moves and more often lead you to correct ones. Now, command.”

Ol-Lozen jumped backwards. His heart beat with more rapidity than it had in some time. A burning sensation spread through his muscles, though it was a nostalgic burn. A healthy burn; a sign his body was exerting, and consequently still functioned. Exertion to this degree had not existed before, while he resided at the hovel, cooking and cleaning. There were certainly worse burns to endure. As the wyrm’s jaws opened wide and a spark started behind its tonsils he foresaw a nasty one moments from spilling forth. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, preparing to dodge.

“Demon, strike the open mouth!”

Mouse’s voice cracked across his consciousness like a gunshot. Thrown from balance, Ol-Lozen stepped back, the opposite of onwards, and his glowing airway tied itself off, the runed collar interpreting self-preservation as disobedience of the little girl who’d ordered his execution by sizzling. The only alternative being death by strangulation, he swallowed his fear and lunged forth into the beast’s glowing maw. Blood squirted down the blade as it bit into soft wyrm palate.

“Girl, I hope you have a plan!” he shouted. The cavernous throat grew brighter. Unabated. Hot breath wafted along his skin. With monstrous strength the creature pressed into the blade against Ol-Lozen, driving the blade deeper.

“When the creature rears its head,” Daigay warned, “what comes next should be obvious.”

The first tendril of flame licked down the beast’s wavering tongue, but the cinch around his throat hadn’t seen fit to release. Not enough obedience. Foul smelling blood leaked down his arm. The wyrm continued pushing, teeth closing in on his hands. “Girl!”

“Fire… I don’t know how to control it…” Mouse’s voice had gone dry.

“Wyrmfire,” Daigay corrected. “Trickier flame. Think, Mouse, or you’ll lose your demon.”

“With wind I can push the flames aside.”

“Not fast enough.”

“But there’s no water. I need wind.”

“Do you?”

“MOUSE!” Ol-Lozen roared. Inferno roiled up the wyrm’s gullet, vivid and all-consuming.

“Oh!” The girl’s hands clapped together as the idea came. Shimmer encircled the wyrm’s jaws, and would have slammed both halves together if not for the sword in their path. The lower jaw crashed into the bloodmetal, nearly tearing the blade from Ol-Lozen’s grip.

Third. How unlucky, he mused.

Daigay nodded approvingly. “Good effort, but your bind is weak.

With the only direction for the flames to travel now directly towards his vulnerable face, Ol-Lozen formed his free hand into a fist. He swung with all his might at the wyrm’s mouth, driving his only other weapon directly into the jaw, wincing at the sturdiness of the bone found there. Something popped unpleasantly. It was enough to turn the reptilian head away from him before the terrible gout of flame spurted forth –

– now in the direction of the two magi helping from afar.

“How generous of Ol-Lozen to share some excitement with us,” laughed Daigay. She stepped forward smiling, as if the impending conflagration were nothing more than an irritably determined firefly she would have taste the back of her hand. She raised her bandaged hand, waiting, her features flattening as the wall of hungry light sped closer. And at the last moment – she did precisely that. With a backhanded strike the fires dematerialized, sparks spinning off in wild directions while she remained unharmed without a scorch on her person, smug satisfaction the only heat left radiating.

“Crazy old woman,” muttered Ol-Lozen as Mouse shouted praises. The child had enough sense to hide behind the boulder instead of facing the fire head-on. You’d think by now I’d expect such rashness. Grimacing, he navigated the new terrain of his hand and pulled the dislocated fingers back into their joints with a pained gasp, and raised the bloodsword ready as the wyrm’s head swerved back to face his.

“Orkan, why do you hold your weapon in reserve? Is it not meant for use?”

The two had no earthly idea. They had never danced in the virtual training sector, never gone silent with awe as the red waves rippled through the hall, floor to walls, with a single stroke. No understanding their current distance offered no safety, for they stood still in the weapon’s obliterating radius. The weapon banged a starved reminder against his back.

If the magi would not move, then he’d force the wyrm to.

“Come on!” he shouted, retreating from the beast, sword swung wide to grab its notice. “Follow me! That’s it, beast, come to me!” The wyrm turned following his movements, but only with its head, all of its weight placed onto the still whole leg acting as a rotator. It did not move further than needed. If only it retained both legs. Then again, better the dragon hadn’t. “A tasty meal never tried before. Or, will you be mine?” he taunted. With a fist he struck his chest, beating it like a war drum.

That did the trick. The creature made a hopping motion, weak as its balance was. A little closer. Closer still. Just a few more.

“Demon! Attack the wounded leg!” cried Mouse.

In the deep recess of his mind, Ol-Lozen saw the logic of the girl’s command: the sword bounced off the hide, so why not strike where muscle, vein, and bone were already exposed? A sound idea, he internally agreed, even as rage escaped from between his gritted teeth, dragged by the cinching of his runed collar back into the wyrm’s reach.

A shadow wide and claw-tipped fell over his head. He caught the blow with his bloodsword, blade slipping between two of the wyrm’s yellowed knives to stop them a hair’s breadth from his face, close enough to smell animalistic musk; traces of meal and soil and brimstone. The wyrm’s strength was monstrous. For a moment he held, shaking, but the sword was flung from his hands when the creature pressed, throwing the sword out of reach and Ol-Lozen bodily to the hard ground. The wyrm’s head snapped towards him jaws open, their magic bond pulled apart. Death closed in, warm and salivating.

And with a gust of wind was blown away.

Ol-Lozen tumbled head over legs across the plateau, roars telling him the wyrm had been caught as well. In between flashes of dirt to sky to wyrm he saw the beast recoil again and again, wings spreading against successive blasts of air from Mouse’s hands, lifted slightly by one before another blast pushed it little by little furthering it away from the magi and towards the plateau’s edge. Ol-Lozen came to rest, wiped dust from his eyes, sore but mostly unharmed, when the wyrm roared irritation against the pesky gnats Mouse peppered its hide with, rage unfurling as flame. A silver glitter caught his eye. What was this terror’s blood composed of? He dove for it, taking the hilt of the bloodsword in hand and with the wyrm in his sights took aim, letting the blade fly, end over end, and his aim was true. Though it clattered harmlessly off the beast’s snout, more than enough impact it held to draw ire, and Ol-Lozen darted for his skin to a boulder of ample size, taking cover as scouring flame spilled around the gnawed edges, and risked a glance before the rock had cooled, judging distances. And he smiled.

For now, their battle had ended.

From its black sheath Ol-Lozen drew his alien sword, onyx-frosted metal drinking in the muted sunlight and molten rock. It felt right in his hands, comfortable, same as the day the grizzled operator placed handed her to him, chosen from his weapon rack of siblings.

But you’re not one for guns. You’ve a personal touch in you, the close-up type. You want to feel your work firsthand.

Roaring with vigor to match the wyrm, Ol-Lozen charged from cover, blade trailing behind him ready to swing; for slaughter.

Don’t let the old world design fool you: this bitch only looks innocent. Her kiss has been honed for breaking siege and spirit, rendering foes down to red smears and their heaviest armor columns into scrap. The moment you heft her is the moment she owns you. Carnage is her dinner bell. The cacophony of fray, her courtroom. She abhors her solemn history and the only justice due her are overwhelming odds.

The wyrm swiped with a claw, but Ol-Lozen was ready. He ducked under the attack, slid into the wyrm’s guard. His back muscles strained with the effort of swinging, momentum carrying the blade’s edge into the monster's resilient hide.

For a nanosecond, the blade held.

Then, the blade sloshed. A chemical reaction was ignited by sudden interruption of velocity, the liquid sequestered within a narrow channel through the blade’s spine continuing their momentum forward – explosively. Backdraft from impact kept Ol-Lozen and the blade dry of bodily fluids as the wyrm’s leg was not merely severed but driven apart, area of the blow widening to encompass the creature’s shoulder, chest, neck, and the hollow bones of its wings in its radius. With the full force of impact transferred onto the wyrm Ol-Lozen’s body was spared of damage beyond ringing ears, though the creature was not so fortunate as its flight path included the oak clear on the plateau’s other end under which it found shade, coming to sudden halt with a sickening crunch.

For a breath, all was quiet upon the land; quiet, and silent awe.

Ol-Lozen steadied his grip as the wyrm’s mangled body stood one more. Its crushed chest quivered and fell, reeking of burnt hair mixed with traces of animal protein; the shoulder detached from its skeleton, skin stretched and rubbery like a deflated balloon; its neck had caved in, and bent at an angle incompatible with life.

At that moment, that step in the dance, the clouds parted, allowing a ray of light to fall upon the blade’s length, though whether by a god’s will or pure happenstance was left to more clever, conspiratorial minds, and illuminated engraved words along its spine.

The MOAS-6 Tankbuster.

The wyrm –

No, the dragon.

– shuddered once, then collapsed. Dead from a single blow.