XI

"Die!" Roared the blue, lightning coursing from his maw. Claws extended, they crackled with power, raw, elemental, blinding forks arcing and frying any who strayed too close.

Inside the monastery, Balthazar waited. Two years he had waited for this day; his entire life time spent preparing. The building trembled but the wards held. Carved from rock, set high above the desert town of Amkethran, the ramp leading up had collapsed; ringed by the draconic horde, the order elite and mercenaries rained sheets of broadheads and bolts dipped in poison. The defending mages and clerics countered and dispelled their rivals' magicks, occasionally throwing their own at the seething mass below, which in turn was countered and shielded. Back and forth the magic raged, but that was only the backdrop to the true battle.

Wyverns fell in droves; eyes punctured by the diminishing arrow storm. Tens of thousands of bolts, hundreds of thousands of arrows; composite desert riding bows, longbows and repeating crossbows. Enchanted ballistae, firepot launching catapults. A lifetime of stockpiling.

Abazigal burst through the sandstone wall, the upper stories shredded by a host of mighty claws; the dragon shoved the smaller dragonkin aside, several of them falling to the desert sands below, wings and bodies broken. The monk elite charged with halberds, jian, meteor hammers, twin sais, and daos. A host of weaponry for a host of scales. Swooping, Abazigal swept all aside, making for the dais.

Time seemed to stop.

Balthazar blurred, as if shedding mortal flesh and half phasing to a being of light. Faster than his followers' eyes could track, his limbs, like tempered steel, flexed and struck. A thousand times they struck. Dragonscale, harder than iron, pummelled as a blacksmith's hammer. No finesse, no grace, only raw strength and technique. Hands as claws, palms and fist, gripping, ripping, cutting, pounding. Fingertips as diamond, hands' edge as blades, he was the living weapon. Elbow and forearm intermixed, a serpent's lunge, a spiral lance, twisting, tearing, bleeding from razored scales. Then he broke through the draconic mail; off came the kite-shaped plates. He did not kick, he did not need to. Electric breath, the dragon's wrath, discharged, but the other took it; a speeding arrow seemed slow by comparison.

Abazigal roared, for the first time, pain entering his rage. His head swept this way and that; his claws lashed wildly. His tail smashed through empty air, shattering the dais. Balthazar was in his element. Pure, determined, fearless focus. His eyes glowed like the Solar, pinpricked stars, divine essence coursing through him. Harnessed, channelled, he brought murder's touch to dragonflesh; his fist plunged through shredded scale, opening inside. Abazigal screamed. Desperately he thrashed, unable to escape. Each swing had been sidestepped, each sweep jumped over; his magics interrupted, his concentration shattered. Balthazar's hand found the dragon's heart; their sire's power glowed crimson.

Abazigal reared, shook, and collapsed, his legs unable to hold him, his life-organ sundered.

Balthazar fell back, breathing heavily. His body smouldered, smoke rose from him. Drawing in on himself, he unleashed the power he had mastered. White encased him and through the pain few mortals could stand, his wounds began to heal.

Golden dust choked the room; in its maelstrom Balthazar sat, drawing it into himself. Panic spread through the draconic ranks. The battle was over.