Dance of the Dragon (6) — Finale
"The dragon has fallen!"
"So I see. They handled themselves well over there."
Ashtien had been watching everything unfold from the sky above. She had borne witness to Attila's feats as well.
"I knew he was no ordinary man, but I never imagined he was capable of this."
—Unexpected, truly.
The words came from the very one who had cast the chain — his assessment of Attila.
—A weary dragon, yes. But a dragon is still a dragon. No mortal man could stand against one. And yet he walked straight up to that dragon's face and bound its greatest weapon.
It was a feat that demanded audacious courage, and one that required staggering strength.
"...A true figure has emerged, then."
Vesta had overheard. He asked with a troubled look on his face.
"The black centaur, was it?"
Tei and Attila had been assigned to that sector. So if anyone there had achieved a great deed, it could only have been the golden centaur or the black one.
Those two were special.
'And the one who earned this honor is probably Attila.'
That was what Vesta believed — because deep in his heart, he acknowledged the man's full capability.
"Yes. The Light performed admirably as well, but..."
The leading role had gone to Attila.
"Just as I thought."
Frankly, it didn't sit well with him. Not out of jealousy over Attila's achievements — accomplishments had never been Vesta's concern in the first place.
'I'm not fighting to earn glory.'
Vesta had a single goal: to protect Ashtien, her people, and her grasslands. As long as that was accomplished, he didn't care who claimed the credit. He needed neither wealth nor honor.
Such things held no meaning for him.
'I'm merely concerned. After all, Attila is...'
He was a warlord. And to a warlord, renown was an irreplaceable resource. Unlike merchants, warlords sold their own strength — and strength was a commodity whose quality could never be proven without a direct collision.
The only guarantee of strength was a reputation forged in battle.
Until they had climbed this mountain, Attila's name had not been especially formidable.
'Once when he blocked the Kairan Clan Head's path. Once when he made his name at the festival. And now, once more, here and now.'
He had won renown. From this moment on, every centaur would know Attila's name and the measure of his power.
That was what troubled Vesta, just a little.
'Enough. Let me set aside such worries for later. Right now, I have to deal with what's in front of me.'
"Baatar."
Ashtien's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"The centaurs are on the move."
"Yes, I see it too."
Perhaps it was because they were looking down from the sky, but the centaurs advancing on the dragon looked like an army of ants with their sharp jaws raised — and worse, ants whose tempers had flared at the prospect of tearing into a dragon.
"We must move as well."
Ashtien stroked Suri's neck, and the eagle answered with a beat of its wings.
"You intend to finish it yourself?"
She did not deny it.
"...If it must die, then I will kill it."
There was something faintly dark in Ashtien's expression as she said it. Urgency, too. Vesta thought he understood why she was hurrying.
'Does she want to claim the honor before anyone else? No — that's not it.'
Of course not. It couldn't possibly be that.
'She's like me. She's doing this because she wants to protect her people.'
Some might sneer — how could he know anything of her after barely half a year together? Perhaps so.
'But I do know. I know what kind of person Ashtien is.'
Because neither of them had hidden anything from the other. Because they had promised to live that way.
She was a strong person. That strength had nothing to do with brute force or a belligerent temperament. It was, in a word, her heart.
What was truly strong about her was her heart.
'She is not someone who can be dazzled by glory or riches.'
She was ruled by nothing. Not by blood, not by gold. She was free of the things that break people.
She answered, laying her heart bare as she always did.
"If blood must be spilled, then so be it. I will do it. But it cannot be done by borrowing another's hand."
"Is that because you are the Khan, Ashtien?"
"Yes. Because I am the Khan. Because I am their king."
Had she been a cowardly ruler, she could have kept her own hands clean and passed the burden to others. She could have taken a single step back and simply watched events unfold.
—Ashtien is different.
"If we slay this dragon, might another dragon come seeking vengeance? It's possible. Blood calls for blood, after all."
What if the dragon's burning blood set the whole steppe ablaze?
"But if we freeze in fear of retaliation. If we let go of everything. If the Khan — of all people — does such a thing..."
—Whom would they trust to live by? What could they lean on?
"If the dragon will not bend its will to ours..."
She closed her eyes, then opened them again. Her eyes, when they reopened, were as sharp and clear as ever.
"Then I will simply fulfill my duty as Khan to protect them."
To shed the blood, and to bear the price of it — both belonged to Ergior.
"Ashtien."
"What — does the woman I am now seem strange to you?"
—Just one thing. I pray the ember clinging to my body doesn't wound you too.
—It's that single thought that makes me hesitate.
Her voice sounded faintly forlorn. She felt suddenly distant, which was a strange thing — they were this close to one another. Why, then?
"Do not be afraid. Not you, of all people."
"Of course not. I'm not afraid. Not of this."
Ashtien hesitated before answering.
"...I see."
Her hand found Vesta's and held it.
"Ashtien. Leave the finishing blow to me."
"You cannot. I will never allow it."
"No, I only meant I'd deliver the killing stro—"
Vesta stopped mid-sentence. Puzzled by the sudden silence, Ashtien turned her gaze straight ahead.
"What are those pale things down there? Don't tell me — orcs?"
"Those are..."
Shadows stirring around where the dragon had fallen.
"Humans...?"
To Ashtien's eyes, they looked imperial. Wretched figures draped in rags — and there were far more than one or two of them.
"Humans, you say?"
Vesta narrowed his eyes and studied the vagabonds' appearance. They were not gladiators — at least, he recognized none of their faces.
"Why would humans be approaching a dragon?"
The weapons they carried were picks, hammers, shovels — nothing but tools for rough labor.
"Are they planning to sever the dragon's head and claim it as an achievement, then?"
That was his first thought. These looked like people with nowhere to go. It stood to reason they might covet glory.
But as he swept his gaze over their faces, a vague unease crept over him. Terror. Anxiety. The faces of people confronting a dragon at arm's length.
And yet he could sense no desire in them at all. That was what bothered him most.
"No... it couldn't be..."
Then he read one more emotion. Hatred. Ashtien, too, read hatred radiating from the vagabonds.
—Hatred stronger than fear. Imperials. Dressed like vagrants. Carrying tools for heavy labor.
A flood of guesses and judgments flashed through his mind, and at last he understood who they were.
When the conflict between the orcs and the centaurs had reached its peak, the Arena had operated for a short time — and those were the people who had been kept there.
Lives that would have ended, every last one, had the matches not been stopped.
And they were advancing on the dragon.
"Halt!"
Ashtien cried out at the top of her voice. Suri, responding to her mistress's turmoil, flew with wings driven to their limit.
Even so, they were too far away.
"If you will not stop—"
She drew her bow. Riding a craft accelerating at terrifying speed, she made her decision.
Thwip—
The arrow shot forward and felled a man. The human standing behind him dropped his shovel and snatched up a pickaxe. Ashtien's face twisted, and she loosed another arrow.
And again the next one took up a tool — trembling all over, eyes burning with hatred.
It was as if they were saying:
—O Dragon. Punish the centaurs for us.
A javelin came hurtling in from somewhere. It was one Attila had thrown, and it pierced three men through at once.
And still —
They raised their pickaxes high and brought them down on the chain. Knocked down, and down again, they never stopped striking at the chain.
They were saying it still. Wailing it, over and over.
That hatred carries on. That the blood they shed would flow once more.
"AAAARGH!"
One human, whimpering with terror, brought the chain down with every last ounce of strength in his body.
And at last —
Ting—
The chain snapped.
"The dragon..."
Serpentine, slitted pupils flashed to life. The crowd cheered — and were swept away by the thrashing of the rearing dragon.
The dragon now registered, unmistakably, the presence of Vesta and Ashtien.
Its jaws spread wider than wide.
The only scenery painted in his mind was of ruin — terrible, terrible ruin.
"Vesta—!"
Ashtien's hair surged upward, wild and fierce. In answer, Vesta's eyes blazed hot. Ashtien summoned the storm, and Vesta woke the flame.
—Can a counter-fire really stop a dragon's flame?
There was no way to know. All they could do was throw every trick they had into it.
Flames rippled in the dragon's maw.
And they were about to swallow the two of them —
Something of enormous size dropped onto the dragon's jaws.
CRASH—
The dragon's mouth snapped shut for an instant. But only an instant. The ambush had landed — it had not disabled the beast.
The bluish figure stretched a hand sideways and pulled Attila's javelin from the pile of corpses.
Thk—
There was no hesitation. It drove the spearpoint into the dragon's snout. The dragon's scales, of course, were as hard as any plate armor, and the point did not sink deep.
Then the mysterious man drew the bow slung across his back. It was an absurdly massive greatbow — far beyond anything a human could wield. An abnormally enormous weapon, crafted perhaps from the horn of a spirit beast.
It was closer to a ballista than a bow.
He laid the shallowly-embedded javelin at an angle across the string and drew. A strength beyond belief.
Thwooong.
The snapped bowstring hurled the javelin forward. In that instant, a colossal force — the kind reserved for siege engines — was loaded onto the spearpoint.
It punched through the dragon's hide, through its bone, through the very roof of its mouth.
——!
The long javelin nailed itself into the dragon as if driven home by a hammer.
The dragon could not even shriek freely.
"You are..."
Vesta spoke, his face blank with disbelief.
The man who had skewered the dragon's snout — was burning. His skin melted away even as new flesh regrew beneath it.
And in the end, the flesh pushed the fire away entirely.
The man's face was revealed. Vesta found himself staring at a face mottled with burn scars.
"Narinhoon."
The Blue Wolf.
Face to face with Narinhoon Ibatar.