.
battle was won.
My squad switched fire back to the dragon’s flank. Streaked with blood, the dragon jerked, and that long neck snapped around, a murderous gleam in its red eyes as it glared in our direction.
“Hold position!” I snapped to the rest of my squad as the dragon roared a challenge and spun, tail lashing. “I’ll draw it off. Keep firing!”
A couple of them glanced at me, grim and resigned, but they didn’t argue. Better one soldier fall than the entire team. I was squad leader; if I died so that my brothers could keep fighting, the sacrifice would be worth it. They knew that as well as I did.
I left my hiding place and started forward, firing short, controlled bursts as I did, heading around the dragon’s side. Spotting me, the dragon reared its head back and took a breath, and my pulse spiked. I dove away as fire erupted from its jaws, searing into the jungle and setting the trees ablaze. Rolling to my feet, I looked up to see the huge lizard coming for me, maw gaping wide. My heart pounded, but my hands remained steady as I raised my gun and fired at the horned skull, knowing the thick breastplate would protect its chest and stomach. The dragon flinched, shaking its head as the shots struck its bony brow and cheekbones, and kept coming.
I threw myself to the side as the dragon’s head shot forward, jaws snapping shut in the spot I had been. Quick as a snake, it whipped its neck around and lunged again, teeth that could shear through a telephone pole coming right at me. I avoided the six-inch fangs, but the massive horned head still crashed into my side, and even through the combat vest, pain erupted through my ribs. The ground fell away as the force hurled me into the air, the world spinning around me, and I rolled several paces when I struck the earth again. Clenching my jaw, I pushed myself to my elbows and looked up...
...into the crimson eyes of my enemy.
The dragon loomed overhead, dark and massive, its wings partially open to cast a huge shadow over the ground. I stared into its ancient, alien face, saw myself reflected in those cold red eyes that held no mercy, no pity or understanding—just raw hate and savage triumph. It took a breath, nostrils flaring, and I braced myself for the killing flames. There was no fear, no remorse. I was a soldier of St. George; to die honorably in battle against our oldest foe was all I could hope for.
A single shot rang out from somewhere in the jungle, the sharp retort echoing loudly even in the chaos. The dragon lurched sideways with a roar, a bright spray of blood erupting from its side as the armor-piercing .50-caliber sniper round struck behind its foreleg, straight into the heart. The precision perfect shot that Tristan St. Anthony was known for.
The blow knocked the dragon off its feet, and the ground shook as it finally collapsed. Wailing, it struggled to rise, clawing at the ground, wings and tail thrashing desperately. But it was dying, its struggles growing weaker even as the soldiers continued to pump it full of rounds. From where I lay, I watched its head hit the ground with a thump, watched its struggles grow weaker and weaker, until it was almost still. Only the faint, labored rise and fall of its ribs, and the frantic twitch of its tail, showed it was still clinging to life.
As it lay there, gasping, it suddenly rolled its eye back and looked at me, the slitted, bright red pupil staring up from the dirt. For a moment, we stared at each other, dragon and slayer, caught in an endless cycle of war and death.
I bowed my head, still keeping the dragon in my sights, and murmured, “In nomine Domini Sabaoth, sui filiiqui ite ad Infernos.” In the name of the Lord of Hosts and his son, depart to hell. An incantation taught to all soldiers, from when they believed dragons were demons and might possess you in a final attempt to remain in the world. I knew better. Dragons were flesh and blood; get past their scales and armor, and they died just like anything else. But they were also warriors, brave in their own way, and every warrior deserved a final send-off.
A low rumble came from the dying dragon. Its jaws opened, and a deep, inhuman voice emerged. “Do not think you have won, St. George,” it rasped, glaring at me in disdain. “I am but a single scale in the body of Talon. We will endure, as we always have, and we grow stronger even as your race destroys itself from within. You, and all your kind, will fall before us. Soon.”
Then the light behind the crimson orbs dimmed. The dragon’s lids closed, its head dropped to the ground and its whole body shuddered. With a final spasm, the wings stilled, the tail beating the earth ceased and the huge reptile went limp as it finally gave up its fight for life.
I collapsed to my back in the dirt as cheers rose around me. Soldiers emerged from the trees, shaking their weapons and letting out victory cries. Beyond the massive corpse, bodies from both sides lay scattered about the lawn, some stirring weakly, some charred to blackened husks. Flames still flickered through the trees, black columns of smoke billowing into the sky. The crumpled remains of the jeep smoldered in the middle of the field, a testament to the awesome power of the huge reptile.
The firefight with the guards had ceased. Now that their master was gone, the last of the enemy was fleeing into the jungle. No orders were given to track them down; we already had what we’d come for. In a few minutes, another crew would chopper in, clean up the debris, raze the hacienda and make all the bodies disappear. No one would ever know that a monstrous, fire-breathing creature of legend had died here this afternoon.
I looked at the lifeless dragon, crumpled in the dirt while the squads milled around its body and grinned and slapped one another on the back. A few soldiers approached the huge carcass, shaking their heads at the size, disgust and awe written on their faces. I stayed where I was. It was not the first dead dragon I’d seen, though it was the largest I’d ever fought. It would not be the last.
I wondered, very briefly, if there would ever be a “last.”
Dragons are evil; that was what every soldier of St. George was taught. They are demons. Wyrms of the devil. Their final goal is the enslavement of the human race, and we are the only ones standing between them and the ignorant.
While I wasn’t certain about the entire wyrms of the devil part, our enemy certainly was strong, cunning and savage. My own family had been murdered by a dragon when I was just a toddler. I’d been rescued by the Order and trained to take the fight back to the monsters that had slaughtered my parents and sister. For every dragon I killed, more human lives would be spared.
I’d fought enough battles, seen enough of what they could do, to know firsthand that they were ruthless. Merciless. Inhuman. Their power was vast, and they only got stronger with age. Thankfully, there weren’t many ancient dragons in the world anymore, or at least, most of our battles were against smaller, younger dragons. To take down this huge, powerful adult was an enormous victory for our side. I felt no remorse in killing the beast; this dragon was a central figure in the South American cartels, responsible for the deaths of thousands. The world was a better place with it gone. Maybe through my actions today, some little kid wouldn’t have to grow up an orphan, never knowing his family. It was the least I could do, and I did it gladly. I owed my family that much.
My ribs gave a sharp, painful throb, and I gritted my teeth. Now that the adrenaline had worn off and the fight was done, I turned my attention to my injury. My combat vest had absorbed a good bit of the damage, but judging from the pain in my side, the force of the blow had still cracked a rib or two.
“Well, that was amusing. If you ever get tired of the soldier life, you should consider a career as a dragon soccer ball. You flew nearly twenty feet on that last hit.”
I raised my head as a mound of weeds and moss melted out of the undergrowth and shuffled to my side. It carried a Barrett M107A1 .50-caliber sniper rifle in one shaggy limb, and the other reached up to tug back its hood, revealing a smirking, dark-haired soldier four years my senior, his eyes so blue they were almost black.
“You okay?” Tristan St. Anthony asked, crouching down beside me. His ghillie suit rustled as he shrugged out of it, setting it and the rifle carefully aside. “Anything broken?”
“No,” I gritted out, setting my jaw as pain stabbed through me. “I’m fine. Nothing serious, it’s just a cracked rib or two.” I breathed cautiously as the commander emerged