It swung at Edger with a long-taloned claw—withdrawn rapidly as the lance leapt to meet it.

Val Con returned the gun to its loop—worse than useless, not even a diversion, for Edger to move into the throat.

He ran, making a wide detour, fishing the machete from his kit. The tail was half as long as the dragon itself, wickedly armed with Val Con-high spikes.

He brought the machete down. Hard.

The dragon screamed. Encouraged, he swung his weapon again.

And again.

On the eighth blow, the blade shattered and the dragon screamed—close. He looked up, saw the descending jaws, double-toothed and gaping—

Reflex hurled the useless handle into the descending maw, as reflex snapped him into a backward somersault, away from certain death.

Teeth clicked as he rolled away and Edger cried out, “A’jliata!”—the rest of his words eaten by another dragonish shriek.

Val Con snapped tall, whirling back—

Edger was down.

Dodging whipped tail, ducking a sweeping paw, Val Con reached the T’carais, set his hands against the place where shell met shoulder—and pushed.

He was not strong enough. Edger tipped, tried to get his feet under him, holding to his lance—and the dragon was turning back, paw raised in a gesture the man had seen from its bogland kin.

It meant death, that gesture. It would sweep Edger over, exposing the softer shell across his chest… Val Con stepped back, hands dropping from horny shoulders, staring upward as fingers groped in his belt—

Touched—and had it out without fumble. The safety clicked off as the paw swept down, talons first, toward the struggling Edger.

Val Con fired the flaregun into the towering face, his cry echoing the beast’s as the blue-white flash blinded both.