Читать книгу In the Green Star's Glow - Lin Carter - Страница 8

One single glance at the crouching monster, and Niamh knew it for a dreaded ythid, the scarlet dragon of the treetops. Twice as long as a full-grown Bengal tiger, and many times its equal in sheer ferocity, the ythid was the most formidable of opponents.

And Zorak had only his bow!

Without a moment wasted on hesitation, the mighty archer from Tharkoon snatched up his bow and quiver. An instant later he had nocked and loosed an arrow into the snarling face of the tree-dragon. The hissing shaft glanced off the dragon’s scarlet mail, however, without causing it hurt.

Zorak’s second arrow caught the brute more effectively. The barbed shaft flew between the yawning jaws of the monster lizard and sank into the roof of its mouth.

Uttering a shrill screech like a steamboat’s whistle, the dragon writhed about, snapping and champing its jaws in a vain effort to hurt the unseen adversary whose sting sent red pain lancing through its minuscule brain. The feathered shaft shattered into fragments at one snap of those powerful jaws.

Zorak steadied himself on the edge of the cockpit, and directed his third shaft at the most vulnerable spot on the entire body of the ythid: its burning eye.

But nature has armed the scarlet tree-dragons of the World of the Green Star with a tough and horny integument where it is not otherwise mailed in a heavy layer of serpent-scales. This integument extends even to the eyes of the ythid; for the transparent membrane that can be lowered to protect the dragon’s vision is thick and durable as a leather shield. Useless, Zorak’s shaft went glancing away into the great golden leaves which fluttered in the breeze from the end of this branch.

An then the dragon pounced.

Niamh shrank back against the bucket-seats of the flying ship, fingers pressed against lips pale with fear.

The sucker-armed foreclaws of the dragon closed crushingly about Zorak’s upper arm, dragged him from his place in the cockpit, and drew him into the reach of those terrible jaws.

His right arm immobilized by the grip of the ythid, Zorak was unable to direct another shaft at his pain-maddened adversary. He let the bow fall from his hand, and twisted about so that his booted feet struck the snarling dragon in the mouth. Angrily hissing, the monster lizard snapped at the booted feet which clouted it full in the snout. Daggerlike fangs clicked together on the loose, folded-back tops of the bowman’s boots. Despite the toughness of the seasoned leather, it was ripped to shreds between the gashing fangs.

In a moment, Zorak himself would meet the same fate, Niamh knew.

The princess had known a pampered and luxurious life in her jeweled city. Danger, or hardship, or even discomfort, had seldom been permitted to roil or trouble the calm serenity of her cushioned existence. But the perilous adventures which had befallen the Princess of Phaolon in the last few months had tested the fiber of her spirit. The girl had found strength and courage and keen, wary, quick-witted resources within her, whose very presence she could never otherwise have expected.

Now, when her stalwart companion stood in imminent peril of destruction, it was not the way of Niamh to cower, trembling in dread. Instead the brave girl snatched up the only weapon to hand—her small blade. With this clenched in one firm little fist, she sprang forward lithely over the sleek nose of the craft, and leaped upon the dragon’s back.

Busily engaged in striving to mangle Zorak’s legs into a red pulp, it is doubtful if the ythid was even aware of Niamh’s slight weight as the girl sprang upon its back. It continued snapping and striking at Zorak’s kicking feet, while the bowman, still held in that crushing grip, fought and struggled to keep free of the dragon’s jaws. For if once those jaws closed upon his limb, the stalwart bowman would be maimed and crippled for life.

Niamh clambered up the slope of the ythid’s back and neck until she could reach its most vulnerable point with the small knife she held.

She drove the knife into the monster’s left eye.

But her blade was small and the horny membrane protecting the orb of vision was tough and slick, and the knife dealt the dragon only a slight wound, a mere scratch.

However, the ythid felt the slim knife go scraping down its outer eye and jerked back instinctively. In order to hold itself in this recoiled position, it was forced to relinquish its grip on the bowman. The viselike grip of the dragon’s hooked claws loosened and Zorak fell back against the sleek metal prow of the air ship.

His shredded boots swung out over the edge of the abyss as he slid down the curved, glistening fusilage of the ship. In desperation, Zorak flung out one strong hand and seized the top edge of the crystal windshield, halting his plunge over the edge.

Below his dangling legs the world fell away into a dim abyss miles deep. The nearest branch below him was some two hundred feet farther down, where immense and gauzy waxen blossoms swayed in the wind. Peering down, the bowman felt beads of cold sweat break out on his brow. Better by far the quick, mercifully brief death between the dragon’s jaws, than the long endless nightmare of that miles-long fall to the gloom-thick bottom of the world. . . .

As the dragon reared and swerved its cruel jaws about to snap at the thing on its back, whose slight weight it now noticed, the sudden shift of its stance dislodged Niamh from her precarious perch between its shoulders.

She slid down the dragon’s back until her slide was halted by encountering the dorsal fins that ran in a saw-toothed row down the monster’s body to the tip of its lashing tail.

The ythid craned its head about, snapping viciously at the intrepid girl who dared ride it like a tame steed. Against those formidable fangs, Niamh’s little knife was a flimsy toy. The girl gasped, and shrank back from the lunge of that snarling snout.

Zorak, dragging himself back to a more secure footing, caught up his bow and quiver again from where they had fallen. With the unconscious ease born of long practice, he fitted an arrow to the bowstring and drew it taut in less time than it takes to describe the action.

The dragon’s head was turned away, so he aimed the barbed shaft at the comparatively soft throat of the ythid, directly beneath the hinge of its jaws, where the scales grew small and few.

The arrow hissed through space, and sank halfway to the feather in the lizard’s unprotected throat.

Voicing a strangled squawk, the ythid reared up, flailing out with both hooked forepaws, gasping for air. Blood gushed from its straining jaws; blood flowed in a scarlet river down its throat to choke off its breath.

“Jump clear!” Zorak boomed.

Niamh released her hold on the dragon’s bladed spine and half leaped, half fell to the rough surface of the branch. And not a moment too soon!

Death numbed the small brain of the tree-reptile even in the moment that it reared erect. Its sucker-like feet lost their grip. It sagged . . . crumpled . . . struck its head against the edge of the branch, and fell over.

It was gone.

Where Niamh crouched, breathless, her heart pounding violently, the curvature of the branch rounded steeply. Only the rough indentations of the bark surface afforded her a handhold and foothold. Now that the worst was over, the girl sagged wearily, as nervous reaction drained the strength which desperation had lent her slim body.

It was Zorak who saw with a thrill of alarm that she was pale to the lips and’ close to swooning. Even as he looked he saw her hands go limp, relaxing their hold.

He sprang from the prow of the flying craft, throwing himself across empty space, to seize hold of the nearer of the great gold-foil leaves.

Then he dropped down to where Niamh sprawled near a puddle of dragon-gore. With one strong hand he caught her arm and half dragged her higher up on the top of the limb, where her footing would be more secure.

Gasping, as realization of her peril suddenly flooded through her, the princess clutched the rough edges of the bark and held on for dear life.

But Zorak’s leap had dangerously off-balanced him, and he held only the edge of a thin leaf. True, the leaf was as enormous as a ship’s sail, but still it was tissue-thin.

And it tore.

As fate would have it, his feet, kicking out for a purchase on the branch, skidded and slipped in the fresh-spilled blood his own barbed shaft had torn from the dragon’s throat.

He slipped, lost his balance, and fell.

Niamh uttered a choked cry and closed her eyes, willing the terrible moment not to have happened. But it had, and the brave and gallant Zorak of Tharkoon had fallen from the branch of the great tree to a horrible death far, far below.

The young girl was alone, helpless, lost; lacking the strong arm, the fighting courage, and the comforting companionship of a comrade in peril.

She crept to the edge of the branch and peered over, to see if the falling body of the bold, courageous archer had already dwindled into the depths below.