The Last Battle

She curled up around her hoard like a cat, her great tail lovingly brushing the piles of rubies and emeralds surrounding bejeweled swords and helmets. Glittering green eyes that could be mistaken for emeralds themselves focused and unfocused as the beast tried to decide whether she wanted to slip into a sweet slumber and forget the rest of the world until her time came, or treasure each waking moment she had, counting her hoard and remembering old legends and tales that would soon be lost forever.

Dragons have history too, and stories, and intelligence and memory that, like their life, sometimes far surpasses humans’. Dragon lore had been passed down for countless centuries and millennia, great epic poems and sagas about Yarkule and Wrangwir and Yval, the heroes that men call the Iniquitous, the Scourge, and the Bane. The lore told tales of the human villains who pillaged and stole and killed their noble race, all to gain the dragons’ hoard and the claim of power. They told tales of the blue seas and green hills and great valleys that their race used to live in before they were driven into the mountains by others and came to love living alone, with nothing to pass their long years except for their hoards and their memories of what they had lost.

Her eyes fluttered shut behind her scaly eyelids, and she was as still as a lizard basking in the sun, except when she shifted her enormous body to be closer to her hoard as she dreamed of gold, her sweet, sweet gold…

We are coming for you, Olaug. You know this. Why are you sleeping?

Her eyes shot open as the voice snaked into her thoughts, and a snort of smoke came out of her nose.

I know this. Scrying again, little wizardling?

You should be running away now. We will find you. And when we do, it will not go well for you.

Olaug yawned, and her sharp white teeth glistened. We shall see for whom it goes well, and for whom it does not go so well. But running away is something humans do. Humans, and weak, powerless wizardlings.

Soon your kind will be wiped out. You must know this, too.

I am the last. Her claws closed tightly around a coin. There is nothing to be done anymore.

You do not care about living, beast? You are strange.

She gave a snort of amusement and contempt, and began to shift her piles again, counting her emeralds. Perhaps it is you who are strange. And I do care about living, human. Only I have forgotten exactly what it means to live anymore, so I do not care about dying, either.

The wizard, a thousand miles away or more, did not answer. Olaug toyed with a sword, still as magnificent and gleaming as it was a hundred years ago. She remembered the warrior—he had come in search of high adventure and glory. She laughed at him, and told him that he would indeed make a glorious dinner. He had.

Her green-scaled tail thumped to a beat as again she closed her eyes, cat-like, and slipped closer across the stone floor to be with her hoard.

You must understand you are a danger to us.

This time she did not open her eyes. I am not the one who sent a hundred men into the mountains to kill a weary old dragon.

You’ve stolen our livestock before. And emptied our coffers.

I have taken what is rightfully mine.

What is rightfully yours?

Olaug remained silent at his foolishness, and examined her hoard.

I do not understand dragons.

Clearly. If you had ever spoken to one properly, you would learn of a knowledge that would make you bow your head with shame that you had ever driven my kind out of the world like demons.

You harry our livestock.

You harry our children. When was the last time I flew over your villages?

The memories are not old enough. There is no turning back now, dragon. We have something, we humans, that we call a death wish.

And?

You’d better make yours now.

Her laugh was surprisingly light, tinkling. I wish to die on my hoard, wizardling. And I wish—I wish to fly, just one last time.

She could hear the laugh in his mind. So that is one thing we are losing by losing the dragons. A creature with wings large enough to carry a man, should a beast like you let that happen.

We did let that happen, many centuries ago. Those ways are lost.

I have not heard that tale.

Her tail flicked, sending a handful of gold nuggets tinkling against the sides of the mountain cave. And you never will, now.

Silence again.

Pity, isn’t it? she said, and then she was soaring, the cave left behind, the wizard’s mind unable to catch hers. Vast filmy wings unfolded and spread out against the sky, blotting out the sun as she soared, daylight dying as she dipped and swooped and twirled. She flew for what would take on hour on land and took only minutes in the air, towards the sea. Wind whipped at her scales as she arched her neck gracefully in a primal gesture and cave a call, the last dragon call that the mountains and sky would hear. Her immense body was a silhouette against the rapidly burning sky as she flew over wild land and populated land. Children screamed as she flew over, and scrambled for shelter from her wicked flame, but none came. She swooped over villages and forests without stopping until she found the sea. Taking a deep breath, she dived in.

She swept through the water, laughing the tinkling dragon’s laugh as it washed over her dry, scaled body and as her wings caused storms on the water sprayed sea spray a thousand feet into the air.

I could be free. The horizon was in the distance, and she could fly away. Suddenly a rush of joy filled her as she gazed into the distance and imagined days of ocean, just ocean, and then wild meadows where she could sleep in the soft, sweet grass, where she could take her hoard away from men, and live in peace.

But it was all a dream. She was the last of her kind, and there would be no more after. Men or no men, she would be dead soon, and the dragons would be lost forever. Her back arched in the air, her tail curled majestically, and her wings flapped as she drew herself out of the reach of waves. Let them have their last battle.

Images of other dragons, younger ones, in younger days splashing like she was flashed through her mind, and she played with the memories of yesterday until night fell, and she sped, forgotten, through the stars to where the dusky mountains lay in the distance, waiting to become tombs.

They came the next night, their voices rough and crass among the trees where the roots of the mountain met the earth. Through the entryway of the cave, Olaug could see swords flashing in the moonlight and shields glistening. And she could hear a voice.

They are here, Olaug.

Yes.

You will die.

That is probable, indeed.

Farewell, dragon. Your intellect may be missed.

Her laugh was dry, because it was not real. I doubt it. The tales are gone, the lore is gone, and I will soon be gone. There are more intellectuals in the world. I will not be missed. Good-by, wizardling.

The sound of steel colliding with steel as a sword rang out against a shield. “I challenge you, dragon!”

Standing in the mouth of her cave was her first attacker. A strong young man, with wispy yellow hair and a braid down the side, in the manner of Norsemen. He held a broad sword, and his eyes spoke of honor. He was doing the right thing, in his mind. She smiled at him with irony. “Come in then, young warrior.”

The fighting began.

He was strong and quick, and he was clever enough to know where to aim. That was clear from the start. A jab here, a swipe there, feint to the left, right, left, jab. Duck under, dodge the flame, swipe, feint, jab.

Old and brooding Olaug, though she had lost her will to live, had not lost her will to make a job difficult when she saw it could be made difficult. She bellowed terrifyingly, blasted flame at her opponent, and clawed at him. A shallow slash across the chest. A startling blow to the head. Sword knocked out of his hand for a precious two seconds. His hair catching fire as he dived to reach it.

But Olaug was growing tired. Her fire spurts had blasts of green in them, as they were known to have if a dragoness was nearing the end of her life. Her steps to the side and back and to the other side were only a little bit slower, her swipes only a little bit weaker, and her fire only a little less potent. But it was enough, and a distraction added to that was too much to handle.

Did you fly one last time, Olaug?

A swipe to the belly. Blood poured.

You distract me, wizardling!

A jab to the stomach. She staggered, and emitted a howl.

But they have their last battle, the humans. They have their glory.

That is what they came for. Glory, and the safety of those they love.

She moaned. My gold, my sweet gold, where is my gold? It is a worthy cause, indeed. If only their concerns were not misplaced.

Lie on your hoard, Olaug. Think of your last flight.

She fell, and the young Norseman stepped back, panting.

I will fly with my brothers soon, and my sisters. Through the stars, and into the sea. My gold, my sweet, sweet gold…

You are defeated.

The men outside cheered as their comrade staggered out, bloody and bruised, but victorious. They would go home tonight to their wives, and kiss their children goodnight, and would not know or care that the oldest living thing in the world had taken her last breath and slipped into the land of her ancestors.

All was silent in the cave after the men left, except for a drip and a clink. A drop of blood, the magical dragon’s blood, dripped off a piece of gold, and then another piece, and another piece, until it reached the bottom of the pile and faded into the dust.