The Moon Gallery’s wide, open space made fighting the dragon difficult, for there was nothing Otto could hide behind. Of course, even if there had been, Nightsong would have smashed it down with one swing of its mighty tail or burned him alive from behind with its scorching, amethyst fire. For this reason, he was thankful for the lance. Not only did it take away any illusion that such obstacles might have helped him, but its defense against the flame was the only reason he was still alive. Still, he had forgotten that dragons had other weapons at their disposal.
While he had mastered using the lance to avoid the flame, he had forgotten that a dragon’s teeth and razor-sharp claws were just as deadly. He managed to ward off most of its attacks by pointing the lance in the direction of its slashing front claws and snapping maw when it rushed at him, but avoiding the fire was always his main priority. Then, while he was focused on splitting the fire so he didn’t get burned, Nightsong’s claws lanced out from the behind the flame and swatted him to one side before he could redirect the relic. He just managed to roll to one side fast enough to avoid another line of fire rushing his way.
So, a defensive strategy won’t work against you, huh?
He looked down to see that one of the dragon’s talons had torn his side open, and he was now bleeding profusely onto the stone floor. He panted, watching his blood run from his waist and drip off his armor. Nightsong was a lot smarter than he had assumed, and the Dragon Lance had made him overconfident.
Dear me . . . that’s not good.
He ground his teeth from the pain, clutching his side with one hand while holding the lance with the other. Once again, flame exploded toward him, and like last time, he knew that Nightsong was going to use the flame more as a cover for its clawed attacks than to actually try to harm him with it.
Before it could swipe at him again, Otto dive-rolled to the side, letting the flame flare over his head. He spun to his feet and thrust the Dragon Lance blindly into the thickest part of the flame, a place where an attack would have been invisible to him. Then he was struck hard from behind as Nightsong’s tail collided with him.
“Argh!”
Instead of lashing at him like the swipe of a claw, the tail caught him in a sweeping motion against the floor. Desperately, he took his hand from his wound and drew his longsword. He plunged it into the dragon’s tail and hung on tight so he wouldn’t be flicked against the wall by it. The dragon roared in pain and swung its tail back against its body. Otto let go of the sword as the motion shot him up toward the undead dragon’s face.
“Take this!”
As though forgetting that its fire no longer affected him, Nightsong blasted him with another inferno, but the lance divided the flame and then the dragon itself. Otto flew into the dragon’s gaping maw, and, with one powerful thrust, stabbed the point into its mouth and out through the back of the dragon’s head. He was flung forward as the dragon fell, and he spun to a sudden stop on the stone, winded and coughing as Nightsong hit the floor with a thump behind him.
Otto turned his head to see that the undead dragon was watching him with those glowing, magenta eyes, as though attempting to defy death one more time. Then they closed once and for all, and he knew he would be the last one to see them.
I did it . . . I killed the undead dragon, Nightsong the Eternal!
His great victory didn’t make the pain go away, however, and Otto groaned and rolled over. He let go of the Dragon Lance and struggled to his feet, returning his bloody hand to his side. Grunting in pain with each step, he staggered over to his sword that was still sticking out of Nightsong’s tail. He grabbed the hilt, and with effort, pulled the blade free. Then he mustered the courage to look down at the gash in his side.
This is a mortal wound. If I’m going to die as a Paladin, I’m going to die with a true Paladin’s weapon in my hand.
He felt that if he had the strength to reclaim his sword, he might as well see how far he could get while he was still on his feet. Somewhere in his mind, a voice called out to him. It didn’t speak words, but the warm feeling it gave off acted like a lure from some welcoming presence.
He didn’t know where his longing to find its source came from, but his body seemed to be naturally drawn to it. Using his longsword as a crutch, he slowly made his way down the winding stairs from the Moon Gallery, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
It took him a while to get to the floor below, but once he did, he felt the warm presence again. It beckoned him from behind, and he turned to see a corridor going deeper into the tower. Leaning on his sword, he hobbled down the corridor. There was something different about this hallway in comparison to the rest of the Midnight Tower.
There were stained glass windows across the wall, allowing in what little light was shining between the clouds in the night sky. He was exhausted and on the edge of falling unconscious, but both the light and warm presence drove him on until he came to a set of massive doors that nearly reached the top of the high ceiling.
The door was immaculately carved with stained glass and adornments, and he could sense it led to a room different than any of the others in the Midnight Tower. This was where the speechless voice was telling him to go, and he thought he knew why.
From what he had been told of the Midnight Tower—or as it had been called, the Goddess Tower—the Goddess Chamber was near the top of the center spire in the middle of a long corridor.
He hadn’t encountered any hallways like this one in the Midnight Tower since they’d arrived, nor had he seen a door so ornate. Somehow, this hallway and this door had appeared after Nightsong was slain. Just as he could feel her presence beckoning him toward it, he could also feel the presence of the Goddess inside. This was where the Goddess had led him, and if nothing else, his faith told him that this was her Chamber—the place where she had locked the Dark Consul—and that her light still remained to this day.
Leaning on his sword before the door, he felt he should kneel, and so he did, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword, still bleeding out onto the carpet. He knelt there before the Chamber of the deity his father, and his father’s father, and his father before him had worshipped. It seemed a fitting place to die.
Yet he couldn’t help but feel defiance rise up in him.
“I don’t want to die in this place!” he shouted at the door. “Have I not been loyal? Did my actions have nothing to do with bringing back the hope of the prophecy?”
Shouting made the pain in his side flare up even more, but with the blood loss, he was beginning to feel cold and lightheaded.
“After all I have done, do I not deserve a second chance?” He pulled himself up on his sword, leaning over it. “Didn’t my father? Where were you for him?”
His grip on the hilt of his sword began to falter.
Thoughts of his father filled him.
Why do I deserve another chance, when greater heroes than me have died in your name?
The sound of footfalls coming toward him was the last thing he heard before everything went dark.