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Sangal, of course, struck first, dropping like an arrow while blasting Bükrek with fire. Abarōz watched her plunge in one swift motion to barely avoid disaster. Then, it was Bükrek’s turn: She bunched up her coils and hurtled at her foe’s tail. He had no time to react as she struck him with her spiked one, drawing blood from one back claw. Sangal roared, retracting the claw, then soared to land on top of her. Bükrek writhed, attempting to free herself, finally breaking free with a double burst of flames. Sangal, far swifter than an Erbörü and more cunning than his wolf heads, twisted away from sure death while giving his own return blast.
From Mihrab’s back, Abarōz sucked in her breath. She wondered how Shāhpuhr felt as he sat stiffly on Catanes. Knowing him, he’d want to rush in and help, but this fight, like the previous one, was for these two combatants alone.
Sangal gave a blood-chilling screech which seemed to echo through Abarōz. Then, for reasons of his own, he wheeled and darted east. Bükrek streaked off in pursuit, trailed by her son and Abarōz, though they could not keep up. But shortly into their flight, their ebrens had no need to flap, able to coast on winds stirred by the dragons before them. Abarōz grasped Mihrab’s spike, too tense even to speak. She felt air batter her cheeks as they rode out the current like creatures of the sea.
Suddenly, Sangal halted, causing Bükrek to do the same. Then he did something strange: He plunged into a hole roiling with bright orange liquid.
His lake of fire.
This didn’t stop Bükrek, who soared down like a rootless tree before being swallowed by flame. Abarōz felt her throat tighten. What, she wondered, was happening beneath that violent surface? She knew the lake was Sangal’s real home, giving him a decided advantage.
Abarōz held her breath as the surface told her nothing, revealing no hint of the struggle below. Could Bükrek withstand fire? She snuck a look at Shāhpuhr who sat still as a gold idol. If Abarōz didn’t do something, she thought she would go mad. She decided to count. One . . . molten liquid splashing; Two . . . Mihrab trembling beneath her; Three . . . stopping herself from plunging in; and Four, Bükrek rising from the depths, orange falling from her body until she was once again green!
“Di-did she win?” Abarōz asked.
Shāhpuhr spoke as if from a daze.
“I–I don’t know. She never told me—”
He stopped as Sangal burst from his lake, the orange dripping from him scales accentuating the red.
“Oh no,” Abarōz whispered.
She tried not to shiver as the two dragons clashed anew.
This time, they each formed half of a circle which hung high in the air. Nose-to-nose and tail-to-tail, they drifted over the lake. Abarōz felt as if she were watching something elemental: Good versus evil . . . chaos versus the light.
Then, the circle was broken as the two foes came apart. Sangal climbed above Bükrek, screeching down in a red fireball. Bükrek stayed eerily still, only her wings flapping. As Sangal bore down, she simply raised her head, closed her eyes, and emitted a flame. But this one was different: it was bright yellow with a blue streak down the center. As it struck Sangal, it grew to engulf him, trapping him inside a bubble which floated down to the lake.
Abarōz saw the trapped dragon careening over its surface before fiery waves took him. Then, the lake stilled, as calm as the waters of the Rōd. Chaos versus Light. And Light had won again.
