Balur tumbled, arse over elbow, through the night. So this is being it, he thought, and he had no regrets. This was a good way to die. Soaked to the bone in his enemy’s blood. The taste of his enemy upon his tongue. There was glory in this. He would be in the Hallows with Lette soon, and together they would kick the arses of all the dead for all eternity.
Then a roar swallowed him, and jaws filled his vision.
The red dragon had looped back through the air, was coming up below him, jaws wide, to snatch its prize from the air.
Balur’s resignation fled him. This fight was still his to be won.
He pulled his knees to his chest, folded his head down, made a cannonball of his massive body. Then as the jaws were about to embrace him, he flung himself wide, pistoning out arms and legs into a violently spread eagle.
His fist slammed into the dragon’s nose, his foot into its lower lips. Jaws snapped shut beneath his stomach. Its snout punched him in the balls. He folded over the dragon’s muzzle in a howl of agony. The dragon snorted in surprise and anger, a blast of hot air, that sent him flipping upward. Desperately, Balur clung to the upper lip of the dragon with his spare hand, feeling saliva working at his grip.
He dangled from the dragon’s nose as it lanced straight up into the sky. It snapped its jaws beneath him, but he was out of reach. He felt the bellows of its lungs fill with air. Fire shot up into the night sky. Liquid flame streamed past his fingertips. He could feel the skin blistering. He screamed, fighting to keep his grip. But it was too much. The dragon bucked and again he was sent flying into free fall.
This time there was no chance to recover as the jaws closed around him.