Talon
Page 8
A low rumble came from the dying dragon. Its jaws opened, and a deep, inhuman voice emerged. “Do not think you have won, St.
George,” it rasped, glaring at me in disdain. “I am but a single scale in the body of TALON. We will endure, as we always have, and we grow stronger even as your race destroys itself from within. You, and all your kind, will fall before us. Soon.”
Then the light behind the crimson orbs dimmed. The dragon’s lids closed, its head dropped to the ground, and its whole body shuddered. With a final spasm, the wings stilled, the tail beating the earth ceased, and the huge reptile went limp as it finally gave up its fight for life.
I collapsed to my back in the dirt as cheers rose around me. Soldiers emerged from the trees, shaking their weapons and letting out victory cries. Beyond the massive corpse, bodies from both sides lay scattered about the lawn, some stirring weakly, some charred to blackened husks. Flames still flickered through the trees, black col-umns of smoke billowing into the sky. The crumpled remains of the jeep smoldered in the middle of the field, a testament to the awesome power of the huge reptile.
The firefight with the guards had ceased. Now that their master was gone, the last of the enemy was fleeing into the jungle. No orders were given to track them down; we already had what we’d come for. In a few minutes, another crew would chopper in, clean up the debris, raze the hacienda, and make all the bodies disappear. No one would ever know that a monstrous, fire-breathing creature of legend had died here this afternoon.
I looked at the lifeless dragon, crumpled in the dirt while the squads milled around its body and grinned and slapped each other on the back. A few soldiers approached the huge carcass, shaking their heads at the size, disgust and awe written on their faces. I stayed where I was. It was not the first dead dragon I’d seen, though it was the largest I’d ever fought. It would not be the last.
I wondered, very briefly, if there would ever be a “last.”
Dragons are evil; that was what every soldier of St. George was taught. They are demons. Wyrms of the devil. Their final goal is the enslavement of the human race, and we are the only ones standing between them and the ignorant.
While I wasn’t certain about the entire wyrms of the devil part, our enemy certainly was strong, cunning, and savage. I’d fought enough battles, seen enough of what they could do, to know they were ruthless. Merciless. Inhuman. Their power was vast, and they only got stronger with age. Thankfully, there weren’t many ancient dragons in the world anymore, or at least, most of our battles were against smaller, younger dragons. To take down this huge, powerful adult was an enormous victory for our side. I felt no remorse in killing the beast; this dragon was a central figure in the South American car-tels, responsible for the deaths of thousands. The world was a better place with it gone.
My ribs gave a sharp, painful throb, and I grit my teeth. Now that the adrenaline had worn off and the fight was done, I turned my attention to my injury. My combat vest had absorbed a good bit of the damage, but judging from pain in my side, the force of the blow had still cracked a rib or two.
“Well, that was amusing. If you ever get tired of the soldier life, you should consider a career as a dragon soccer ball. You flew nearly twenty feet on that last hit.”
I raised my head as a mound of weeds and moss melted out of the undergrowth and shuffled to my side. It carried a Barrett M107A1
.50 caliber sniper rifle in one shaggy limb, and the other reached up to tug back its hood, revealing a smirking, dark-haired soldier four years my senior, his eyes so blue they were almost black.
“You okay?” Tristan St. Anthony asked, crouching down beside me. His ghillie suit rustled as he shrugged out of it, setting it and the rifle carefully aside. “Anything broken?”
“No,” I gritted out, setting my jaw as pain stabbed through me. “I’m fine. Nothing serious, it’s just a cracked rib or two.” I breathed cautiously as the commander emerged from the trees and slowly made his way across the field. I watched him bark orders to the other squads, point at the dragon and the bodies scattered about, and I struggled carefully upright. The medic would be here in a few minutes, taking stock of the wounded, seeing who could be saved. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was seriously hurt, not when many other soldiers lay on the brink of death. The commander met my gaze over the carnage, gave a tiny nod of approval, and continued on.
I glanced at Tristan. “Killing shot goes to you, then, doesn’t it?
How big was the pot this time?”
“Three hundred. You’d think they’d figure it out by now.” Tristan didn’t bother hiding the smugness in his voice. He gave me an appraising look. “Though I guess I should give you a portion, since you were the one who set it up.”
“Don’t I always?” Tristan and I had been partners awhile now, ever since I’d turned fourteen and joined the real missions, three years ago.
He’d lost his first partner to dragonfire, and hadn’t been pleased with the notion of “babysitting a kid,” despite the fact that at the time, he was only eighteen himself. His tune had changed when, on our first assignment together, I’d saved him from an ambush, nearly gotten myself killed, and managed to shoot the enemy before it could slaughter us both. Now, three years and dozens of battles later, I couldn’t imagine having someone else at my back. We’d saved each other’s lives so often, we’d both lost count.
“Still.” Tristan shifted to one knee, grinning wryly. “You’re my partner, you nearly got yourself eaten, and you might’ve set a world record for distance in being head-butted by a dragon. You deserve something.” He nodded, then dug in his pocket and flourished a tendollar bill. “Here you go, partner. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
The long campaign was finally over.
And we’d survived.
Or, some of us had. The lucky ones. Myself, Tristan and his fellow snipers, and Bravo—my squad—had come out mostly unscathed.
However, there were numerous losses within the other squads, especially Alpha, the ones responsible for luring out the dragon. The casualties were high, but not unexpected. A strike that large was atypical for the Order; we were normally sent after dragons in teams, not a whole army. Because of the nature of the raid, the best soldiers from several Order chapterhouses had been pulled in to take out the dragon and his followers, Tristan and I included. The operation had required the full might of St. George, especially because we were dealing with the rare adult dragon, and the Order had taken no chances. We could not let the dragon escape and disappear into Talon. After the battle had been won, the army had dispersed, and we’d returned to our home bases to await further orders.
George,” it rasped, glaring at me in disdain. “I am but a single scale in the body of TALON. We will endure, as we always have, and we grow stronger even as your race destroys itself from within. You, and all your kind, will fall before us. Soon.”
Then the light behind the crimson orbs dimmed. The dragon’s lids closed, its head dropped to the ground, and its whole body shuddered. With a final spasm, the wings stilled, the tail beating the earth ceased, and the huge reptile went limp as it finally gave up its fight for life.
I collapsed to my back in the dirt as cheers rose around me. Soldiers emerged from the trees, shaking their weapons and letting out victory cries. Beyond the massive corpse, bodies from both sides lay scattered about the lawn, some stirring weakly, some charred to blackened husks. Flames still flickered through the trees, black col-umns of smoke billowing into the sky. The crumpled remains of the jeep smoldered in the middle of the field, a testament to the awesome power of the huge reptile.
The firefight with the guards had ceased. Now that their master was gone, the last of the enemy was fleeing into the jungle. No orders were given to track them down; we already had what we’d come for. In a few minutes, another crew would chopper in, clean up the debris, raze the hacienda, and make all the bodies disappear. No one would ever know that a monstrous, fire-breathing creature of legend had died here this afternoon.
I looked at the lifeless dragon, crumpled in the dirt while the squads milled around its body and grinned and slapped each other on the back. A few soldiers approached the huge carcass, shaking their heads at the size, disgust and awe written on their faces. I stayed where I was. It was not the first dead dragon I’d seen, though it was the largest I’d ever fought. It would not be the last.
I wondered, very briefly, if there would ever be a “last.”
Dragons are evil; that was what every soldier of St. George was taught. They are demons. Wyrms of the devil. Their final goal is the enslavement of the human race, and we are the only ones standing between them and the ignorant.
While I wasn’t certain about the entire wyrms of the devil part, our enemy certainly was strong, cunning, and savage. I’d fought enough battles, seen enough of what they could do, to know they were ruthless. Merciless. Inhuman. Their power was vast, and they only got stronger with age. Thankfully, there weren’t many ancient dragons in the world anymore, or at least, most of our battles were against smaller, younger dragons. To take down this huge, powerful adult was an enormous victory for our side. I felt no remorse in killing the beast; this dragon was a central figure in the South American car-tels, responsible for the deaths of thousands. The world was a better place with it gone.
My ribs gave a sharp, painful throb, and I grit my teeth. Now that the adrenaline had worn off and the fight was done, I turned my attention to my injury. My combat vest had absorbed a good bit of the damage, but judging from pain in my side, the force of the blow had still cracked a rib or two.
“Well, that was amusing. If you ever get tired of the soldier life, you should consider a career as a dragon soccer ball. You flew nearly twenty feet on that last hit.”
I raised my head as a mound of weeds and moss melted out of the undergrowth and shuffled to my side. It carried a Barrett M107A1
.50 caliber sniper rifle in one shaggy limb, and the other reached up to tug back its hood, revealing a smirking, dark-haired soldier four years my senior, his eyes so blue they were almost black.
“You okay?” Tristan St. Anthony asked, crouching down beside me. His ghillie suit rustled as he shrugged out of it, setting it and the rifle carefully aside. “Anything broken?”
“No,” I gritted out, setting my jaw as pain stabbed through me. “I’m fine. Nothing serious, it’s just a cracked rib or two.” I breathed cautiously as the commander emerged from the trees and slowly made his way across the field. I watched him bark orders to the other squads, point at the dragon and the bodies scattered about, and I struggled carefully upright. The medic would be here in a few minutes, taking stock of the wounded, seeing who could be saved. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was seriously hurt, not when many other soldiers lay on the brink of death. The commander met my gaze over the carnage, gave a tiny nod of approval, and continued on.
I glanced at Tristan. “Killing shot goes to you, then, doesn’t it?
How big was the pot this time?”
“Three hundred. You’d think they’d figure it out by now.” Tristan didn’t bother hiding the smugness in his voice. He gave me an appraising look. “Though I guess I should give you a portion, since you were the one who set it up.”
“Don’t I always?” Tristan and I had been partners awhile now, ever since I’d turned fourteen and joined the real missions, three years ago.
He’d lost his first partner to dragonfire, and hadn’t been pleased with the notion of “babysitting a kid,” despite the fact that at the time, he was only eighteen himself. His tune had changed when, on our first assignment together, I’d saved him from an ambush, nearly gotten myself killed, and managed to shoot the enemy before it could slaughter us both. Now, three years and dozens of battles later, I couldn’t imagine having someone else at my back. We’d saved each other’s lives so often, we’d both lost count.
“Still.” Tristan shifted to one knee, grinning wryly. “You’re my partner, you nearly got yourself eaten, and you might’ve set a world record for distance in being head-butted by a dragon. You deserve something.” He nodded, then dug in his pocket and flourished a tendollar bill. “Here you go, partner. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
The long campaign was finally over.
And we’d survived.
Or, some of us had. The lucky ones. Myself, Tristan and his fellow snipers, and Bravo—my squad—had come out mostly unscathed.
However, there were numerous losses within the other squads, especially Alpha, the ones responsible for luring out the dragon. The casualties were high, but not unexpected. A strike that large was atypical for the Order; we were normally sent after dragons in teams, not a whole army. Because of the nature of the raid, the best soldiers from several Order chapterhouses had been pulled in to take out the dragon and his followers, Tristan and I included. The operation had required the full might of St. George, especially because we were dealing with the rare adult dragon, and the Order had taken no chances. We could not let the dragon escape and disappear into Talon. After the battle had been won, the army had dispersed, and we’d returned to our home bases to await further orders.
