By Christopher Rowley
THE 109TH DRAGONS
The such a lot dependable bunch of dragon warriors and human attendants ever to march on crusade had simply been reformed whilst Bazil Broketail and his human boy, Relkin, back from a fruitless look for Bazil's liked eco-friendly dragoness. longing for motion opposed to the evil enemy forces, the dragon and his boy have been extremely joyful to find that in their absence a brand new sword have been crafted for Bazil by way of the elves, a sword much more robust than the only he'd formerly misplaced. So armed, how may possibly they probably fail to defeat all of the foes who awaited them?
But there has been one threat neither Bazil nor Relkin might be able to count on - the forces of the Goddess of dying had marked them either as her selected sufferers for catch and sacrifice...
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Additional info for A Sword for a Dragon (Bazil Broketail, Book 2)
His sword ran with power, the metal glowing as Kamahl fed it more energy. He struck at the creatures' backs, the enchanted blade once again shearing through his enemies. The limbs that fell did not release streams of corrosive blood, for the fire of his blade burned its way through the creatures' bodies. The corpses piled up; streams of fire burning through the skin as they raced through the veins and arteries. Seton slowly rose as the barbarian protected him. The scream that he gave was deep and filled with pain, but the centaur could move.
Losing in the preliminaries, before the champions even entered the lists? He laughed at the implausibility of it as he moved toward the entrance of the arena. The screaming and cheering crowd was a continuous background noise, overridden as the last competitors staggered in and were carried from the field. One lizard man lay on a stretcher, laid open like a butchered animal. His hands grasped the wooden poles with desperate strength, and Kamahl could see the life ebbing from the grip in time with the pulses of blood.
The area in front of the arena was bedlam as carriages and palanquins disbursed. Patrons rushed to waiting bearers, the servants trembling with fright and frustration. It said something for the brutality of the city elite that transport waited. But the outskirts of the crowd were fraying away; some chased by their screaming masters. A clump of officials rallied the Cabal arena guards and handlers into formation. It seemed a forlorn hope against the approaching juggernaut. Laquatus felt satisfaction at their impending doom.