Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3)

depressingly familiar. Arlian breathed shallowly as he raised his torch high and looked out into the darkness of the cavern, the long obsidian-tipped spear ready in his other hand.

The orange light of the flaring torch lit the upper end of a great sloping limestone chamber, perhaps a hundred feet wide and a quarter-mile long. Clustered nearby upon the vast claw-marked stone floor lay four dead dragons, their carcasses already collapsing in supernaturally rapid decay, their scaly black hide peeling back from white bone, their partially exposed spines arching well above Arlian's head.

A dozen soldiers wearing the white-and-blue uniforms of the Duke of Manfort's guards stood scattered around the dragons, spears and torches held ready; every so often one of them would glance expectantly at Arlian, awaiting orders. The fine wool of their winter coats would not have appeared white in the torchlight in any case, but was further discolored with smoke and streaked with dirt—they had been on campaign for months, out of reach of Manfort's tailors and cleaners. The mail shirts the men wore beneath their coats were smoke-stained and battered—but never rusty; polishing armor kept the soldiers busy and their equipment fit.

The piping on Arlian's own black wool cloak, once brilliant white, was now mottled brown and gray; the black had kept its color, but showed significant wear. His broad-brimmed hat was battered and shapeless, the phone that had once adorned it long since lost; his boots were scraped and scuffed, and his hair and beard needed brushing and trimming.

The fourteenth and final member of the party, however, remained clean and trim, his green-and-buff coat spotless. He stood near the cave entrance, staring at the dead dragons unhappily. He held neither torch nor spear. Arlian glanced at him, then turned his attention back to the remainder of the cavern.

He listened, and heard nothing but his own men, leather boots creaking or shuffling, woolen clothing or iron mail rustling, breath sigh-ing gently. He looked, and saw nothing else moving but the dragons'

remains collapsing in upon themselves.

There could be no question that the four dragons were dead. That was one good thing about the creatures, Arlian thought; one never need worry that a dragon was feigning death. If the flesh failed to sink inward, if the bones did not protrude through stretching hide, then the dragon was not dead. If the rot set in, the dragon was irrefutably gone.

Arlian and his twelve men had had no trouble in dispatching these four, despite their size and presumed ferocity—the dragons had been deeply asleep, as they always were in the winter, and none had awakened before they died. The last had been stirring slightly when four men had plunged the ten-foot black-tipped spear into its black heart, and had thrashed briefly as it died, but that was of no consequence.

None of the slayers had been harmed, and the world was rid of four more of the foul beasts, four more added to the scores Arlian and his troops had dispatched.

It was odd how routine the task had become. For centuries, humanity had thought it impossible to kill a dragon; no known weapon could pierce that magical hide or harm the creatures in any way. Only recently had the late Lord Enziet's sorcery and Arlian's own experimentation revealed that the black volcanic glass called obsidian could cut easily through a dragon's flesh, and that a blow to the heart with an obsidian blade would kill a dragon instantly.

Once it was demonstrated that the dragons could be killed, Arlian had been appointed warlord by the Duke of Manfort, with instructions to exterminate the creatures—instructions he had been following enthu-siastically every winter, when the dragons were dormant. In warmer weather, when entering the lairs of the great beasts verged on the suicidal, he attended to other matters.

The great obsidian-tipped spears and the knowledge of where and when the dragons slept had made killing them simple. Where harming a dragon in any way had once seemed miraculous, disposing of four of the monsters was now scarcely more than just another day's work.

Arlian frowned. Four. That equaled the most he had ever found in one place, but nonetheless, he had hoped for more; the report had been that at least six dragons dwelt in this region. The ancient documents he had inherited, files that described every recorded dragon sighting for the past eight hundred years, had said that half a dozen dragons, perhaps more, had swept down from these mountains some five centuries ago and laid waste to the town of Beggar's Oak.

That "half a dozen" report might have been exaggerated, of course-that was common. It seemed as if most of the reports he had followed in his fourteen years of dragon-hunting had claimed more dragons than Arlian had actually found in the caves and caverns he located. In some cases he supposed that might be because some of the dragons had departed, either died or moved on to other locations, but he was fairly sure that many of the original stories were simply wrong. It was human nature to exaggerate, to think every large bird spotted in the vicinity of an attack was another dragon, or every glimpse of a dragon was a new monster, rather than the same one seen twice.

And the records for this particular lair did not come from a survivor, but only from people who had seen the attack on Beggar's Oak from afar. Such a description would inevitably be less reliable than the accounts by survivors in the destroyed village itself.

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