the air and in between the dragon’s fangs and the “Ulp!”
was the hat getting stuck in the dragon’s throat.
“My hat!” wailed Fizban, and he swelled up until I
thought he was going to burst.
The dragon was tossing its head around, choking and
wheezing and coughing and trying to dislodge the hat.
Owen dashed forward, not bothering to take the time to
give the knight’s salute to an enemy, which I thought was
sensible of him, and stuck his sword (or tried to stick it) in
the dragon’s throat.
The sword’s blade shivered and then shattered. The
dragon lashed out at Owen, but it couldn’t do much except
try to thump him on the head since it was still trying to
breathe around the hat. Owen stumbled away and slipped
and fell in the snow. His hand landed on the dragonlance.
It was the only weapon we had except for my hoopak,
and I would have offered him the hoopak at the time only
I forgot I had it. This was all so thrilling.
“Save my hat!” Fizban was shrieking and hopping up
and down. “Save my hat!”
PHUEY!
The dragon spit out the hat. It flew across the cave and
hit Fizban in the face and flattened him but good. Owen
leapt to his feet. He was shaking all over, his armor
rattled, but he lifted the dragonlance and threw with all his
might.
The dragonlance struck the dragon’s scaly hide and
broke into about a million pieces.
The dragon was sucking in its breath again. Owen
slumped. He looked all defeated and hurting. He knew he
was going to die, but I could tell that didn’t matter to him.
It was the thought that his wife and little boy and maybe
all those villagers too were going to die that was like a
spear in his heart.
And then it seemed to me that I heard a voice. It was
Flint’s voice, and it sounded so close that I looked all
around, more than half-expecting to see him come
dashing at me, all red in the face and bellowing.
“You doorknob of a kender 1 Didn’t you hear
anything I said? Tell him what I told Theros!”
I tried to remember it and then I did remember it and
I began to babble, “When you throw the lance, it will be
the strength of your faith and the power of your arm and
the vision of your eye that will guide the lances into the
evil dragon’s dark heart. That’s what Flint said, sort of,
Owen, except I changed it a little. Maybe I was wrong!” I
shouted. “Try the other lance!”
I don’t know whether he heard me or not. The dragon
was making a lot of noise and snow was falling and
swirling around us. Either Owen did hear me and took my
advice (and Flint’s) or else he could see as plain as the hat
on Fizban’s face that the lance was our last and only hope.
He picked it up and this time he didn’t throw it. This time
he ran with it, straight at the dragon, and with all his
strength and might and muscle he drove the lance right
into the dragon’s throat.
Blood spurted out, staining the white snow red. The
dragon gave a horrible yell and flung its head from side to
side, screaming in pain and fury. Owen hung onto the
lance, stabbing it deeper and deeper into the dragon. The
lance didn’t break, but held straight and true.
Blood was all over the place and all over Owen and
the dragon’s shrieks were deafening. Then it made a
terrible kind of gurgling sound. The head sank down onto
the bloody snow, shuddered, and lay still.
None of us moved – Fizban because he was unconscious
and Owen because he’d been battered about quite a bit by
the dragon’s thrashing, and me because I just didn’t feel
quite like moving at the time. The dragon didn’t move,
either, and it was then I realized it was dead.
Owen crouched on his hands and knees, breathing
heavily and wiping blood out of his face and eyes. Fizban
was stirring and groaning and mumbling something about