Stone Dragon (The First Realm) by Klay Testamark

palace, she had to agree. Prince or not, Angrod had to die.
    The mages were far behind. The dragon was keeping a straight course. She couldn’t keep flying much longer—the spell was extremely taxing. It was time.
    She canceled her forward thrust and began to stoop. She held her fists out in front of her and called upon the power of the earth. She was high in the sky, but she’d always had an affinity for the earth and the wind resistance ceased to be a problem as her weight multiplied. She became denser, much denser, and soon was as rigid as a statue.
    Down she dived, down and down, gaining speed and power. She poured energy into her earth discipline, and apart from a few course corrections dropped like a rock. An extremely dense rock, plummeting so fast her skin grew hot. She held her fists in front of her and aimed for Angrod.
    * * *
    I was congratulating myself for the skirmish when something hit me in the back. I stopped feeling my legs. Something wet slithered across my belly.
    What was that?
    I chanced a look. Oh, shit.
    There was a hole in my back, and a bigger one in my abdomen. Whatever had hit me, it had punched all the way through. I was trailing my own guts.
    I noticed we were losing altitude.
    What do I do?
    Do? There is no “do.” Only DIE.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 10
    Findecano directed the guards as they picked through the wreckage. Overall, it could have been worse. There were plenty of bruises and scrapes among his guests (the dwarven ambassador sprained his ankle jumping onto the garden, the clumsy lump) but there was just one civilian fatality.
    Too bad about Valandil. The old fool had been a hero at the end, but it was probably for the best. If his apprentice hadn’t killed him, Findecano’s man would have. The Lord Governor reflected on the turn of events, trusting on instinct to show him the way.
    A healer approached. “Help you with that burn, milord? You shouldn’t even be on your feet.”
    He waved her away. “I’ll be fine. Take care of the others. Is my wife going to be all right?”
    “They’ve finished setting her arm. I think that’s her walking toward us.”
    Tari had her arm in a sling. Findecano embraced her, gently. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
    “A clean break and the healer didn’t see any other problems. It’s a good thing you were on top of me.”
    He grinned. “I’ve heard that before.”
    She punched him with her other arm. “And what about your burn, my husband? That looks bad.”
    Findecano’s right leg was a big mottled burn. It was red, black, and thoroughly seared. The woolen hose was completely gone.
    He gritted his teeth. “I’m warding off the pain with air magic. It’s not helping it heal, but it’ll do until the emergency passes.”
    The healer had gone. Tari waved her hand and enveloped them in a bubble of quiet. “And how does this affect us?” she said, moving her lips as little as possible.
    “It seems I’ll have to kill Angrod after all. I was going to have his claim thrown out of court—it was a joke after all—but this has forced my hand.”
    “I’ll wager your agent is pleased with this development.”
    “Oh, I’m sure. Aren’t you, my dear agent?”
    “Son of a bitch,” said a disembodied voice.
    “May I assume that was a general and rhetorical son of a bitch? Or were you referring to me?”
    The spy fidgeted. “Uh, of course it wasn’t you, milord. It’s just that I was trying so hard.”
    Findecano nodded. “Reinforcing the floor under you was a step in the right direction, but you were still a drain on the local magic field. Is there something you wanted to tell me?”
    “Just got a message from the Grand Master. He says reports of the dragons’ extinction were exaggerated and wishes to tell you he’s sending a team to deal with this last one.”
    “Who told him about it?”
    “Uh, I did, milord. But you didn’t order me not to.”
    Findecano frowned. “We’re