They dodged another snap of the dragon’s jaws, and this time Gwen got the spear leveled at the dragon’s chest. The tip struck with a screech that made Achilles’s gait falter, and slid until it stuck with an impact that nearly threw Gwen from her saddle. Her knees held on with the instinct of long practice, but she had to let go of the spear or be torn from her horse’s back.

As she and Achilles galloped away again, Gwen looked back over her shoulder and saw the spear wedged between two of the dragon’s armored plates. There was no blood—she hadn’t so much as scratched it.

Gwen swore and turned Achilles again. They paused there, each of them catching their breaths. The dragon reared back, spreading its wings and beating them down, turning the grasses beneath it into a surging, roiling storm—but it only lifted a few yards off the ground before thudding down again with a snarl of rage, tucking its injured wing against its body.

Gwen felt an answering throb of pain in her own shoulder—it was the same arm as the one she’d injured on the dragon. That much they had in common—two wounded creatures, facing each other across the empty battlefield. For a moment, Gwen could almost feel a grim sympathy for it—until it swung its head in her direction, the cruel intensity of its gaze forcing her to wrench her eyes away before it could snuff out her life as it had done to so many of the villagers of Aberfarthing.

Achilles leapt into movement again, ending the brief respite. Gwen thought, wildly, about drawing her sword—but it would be of no use, for if she was close enough to use the blade, she would probably already be dead. She needed the spear back.

Achilles charged directly at the dragon, which dropped its head low and began clawing its way across the field toward them, snarling a challenge and gathering speed. Again, Gwen tugged Achilles’s reins to the right—but then, abruptly, threw her weight left. Her horse responded instantly, with a whicker of effort, and dodged past the dragon’s snapping jaws close enough that Gwen heard a drop of its saliva land wetly on the shoulder of her armor. She leaned low as Achilles raced beneath the neck of the monster, and stretched out her arm as they neared the spot where the spear was wedged.

The jolt through her arm, up into her shoulder, as she grabbed the shaft of the weapon and tore it loose ripped a ragged cry of pain from Gwen’s throat—but she kept hold of the spear as, once again, Achilles raced away to a safe distance.

She was armed again. They would turn in a moment, regroup, think of some new way to run at it that might allow a better thrust of the spear between those armored plates. . . .