The Rage by Richard Lee Byers

dragon’s blazing eyes and snapping jaws. Having seen the trick before, Dorn knew Pavel had conjured the effect. A few seconds later, the priest himself advanced on the creature, the mace of steel and wood in his own fist shining like the sun.
    Dorn did his best to stay in front of the drake and attack relentlessly, trying to keep the reptile’s attention fixed on him while his friends hacked, bashed, and stabbed it from the sides and rear. He gradually cut its mask into a crosshatch of bloody gashes. Still, the wyrm wouldn’t even falter, much less go down.
    Eaten away by acid, the bastard sword snapped in two. As he fumbled for the long knife he carried as backup or for fighting in close quarters, a column of dazzling yellow lire hurtled down from the darkening sky to strike the drake between the wings. Dorn knew Pavel wasn’t sufficiently learned—or wise, or saintly, however it worked—to cast such a powerful spell from his own innate capabilities. He’d used a precious scroll, divine magic the arcanists of Thentia couldn’t replace, because in his estimation it was the only way to put the dragon down.
    The ooze drake convulsed, but only for a second. Then it rounded on the man it had plainly identified as the principal spellcaster among its opponents. Its head shot forward and caught Pave! in its jaws. Teeth gnashing, it reared high, on the brink of chewing him up and swallowing him down.
    No time for the knife now, Dorn thought as he hinged in and ripped with his iron claws.
    Heedless of their own safety, Raryn and Will attacked just as furiously.
    At last, reeking of burned flesh, the wyrm collapsed. The three hunters scrambled backward to keep it from landing on top of them, then rushed to its head to determine if Pavel was still alive.
    They couldn’t tell until they pried the fangs apart and pulled him free. Then they saw he was breathing shallowly, but might not be for long. His wounds were deep, bleeding profusely, and he was the healer. Who, then, would heal him?
    Well, they had restorative potions, if he wasn’t too far gone to swallow. Dorn grabbed the one he carried in his belt pouch, pulled the priest’s jaws apart, and poured clear liquid into his mouth.
    Pavel coughed most of it back out, but a little evidently went down, because his brown eyes flickered open, and he guzzled the rest of the pewter vial. It served to stanch the worst of the bleeding. Afterward, he gestured weakly for Dorn to step back.
    For a moment, Dorn didn’t understand why his friend was shooing him away. Then he recalled the bubble of silence. Pavel couldn’t recite any incantations while Dorn was crouching over him.
    Once he withdrew a few yards, the cleric cast one healing spell after another until his wounds closed, and he was able to stand upright. Then he wiped away the enchantment he’d cast on Dorn, and sound popped back into the world.
    “You know,” panted Will to Dorn and Raryn, “if we’d moved just a little slower, we would have been rid of the charlatan’s useless arse.”
    “You all have acid burns on your faces,” Pavel said. “They don’t look serious, out I have a few spells left. I might as well see if I can fix them.” He grinned at the halfling. “Though regrettably, I’ve no cure for simple ugliness. Or ugly simpleness.”
    Once the priest had eased the sting of their blisters, Raryn said, “What do you say we make camp and chop up the wyrm in the morning? A few teeth and talons should suffice to prove we killed it.”
    “Fine,” said Dorn.
    It occurred to him that he ought to be elated at the death of another dragon, but as was often the case, the feeling eluded him. Instead, he felt a glum mood settling in.
    “What I want to know,” Will said, “is why we never catch the wyrms in their lairs. Seize one treasure horde and we could live like kings for the rest of our days.”
    “They hide the lairs so folk like us won’t find them,” Raryn replied. “They build snares, too, and