Again that dissipation enroute, and lack of effect. His spells were potent, but were not reaching the dragon! Now the creature’s tiny eyes flashed. Stile had not realized that worms had eyes, but this one certainly did. He remembered the weapon he had been warned about. “Light —blight!” he cried, and the lightning fizzled out before reaching him. His backup spells were saving his hide. The Worm paused, evidently taking stock. Stile did the same. His magic worked—but the Worm was shielded against it. The Worm had magic—that Stile could block. So the Flute enabled Stile to perform his magic here, but not to use it directly against the enemy. Like two armored knights, they were so well protected against attack that neither could hurt the other magically. The Elder elf had been right.
So much for his rehearsed spells. This conflict was about to get physical. And the Worm was a good deal more physical than Stile.
Still, he would have to make a try. For one thing, he was now trapped inside the tunnel; the bulk of the Worm was between him and the exit. In fact the bulk of the Worm surrounded him. The monster was slowly constricting, hemming him in. Neysa was on the far side of the dragon, unable to help.
Stile had no weapon, other than the Flute. Now he knew that the Flute, while effective, was not enough. Not against the magic Worm. What he needed at the moment was a good sword. What was that spell he had prepared, to summon such a weapon?
The Worm’s tube-mouth opened wider—and now a ring of teeth showed, six-inch teeth sure enough, pointing in-ward. No doubt useful for tunneling through rock—but surely adequate also to grind up one small man. Why couldn’t he think of that spell!
The head nudged closer. Stile held the Flute before him in a futile gesture of defense while he tried to cudgel his memory into yielding up the forgotten spell—damn this failure under pressure!—and discovered he held a sword. A shining platinum blade, long and sharp, two-edged. But light and balanced. Exactly the kind of sword he was well versed in.
“Well, now!” Stile exclaimed, confidence surging. The elves had not informed him of this aspect of the Flute! It was a shape-changer.
Stile stepped briskly forward and stabbed at the Worm’s side. He expected the point to bounce off the tough scales, but it penetrated. Aha! The enchantment of the Platinum Sword was proof against the Worm’s resistance. Maybe it was a different kind of spell, that when buttressed by forceful physical action—
The Worm screamed like a siren and whipped its head about. Stile jerked the sword out and retreated. A geyser or dark red blood shot out of the hole, sailing in an arc through the air to splash on the stone several feet away. A rank charnel smell rose from the fluid.
The dragon’s nose nudged up to the wound. A slimy tongue slid out, intercepting the flow of blood. Did worms have tongues? This one did! Was it about to drink its own blood? A single slurp—and the flow abated. The nose drew away. The blood remained staunched.
Maybe it was the saliva: some magical curative property.
This monster could heal itself.
The dragon’s head was orienting on Stile again. This was one tough worm! It might not be able to see him, but it could hear him and smell him, and in the poor light that was just about as good. Stile had foolishly delayed when he should have been edging around to rejoin Neysa, during the Worm’s distraction. Still, maybe he could—
Stile strode for the Worm’s side. Immediately the snout snapped toward him. Stile dodged back and sprinted past the head to reach the mouth of the tunnel. Neysa was awaiting him in equine form. She too could place him readily by smell and sound. Next time he fought an animal, he would prepare spells of inaudibility and unsmellability! He leaped to mount her.
“At least we know it can be injured by this sword,” he said. “Maybe if we charge in, slash, and charge out before it reacts, then wound it in a second place, and a third—“ He stopped. He no longer had a sword. He supported a long platinum lance. The magic Flute had shown another facet!
Stile braced the lance in his arms and Neysa charged the Worm as its head swung about. The point of the lance struck the neck just behind the head; Stile did not have his aim perfect yet. A lance was not the easiest thing to use! He really needed some sort of supportive harness. The shaft rammed in forcefully—and Stile was shoved off his mount.
