The blade was singing too, the same note as the axe, and he was running toward the dragon with the full, unthinking, complete commitment of a boy who has not yet learned that he is small.
The dragon turned.
Its head. The full, massive, scaled head of it turning toward the boy running at it with a singing sword, its eyes — the vertical slit pupils, the molten gold of them — finding the child.
Edda moved.
The fastest she had ever moved. The axe left her hand — thrown, the spinning blade catching the moonlight and the firelight simultaneously — and it hit the dragon's neck at the exact moment its head began to descend toward the boy.
The blade bit.
Not deep. Not enough. The dragon's head snapped toward her — the distraction, the irritation, the full roar of a creature that has been annoyed by something small.
The fire came.
Edda stepped into it.
