The Mighty Morg

16. The Mighty Morg

Morg's three hearts quickened at the sight of the manling. There was nothing like the sparkle of a soldier carapace to snap him out of a pre-long-sleep melancholy. With excitement swelling in his breast, he swooped in for a closer look.

Manling shells were a wonder of nature. No two were ever alike. They came in a variety of colors: pewter, coal, eggshell, silver and gold. Some were dull and plain as pillbugs while others were crystal-bright and etched with intricate patterns. Their mandibles came in both smooth and beaky varieties, and their craniums often boasted feathers, horns or even antlers. The most exquisite ones bore distinctive markings on their breast that resembled some animal or object in nature.

What Morg saw this time was so remarkable he almost forgot to beat his wings. Not only was the shell unusually large and a burnished gold in color—the rarest sort—but the distinctive markings on its breast and club-arm bore an unmistakable resemblance to his own shadow. He couldn't believe his good fortune. This shell would find a very special place in his collection.

He pulled up at the last moment, passing so close to the manling that he could peer through the horizontal eye-slits to the dark cores beneath, which were black and mindless as an insect's. He banked and completed a circuit to land a few wingspans in front of it. Suppressing his excitement, he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

Killing a soldier manling without damaging its shell was like trying to subdue a walking, stinging egg. The slightest blow from tail or talon was sure to damage them. Blazing the beast wasn't an option. Not only was it morally reprehensible to flame another living creature, but dragon-fire left permanent scorch marks. Morg sized up his prey as he mentally reviewed his tactics.

The manling broke the standoff first. With a defiant bark, it flailed its legs against the carrier beast, causing it to lurch forward. He had to admire the creature's boldness, if not its common sense. Even the witless caribou would flee at first sight of a dragon, but a soldier manling had no qualms about taking on something twenty times its size.

Launching himself into the air, Morg swept up and over it, coming down on the other side. He repeated the maneuver several times as the manling wheeled and charged, barking and clanking all the while. It tried all the usual tricks: applying sudden bursts of speed, inching closer while attempting to look harmless and disinterested, trying to anticipate his next move and race there ahead of him, or attempting to circle around and catch him from behind. Morg had seen it all before. He even allowed it to come close a few times so it wouldn't become discouraged and run for the woods, though he made a point of never letting it out of his sight. If there was one thing the Great Serpent had overlooked in a dragon's design, it was a means of removing a stinger from its back.

The carrier beast was the first to show signs of tiring. Its nostrils flared with every labored breath, and a heavy lather poured from its mouth. For all the manling's insistent kicking, each successive charge was slower and more ponderous than the last. Soon, it could barely manage more than a shambling walk.

The time had come, Morg judged, to set about the delicate business of killing. Arching his wings high over his back for balance, he prodded at his quarry with his fore claws while his tail snaked around to menace it from behind. The manling lashed out wildly with club-arm and stinger but lacking opposable eyes and an adequate number of appendages, it was at a severe disadvantage.

Claws poised to snatch the manling the instant it went limp, Morg's tail flicked in for the death strike, aiming for the soft spot at the back of the neck. His aim held true, but the carrier beast surged suddenly forward, causing the point of his tail to pierce the beast's flank instead. With a terrible squeal, it fell thrashing to the ground in a gout of blood. The manling was thrown clear, coming to rest face-down in the dirt. Silent and unmoving, its detached stinger and club-arm lay on the ground some distance away.