[piosenniel]

Azhar and little Tom are rescued.....

By the time he found her, it was too late to finesse some way out of the deadly situation. From a short distance he’d watched her as she collapsed, resuming her young girl’s form. And now one of the men, his blade raised to strike, advanced rapidly on her still form.

There was simply no time to put a plan in place. In less than a few breaths Azhar would be dead.

Rôg did not relish the thought of killing the man.....the form he took, his clan form, had no such reservations.

The sword melted in the heat of the fiery blast. The flesh on the slaver’s arm caught flame and he screamed, turning as if to outrun the fire’s grip. Reaching out, the great wyrm’s foreleg crushed the man into the sand as if he were no more than a flea.

His great tail flicked round catching the other slaver, still ahorse, as the man turned his mount to escape. Rôg caught the man by the arm and yanked him from his saddle flipping him in a long high arc toward the hard, jagged edges of a rocky outcropping. The slaver’s screams grew distant as he flew through the air; stopping altogether as his heavy form met the earth.

All of the horses had now panicked and fled. The wyrm turned his yellowed eye on the last man, Imak. The slaver was struggling to rise to his feet, though it was clear he was still in some pain from the bear’s attack. Rôg dipped down his great head, clamping his razor sharp teeth on the man’s left arm.

It was a cry from Azhar that stopped him from snapping off Imak’s limb altogether. As it was, his maw slipped down to the end of the arm and with one small but satisfying crunch, he snipped off the man’s hand.

The girl had raised up weakly and was pointing to a small form on the ground where the little boy had slipped off the horse. Despite the fall, he did not seem harmed by his tumble. Only scared.....or perhaps angry, as he had begun to bawl quite loudly.

Flicking the slaver to the side with a brush of his forearm, Rôg started toward the small form.....

~*~

Straightening his robe about him, Rôg gathered up the wailing boy in his arms. His cloak found its way about Azhar’s shoulders to keep the chill from her thin form.

‘Come along, little one,’ he said as she leaned against him. One hand found its way to her shoulder, encouraging her to walk along with him. His other arm held the little boy, still fussing, against his chest. ‘You did a brave thing, Azhar, trying to protect him. A very brave thing.’

‘Later, when there is time, I’ll show you how to hold your form.’ He picked up his pace as he headed them toward where the women and children were gathered. ‘Come now, we must get back to where the others are waiting. I need you to watch him and his little sisters.....until the last of the slavers have been taken care of.....’