He descended the tower and entered the great hall. A dozen children were playing with a huge dragon, some hanging from its tail and screaming in delight at being tossed around, others sitting on its back and cheering excitedly. At the sight of him Oltoth came lumbering over and lowered his smoky snout into Mygor's hand and nuzzled while the king scratched his throat bringing forth a tiny spew of flame, more purr than roar. This docile creature would never be their saviour he knew, it would be science not magic that would prevail; the Lachnar would never even know what killed them.
"Everything is ready, Your Majesty," said a cloaked man, approaching and handing him a delicate flask.
Mygor turned it over in his hand and smiled.
Down in the camp below two men on watch saw the vessel fly out from the castle, they observed its trajectory across and down. One turned and called out a warning. It landed beside a fire, shattering, and the men around jumped up.
"What manner of weapon is this?" said one of them, picking up a piece of the glass and showing it to the others, laughing scornfully. The smile was wiped from his lips as thick foam bubbled from his throat. He fell to his knees, clutching at the tunic of his friend but he was dead before his face hit the earth. Panic spread before the plague, but not fast enough to save any of them. By morning the battle was over.
(Words for my flash fiction A to Z supplied spontaneously by Monkey.)
(Linking back to the A to Z challenge)