The sword of St. George

Fred watched the creature as it lumbered towards him.

A green, monstrous two tons of fire-breathing, fanged destruction descended upon him.

He did not move. His eyes never left the dragon. He waited. He watched. He gripped the handle of his sword more tightly in his right hand.

He needed to time his stroke. He must be sure the dragons vulnerable unarmoured belly was exposed to his blade.

He waited for the monster to take off. He counted the seconds in his head; one, two, three.

The giant claws pushed the razor sharp talons into the air and raging and thrashing, the beast hurtled towards the solitary figure of the boy. Fred acted instinctively. There was no time to do otherwise. He dropped onto his knees, drawing the monster towards him, almost inviting attack.

The dragon raised its head and, as it did so, its wings spread open in a gesture of triumph.

The giant jaws opened and the blazing sheet of flame shot forth towards the small figure. As the deadly stream left the dragons jaws, Fred rolled onto his left side, feeling the searing heat as it almost singed his hair.

In one movement, he regained his feet, stood up straight and thrust upwards with the weapon in his right hand.

Now, dragons are impervious to simple steel blades. A normal sword will not penetrate a dragons hide, even its unarmoured skin will not be pierced by a mere mortals sword.

But the sword that was in Freds hand was no ordinary blade.

It was a magic sword which he had earned as a result of many trials and tests. He felt the magic metal push upwards through the creatures hide, felt it as it pushed through the tough flesh and into the dragons evil heart.

The monster screamed, a high pitched wail which made the boy wince.

Yet, he knew he must hold onto the sword, to keep on thrusting it into the dragons innards.