"You'll what?"
"They'll never know what hit them. It's merciful that way. Lord, what a lovely creature that is!"
Blayne raised his rifle and took careful aim.
The rifle hung there a long moment, as Elliot watched Blayne's pudgy finger tightening on the trigger. Then he lowered it.
"No," he said. "I don't trust my aim. I might ruin the bird, and I'd never forgive myself."
He handed the gun to Elliot. Elliot took it reluctantly, feeling the coolness of the barrel, feeling the heaviness of the stock. "You shoot it," Blayne said.
"No I won't," Elliot retorted. "We said nothing about—"
"That doesn't matter," said Blayne blandly. "I'm not asking you to shoot the bird. I'm ordering you to."
Hot arrows of rage danced before Elliot's eyes. He saw the Dragonbird—now feasting on its sacrifice—saw that beautiful, noble head pierced by a rocketing lump of metal, pictured the smoking rifle in his hands—and he could barely check the impulse to swing the rifle and bash in Blayne's bloated skull.