Zmey Gorynych circled the battlefield, three heads spewing Tri-Headed Inferno. The forest burned. "Who challenges the Dragon of the Rus?" the middle head roared.
Tyr stepped from the smoke. He held his sword in his left hand. His right stump was wrapped in cloth.
"Justice," Tyr said.
The Duel
Zmey swooped, claws extending. Regenerating Necks meant he fought recklessly; losing a head was a minor inconvenience.
Tyr stood his ground. One-Handed Valor. His courage acted as a shield, deflecting the dragon's fear-aura.
As the dragon landed, Tyr didn't hack at the necks. He drove his sword into the beast's chest, pinning it to the earth.
Zmey's heads snapped at him. Tyr ignored the flames singing his beard. He invoked Fenrir's Pact—not a hand this time, but a sword.
"I bind you to the earth," Tyr grunted.
The magic of the Law bound the dragon's regeneration. Zmey thrashed, but the wound would not close. The fire in its throats sputtered and died. Tyr stood over the beast until the light faded from all six eyes.