He looked down at it in shock. He never retrieved the arrow he had loosed at the white stag. At that very moment of realiza on, a razor sharp claw ripped down his hip tearing his leg wide open.
He crumpled to the ground without a sound. When he looked up, he saw stars swirling around the blackness. Then there was nothing, nothing at all.
With a lus ul triumphant roar the wyvern’s serpen ne head lunged toward Bren’s limp body. The victory growl was cut short though. The sound quickly turned into a horrid pain filled screech as the smoldering end of the torch came down on its pink scaly back. The brand sizzled and popped back to life, flaming hotly before it rolled off and hit the ground. The torch rolled to a stop just under the raging beast’s underbelly. March ins nc vely
reached to his belt for his knife, but it was not there. He had dropped it when he was smashed into the wall. He didn’t panic though; instead he reached back over his head and grabbed hold of the ancient sword’s hilt in an effort to pull it from the scabbard. At first it wouldn’t come free, but with his second try, it did. The heavy metal hand guard cracked him in his ear and sent him stumbling head first across cavern floor towards the creature. The razor sharp blade sliced across his scalp, cu ng him to the bone as it slipped free. March had to grab the sword by the blade to turn it around so that he could hold it correctly. He cut his palms open in the process, but not so badly that he couldn’t grip the hilt.
March looked up to see the slithery beast figh ng to turn around and face him. It was trying to avoid the torch flames that were licking its tender underbelly. March’s heart hit the floor when he caught a brief glimpse of Bren’s torn and bloody body crumpled against the wall. He saw Bren’s thigh-bone fully exposed, and the huge pool of blood surrounding his friend. He feared Bren was dead.
A deep rush of anger fueled adrenaline shot through his veins. He gripped the sword with both hands. The grip wasn’t very good due to the blood leaking from the wounds in his palms, but it was good enough for him to raise the blade over his head and charge recklessly into the range of those horrible, finger-long fangs. At least the albino beast was easy to see in the muted torch light.
March was ge ng dizzy, and he could feel his warm blood sluicing down his back from the head wound. Luckily, his rage took over as he brought the gleaming sword down into the exposed flank of the turning creature.
He felt the blade slice deep into flesh before it was yanked from his hands.
The wyvern bucked wildly, slamming March and itself into the rocky wall.
Then it hopped backward into the darkened cavern. It was too late for the wyvern though. The slam, into the unrelen ng surface of the wall, had driven the sword deeper into its vitals. With a series of deep, gu ural moans that resounded with a hissing wetness, the creature curled and thrashed un l it finally s lled.
March reached for the back of his head. His wound was bad. He could feel his bare skull. But, he quickly forgot his pain when he heard Bren’s familiar voice moaning from across the cavern. Stopping only to retrieve the s ll smoldering torch, he went to Bren’s side.
A finger deep gash ran from Bren’s hip to just above his knee and a fat purple knot was forming on his cheek, from where it had impacted the rocky floor. He had lost a lot of blood, but was slowly regaining consciousness. March pulled the old pack off of his back and gently put it under Bren’s head. He then tore off his shirt. Using Bren’s skinning knife, he cut the cloth into wide strips. He wrapped the strips around Bren’s thigh, pulled the wound closed with them, then ed them ghtly. Only a er he was sure that his friend wasn’t going to bleed out right there on the cavern floor did he use the last strip of cloth to e around his s ll bleeding head.
When that was done, he poured a generous dollop of the brandy hooch along the length of Bren’s wound.
“No… no,” Bren said weakly as the burn of the liquid shot through his leg like a length of forge heated steel. A er a moment of wincing and clench jawed groaning, he hissed, “Drink.”
“Here,” March pped the flask to his friend’s lips and let him take the last of it.
March shook the flask over his hands and let the last few drops s ng the wounds on his palms. Then he rubbed them together. He cut off a piece of Bren’s shirt and tore it into two strips which he then ed around them.
“You’re a damn giboon,” Bren said quietly. He adjusted his upper body and pulled a fist sized stone from under his arse.
“Well, if you’d have been a be er shot, maybe we could have avoided the ruckus,” March forced a chuckle as he staggered to his feet.
“Is it dead, or did it just run off?” Bren asked with worry. He started to roll over to look, but his wounds kept him from turning.
“It’s just down there res ng,” March answered seriously. “I’m gonna go get wood for a fire. Just yell as loud as you can if it comes back.” He then started off into the darkness.
“March! Hey, don’t leave.” He choked as he rolled over despite the pain. He stopped yelling when he saw the albino wyvern’s pale lifeless bulk at the edge of the torchlight. Four arrows protruded from the thick, pinkish-white scaled body. The blood covered hilt of the sword March had pilfered protruded from the thing, as well. Below the sword hilt there was a gash big enough to crawl into, and a massive pool of black thickening blood. The creature would have been ten or twelve paces from head to tail if it was stretched out.
Relieved, Bren lay back, closed his eyes, and slowly slipped into blackness.
4
March could never in his life remember being as relieved as he was when he finally saw the daylight shining at the mouth of the cavern. By the look
of the sun, it was s ll only early a ernoon. What had seemed like a day long ordeal had actually lasted less than a turn of the glass. Thankful to s ll be alive, he grabbed the rope and his skinning knife, and began to gather up pieces of dried wood. The medallion hanging around his neck gleamed brightly in the sunlight. He was compelled to pause a moment to examine it.
It was palm-sized and disc-shaped, formed from a heavy metal that he had never seen before. Not gold or silver, but easily as shiny and as beau ful. It was finely worked with runes and symbols that he did not recognize. In the center, a thumb sized, teardrop shaped, diamond was mounted. Turning it over, he saw that both sides were iden cal and that the jewel sparkled with a million prisma c colors. The chain appeared to be made from the same metal as the medallion. When he tucked it into his shirt he found that it hung perfectly below his collar between his pectoral muscles. It felt as if it had been fi ed for him. He decided that it would be his good luck charm since he’d worn it while defea ng that slithery beast. It could be magical like the ar facts from the old world he had heard about. If not, it was surely worth its weight in gold. Enough to buy a small farm he figured.
Silently he swore to never sell it, or give it away. He also vowed to try to find the meaning of the markings on its surface.
The scream of a distant predator bird pulled him from his musings. He s ll had to get his badly injured friend home. It wouldn’t take the wolves long to pick up the scent of all that blood, and Prominence was a long way away.
A er gathering some wood he started back into the darkness of the cave.
He could see the dim torch flame flickering ahead and he carefully con nued in that direc on. His arms were full, so it was hard to step over
the lifeless lump of the dead creature, but he managed. He marveled at the size of it. It was easily three mes as long as Bren. Maybe he would cut off the head and some claws. He could make himself a trophy, and make Bren a necklace with the teeth.
“Marcherion?” Bren called out weakly. “Is that you?”
“Who else would it be, you big giboon!” March laughed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a tumbler at the fair.” Bren smiled broadly, but he gasped and turned a sickly pale color when he tried to sit up. Through clenched teeth he said,
“My leg is pre y bad off, March!”
“We will get you home,” March reassured. “If I can get you back over the ridge to our camp before dark, I’ll have you back in your bed by tomorrow night.”
March talked on as he built a fire. “Ge ng back over the ridge is gonna be hard on you.” He looked at Bren seriously. “But if you can grit it out that far, we’ll be home free.”
“I don’t think I can stand,” Bren said with more than a li le worry in his voice. He knew the way the wolves had tracked and a acked other groups of hunters when they hadn’t go en their fresh kills into the lower valley fast enough. He also knew that he smelled like a fresh kill, and that the wolves would surely come for him. March was a great hunter, and a superb woodsman, but no match for even a small pack of hungry wolves.
“I wish I had something to make a splint with,” March mu ered. Then he cursed himself for le ng the medallion dazzle him from his wits while he was outside. He was about to start back through the cave when he no ced
the sword’s scabbard lying on the cavern floor. An idea struck him then, and even though the cuts on his hands hurt badly, he went over to the white scaled wyvern’s side and struggled to pull the sword free. He screamed loudly as his hands slid roughly off of the hilt. The sword hadn’t budged and the cuts on his palms were reopened. He stood there grimacing, with his palms held to his chest, as fresh blood trickled down his arms and dripped from his elbows.
