Flex Ironthews's Arc

Chapter 2 of 6

Flex tied his rope to his belt and started up the misty mountain. His twin daggers rode at his hips, blades polished, ready. The climb was strange from the first ledge. Rabbits drawn in black ink hopped across the stone. He nudged one aside with his boot. It smeared like wet paint, then reformed and hopped on. Flex laughed. Painted bunnies could not stop him. He kept climbing. Near the top, mist thinned around a wide alcove. Something huge moved inside. It stepped out. The creature stood on two legs, tall as a house, green scales down its back. Sharp spines ran along its spine. Where a face should hold two eyes, a cluster of eyes bulged across its forehead, all wet and rolling. Flex froze. He dropped low behind a rock and held his breath. He crept sideways, silent, watching his feet. But those many eyes swept every angle at once. Half of them locked onto him while the head faced elsewhere. The creature snorted. There was no blind side. Flex saw it then: brawn meant nothing here. He did not know what this thing feared. He did not know how a story creature could be beaten. That was the whole trap. So he did the only thing he trusted. He charged. He drew both daggers and drove them into the beast's ankle with all his weight. Steel struck scale and skidded off. Not a scratch. The blades bounced back and rang against the stone. The creature looked down at him with its whole eye-cluster and opened a mouth full of teeth. It lunged. Jaws snapped shut where Flex had stood a breath before. He rolled, felt hot breath wash over his back, and ran. Claws raked the rock behind him. He hit a downward ledge and slid, tearing his palms open. The beast bellowed but did not follow past its alcove. It stayed with its scrolls and its mist. Flex kept sliding and falling until the roars faded above him. He reached the base bruised and bleeding. He slumped against an old oak, its branches heavy with drifting fog. His daggers hung useless at his sides. He turned one over. The edge was fine. The blade had done nothing because the fight had never been about blades. Flex pressed a torn palm to his chest and breathed. Iron muscle had failed. Sharp steel had failed. The creature saw from every angle and felt no cut. He would not climb again the same fool. Before he faced those eyes, he needed to learn what a story creature could not stand. He needed its weakness, and he needed it from someone who knew the mountain's tales. He wiped blood on his trousers and looked back up the slope. The scroll was still up there. So was he, still breathing, and now he knew the true shape of the wall in his way.