Flex Ironthews's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Flex climbed the mountain again at dawn. His side ached, but the wound held. He carried his plan in his head: lure the beast past its alcove, wait for it to fade, then grab the scroll. One problem gnawed at him. He did not know how long the fading took. If he ran for the scroll too soon, the beast would come back and rip him open. Near the top he heard shouting. Four strangers stood on the wide ledge, weapons drawn. He knew the type at once. A traveling band of adventurers, the kind who took jobs for coin and glory. A red-bearded man in dented armor swung a hammer. A woman with crossed arms barked orders. Two others flanked her with blades. They had come for the same scroll. "Stay back, little one," the red-bearded man called. "This kill is ours." Then the beast came. It surged from its alcove, the cluster of eyes on its forehead shining wet. Its horns caught the mist. The adventurers charged. Steel struck its scales and skidded off. The hammer landed hard and did nothing. Flex crouched behind a stone and watched. The beast roared. It swung its heavy head and knocked the red-bearded man flat. One dagger-wielder slashed at its leg. The blade bent. The woman screamed to flee. Too late. The drake's jaws opened wide and closed around a man whole. It stomped another into the rock. The last two ran for the ledge's edge. Flex held still. He counted. The beast lunged after the fleeing pair, past its alcove, past the fog-line where it always stopped. It caught one adventurer in its teeth. Then Flex saw it. Just past that line, the drake's green scales went pale. Its edges thinned, like ink dropped in water. It slowed. Its jaws loosened. The adventurer slipped free and scrambled off. Flex kept counting. Ten. The beast staggered. Twenty. Its horns faded to gray. Thirty. It vanished. Gone, the way the wolves went. Now he had his answer. From the fog-line to nothing, thirty breaths. He could time it now. He crept to the alcove where the scroll lay open on a stone stand. Its runes glowed soft and strange. As he reached for it, the air above the stand darkened. Ink gathered. A shape formed. Horns. Then eyes. The beast was building itself again, straight from the open scroll. Flex snatched the scroll and rolled it shut. The forming shape smeared and dropped away into nothing. His hands shook. The stand sat empty. He held the scroll to his chest and breathed. The beast came from these pages. Roll it closed, and the beast could not form. He had what Gilding wanted. Now he only had to carry it down and lay it at her feet.