Pholos Ironside's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The tiny dragon led Pholos deeper until the trees blocked out the sky. Then it stopped over a stretch of torn ground. Pholos slowed his hooves and looked. The little creature hovered, wings buzzing fast, and would not fly ahead. Bones littered the trail. A deer lay split open, its ribs cracked wide. The flesh was still wet. Blood pooled black in the dirt. Flies had not yet found it. Pholos knelt and touched the wound. Warm. The kill was fresh, made within the hour. He rose and gripped his axe. The weapon had belonged to his clan. Pale carvings ran down the bone handle. Faint colors glowed along the blade. He had pulled it from the ash of his ruined home. Now his hands sweated against the grip. The small dragon darted to a twisted, hollow oak nearby. Its trunk bent like a wrung rope. A black gap opened at its base, wide enough for a man. The creature landed on the bark and clicked at him. It pointed its snout toward the hollow, again and again. Pholos understood. The beast denned inside that tree. His enemy slept close. His heart pounded. For months he had chased a shadow. Now the shadow had a home, and he stood at its door. He crept forward. His hooves pressed the soft dirt with care. He raised the axe over his shoulder. One strike into the dark, before the beast woke. He reached the hollow mouth and peered in. Empty. Only more bones and a foul, warm stink. The den was fresh but abandoned. The beast had left, and not long ago. Then the ground shook. A deep growl rolled from behind him, close and low. Pholos spun. Branches snapped in the gloom across the clearing. Two eyes caught the thin light. Something huge shifted between the trunks. The beast had not been sleeping. It had been out hunting, and now it came back to its den. The small dragon shot upward and vanished into the branches. Pholos stood alone before the hollow oak. He had wanted to strike first. Instead the beast stood between him and open ground. It knew he was here. He planted his hooves and lifted the axe. His whole body burned. This was the thing that killed his clan and marked his eye. His old scar throbbed as if it remembered. The beast stepped from the trees. It was larger than he had feared, black scaled, its jaw lined with fangs like the broken one at his belt. It lowered its head and fixed both eyes on him. Pholos did not run. He roared and charged. He would not wait to be hunted. If the beast wanted this ground, it would fight for it now. The hunt had ended. The battle had begun.