Pholos Ironside's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The beast met his charge. Its shoulder slammed Pholos and knocked him sideways. He kept his feet and swung the pale bone axe. The blade bit scale and skidded free. Black blood welled, then closed. One cut would not be enough. The beast was too large, and Pholos fought it alone. He backed toward the twisted oak. His hooves slid in wet leaves. The beast circled, patient now, cutting off the open ground behind it. Pholos glanced up through the branches. The little dragon had fled when the fight began. His only ally was gone. He gripped the axe and set his jaw. So be it. The beast lunged. Its jaws snapped shut where his throat had been. Pholos wheeled and kicked. Both back hooves cracked against its skull. The beast staggered, and for a breath Pholos saw his opening. Then the branches burst above him. A streak of color dropped from the leaves. The small dragon dove straight at the beast's eyes. Its wings blazed red and green and gold in the gloom. It clicked and shrieked and clawed at the beast's face. The beast roared and jerked its head, blind for a moment, snapping at the buzzing thing. Pholos did not wait. He drove forward. He raised the bone axe high and brought it down on the exposed neck. The blade sank deep this time. Faint colors flared along the metal. The beast screamed and thrashed. Pholos wrenched the axe free and struck again. Black blood sprayed his chest. The beast dropped to its knees. The small dragon darted clear. Pholos stood over the fallen beast, chest heaving. The thing that killed his clan lay in the dirt. Its breath came in wet gasps. Its eye rolled up toward him. He lifted the axe for the last blow. But the beast was not finished. It heaved up with a final surge and swept its tail. The blow caught Pholos across the flank and threw him against the oak. Pain tore through his side. When he rose, the beast had crawled into the trees, leaving a wide trail of black blood. It fled, wounded and slow, but alive. Pholos pressed a hand to his ribs. Blood ran between his fingers. He had wounded the beast at last, but it had escaped him. He would have to hunt it down before it healed or found its strength. The small dragon settled on a low branch. It clicked at him, then at the blood trail leading into the dark. Pholos understood. The creature had not abandoned him. It had waited for the right moment, and it would lead him again. He drew the broken black fang from his belt and held it out. The dragon touched its snout to the jagged tip. Then it lifted off and flew toward the trail. Pholos took up his axe and followed, limping, into the deeper woods.