Path of Dragons

It was only a whisper.

But in Miguel’s ears, it was as loud as any shout. He shot to his feet, a layer of dirt and dried blood cracking with his every motion as he erupted from his hiding place in the hollow beneath a huge, exposed root. His sword lashed out in a backhanded swing that met flesh after only an instant. A moment later, the dark elf’s head flew free with a spray of blood. It went to the right, while the rest of the would-be assassin’s body went to the right.

He didn’t stop moving, though. To stop was to die, as evidenced when a trio of arrows thudded into the muddy turf he’d just vacated. He skidded across the wet ground, bending backward to avoid a spear thrust that would have impaled him. His momentum took him past the dark elf wielder, but Miguel managed to slice his blade across the back of his foe’s ankles.

Supernatural durability or not, joints and tendons were still mechanical things. And if the Achilles tendon was severed, a person couldn’t walk properly. If at all. It was simple physics. Adding to the attractiveness of that particular tendon as a target was the fact that it was rarely armored, meaning that Miguel’s blade bit deep, cutting through the stringy bit of flesh with ease.

As the owner of said tendons flopped forward, Miguel continued his skid before using an exposed root to halt his slide. He popped up, wheeling around to parry an oncoming sword strike. He knocked the other blade aside, then kicked its owner in the knee. The attack would have crippled a normal person – especially with Miguel’s Strength – but the elven woman only grunted before throwing a punch that connected with his jaw.

He’d long since lost his helmet, so he had no protection.

And the woman was strong. Much stronger than him, as he discovered when his jaw cracked. Pain lanced through the side of his face and down his neck, but Miguel couldn’t allow himself to really feel it. Instead, he countered with a shoulder tackle that knocked her comparatively slimmer body aside.

That was when Trevor thundered forward, ramming his tiny antlers into her back. They were no longer than six inches, but that was enough to pierce the elf’s vital organs. The momentum of his charge sent the enemy flying forward. Miguel, who’d seen Trevor coming, used that distraction to disguise his next attack.

He whipped a dagger out of its sheath at his waist, throwing it in one smooth motion. Hitting a moving target with a thrown blade wasn’t easy, even with his Dexterity, but Miguel had had plenty of practice. The dagger’s trajectory was a little off-target. He had intended to bury it in her throat. But the throw was accurate enough that the blade ripped through the side of her neck, cutting through her femoral artery and sending a spray of red blood into the air.

What’s more, she wasn’t alone.

Two more dark elves charged Miguel, while one tried to corner the staggered Trevor. The stag had used almost all of his energy on the previous charge, so after weeks of hard travel through enemy-infested territory, he could barely stand. Miguel wasn’t much better off, and he’d taken dozens of wounds during that time.

Some had healed, scabbing over quickly, but a couple were far more serious. He ignored his injuries, digging deep to power another mad dash. This one ended with him ramming his sword into the back of the elf who’d intended to attack Trevor. That left Miguel open for reprisal from his enemy’s allies, and he hunched his back to take the blows he knew were coming.

Blades dug deep into his armor, sending chips of lacquered wood flying. The momentum of those attacks sent him staggering into Trevor, and the stag fell, his chest heaving with pain and exhaustion. Miguel managed to maintain his feet, and seeing his companion’s plight ignited the fires of rage in his heart. With a growl that was more feral than human, he whipped around so quickly that he managed to take the next elf by surprise.

He rammed his blade into his opponent’s exposed chin, and it ripped its way upward and into his brain. The elf died instantly, and Miguel tore his sword free with a savage fury that dislodged most of the fighter’s jaw. He couldn’t spare the gruesome sight a moment’s notice. Instead, he pushed close to the other attacker, grabbing him with his free hand and pulling. The surprised elf staggered slightly, which allowed Miguel to once again bring his blade to bear, stabbing his foe in the stomach. He ripped the blade away, disemboweling the unfortunate elf.

By that point, the final two elves had recovered. The woman led the way, unleashing a furious barrage of sword attacks that pushed Miguel to the absolute limit of his skills. She was stronger and faster than him – likely due to a much higher level – but he was better with the blade. As a result, they were evenly matched.

Unfortunately, she was not alone.

The second elf kept his distance, using a spear to take opportunistic shots whenever Miguel was distracted by the swordswoman. That put him at a distinct disadvantage, and he struggled to maintain the equilibrium of the fight.

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He tried everything he could, but he was hamstrung by three factors. First, he was wounded, and with every passing moment, his power waned. Soon, he’d collapse from sheer exhaustion. Second, the aforementioned disadvantage of numbers. He could fight against multiple opponents, but it was exceedingly difficult, especially when said foes were accustomed to working together. And finally, he couldn’t use the entire battlefield.

Trevor still hadn’t risen, which meant that if Miguel tried to move away, it would expose the stag. Likely, the spearman would kill him. And while that might ensure Miguel’s escape – or allow him to win the battle – it was not a sacrifice he was willing to make. So, as had been the case so many times over the past couple of weeks, Miguel had no choice but to stand his ground and outlast his enemies.

It was a losing battle, though.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, beneath all the strategic thinking, fear, and anger, he knew that he couldn’t win. Not with so many factors stacked against him.

But he wouldn’t give up. He refused to give in. For his own sake as much as Trevor’s, he fought on.

The sound of metal against wood accompanied grunts of pain and exertion as the battle wore on. Miguel fought valiantly and with all the skill he’d learned from Colt. Victory was not in the cards, though. After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, he took a wicked slash across his thigh. It hacked apart the already-damaged armor, biting deep into his flesh.

That wound spelled the end.

It slowed him down just enough that the next serious wound came soon after. And that facilitated a stab to his exposed side. The elven woman seized upon the advantage, going in for a strike that would have decapatiated him if he hadn’t tilted his head down. Still, the wound went deep into his scalp, staggering him even as blood flowed down his forehead. The spearmen used that brief moment to stab him again.

Trevor stirred behind him, but the stag was incapable of rising. He wasn’t going to contribute further to the battle. And Miguel was on his last leg.

That was okay, though.

He’d killed dozens of elves. He’d done everything he could. The numbers just weren’t in his favor. Only a couple of years after the world had changed, he’d made peace with his own mortality. He’d had to, with all the people he had been forced to watch die. Friends’ parents went out to scavenge or patrol the area around Easton, and they’d never come back. His own mother had been killed in the tower. Death was just part of life, and he was okay with it.

His only regret was that he hadn’t ensured Trevor’s survival. The stag was terrified. Miguel could feel it through their bond. And it wasn’t surprising, either. Trevor wasn’t old enough to understand how the world worked. He hadn’t had a chance to make peace with the realities of life and death.

So, even as he fought an unwinnable battle, Miguel tried to send calm and reassuring thoughts through their bond. It was only marginally effective. They couldn’t read one another’s minds. Yet, he hoped that it would help – even if only a little – so that Trevor’s last moments wouldn’t be full of panic.

The minutes stretched on, and Miguel took more and more hits. He managed to inflict a few wounds of his own, but normally those came at the expense of his own defenses. Because of that, he latched onto the idea of taking his opponents down with him. Certainly, he knew he wasn’t going to win. That ship had sailed. However, he did think he could bring them down with him.

Or at least one of them.

So, he switched tactics, adopting a far more aggressive style that he usually only used when he outmatched his opponents. It was great for dispatching weaker foes very quickly, but it came with a cost, opening him up to easy reprisal for anyone with the skill to seize upon the opportunity.

And the elves were just such opponents.

He rushed forward, taking another stab wound to his hip. Still, he managed to get inside the spearman’s guard and batter him across the head with the hilt of his sword. That staggered the elf, which allowed Miguel to headbutt him. Just as he brought his blade down, shearing through the spearman’s neck, the swordswoman stabbed him in the back.

Her blade went between his ribs, piercing his lung and coming out the other side. It didn’t have enough momentum to get through the front of his segmented chest armor, but that didn’t really matter. The damage had already been done.

Miguel threw himself forward, feeling every inch of the blade as it pulled free.

He collapsed to the ground, already coughing up blood. A foot connected to his side, flipping him over so he could see his enemy. She loomed over him, a snarl on her face. “You have killed hundreds, child,” she spat, leveling her sword at him. He responded by trying to kick her shin, but the attack was weak. Slow. Ineffectual. He coughed, splattering blood all over his chin. “For that, you will pay.”

It didn’t seem to matter that the elves were the ones who’d first attacked him. Obviously, she didn’t care that they’d harassed him for weeks as he raced toward Argos. He’d been forced to fight a running battle, burying himself beneath exposed roots just so he could get a little rest. He’d barley eaten. He hadn’t really slept. And he’d been pushed to his absolute limits.

And from her skewed perspective, he was the bad guy.

It was madness.

He tried to say as much, but his voice simply wouldn’t cooperate. All that came out was another blood-filled cough. She smirked down at him, then raised her sword. It glinted in the sunlight as time seemed to stand still.

And all Miguel could think was that he hoped she would spare Trevor.

Then, the blade fell.

Miguel somehow managed to bring his own sword up and slap the elf’s weapon just off target. It skipped off his shoulder guard, shaving a bit of wood from the armor. The elf snarled, then kicked him in the side. Pain lanced through Miguel’s entire torso, distracting him just enough to allow the elf to kick his blade away from his hand.

“Die with dignity, human,” she hissed. Then, once again, she raised her sword. It descended with all the finality of a headsman’s axe. Miguel raised his arms, knowing good and well that they wouldn’t do much to stop what was coming. It was just an instinctive reaction.

But even if he managed to block the first attack, his survival wouldn’t last long. Sometimes, the odds were just too long. Sometimes, death was inevitable.

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