Chương 23: Chapter 21

Cave in Monster Country Mallorn the elf Anticipation was the most grueling part of any hunt. Long periods of waiting outside the natural habitat of your chosen quarry, quiet and still, careful to make neither sound nor smell. Most small game didn't need this sort of waiting period, numerous enough to simply find and shoot down at a distance. Larger game was a different matter- large enough to be both cautious and aware of all the signs of people in their territory.

He was working with two distinct advantages and two disadvantages. The first advantage was that he knew precisely where the prey would have to return to, the second that he had already scouted a weakpoint in its natural armor. The first disadvantage was that the prey already anticipated his presence in her home, and that his prey was a massive shapeshifting dragon. If his first blow wasn't successful, it wasn't likely he'd get another chance before being killed.

The opening attack was critical, and if successful he could at least ensure the target's death even after he was crushed into a pulp and presumably devoured. Spite was the weapon of the herbivore, twice as dangerous in the hands of a predator. Or something cool like that. He intended to write all this down in a book if he survived, and he was still working on some of the lines. The first step in making sure this ambush was a success was disguising his presence.

His scent was disguised by starting up a delicious, fragrant meal down in the kitchen-region and letting the smell suffuse the cave. A nice slow-roast of beef, potatoes, and onions over very low heat, well spiced with sticks of cinnamon and matched with baked apple pie. It carried with it the implication that he was adapting well to his capture by being a househusband and cooking a delicious meal. But this was a trick, the only meal he was cooking was victory.

His sound and sight were more difficult to hide, the best he could do was maintain his perch upon the tiny ledge, a few dozen feet off the cave floor, waiting and listening. The massive double-headed axe in his hand and body kept warm by wrapping a tapestry around his shoulders and hanging off his back. He had been up here for two hours yet, and the extended gargoyle impression was rather wearisome to maintain. Silently, he stared down at piles of golden treasure and mentally practiced his upcoming heroic speech.

It had to be a good one, full of bombast and righteous anger. The problem was that he was too angry to think of many genuinely heroic lines that flowed well together. His mind remained at a low simmer with thoughts rolling solely in the direction of violence. He might just have to improvise his lines when the time comes. His ears twitched towards the distant sounds coming from the entrance of the cave, around the curvature of the wall and carried along cold winds.

The whoosh-whoosh-wap sound of an uneven wingbeat, tremendous and unbalanced. It grew closer and closer with every passing moment. Tiny, tense beads of sweat began to accumulate upon his brow, and his stomach wound itself into a tense knot. He shifted his grip and stance, exceedingly careful to not make a noise as he readied himself for a drop. Below him along this pass, after the head and horns and wings, the spot of cracked, flaky, weak scales right at the base of the tail.

A solid strike there would sever the spine and disable the legs entirely, and from there he had a slight chance of victory. … Holding the axe high and listening to the wingbeat grow with every passing moment, he decided to make a brief, silent prayer to Amarami. If she was real and listening, she might help. If she wasn't real or wasn't listening, it wouldn't hurt.

'Amarami, All-Mother.' He began the internal prayer, ears twitching and eyes unblinking.

'I have not prayed to you before, for I am a prideful son. I loathe to ask for aid, from you, from anyone. In truth I hate to be a bother at all, I hate the idea of being a burden.' The wing beats grew to a crescendo, before finally stopping- interrupted by the sound of claws crashing into stone backed by immense weights. The long slow panting of massive lungs, and the smell of fruity alcohol.

'I'm not asking for victory, that would be unreasonable of me. I am asking for whatever help you're willing to give.' He continued, forcing long, slow, low breaths through his nose.

'I'll repay you as best I can, though I have no idea what I could give that you'd even want or need. Probably not money, being a Goddess. Probably not sacrifices, from everything I've heard of you. I'll seek out a priest to know your desires, after this.' The immense scaled head of a great and terrible form passed beneath him, golden-red and familiar. It had a limping, uneven gait that balanced itself primarily on the right side.

He raised the axe higher, arms now tensing beyond comfortable limit and letting his mana flow. As he poured his magic into the heavy edge, soft golden light began to spill from it.

'I'm not sure how to end a prayer. Sorry again.' The wings passed below him, and he tilted himself forwards. Head first, axe in both hands, descending in a near-silent fall. He had to simply guess the timing, for when his fall would line up with the weak-spot, and if he missed he'd probably just snap his neck on the ground. Fear wasn't relevant right now- he either won or he died. Time got funny, there in the air of the cave. It seemed like the moment was already over, even if he was stuck in the middle of it.

The tips of the wings, leathery and crooked slowly disappeared down along the cave. The spined back slunk along his vision, like some immense serpent, trying to drag his eyes along with them. But his gaze was fixed on that patch. Flaky and pale-pink, four or five scales each the side of his clenched fist. Hard to spot but impossible to miss, dragging along his field of view from one side and slowly creeping to the other. His prayer had been just long enough to time his fall, it seemed.

That was probably luck or divine providence, which were functionally identical to the individual. Looks like he was visiting a church after this. His arms tensed, his legs kicked back, he spun once in the air. It was the only real way to build up a 'swing' while falling through the air. And the golden axe, burning with his mana like the noonday sun, cleaved through dead scales. The next few moments were difficult to parse.

His vision went black, then came back in time for his back to hit something soft, then for his vision to go black again as he flipped around, then suddenly return along with a dull thump of pain as he landed on some reasonably soft metal. That is to say, not really soft at all and it hurt a great deal. Woozy, he pushed himself over, hand still clinging to the golden axe. It was covered in a rich, dark red, just like his hand, and then his arm, and most of his front actually, now that he was looking.

He forced himself to his feet, staggering forwards and eyes rolling to try and find the dragon- he was in a pile of gold. There was the wall of the cave, there was a shaking tapestry fluttering above his head, there was- A completely silent scene of the dragon screaming in the cave, back legs and tail hanging completely limp, front left leg looking shattered and useless, left wing almost as battered.

She was dragging herself up from the mounds of gold with jaws snapping and form swaying, front right leg and wing used as braces to pick itself up. There, at the base of the tail and hind legs, was a great cleave in her spines and scales, burning with a golden, smokeless flame. She thrashed and turned about to open her mouth at it, time and time again, each time completely silent despite the waves of vibration he could feel in his- … Ah. It's not that she was silent, it's that he couldn't hear anything.

He reached a hand up to brush at his ears, feeling warm liquid coat his fingertips. He was deafened by her roaring, it seemed. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. That was fine, he didn't need to hear to boast. He raised his axe high, then slammed it handle-first into the gold pile next to him. He couldn't hear it, but the coins scattered and the dragon twisted its maddened, pained eyes towards him.

His mind told him to keep it heroic, his heart told him to keep it honest.

"DRAGON!" he tried to roar- not really sure if he was actually talking while deafened as he was.

"ARE YOU DONE WAILING LIKE A CHILD, OR ARE YOU READY TO LISTEN UP?!" Another silent roar as the massive lizard twisted, collapsing forwards on the mounds of gold before pushing itself up again on that single good leg. It had been injured prior- fighting someone or something, which was entirely too lucky for him.

"You've had me beaten, captured, and dragged into the wilderness! You've taken me from my duty, from my wanderings, and from my friends! You've intent to contain, confine, and curb me! You've stolen my clothing, my armor, and my sword!" Mallorn continued, waving a hand to the side and face scrunched up in burning anger.

"I don't know your other crimes! I don't care about them!" He took a step forwards, killing his fear by forcing himself towards the giant angry monster.

"Twenty years I've been stuck in the Greenwood, among insufferable elves, and mere weeks after I escape some scaly skank tries to trap me again?!" He took another step forwards, hefting the axe and eyes narrowed into hateful slits as he worked himself up into a rage. The dragon let out another bone-shaking roar, one he couldn't hear and didn't care to, dragging herself another belly-dragging step towards him. He raised the axe to point it at her, face smoothing out into a seething calm.

"You've troubled my day. For that- You're mine." The dragon stilled, eyes pulling into mad pinpricks and head lowered, burning fire into his soul. Didn't she hear from the other elves? He was already full of flame.

"Everything you were, everything you are, everything you might have been. I'm taking it. Everything you own, everything you would've owned, everything you've ever coveted. It's mine now. I'm taking it." Well, flame and venom. He was actually kinda proud of that label, as much as it was an insult they whispered behind his back.

"Try and stop me." He wasn't sure how effective his snarl was, he still couldn't hear. He was, however, smart enough to figure out the most likely response to a taunt like that coming from an ant like him. For that reason he started his jump immediately after finishing his sentence. Just in time for a wave of bladed rock to pass under his feet. He had been expecting another swipe or maybe a lunging bite, not a magical wave of sharpened earth. His eyes were wide and heart thundering, but it didn't matter.

He couldn't hear his fear right now. His feet kicked off the tumbled rocks. The blades were facing away from him, but the rock was still sharp enough to draw blood from his soles. He threw himself forwards, through the air and well above the earth, axe raised over his shoulder. Her front left was clearly shattered. The wing wasn't positioned correctly for an attack. That left her front right and her jaws. A swipe or a bite, he had to guess correctly which to prepare for. She was too fast for him to react.

He turned the axe vertically, a split second decision. A claw moved through the air, crashing into him and knocking him to the floor, making him bounce and flop once before his arms went taut and he spun in place around a central axis. His vision swam and his head pounded as he re-oriented himself from the impact, filled with pain. Pain was good, it meant he was still alive. It was hard to keep that in mind right now. He pushed himself up to his knees as his eyes cleared.

The butt of the axe had been impaled into the stone floor, his white-knuckled hands somehow still holding on, and the axehead covered in a fresh new layer of red. He rose to his feet, wiggling the weapon and ripping it from where it had been nailed as he did. She hadn't managed to smash him into pulp- the golden axe had served as the perfect thumb-tack to make her recoil and fall. The cave-floor shook as her body collapsed again, her still-functional claw filled with smokeless golden flame.

All of her screams and he couldn't hear one. A pity, that. He started forwards again, hefting the golden axe and ignoring the protest in his thrashed-about body. Even if he wasn't being hit directly, all these impacts were eventually going to kill him anyways. It didn't matter. So long as he held the axe, he was invincible. Weighty gold in his hands kept him tethered to the fight.

He took another fearless step forwards, as the dragon slammed a great scaled hand onto the ground and forced herself up, clearly ignoring the agony of golden flame that filled her palm. Purple eyes burned into his.

"Are you going to run, lizard?" he asked through the silence of the world, bringing the axe up again. Attack. Attack. Attack. He'd die if he tried to defend. He'd die if he'd take a step back. He'd die if he hesitated.

"This is your home, isn't it? Are you going to let one elf drive you from it?" He had no idea what he sounded like, no idea what he looked like right now. She'd anticipate another jump up. He threw himself to the side. Another wave of sharp earth cleaved through the cave, this time rising high into the air and crashing against the far wall. A solid wall of cleaving stone that cut through pillars of rock and stabbed back into the earth. It passed him by, just to the right.

Another jump off tossed gold, bleeding feet kicking and body thrown forwards towards the crippled drake. His mouth was open, but he didn't know if he was roaring or not. She'd lunge for him, her palm already damaged. He swung, downwards and forwards. Her form shifted grotesquely, his axe cleaving down through piles of gold as she flowed away from his strike. His eyes followed her, the gigantic form shifting and rolling away. Fear was a failed roar.

He threw himself forwards again, chasing the shifting flesh and scales in another gold-scattering leap, axe raised and ready to swing again. His feet skid across piles of treasure, ripping his soles further. His axe paused in the air, and his eyes narrowed. The form of a woman with red-gold hair, a pair of battered wings, and a long scaly tail laid before him on the bloodstained gold. Her breathing was heavy, her face was pained, and half her body crumpled and covered in ugly bruises.

Her legs and tail were limp, and her form was framed in smokeless, burning gold. She raised her lone good hand before him, mouth moving desperately as she pleaded for her life. A pitiful image, there upon the piles of pilfered treasures. He lowered his axe, glaring down at her form with a relaxed face.

"Your roars earlier deafened me," he said, interrupting whatever she was trying to bargain with him with. He raised a hand up and rubbed at his ear, pulling it away and showing her the streaks of blood on his fingertips.

"I have no ear for your pleas." She stared at him, face twisted into hate and desperation and longing in equal measure. He found himself strangely unmoved by the pitiful sight. Attack. Attack. Attack. He raised his axe again, pointing it at her face.

"Turn back into a lizard already, I can't wear armor made of a woman's hide." He threw himself forwards. Even if she summoned earth to split him in twain, his axe was close enough to impale. Her only option was to shift and bite, to kill him at once and preserve her life with mass. Which is why he raised his axe vertically, fearlessly, midway through the thrust and making it useless to hurt her from that angle now. There was no point in playing to mutual-kill scenarios, only victories.

The woman disappeared in a wave of scales and flesh, in a hot intoxicating breath and a cage of white teeth that closed around him. Too late to stop it now. He pulled his feet up in a tiny hop, clinging to the raised axe as the maw closed around him. The dragon bit down on a golden nail, one filled with his mana and wreathed in a halo of smokeless fire. The next few moments were difficult to parse, as his vision went black, his heart throbbed inconsistently, and his world erupted in pain.

He was submerged in a river of hot copper, then it was an ocean, then it was a river again, before finally a puddle of sizzling heat on his back and cold nothing on his front. He couldn't hear. He couldn't see. He could barely feel through the pain. But he knew victory was his. He could feel the axe in his hands, and smell the blood he was laying in. Had he told Titania to stop holding back on him again? Get Up. Get Up. Get Up. In a bit. He was tired, and this was the perfect day for a nap.

It's not like he had anything else to do. … He could smell a fragrant roast in the distance. Slow cooked with potatoes and onions, paired with something sweet with apple-cinnamon. Was Florella cooking again? She'd probably ask him to eat entirely too much of it later, and all the sugar would get him sick. What a pain. … Sleep. Sleep Sleep. That's the idea.