It was small for a wudwyrm, stretching nearly twice Witheric’s height as it uncoiled itself to loom over the men on its two back feet, its barbed tail adding another full-grown man’s length. It was young–the two, claw-tipped wings not yet full-span and webbed–which meant the creature had to travel either on the forest floor or through the treetops, using its ridged, bark-like scales to blend into the branches. It also meant that its fangs still dripped the corrosive poison it had used as an infant to escape its shell and would use as protection until its magic grew powerful enough to generate the legendary fire of its dragon cousins. Even as a youth, the creature was an apex predator, only naturally vulnerable to its own kind and Asgradi of high enough skill in large enough numbers, and after over a week of interruptions in its hunting, it was hungry.

Restag knew they did not stand a chance fighting the creature. They were both weak and tired, Witheric recovering from sickness and Restag perhaps falling into it. Their only hope was escape, and what a dim hope it was. Still, he quickly unstrapped his shield and took out his sword. They may not be able to kill the wyrm, but if they could at least injure it, slow down its pursuit of them, perhaps–

He did not get to finish the thought as all his faculties focused on the monster as it lunged at him. He dodged to the side, barely avoiding fangs as long as his arm as the creature’s foreclaws slammed down onto the ground, raking up dirt and roots and rocks and the head snapped at him. Witheric then called out a warning, and Restag managed to bring his shield up just in time to guard against the tail that suddenly appeared beside him. The force of the blow knocked him back, and he heard the terrible sound of the barbed tip scraping against the iron bolts and plates on his shield. He had only just returned to his feet when a clawed wing appeared over him, dropping down with what felt like the force and weight of a house beam falling from the rafters. The shield’s wood cracked under the force, and pain shot up Restag’s arm. Still, the barrier held, though he doubted it would last another blow.

The wudwyrm didn’t let him find out. Irritated by the shield that had now twice prevented its kill, the creature did not bother with using its claws but instead took the shield in its jaws, letting its poison rot the wood in its mouth. Restag grunted in pain as some poison leaked through the wood onto his arm, burning through his clothes in an instant to begin working on his skin. Cutting away the leather bindings with his sword, he jerked back his arm and rolled away moments before the shield shattered, poison spittle raining down onto the ground where he had just been and making smoking holes in the dead earth.

Restag held his arm close to his body, the pain burning through his senses and clouding his thoughts. He didn’t dare look at it, not yet. Instead, he took a stance, sword ready. The beast turned to him, its yellow eyes keen and angry, focused on the sword. It had seen them before, been bitten by them, and hated them. It growled in its throat. Taking advantage of the creature’s pause, Restag used his magic, jumping into the wyrm’s mind. If it had been a dragon, perhaps it could have helped, but this irrational relative to those primordial monsters acted only on instinct, like any other beast, and its instincts said to kill.

The wyrm still crouched, staring at Restag’s sword as he quickly pulled his vision back, fighting despair. What could he even do now, with one arm too injured to use and only a sword between him and over ten feet of armored death? Even injuring it enough to escape seemed impossible now. He began circling the creature, trying to see some option somewhere as the monster’s head followed him, snarling.

Suddenly, the air shook with a loud crack, and the wudwyrm roared, stumbled for a moment, and spun around, revealing to Restag a small puncture wound in the creature’s thigh. Just managing to dodge the tail as it whipped over him, he glanced past the creature to see Witheric crouched a short distance away, hands quivering as he aimed his gun, thumbed back the lever, and pulled the trigger, sending another crack into the air, Restag flinching at the sound. This shot, however, went wide, as the gun recoiled sharply in the owner’s weakened grip, sending the shot through the wyrm’s still-useless webbing rather than someplace more impactful. Even so, the creature hissed angrily and thrust out its neck to bite, but not before Witheric managed one more straying shot.

Using the wyrm’s distracted attention, Restag rushed forward, getting a quick swipe at the already wounded thigh as he did. His sword barely bit, but it was enough to interfere with the wyrm’s attack and let Witheric scramble out of its immediate reach. Continuing his dash, Restag sheathed his sword and intercepted and grabbed his friend, running from the monster and pulling Witheric stumbling after him. Neither bothered to look behind them as they ran, but they heard the wudwyrm’s destructive pursuit. It roared, the sound deafening even as a youngling.

After the echo of the wyrm-cry died away, a new sound arose, both wonderful and terrifying. A high, rhythmic sound, followed by voices and cries maddening in their ecstasy. Forms appeared between the trees, closing in with exclamations of recognition and discovery and a desire for violent death. Neither Witheric nor Restag knew the number of the hunting party, drawn to their prey by the gunshots and wyrm-cries, nor did they see who it was who ran toward the monster from which they fled. They only ran, knowing with certainty that their lives depended on it. Briefly, the thought slipped into Restag’s mind that he was a coward. That he, like any Asgradi shield-man worth his blade, should be adding his own war cry to the others, not running from the battlefield like a startled hare. However, Witheric’s wheezing breath behind him and the thin wrist encompassed by his hand overcame his warrior’s honor. No. This was not his fight, not his trial. They would only be in the way. Nor could they afford to buy the risk of recognition from hot-blooded warriors drunk on the thirst for blood. So they ran, ran until even the echoes of battle were far behind them, till Dir rose high and strong over the skeleton trees, turning trunk and branch to black shadow and pure white bone, till, at last, Witheric could go no farther.