A grunting hiss filled the clearing as the creature lowered its upper half flat to the ground. The rest of it still trailed off into the water, thrashing for traction on the pond’s muddy bottom. It dug its fore claws into the ground with such a force that they sank into the soft earth and formed mounds as it pushed itself back towards the pond with all its might. Its long tongue constricted around the pack horse, and wet ropey strands of saliva dangled from the massive reptile’s open mouth. The monster’s intended prey was beginning to flounder.
Mikahl was nearly to the pack horse now. He figured that if he could cut the lizard’s tongue completely through with one swing of his blade, then maybe the terrified horse could get away on its own. For whatever reason, the lizard beast was tethered to the limb stripped tree trunk, and couldn’t move further out into the clearing to give chase. It was straining mightily and shaking its head violently back and forth, trying to topple the pack horse. The problem, Mikahl realized, with his hastily planned attack, was that the lizard’s tongue was stretched across his path like a clothes-line. If he didn’t get his blade all the way through it on the first try, he would undoubtedly be unhorsed. He was only strides away now. It was too late to balk, and Windfoot was too close and charging too swiftly, to turn away. The many lessons of swordsmanship Mikahl had taken, under Master Aravan and Lord Gregory, flooded into his mind. All those days of hacking, slashing, and building his strength gave him confidence. He was sure he could make the swing he had to make. At least until the pack horse fell over, turning the lizard’s tongue from a clothes-line into a tripwire. Mikahl had made a terrible mistake. The creature had finally won its tug of war with the pack animal. The fallen horse slid right into Windfoot’s path and Mikahl didn’t know what to do. Being a well trained fighting horse, Windfoot leapt high and hard into the air. Mikahl wasn’t expecting the leap from the horse, and went sailing out of the saddle. Only his quick thinking got his feet out of the stirrups. The world spun around him, in a swirl of green, then blue, then green again. He saw the ground rushing up at him, and let his sword go so that he might use his hands to break his fall. The soft, grassy earth and the strength of his arms did little to cushion his impact though. Like a cliff diver going into the sea, he hit the ground coming straight down. The earth didn’t part for him as the water would for a diver though. Mikahl’s last sensation, before blackness engulfed him, was the back of his own hand crunching into his face. After that, there was nothing.
“…yer pack! Get up man!” An insistent voice pierced through the throbbing blackness. “Come on man! Get up…Blast it all to the hells!”
Mikahl tried to swallow and found that his mouth was full of dirt, grass, and blood. He nearly choked on it, and he could barely breathe. His eyes flew open, his body heaved to force the clod out of his airway. The world came back to him like a blow from a war hammer. He rose up onto his hands and knees, and heaved again. This time, the mess in his throat came spewing forth in a spray of stinking, crimson vomit.
“By the God’s, man!” The voice came from very close behind him, over a rasping angry reptilian hiss. “Get your arse up lad! I need ya!”
Mikahl’s head was still spinning. He couldn’t say where, or even who, he was at the moment. He didn’t get up, but did turn to look back behind him to see what the person was yelling about. He saw the wild looking man thrust up his spear, then jump out of the way of a huge, bloody maw. All of this was transpiring only a few paces behind him. He couldn’t help but wonder how long he had been out of it. It took a few seconds for it all to register in his brain. When it did, he stumbled to his feet, and a rush of fear and adrenaline shot through his battered body.
“Get your fargin sword, man!” The man’s voice was savage. “Ye better hur-” He had to jump out of the way of all those razor sharp teeth, as the beast’s mouth snapped shut just inches from his face. “Come on then, ye slithery bastard!” He yelled at the creature when he recovered.
The King’s sword was the only thing Mikahl cared about at that moment, and he turned a slow circle looking for Windfoot. When he saw the front half of a horse laying a half dozen yards away, panic shot through him. It was the pack horse he realized, and even though the saddle pack that contained most of his supplies looked to be intact, he dismissed the gory site. Only Windfoot and Ironspike were important. On the far side of the clearing, just inside the tree line, he spotted the horse. The animal was limping badly, but the sword was still plainly visible, strapped to his back in its protective sheath. Another shock of panic came rising up through the haze of Mikahl’s brain. He would be forced to put his beloved horse down now. After the harrowing jump over the pack horse, one of Windfoot’s legs was surely broken. Why else would he be limping? Now, he would have to walk all the way to the Giant Mountains.