The Hunt

Two days later, at dawn, Ron set out with two Fian Champions. Against flying beasts, infantry were merely targets; archers were enough.

Ron was fully armed: a full helmet, a chainmail coif, a heavy two-handed battle axe slung across his back, and two bags of freshly forged javelins at his waist.

Brom had personally forged the javelins to Ron's specifications. They had heavy, broad blades, each about four feet long, and felt satisfyingly weighty in his hand.

The infantry remained nearby to provide support. The path was narrow, and the loose stones were dangerously slippery underfoot. The Fionas led the way, their footsteps so light they made almost no sound. Suddenly, the archer in front crouched behind a tree and pointed ahead.

Ron surveyed the terrain. The pine forest stood roughly seventy paces from the cliff face. The trees were not tall, but they were dense, their branches spreading sideways—enough to block sightlines and conceal their bodies.

He pointed toward the pines. The two archers understood at once and headed for their assigned positions.

Once in place, the Fionas drew arrows from their quivers. The arrowheads were wrapped in coarse cloth soaked with resin and sulfur, the sticky resin nearly dripping off.

A fire striker passed between the archers. Flames crawled up the arrow shafts, and the black smoke from the burning resin spread through the air with a pungent, scorched stench.

The first arrow lodged in the rubble at the edge of the nest. Resin splattered, and black smoke drifted into the cave with the wind.

The second struck a crack in the rock above the entrance, flames racing upward along the dry moss.

The third buried itself deep inside the nest.

Black smoke billowed from the cave, growing thicker and thicker, mingling with the smell of burning flesh. A shrill screech came from within—not a birdcall, but a sound sharp enough to stab through the eardrums as it exploded from the cave.

Screeeech!!!

A grayish-brown shadow lunged out of the cave. Its wings stirred the air and scattered the thick smoke at the entrance. It was smaller than expected. It was not a Royal Pterosaur.

It had a long, slender neck, a hooked beak, and a tuft of puffed-up feathers atop its head. Thick saliva clung to the tip of its beak. A Petrifying Chicken Snake.

Its claws gripped the edge of the rocky ledge. Its neck snapped downward, and its yellow pupils rapidly narrowed as they locked onto the pine forest.

Ron drew a javelin from his back with his right hand and pulled it back to his shoulder. Then he bent his body and stepped back, leaning away as though he were the drawn cable of a siege crossbow stretched to its limit.

With a sudden snap, the javelin shot forth, the force of his movement driving a gust through the surrounding air and pressing the nearby grass low.

With a low whistle, the spearhead tore violently through the Petrifying Chicken Snake's wing at the side of its chest, piercing its thick, tough hide in an instant and throwing the entire monster half a step backward.

Throwing was not Ron's strongest skill, but the Petrifying Chicken Snake was much larger than a man.

At close range, with his strength and the added weight of nearly three hundred and fifty pounds in armor, he did not need to throw with perfect accuracy. Even a grazing hit would inflict enough damage.

The Petrifying Chicken Snake let out a piercing shriek the instant it was wounded, its wings slamming hard against the ground.

With the javelin deeply embedded in the side of its chest, it launched itself from the ledge in a crooked, unsteady posture. The wound tore wider as it rose, blood running down the shaft.

Bowstrings snapped from the direction of the pines. Special armor-piercing arrows lodged in its wing joints. Amid its furious screeches, it rolled sideways and rushed toward the upper cliff face, trying to return to its nest.

The second javelin was already in Ron's hand. The shaft rolled half a turn in his palm, the butt settling deeper against his grip. He took a deep breath and hurled it again.

The javelin flew faster and more viciously than the first, piercing through the side of its wing and catching amid the feathers with a dull, crisp crack in midair.

The Petrifying Chicken Snake's wings no longer obeyed it. It crashed down from dozens of feet above, making the ground shudder.

Its wings still twitched. Every heavy breath scraped against the stony ground, its belly still heaving as it kicked its claws futilely, trying to rise.

Ron stepped forward and drew his battle axe from his back, preparing to deliver the final blow. Then he noticed a flash of cunning murderous intent in those reptilian yellow eyes.

Yet its body still radiated the weakness of impending death, as though anyone could walk up and kill it with a single sword stroke.

When Ron came within three or four steps, its neck shot out like a snake.

Its poisonous pointed beak, reeking of a pungent odor, stabbed viciously toward Ron's face. It was the dying counterattack of a cornered beast; even an iron helmet would not be able to stop it if it struck.

Ron's gaze did not waver in the slightest. He tilted his head slightly, and the pointed beak scraped across his visor, leaving a white mark.

He swung his axe backward. The blade traced a shining arc as it cut toward the snake-like tail whipping at him at the same time, severing it cleanly.

The tail, covered in fine scales, slapped onto the ground. It twitched a few times before falling still. The Petrifying Chicken Snake released a feeble hiss and collapsed once more.

Expressionless, Ron stepped forward, gripped the axe with both hands, and brought it down cleanly upon the head that was still heaving with heavy breaths. The savage light in those yellow eyes finally went out like cinders.

Ron planted his battle axe in the gravel. The Petrifying Chicken Snake's body lay sprawled over the rubble, and it was barely bleeding anymore.

The hide from the side of its chest to its belly was still mostly intact. There was damage around the wing joint where the javelin had pierced it, but there was enough usable material. He drew his dagger, its tip making a soft sound as it cut across the flesh.

He removed the venom glands from its beak with a light hand. The venom sac's walls were thin and would rupture with the slightest excess force. He wrapped it in two layers of burlap and placed it in the leather pouch at his waist.

This was for Aina. Next came the thick feathered hide, then the wing claws. His dagger cut along the joints, and when he was done, he wrapped them in burlap and tied them together with the hide.

The two Fionas crouched beside him. One held open the sack while the other stuffed the bundled materials inside. Their movements were efficient, and no one spoke.

Ron stood, pulled the broken javelins from the corpse, wiped them clean against the gravel, and put them away. The spearheads Brom had forged were good iron; they could be used again after being reforged.

One Fiona hoisted the sack onto his shoulder while the other dragged two thick logs from the pine forest. They tied several crossbars between them with hemp rope, making a simple stretcher.

Ron turned the Petrifying Chicken Snake onto the stretcher. The three of them headed down the mountain path, one in front and two behind. The stretcher dragged a crooked trail through the gravel.

The infantry waited at the edge of the woods. Cole sat on a rock with his spear shaft across his knees. Hearing them approach, he was the first to stand. He said nothing, only stared at the grayish-brown corpse on the stretcher, its enormous wings dragging along the ground and its beak hanging half open.

Miko's pupils contracted when his gaze swept over the Chicken Snake's cart-wide wingspan and the snake tail Ron had chopped off.

Then he muttered something in a low voice, so quiet that it sounded as though he were confirming some judgment to himself. Cole nodded beside him but did not respond.

Crow's Nest

As they entered the village, someone on the wooden bridge made from nailed-together logs at the entrance spotted them first, turned, and ran into the village. Then more people emerged from the wooden houses.

The thin old man stood at the front of the crowd. He still wore the same patched gray shirt, exactly as he had when he begged Ron outside the garden gate days ago.

He saw the huge monster corpse on the stretcher, the wings dragging along the ground, and the dangling snake tail. His mouth opened, then closed, his Adam's apple bobbing.