Chapter 19: First Blood [ 2 ]

The Armored Bloodfang lunged.

Sigurd moved before the jaws reached him. He pushed from his rear foot and cut diagonally to the beast’s right instead of retreating, slipping away from the direct line of its charge as the enormous head swept past his shoulder. Wind slapped his face.

One ivory fang passed close enough for him to see old scratches along its surface. Sigurd turned with the movement and slashed at the exposed flank, but the sword struck charcoal fur with a resistance he hadn’t expected.

The edge opened a shallow line beneath the ribs, nothing more. The Bloodfang landed several paces beyond him, claws ripping trenches through damp soil as it twisted around with frightening speed.

Sigurd reset immediately. His first exchange had answered several questions. The creature was faster than its size suggested, its hide was considerably tougher than the training targets he had spent the last three days cutting, and committing to an ordinary slash against its armored front would be idiotic.

The black plates covering its skull, shoulders, chest, and forelegs left fewer obvious targets than Osric’s description had implied. Its belly was softer, as were the rear legs and the narrow sections between overlapping plates, but reaching those places meant entering the range of claws capable of opening him from shoulder to hip.

The Bloodfang didn’t give him time to think longer. It charged again, but this time it didn’t leap. It came low, using the gigantic roots as natural cover while its four amber eyes tracked Sigurd’s sword. Sigurd shifted left around the trunk of a young tree, forcing the beast to alter its approach. The Bloodfang followed without slowing. At the final moment, Sigurd planted his right foot against the raised root and vaulted sideways. A forepaw smashed through the space where his chest had been. The claws struck the tree instead, tearing four pale grooves through its bark.

Sigurd landed badly, one knee touching earth. The Bloodfang’s tail whipped around before he could stand. He brought his sword across his body and reinforced his arms with Vis.

Impact jolted through him.

The tail struck the flat of his blade like a wooden beam swung by a grown man. Sigurd was hurled sideways, rolled across wet leaves, and slammed shoulder-first against another root. Pain flashed through his ribs. He forced himself upright before the beast could capitalize, sword rising just as the Bloodfang bounded after him.

Above the clearing, Osric watched without moving. His earlier amusement had disappeared completely. One hand rested against the tree trunk while his eyes followed every exchange.

This was Sigurd’s test, but it wasn’t an execution. If the Bloodfang landed an attack that would kill the boy, Osric could intervene before the creature finished the motion. Short of that, he had no intention of helping. Bruises, cuts, broken bones, and fear were lessons the training yard could imitate but never reproduce.

Sigurd didn’t look toward him.

The Bloodfang snapped at his head. Sigurd ducked beneath the jaws and drove forward instead of away, entering the cramped space beside its chest where the beast couldn’t bring its fangs around quickly.

His sword stabbed toward the seam behind its armored foreleg. The point penetrated. Hot blood ran over the steel, and the Bloodfang roared so loudly Sigurd’s ears rang. He ripped the blade free and tried to escape behind its shoulder.

Too slow.

The beast slammed its body sideways.

Sigurd crossed his arms and sword before his chest. The collision lifted him from the ground. He flew backward, twisted in the air, and landed on both feet only to skid several yards through leaves and mud. His boots struck a root and nearly folded beneath him. He caught his balance, breathing harder now.

The Bloodfang turned toward him with blood dripping beneath its foreleg.

Good. It could bleed.

Sigurd lowered his sword and watched it carefully. Fighting Osric had taught him to watch shoulders, hips, feet, and balance rather than chase a weapon with his eyes. A beast possessed different anatomy, but the principle remained useful.

The Bloodfang’s shoulders bunched before its forelegs moved. Its spine compressed before a leap. Its claws changed angle when it intended to turn sharply. The four eyes were distracting, so Sigurd stopped watching them entirely.

The beast prowled sideways.

Sigurd mirrored it, keeping the sword between them as he measured the clearing around himself. A massive tree stood six paces behind him. Another root rose waist-high to his left, while the ground to his right dipped into a shallow depression filled with thick ferns.

He mapped those details without turning his head. The Bloodfang was physically his equal in the broad measure of their ranks, but equality on paper meant little. It possessed more mass, natural weapons, and an animal’s explosive acceleration. Sigurd had reach, technique, a smaller target profile, and something the beast lacked.

He could decide where the exchange happened.

Sigurd backed toward the tree.

The Bloodfang followed.

He gave it two more steps, deliberately allowing his sword point to dip. The creature exploded forward.

Sigurd waited.

Ten feet.

Six.

Three.

He pivoted away.

The Bloodfang anticipated the dodge. Its forepaw changed direction in mid-stride, sweeping toward him instead of continuing straight. Sigurd’s eyes narrowed. The creature had learned from their earlier exchanges too.

He dropped flat.

Claws hissed over his hair. The Bloodfang’s momentum carried its shoulder toward the tree, but it twisted violently and avoided a direct collision. Sigurd rolled beneath the edge of its chest, came up beside its rear leg, and slashed behind the knee.

His sword bit deeper this time. The beast roared, kicked backward, and Sigurd barely leaned away before one hind paw tore through the front of his coat.

He didn’t chase.

The Bloodfang limped two steps before turning, anger replacing its earlier caution. Blood darkened the fur behind its foreleg and rear knee. Neither wound was fatal, but both changed the fight. Its right rear leg no longer accepted weight cleanly.

Sigurd inhaled slowly.

He could use Severing Line.

The thought had been present since the fight began, but forcing the technique while scrambling away from attacks would have been stupid. Initial Understanding wasn’t combat mastery. He still required a controlled starting movement and conscious synchronization. If he mistimed his Vis while a claw was coming toward his face, there would be no training dummy waiting patiently for another attempt.

He needed space.

The Bloodfang charged again.

Sigurd ran.

Not away from the fight, but toward the waist-high root he had marked earlier. He jumped onto it, took two steps along its curved surface, then sprang toward the trunk of the neighboring tree. His foot struck bark. He pushed backward, reversing direction above the Bloodfang as it followed beneath him. For one brief instant, its armored back passed below while its head turned to track his descent.

Sigurd brought the sword down with both hands.

Steel struck the thinner armor behind its neck.

The blade failed to penetrate deeply, but the impact drove the beast’s head toward the ground. Sigurd landed on its back for half a heartbeat. The Bloodfang bucked violently. He jumped clear before it could roll, landed beside its injured rear leg, and cut the same wound again.

Blood sprayed across his sleeve.

The Bloodfang screamed and spun.

Sigurd retreated around the root, forcing the beast to circle the obstacle rather than charge directly. It pursued with a noticeable hitch in its stride, yet its speed remained dangerous. Sigurd’s own breathing had become rough. His arms ached from repeated impacts, his shoulder throbbed where he had struck the root, and his Vis reserves were no longer full. He couldn’t spend the afternoon trading injuries with something built to survive them.

The next exchange had to matter.

The Bloodfang seemed to reach the same conclusion. It stopped pursuing him around the root and stepped backward, head lowering as a guttural growl rolled from its chest. Sigurd watched the muscles beneath its shoulders tighten. Blood ran down one leg, but pain had made it more dangerous rather than less. Its four amber eyes remained fixed on him as its claws dug into the ground.

Then it launched.

Sigurd didn’t move immediately.

The beast crossed the first half of the distance with frightening speed. Sigurd could feel the pressure of its charge before it reached him, leaves scattering beneath its paws as fifteen feet of muscle and armor bore down on his position. His instincts screamed at him to dodge early.

He ignored them.

Two more steps.

One.

Sigurd moved sideways at the last possible moment, but the Bloodfang adjusted again. Its wounded hind leg planted badly, yet the creature forced itself through the turn and swept its left paw toward Sigurd’s chest.

He had expected that.

Sigurd stepped inside the arc.

The claws passed behind him.

His shoulder almost collided with the beast’s chest. The smell of blood and hot animal breath filled his nose. He could see the gap between the armored plates behind its foreleg, the same area he had stabbed earlier. The target was there.

But his stance wasn’t.

Severing Line required synchronization, and forcing it from this position would fail. Sigurd abandoned the idea immediately. He drove the pommel of his sword into the wound instead and twisted away as the Bloodfang snapped downward.

Its jaws closed beside his ear.

Sigurd rolled beneath its neck and escaped to the opposite side. The Bloodfang wheeled after him, but the damaged rear leg slipped on blood-soaked leaves. Its body dipped for a fraction of a second.

That was enough.

Sigurd planted his feet.

His breathing settled.

His grip changed.

Vis began gathering inside his Nascent Core.

The Bloodfang recovered and turned toward him. Sigurd could have attacked immediately, but he waited. Severing Line wasn’t ready. He needed the creature to enter the distance where one committed strike would matter.

The Bloodfang roared and charged.

Sigurd stepped forward.

That choice seemed to surprise even the beast.

His foot landed. His hips turned. Vis traveled upward with the movement, crossing his torso and shoulder as the sword accelerated. The Bloodfang opened its jaws, aiming directly for his upper body. Sigurd didn’t target the armored skull. At the final instant, he shifted the cutting line toward the already wounded seam behind its right foreleg.

Everything arrived together.

A pale line flashed across the sword.

"Severing Line."

The blade struck.

This time there was no shallow resistance. Concentrated Vis carried the edge through fur, flesh, and the vulnerable gap between plates. The cut tore across the Bloodfang’s shoulder and chest, releasing a sheet of hot blood. Its charge collapsed, but its enormous momentum didn’t disappear. The gigantic beast crashed sideways into the ground and rolled directly toward Sigurd.

He tried to wrench his sword free.

Too late.

The Bloodfang’s remaining forepaw moved inside his guard.

Sigurd saw the claws coming and twisted, sacrificing his position to protect his neck and chest, but there was nowhere to retreat with the beast’s body crashing beside him. Four hooked claws raked across his left arm from shoulder toward elbow.

Pain erupted through him.

Sigurd was thrown clear and struck the ground hard enough to empty his lungs. He rolled once, forced himself onto one knee, and immediately raised the sword despite the fire burning through his arm. Every instinct from his previous life screamed the same command.

Stay ready.

Across from him, the Bloodfang struggled upright, blood pouring from the massive wound across its shoulder and chest. One foreleg trembled beneath its weight while its injured rear leg dragged against the earth. The exchange had hurt it badly.

But Sigurd hadn’t escaped untouched.

He glanced at his left arm, his sleeve hung in ribbons. Beneath it, four deep claw marks ran through his skin, already filling with blood.