A Headstrong Youth
Part 10
Mirrhe’s running steps were so heavy that they shook what underbrush had remained despite the carpet of thick black moss. He slowed only when he reached the mess of torn chopped up roots, head turning with sharp movements before he sniffed at the ground. Joren spared not a moment before shifting his position, unsheathing his sword once more and dropping astride the beast’s back, aiming his blade’s point straight down and driving it successfully into Mirrhe’s flesh.
By some miracle, the young knight’s sword sank through several inches of mangled pelt and kept going. That it ever stopped marked the end of such luck for the end result turned out to have only been inflicting pain on an already enraged creature.
Mirrhe reared wildly. As the creature’s deafening roar resonated, Joren clung to his firmly anchored weapon for dear life. Slashed and whipped by long leafless twigs all around him, he inhaled sharply as his helmet, which he had fastened only loosely that morning, caught on a branch and was pulled from his head while the bear-like creature fell back onto all fours. When its paws hit the ground, the wind was knocked from the young man’s lungs and he gasped for breath, his mind scrambling through his scattered thoughts, grasping onto the notion that he needed to free his sword despite how it was all that was keeping him on the beast’s back.
Suddenly, Mirrhe crouched and reared again, so quickly that Joren’s grip failed and he slid to the ground where he landed with a painful thud before falling awkwardly onto his back. Meanwhile, Mirrhe was already turning around, drivel dripping from his unnatural maw, rage emanating from the fully black eyes that were barely visible in the hairy mass through the darkness. Joren panicked and scrambled backwards, stumbling as his palms slipped on roots that were no longer still. At that moment, a large paw once more swiped at him and its claws tore more than just fabric as it sent Joren spinning until he slammed into a tree. Joren was barely even aware of what was the right side up when, yelping and panting, he clawed at the ground, struggling to get up. Just as Mirrhe’s teeth closed on one leg and snapped at it, ripping the flesh, Joren’s other limbs found some footing and, violently yanking his injured leg forward, he broke into a run.
Somehow, the adrenaline pumping in his veins allowed him to keep running despite the burning sensation he felt in his fresh wounds. It was causing him to trip and his eyes to water but he somehow managed to navigate the mass of roiling roots that made the earth rumble and groan without being pulled to the ground. He ducked under trees and leapt over the underbrush, all of his senses screaming, when one root whipped up high to trip him across one ankle and he fell hard, face in the dirt. He flipped onto his back and grabbed his dagger but it was too late; the roots had already closed on him and his legs were bound almost to his knees. Panting, he looked up and when he couldn’t see Mirrhe yet, he began cutting at the wood pinning him down. His eyes filled with tears of pain and desperation but he growled and wiped them away savagely with the back of his hand. He had to concentrate. He had to concentrate. Blinking away his fear, he sawed as best he could as the roots squeezed tighter.