The Fiery Crown Cycle: A Dragon's Rebirth

Chapter 121

Garruk limped over and rummaged through the pile of bloody organs until his claws found the hoe.

The wooden handle had been snapped in two. He bent down and retrieved the stone head. It was undamaged. It could still be used. He'd just have to cut a new haft.

Clutching the bundle of chili pepper plants, he carried them and the broken tool to the right.

He had already scouted this area. Unlike the flat, exposed patch, this spot was an uneven incline, but the soil looked just as dark and fertile. Most importantly, it was well out of the dragon’s garbage-disposal lane.

He stopped at the new clearing. The ground was sloped, making it harder to till, but it was the best option he had.

Garruk set the plants and the hoe-head down. He drew the short dagger from his belt, gripped it in his claw, and disappeared into the forest.

He returned in less than five minutes, carrying a straight, sturdy sapling and a few lengths of strong vine. He squatted, cut the old, ruined lashings from the hoe-head, and deftly strapped it to the new haft.

Hhfft. Hhfft. He gave it two test swings. Good. The balance was familiar.

His green eyes studied the earth in front of him. Time to start over.

It was several hours later when he finished. He had tilled the new plot and carefully planted the chili peppers in three neat rows.

Now, they needed water. Newly planted roots required it.

He remembered seeing a river when the Red Lord had flown him down. The water itself wasn't the problem, but carrying it was. He frowned and turned back toward the woods.

In the forests his old tribe had roamed, there was a specific plant, a "hollow-trunk" with green, waxy bark. They grew as thick as a barrel, in six-foot sections, and were perfect for hauling water. The tribe had relied on them.

He walked for nearly half an hour, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar woods, but found nothing like the plant from his memories.

Gurgle...

His pointed, triangular ears twitched.

Gurgle. Splash.

Water.

He quickened his pace. The sound grew louder, clearer. He broke into a limping run.

A few moments later, he burst through the undergrowth and stopped. A broad river, at least one hundred and fifty feet across, flowed past.

He was on a high bank. He needed a way down. Upstream, the bank was flat. Downstream, he saw a gentle decline.

He chose the decline. As he walked toward it, he noticed the slope was covered in strange, green, jointed stalks. They were much thinner than his tribe's hollow-trunks, but the ground was littered with their long, dry leaves.

His green eyes fixed on the stalks. Wait. Jointed?

His gaze sharpened. The stalks were smooth, green, and grew in sections. Could they be hollow, too?

He drew his dagger and, without hesitating, swung at the nearest stalk.

CRACK-SHH!

The tall plant toppled over. Garruk grabbed the cut end and looked inside.

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It was hollow.

Yes. Finally, some luck. I have my water container.

He slid down the embankment, stopping halfway where the stalk was thickest. He hacked off a sixteen-foot length, then slid the rest of the way to the riverbank.

Gurgle...

He cut the long stalk into two sections, punching through the inner nodes with his dagger. He submerged them, letting them fill. Blub... blub...

He lifted one. It was heavy. But... probably not enough.

He looked back at the grove. He would need more.

Garruk returned a few minutes later with two more ten-foot sections and fresh vines. Before filling them, he dropped to his belly, ignoring the foul memories the river water stirred, and drank deeply. The cool water was a relief to a throat that had known nothing but blood for days.

Once he had drunk his fill, he loaded the other two stalks and used the vines to rig a harness, lashing all four hollow tubes together. He heaved the heavy, sloshing bundle onto his back and began the trek up the slope.

Back at the cliff base, he carefully watered each plant. When he was done, one of the stalks was still half-full.

He set the remaining water down and picked up his dagger. All that work had made him hungry. He limped toward the pile of entrails.

The heap was still fresh, the smell of blood thick in the air. His eyes scanned the pile and landed on the heart—a dark red mass nearly the size of his own head.

He knelt and began to cut. This much blood, it'll draw scavengers. I have to eat quickly and get rid of the rest.

Shhh. Shhh.

A sound rustled in the bushes. Not one sound, but many.

The fur on his neck stood straight up. He stopped cutting, a cold dread rising in his gut.

He looked up, and his gaze met a half-dozen pairs of hungry, green-glowing eyes.

Wolves. But these were massive—seven feet long, with dark grey fur and gaunt, hollow bellies. Dire wolves.

One... two... three... six.

Six of them. They were just beasts, not monsters, but it was too many.

He dropped the half-cut heart and slowly, carefully, began to back away.

Garruk took one step back. The entire pack advanced one step, eyes fixed on his lame leg. He knew the entrails wouldn't be enough to feed all six of them.

He kept backing up until his heel hit the soft, tilled earth of his new garden. He glanced behind him.

The Red Lord's voice echoed in his head. "...my sister is very interested to know what you taste like."

He bared his fangs. He could not retreat. And he could see in their eyes they had no intention of letting him go.

Damn it all.

His grip on the dagger tightened.

If this is it, so be it.

A faint, dark shimmer coated the blade as Garruk activated his martial aura. He pushed off his good left leg and charged.

The gnoll's sudden attack met a wave of snarling grey fur.

Two wolves broke left and right to flank him. The one in the center lunged, a feint. He knew this tactic.

Garruk dug his heels in, stopping his charge instantly. The two flanking wolves, committed to their pounce, couldn't stop. They slammed into each other with a yelp.

Before they could recover, Garruk's dagger, glowing with a dark martial aura, plunged deep into the skull of the first. His free left claw simultaneously jabbed forward, sinking deep into the eyes of the second.

The wolf shrieked, blinded and mad with pain. It thrashed, clamping its jaws on the nearest thing—the third wolf that had made the feint. The two tumbled to the ground in a tangle of biting fur.

Garruk didn't watch them. Pain, sharp and deep, exploded in his right leg as a fourth wolf's jaws clamped down. He roared, stabbing his dagger straight down into the creature's skull.

Whoosh! A blur of motion from his right.

He didn't have time to pull his leg free. The fifth wolf was on him. He twisted his torso, slashing the dagger upward.

SQUELCH!

The wolf’s claws raked his chest, tearing flesh and fur, but Garruk's blade, empowered by his martial aura, ripped the wolf's belly open from groin to chin. The beast landed, its entrails spilling onto the dirt. It howled once and collapsed.

A foul stench filled his nostrils. Too close. Above!

He threw his left arm up as the last wolf, the pack leader, crashed down on him.

CRACK!

The sound of his arm bone snapping was sickeningly loud.

His vision went red. He screamed, a guttural roar, and stabbed with his right hand. Again. And again. And again. He lost count, stabbing wildly, fueled by rage, as hot blood splashed his face. He didn't stop until the body crushing him went limp.

He shoved the massive carcass off his broken body. He staggered to his feet, blood matting his fur, his chest and leg burning. The two wolves that had been fighting were still. The blinded one's throat was torn out. The victor, its guts hanging out, was dead.

Panting, ignoring the agony, Garruk limped to the two wolves he had first crippled. He pulled his right leg from the teeth of the one he'd stabbed; it was dead. He pulled his left, mangled arm from under the one he'd blinded; it was also dead.

He stumbled to the last wolf, the one with the torn belly, its head still twitching. His bloodshot green eyes stared into the wolf's.

He raised his dark dagger high.

THUNK.

He buried the blade in its skull. The wolf didn't struggle. It just... died.

Garruk stood over the last kill, trembling from pain and exertion. He lifted his head, blood dripping from his snout, and roared at the silent forest.

“I am a warrior!”