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Ahead of him a draconian crouched over the prone stag,
bringing a sword down with all the force he could above the
near-motionless neck. The stag had not even looked up, dust
and chaff barely moving in its nostrils.
The king dove forward, sword aimed at the draconian's
heart. He made no attempt to parry the descending sword as
it passed through his ornamental armor and into him.
His own blow took effect a moment later; the
draconian doubled over, gasping, and froze that way, a
corpse carved from a boulder. The king, carried by his own
momentum, rolled against the stone body and winced with
the pain. "I'll have a bruise tomorrow," he thought vaguely,
unsure after all these years what a bruise felt or looked like.
He lay still and listened, hearing nothing but the stag's
labored breathing. He struggled to his feet, barely able to
hold his sword but aware of triumph and of great pain.
The stag opened his eyes. "Peris. The draconians?"
"Dead." Never, in Darken Wood, had the word been said
with such satisfaction.
"An unusual way to end a hunt, with dead hunters." "You
have said so before." The king knelt, taking the stag's head
on his lap. The stag's chest wound, pulled free of the
ground, re-opened, but the king paid no attention
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