The Elemental Chain Saga: Dragon Flame

Chapter Seven: Wind

Max was gasping for breath as he turned down the side alley, almost barreling into the lithe form in front of him. Darkness shrouded them in a cloak of black, but as Max eyes adjusted, he could just make out four dim figures further down the alley.

The three wore dark blue cloaks, the hoods pulled up over their heads to veil their identities. Greasy locks of hair could be seen tumbling out of their hoods, the thin lines of their mouths just visible in the minimal light of the moon overhead. Each of them held a wooden baton in one hand, a dagger sheathed at their side. Cutpurses, Max thought with a chill.

About three meters beyond them, a small woman was curled on the ground in fright, her thin form shaking with fear. Max felt his blood boil, he would not allow her to be treated in such a way. Max had sheathed his sword when he had run after Greg, deciding to reach for it now. As his hand moved, Greg acted first, shouting, his voice echoing off the walls of the buildings on either side of them "You neanderthals! Leave her or I'll deal with you myself." His voice was full of conviction and courage, the men turning to eye and appraise him.

With a start, they realized that the young man before them could only be twenty, if that. They looked at the wood staff he held and his confident stance as he spun it slowly before him. They blanched, but only for a moment, figuring that the three of them could easily take the one figure, even if he knew his way around a staff. They ignored Max completely, mostly because they couldn't see him hidden behind Greg, especially in this minimal light.

With a burst of speed, they tore towards Greg, the ruffian in the middle leading slightly, forming a wedged shaped attack. Greg mirrored them, his motions fluid as he sprinted headlong at his foes. Lifting his staff high, a stormy silver light blossomed around him. He pushed at the air with his empty hand, as if trying to move an object. A heat wave like blur streaked forward, exploding into the group of cutpurses, knocking them this way and that like ninepins.

Max stood back in wonder, his sword long forgotten.

Two of the men moved awkwardly, lurching to their feet, staggering slightly as they prepared themselves to engage Greg, eying his staff wearily. The third lay still on the ground, incapacitated. Greg moved first, shooting forward like a rocket, swinging his staff with deadly force. Miraculously, the ruffian moved, the blow breezing by his face by mere inches. He followed up, his baton swinging in a vicious backhand towards Greg's exposed side. Max's eyes didn't register what happened next. One second the man was attacking his companion in retaliation and the next he was smashing into a wall. The body crumpled forward, landing with a small thud.

Max breathed out in amazement, Greg was just that fast. The last man didn't stand a chance.

Greg raised his hand, pulling forward as his lips moved soundlessly. The cloaked man jerked forward, crying out in dismay as he was torn off his feet with a pull of effort from Greg. The tall elemental warrior brought his left foot forward, his bow crossing his body in a diagonal slash. As the flying man reached him, he flipped the top half of his staff downward in one swift movement, the weapon crashing down on his foe, stepping to the side to avoid his fall.       

Max, taking his eyes from Greg, he looked down the dark alley to where the woman still huddled pointing a fearful hand above her. Quizzically, Max raised his eyes, widening as he recognized the threat. Hurriedly, he took off down the alley, pushing Greg out of his way. A loud thrum signaled the release of an arrow.

"Get down!" Max roared. Instead, Greg raised his hand, gleaming light still shining around his body, illuminating where they stood.

Max stared forward as the arrow struck with a crack of impact, his body falling back in shock. The arrow, shaft and all, shattered into a dome of silver energy, a tiny chip where the projectile had struck. Turning, he saw Greg's crouched form, sweat dotting his forehead, running down into the collar of his cloak.