The Mists

Chapter Twenty-Eight; Kick the Bucket

Jameson raced through the trees and darted behind one. He clutched the Sparth close to his heaving chest, against his racing heart. The sight of the magical weapon made him want to puke. Not even this could stop the Serpent. 

As he gazed down at the Sparth, blood roared in his ears, but it wasn't enough to block out the sound of falling trees. The larger ones crashed so hard, the ground shook. 

He was supposed to kill it with this! That was impossible now. Impossible. They'd traveled so far, gone through so much, only for the damned weapon to not even work! Jameson was so furious and frightened he was trembling uncontrollably. 

What now? 

He knew the answer: Nothing. No more traveling. No more saving people and fighting. No more obstacles, except the one that would inevitably bring him to Death. Good-bye Skyler, Mom, August. 

There had been other times he thought it was all for nothing, but this time there was no hope. The Sparth didn't even injure the Serpent. No one in the group knew magic like Skyler; there was no one to help them. The Serpent was larger than most buildings, had killed more people than terrorists and tyrants from the old days, and had more magic than anything on the planet. Including the damned Sparth. 

It always came back to the Sparth. Jameson wanted to scream at it, as ridiculous as it sounded. He wanted to snap its staff in half and throw it against the ground over and over. If it could just work. 

Suddenly Jameson went flying. He wasn't exactly sure how it had happened, but he knew one moment his feet were in the dirt and the next, his face was. And when he flipped over, despite the sharp pains all over, the Serpent stared down at him with its beady black eyes. It flicked its tongue once before striking, but Jameson had moved the moment its tongue had. 

The youth darted through the trees once again, leading it away from where Tucker was looking over a sickly-dying?-Tristan. He had never run so fast nor jumped so high in his life. The bushes in his peripheral vision blurred as he focused on what was in front of him. The branches and large leaves smacked his bare skin, leaving red marks and stinging sensations. Those plants with thorns and spiky leaves caught on his clothes, tearing a few small patches, and pricked his skin. If they hit him just right, they would draw blood. But it was the dodging of trees and any tall bushes that he could not simply go around that made his escaping all the more difficult. 

Though nothing compared to the feeling he got when he realized he wasn't dead yet. The Serpent was no doubt faster than him. Why didn't it strike him down now? Why leisurely trail behind? Jameson thought of one likely possibility, and he hated it; the cat was playing with the mouse. 

What felt like the end of a whip threw James forward into a large bush with prickly leaves. The leaves scratched his face and arms horribly compared to what most leaves did to his face and arms. At first, it looked like they left red scratches without puncturing through the skin. Then some of the red spots moved, dripping down when Jameson moved to get up. He winced, but shook off the pain; it was the least of his worries at the moment. If he survived, Jameson promised himself he would whine then, like a celebration of still being alive and feeling it. 

The Serpent was circling him now. It was like being in the eye of the hurricane. 

Jameson bent over and grabbed the useless Sparth. He tried spinning around to follow the Serpent. The only result was dizziness and a headache; it was too fast, he couldn't even see it while spinning around. Trees continued to fall, whether from getting hit in that moment or before and not toppling until then. Each crash sounded more and more like a tolling bell, making shivers dash up James' spin.