Whill was inspired by what he had seen of Roakore’s masterful counterattack. He blocked again as the uninjured of his two attacking Draggard wielded its long spear. The beast that Whill had cut screamed again in rage and barreled straight at him. As he exchanged blows with the one before him, the other jumped with a mad look of pure hatred burning in its eyes. It dove at him, arm extended, legs spread. Whill exchanged blows with the Draggard still before him as the other flew toward him. He blocked an overhead attack and simultaneously turned his back on the diving beast. He ducked a blow meant again for his head and at the same time changed his grip on his sword so that it pointed at the ground. He thrust his sword under his right shoulder and impaled the one-armed beast through the chest as it attempted to jump on his back. The Draggard before Whill did not let up on its attack, and as Whill impaled the other it stabbed at his chest. Being in a crouch, with his sword stuck in the chest of the dead beast, Whill had no time to parry. Instead he abandoned his sword and jumped high into the air as the spear barely missed him. He performed a back-flip over the impaled Draggard and landed behind it as the other’s spear found the neck of his fellow, rather than Whill. The beast wailed in anger as it pulled its spear from its dead kin.
The monster Roakore had been fighting, Whill realized, was but five feet from him. It abandoned its fight with Roakore and came at Whill, who was now unarmed but for his knife. He ran toward the ledge, the Draggard close behind, Roakore following. Whill was almost to the ledge. In the darkness he could barely see his abandoned bow lying four feet away. He scrambled to reach it in time. He dove as he pulled an arrow from his quiver and upon landing grabbed his bow. He was now on his back as he strung his bow and frantically pulled back. He shot at the Draggard, which was now three feet away. The arrow found its mark and hit the beast in the belly as it reached him. But the arrow only slowed the beast as it raised its spear to kill him. The blade came down fast, aimed for his head. He feebly raised his knife in defense as Roakore barreled into the Draggard before the spear struck. He and the Draggard flew over Whill and disappeared over the ledge.
Whill went to look over the ledge but remembered the other Draggard. He whipped his head around in the direction of the rock wall and there it was; a demonic silhouette fifteen feet away. He got to his knees and took a shooting stance as the monster ran at him with a menacing howl. He shot the Draggard in the chest, but the arrow barely penetrated its scales. He shot again, hitting it in the belly. The beast slowed but did not stop; it was now eight feet away. It came at him with both arms forward in an impaling attack. He shot again, pulling back hard on the bow. The arrow sliced through the air and hit the Draggard again in the belly, sinking deep this time. The beast stumbled and dropped its spear, falling to its knees four feet from Whill. He had another arrow ready and aimed for the monster’s face. The dying Draggard quickly swung its tail around and broke the bow in two as it lunged forward and grabbed him by the neck. The Draggard’s strength was incredible. Whill could not breathe and knew his neck would soon be crushed. As the Draggard’s sharp claws sunk into his flesh, he brought up his knife into the chest of the monster. Its grip loosened as Whill stared into the Draggard’s hideous black eyes. They stared back, burning with anger. The grip on Whill’s neck tightened once again as the Draggard whipped its tail and sank it deep into Whill’s left thigh. The beast bared its pointed teeth in triumph. Whill could not scream in pain, he could not breathe; his vision had begun to go black at the edges. He could only sink his knife deeper with what strength he had left. He shoved the knife as far as he could until it could go no further. The beast’s eyes widened and its growl turned to a gurgle. The hand around his neck loosened and finally fell as the beast dropped on its side, dead.
At first Whill could not breathe; he was on the verge of passing out. On his knees still, he struggled for breath as his damaged windpipe finally opened enough to let in a shallow breath. He sucked greedily at the air as his breathing slowly became deeper. The air burned his throat and he went into a coughing fit that made his head spin. He fell forward, exhausted, and slowly his breathing returned to normal. He groaned in pain as he reached for the tail which was still in his leg. With great effort and immense pain he pulled it from his flesh.
He crawled towards the ledge, wondering what had become of Roakore and Abram. He peered into the darkness below and saw Roakore hacking away at a lifeless Draggard that lay next to the fallen boulder. The beast was already in pieces. Roakore swore profusely and kicked a decapitated head, sending it rolling. He looked up at Whill with a hard scowl still on his face. “Ye still alive, boy?”
Whill could not answer. He simply nodded and pointed in the direction Abram had last been. The dwarf ran in that direction and began to look for Abram. Whill’s heart sank as Roakore looked back up at him and raised both arms in the air as if to say “I don’t know,” and continued searching.
Whill feared the worst. Crawling back from the ledge, he attempted to stand. His head spun and his leg gave out as he fell to his knees, wheezing. He heard heavy footsteps coming toward him suddenly and grabbed his knife. He looked in the direction of the noise but saw only darkness. Whill struggled to see the figure that came at him but could not, until it was almost upon him. When it was but ten feet away Whill began to be able to make out a large figure and prepared himself for another fight. Then he heard a familiar voice.
“Whill, are you alright?”
He dropped his knife as Abram fell to his knees before him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The thick cloud cover made the moonless night pitch black. The wind upon the mountain had picked up, and a chill rode on the air. Roakore had joined Whill and Abram and was busy trying to light a torch Abram had retrieved from his bag.
“If this damned wind would let up fer a minute, we would have some light,” Roakore grumbled as he struggled with the flint. Finally a spark caught, and the oil-soaked torch lit, quickly illuminating the night. Roakore grinned. “Ah, that was easy. Now let’s hurry and dress them wounds.”
Whill’s leg was bleeding profusely and his throat felt as though he had swallowed a handful of small blades. When he attempted to speak he found that his voice was rough and grainy, and his throat burned terribly. Roakore patted his back.
“Save yerself the agony lad, by the looks o’ yer throat yer lucky to be breathing.”
Abram tried in vain to conceal his worried look. “Well done, Whill.”
“Indeed,” Roakore agreed, surveying the slain bodies with a hearty laugh. “Them hell-born scum didn’t know what they were getting into messin’ with us three, now did they?”
Abram retrieved a bottle of clear liquor he had attained from I am and showed it to Whill, who nodded and clenched his teeth. Abram poured the antiseptic onto his wound gingerly. Whill let out a low growl as hot pain surged through his leg. Roakore watched keenly.
“Looks like that tail near went clean through. That’ll take some time to heal, that will. Dress it as well as ye can, Abram.” Roakore turned his attention to the surrounding darkness. “We must get to the passage as soon as possible.”
Abram retrieved some bandages from his pack and took a look around for himself. Beyond the torchlight was pure blackness. “Yes, we must go. Can you walk, Whill?”
“Too slow,” Roakore said. “Besides, the boy would bleed to death afore we got there. No, I will carry him the distance.” Whill tried to argue, but the dwarf cut him off. “I insist, young Whill.”