Whill and Abram shared a look and raced after him.
They ran on for several hours, saying not a word. To their left the distant sounds of the ocean could be heard. It was nearing noon now, and Abram decided it was time for a break. Neither Whill nor Roakore argued the point.
They rested at the edge of a small clearing. Abram sat back against a thick oak tree and lit his long pipe, while Roakore found a suitable rock to sit on. Whill took a long and needed swig from his water skin and then poured the cool water over his head. Though it was still spring and the temperature was mild, the run had made him quite hot. Like the other two, he carried a large traveling pack, along with his quiver and recently repaired bow, and his two swords.
He took a moment to look over the magnificent blade that had been his father’s. It was much different from his own, which was longer and much heavier. His father’s blade was thin and curved and very light, though none of those attributes made it any less of a weapon. On the contrary, the blade he now held in his hands was perfectly balanced, with a razor-sharp blade, a testament to the elves’ prowess as weapon-makers.
He studied the sword for a long while: the way the sun shone off the powerful blade, the shimmer of the many small diamonds about the guard. His gaze then fell to the ring of his mother, pure silver with one large pearl surrounded by sapphires. He felt a strange bond within both, a connection he could not quite place. They seemed to help fill a long-empty part of his heart.
Whill was roused from his deep thoughts as Roakore walked over and sat next to him. “So that’s the sword o’ yer father, eh?”
Whill noted that Roakore was trying to sound impartial. “Its name is Sinomara, named after my father, Aramonis. The elves name their swords after themselves in reverse, out of the belief that the sword and warrior should be as one to find true harmony.”
Roakore studied the blade for a moment with a raised eyebrow. “I admit, the craftsmanship be flawless…though it looks a bit too pretty to be o’ any real use.”
Whill only grinned, amused by the stubborn dwarf’s realization and attempted cover-up of the fact that he had in essence just complimented the elves.
Just then a shadow swept past, quick as a flash but noticeable nonetheless. Whill realized that it had been too large for a bird, but too small for a dragon. He looked up, as did Roakore, but there was nothing to see but the sun high above. Abram was already on his feet and moving out into the meadow as Whill and Roakore followed.
“What’s it, then?” asked Roakore as the two came up next to Abram.
Abram only stared north, past the edge of the meadow, above the trees. He scanned the treeline for many moments before his eyes quickened. “There.” He pointed.
Both Roakore and Whill squinted as they tried to make out the large creature flying low above the trees, some four hundred yards away. Abram was already gently pushing them back to the cover of the trees when it struck Whill. He froze a moment in disbelief, but the closer the creature got, the more obvious its identity became.
“A Draquon? It can’t be.”
Roakore spat on the ground and patted Whill on the back. “Ye really know how to make enemies now, don’t ye?”
The Draquon were a less common, winged version of the Draggard. They were taller than the Draggard, some nearly twelve feet, and had longer tails as well. The Draquon more resembled a dragon than any human, with thick gnarled horns upon their heads and long pointed spikes running the length of their backs.
The three companions ducked low as the Draquon began to cross the meadow, now moving swiftly in their direction. Abram took up his bow and strung an arrow, and Whill followed suit.
“A scout, no doubt,” said Whill. Abram nodded in agreement.
Roakore began a low chant then, and Whill noticed that he held two large, rounded stones, connected by chain to a well-adorned metal handle.
Abram put his hand upon Roakore’s shoulder, gesturing for the dwarf to wait. “It has not yet spotted us!” he said in a hushed whisper.
Roakore shrugged Abram’s hand away. “Why wait till it spots us? The damned thing’ll be long gone before the two o’ ye get off a shot.”
Whill winced at Roakore’s loud voice. It was as if he meant to give away their position.
“It may not see us,” Abram pressed
Roakore’s face twisted into a maniacal grin. “Oh, it’ll see us, alright. I’ll not be letting a beast such as that fly free.” With that he pushed past the protesting Abram and ran out into the field, waving his arms and yelling to the low-flying Draquon, now less than one hundred yards away.
“Here we are, ye stupid, dragon-spawned, demon-lovin’ beast! Come an’ taste me blade!”
Abram only rolled his eyes and with a great sigh sprang from the woods, bow ready. Their suspicions that this beast was only a scout were proven right when the Draquon reared and turned swiftly in the opposite direction. Whill and Abram let off a shot each but didn’t even come close as the beast rose into the air and flew away from them.
Just as Abram was about to chastise Roakore for being so stupid, the dwarf let out a guttural scream and swung the two-stoned weapon in wide arches, gaining more and more momentum as he chanted loudly. Finally he let loose the weapon with a great growl and raised his hand in the Draquon’s direction. Abram and Roakore watched in amazement as the spinning stones ascended higher when they should have fallen, and turned towards the flying beast when they should have gone straight.
The stones gained speed with the help of Roakore, who used his innate abilities to guide the stones with sheer willpower. The weapon came in hard on the beast, catching it in the side with so much force that the creature flipped four times in midair before descending to the ground in a heap of flailing wings. The Draquon crashed hard to the ground less than thirty feet from Whill and Abram, who came running, bows at the ready.
The Draquon rose to its feet with a roar. One wing was broken, but though it could not fly, it could still run with great speed. Whill and Abram took up a shooting stance twenty feet from the monster and let loose their arrows. The beast snarled defiantly as the arrows deflected harmlessly off its scaly armor.
Roakore was still standing in the same spot he had been, arms extended, chanting. The Draquon charged on all fours, baring its razor-sharp teeth, meaning to devour the lone dwarf. Suddenly Roakore’s stone bird came whirling across the meadow. To Whill and Abram it was but a blur, so fast did it move. It slammed into the Draquon’s chest, sending the beast flying back ten feet.
Even as it came to a halt Whill and Abram were upon it, blades drawn. Abram went straight for the eyes of the prone monster, jabbing frantically and managing to take out one amidst the Draquon’s thrashing. Whill hacked and chopped, doing minimal damage to the monster’s armor. Then the dazed beast was on its feet again. It had lost an eye, broken a wing, and no doubt fractured a number of ribs thanks to Roakore, and it was angry. It stood eleven feet tall, towering over Whill and Abram. They waited in a defensive crouch as Roakore barreled in, axe in hand, screaming to the dwarf god of war. The beast turned to face him, and as it did it brought its ten-foot long tail around in a great sweep. Roakore hopped the tail without missing a beat. At that instant Roakore appeared to Whill more ferocious than the Draquon. Fire burned within his eyes, and his face was a picture of pure, twisted rage.
The Draquon brought its tail across again, and Roakore jumped over it once more, flying straight at the monster, axe raised over his head. The Draquon caught Roakore in its massive claws, which only increased the momentum of the dwarf’s great axe. It came down fast, even as the monster realized its folly, but too late. With a primal scream, Roakore buried the axe into the Draquon’s head. The creature instantly fell in a dead heap, bringing Roakore along for the ride. The dwarf spat and cursed, kicked and thrashed, trying to get out from under the massive corpse.