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Abram pulled his sword from a dead Draggard and engaged another as Roakore’s stone bird whirled past. The dwarf taunted three approaching Draggard, who met those taunts with snarling maws and raised spears. The beasts bore down on the warriors, but were met with greater force as the stone bird came across low and fast, sweeping the monsters’ legs out from under them. Roakore smashed one of the prone Draggard’s heads with his great axe, while Whill and Abram simultaneously split the heads of the other two.

Roakore guided the stone bird to the left to slam into the head of another Draggard thirty feet away. The creature went down with a thud and moved no more, its head thoroughly crushed. A spear flew by, barely missing Whill, followed by another and another. The three warriors found themselves deflecting spear after spear as the Draggard that had witnessed the fighting took a more practical approach.

“There are too many!” Abram yelled as he deflected another spear.

“Bah! We got ’em right were we want ’em!” roared Roakore as he ducked a spear.

They were now being attacked by more than a dozen Draggard, who threw spear after spear and had the warriors backing defensively.

“We must regroup!” cried Whill as a brave Draggard jumped at the three, its spear leading the way. Abram blocked the spear and Roakore met the beast as it landed, greeting it with an axe blow to the groin. Whill quickly chopped the head off the beast as it bent over in agony.

More than a dozen Draggard slowly advanced, throwing spears and snarling, drool falling from their hideously sharp-toothed mouths. The town hall was still more than two hundred yards away. Hundreds of Draggard stood between the warriors and those trapped within. The warriors were pushed back steadily, doing all they could do to hold off the spear-throwers. They had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Every building around them was ablaze, and the woods held no options. The attacking Draggard had signaled to their kin, and now dozens of the monsters came rushing at the three, including several flying Draquon.

“We need a plan!” Whill shouted, frantically deflecting the steady assault of spears.

“Block me fer a sec, boys!” Roakore yelled. It sounded to Whill as if the dwarf either had a good idea brewing, or he was indeed crazy. Nonetheless, Whill and Abram stepped closer to Roakore’s sides as he closed his eyes and began to chant so fast that Whill could hardly decipher the words. The Draggard pressed on, more than twenty now. Some threw spears, others jabbed with gleeful laughter. Whill and Abram were reaching the end of their abilities. Death crouched ever closer with each passing second.

Suddenly Roakore’s stone bird whirled before them, spinning in midair right before the chanting dwarf. Around and around it went in a blur of motion. Roakore moved his right hand in circles before him, tight circles at first but steadily widening the arch. In contrast the stone bird began to spin around and around in wider circles. Faster and faster Roakore’s hand moved, and faster did the weapon spin, until Whill and Abram no longer needed to block any missiles, for none could get through the spinning shield that the flying bird had become.

Whill and Abram looked at each other wide-eyed as Roakore continued his chant. Soon the Draggard gave up on the spears and took a more straightforward approach. Two of the beasts leapt into the path of the weapon as it buzzed before the three warriors. With great howls they came, and with great screeches they were chopped to pieces, their bodies unrecognizable as they landed in bloody pieces all around the ground.

The other Draggard backed away in horror and awe. Even Whill and Abram flinched and gaped at the spectacle.

“I can’t hold it much longer!” Roakore warned as he staggered back, continuing his frantic chant.

“Be ready to rush ’em, Whill!” cried Abram.

Whill, sensing that this indeed was the end, looked at Abram and raised his two swords. “It has been an honor, Abram.”

Abram shook his head, bringing up his own sword with fire in his watering eyes. “And it will be an honor to fight beside you for years to come!”

Whill had to grin. Abram would insist on being optimistic, even in the face of obvious defeat.

Roakore let out a final frantic chant and with a heavy sigh fell to the sand. The Draggard had pushed them all the way back to the beach.

Rhunis and his two hundred soldiers rowed frantically towards the beach. As they neared the dock he could finally make out the three fighters. They were being driven towards the water by a host of seething Draggard. At once Rhunis recognized Abram and Whill, though not the third fighter, a dwarf.

“Whill and Abram need our swords, men! Shall we stain them with Draggard blood?”

Every man cheered as the ships reached the beach and the soldiers scrambled to reach the three outnumbered warriors.

Roakore and his stone bird collapsed with a thud. Whill and Abram now faced more than twenty bloodthirsty Draggard. But the monsters did not advance. Instead they backed off a step as one, doubt seeming to suddenly haunt their grotesque features. Then, in the silence after Roakore and his weapon fell, Whill heard it. From the beach behind them came their salvation in the form of hundreds of screaming Eldalonian soldiers, led by Rhunis the Dragonslayer.

As the Draggard backed up and finally broke into an all-out run, Abram and Whill joined in the charge. Swords held high they grinned at each other, and together they overtook and took down the closest beast.

The soldiers poured onto the beach and were soon killing and trampling the fleeing monsters. On they charged full-tilt towards the town hall, where the remaining Draggard and a dozen Draquon waited. But behind those Draggard stood fifty men who, at the sight of the oncoming rush of Eldalon soldiers, made a charge of their own. Soon the Draggard, found themselves in the middle of two fierce forces: the villagers of Sherna, who fought to protect their women and children with every ounce of their being; and the soldiers of Eldalon, who had sworn above all else to fight to the death against all enemies of Eldalon.

The Draggard had nowhere left to go. They were cornered, and like any cornered beast, they fought. Swords sliced and spears stabbed, and the blood of both men and Draggard alike fell to the dirt. Whill had never experienced anything like it in his life. He no longer depended on his mind to guide him but functioned on instinct and reflex alone, blocking, ducking, and killing all that stood before him. He knew no fear, only rage, and through his body that rage was transferred to his dual swords and into any unlucky beast that found his blades.

Soon Whill found himself fighting alongside Abram and Rhunis. More than 160 Draggard awaited them, hissing and growling, their spears red with human blood. But the men did not relent, did not back down. All around them was pure chaos. The Draggard fought viciously, spears, tails, and teeth. They stabbed, chopped, and bit their opponents; to the right of Whill a man was impaled and raised high, only to be taken swiftly by a Draquon. The men were hard pressed against the vicious monsters but they did not waver, did not relent.

The fighting went on for what seemed to Whill an eternity. To the left of him Abram fought valiantly, as did Rhunis to his right. Together they plowed through the Draggard forces. Abram took a spear to the shoulder, but if he felt any pain it did not show, for rather than crying out in pain he chopped hard at the attacker, cutting deep into its neck.

Whill had abandoned his own sword and now had only his father’s. Years of pain and sorrow flowed through him and into the sword he now held, the sword that had cut him from his mother’s womb, Sinomara, the sword that had saved his life once before. He thought of his mother and father with every slash, saw Tarren’s dying form with every stab, and the injustice of it sent Whill into a rage. He now fought for the memory of his parents, for the life of Tarren, and for those helpless women and children huddled within the town hall.