As the men began to effectively rout the Draggard, the Draquon took to the sky and again began their attack from above. Down they dove into the ranks of men, and up they came, holding their victims in their wicked claws. One such victim, one such man, though he bled from the gut profusely, managed to bring his blade to bear upon his captor. With a great heave Rhunis impaled the Draquon through the neck, and together they fell twenty feet to the sand below.
Roakore brought his axe around in a great swoop, into the torso of one unlucky beast as Abram chopped wildly at another. Before them Whill steadily cut through the Draggard ranks. Suddenly, to Abram’s horror, Whill left the ground, nabbed by a descending Draquon. The beast had Whill firmly by the shoulders, claws sinking deep, wings lifting them high into the air. With one great slash of Sinomara, Whill severed the arms of the flying beast and fell to the ground.
Abram blocked a spear and pushed aside his opponent as he tried to watch Whill’s descent. To his shock and amazement he saw Whill fall twenty feet only to fall upon a Draggard, driving his father’s sword straight through the monster’s head and body and into the sand.
Roakore hadn’t been bothered with any of the surrounding fights, for he was fully enthralled in his own. As he swung he saw the great walls of his homeland, the many chambers of his great mountain. Rage beyond reason drove the stout dwarf as he cut through the beasts before him. His great axe claimed the lives of many unfortunate beasts that day, and as they died, one after another, the last thing they heard was the battle song of the dwarves.
In the midst of the battle, in the light of certain death, few saw the arrows hit the many Draquon, few saw them fall from the sky, and few saw as the elf warrior made her way into the heart of battle.
Abram was hit hard, and to the ground he went. The Draggard came over with its spear, meaning to impale him. Abram rolled to his side as the spear tip hit the ground where he had just been. Taking no time to consider his luck, he thrust his sword up and into the groin of the monster, which had retracted its spear and drove it down hard into Abram’s hip.
Roakore planted his axe firmly into one Draggard’s head. Then he tugged hard, freeing his weapon as he spun on another beast. The axe cut halfway through the monster, but at the same time the Draggard thrust its tail at him. Through his thick clothing and chainmail the tail sunk, embedding many inches into Roakore’s side. The hardy dwarf only roared as he freed his axe and cut down another monster.
Whill knew no pain, he knew no fear. His only emotion made itself clear in the long line of dead Draggard he left in his wake. He spun and twirled, dodged and countered, and no beast could stand for more than an instant before him. All around him men were dying, but so too were the Draggard. Men were falling fast around him, and still a score of monsters remained. He did what he could, all he could do-he fought on. Then suddenly he noticed that the monsters’ attention had shifted from the thinning line of the human resistance to the beach to the south. There, upon a steed of black, sat a lone warrior, firing arrow after arrow into the sky and into the Draquon. Those that were not hit by the skilled and deadly bow-man flew high and flew far, wanting nothing to do with the deadly creature.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Draggard were hunted down and killed within the surrounding woods of Sherna, mostly with the help of the two elven warriors. The Draggard ship was quickly destroyed by the catapult crew of the great Eldalonian ship
Whill pushed through the crowd as he ran up the steps to the town hall.
“Tarren! Tarren!” He searched the crowd frantically. For a moment he thought he saw him, until the boy turned around. Through the crowd he searched, yelling Tarren’s name. Whill felt sick; hope began to wither as he searched to no avail. He reached the back of the building and turned in despair. He could not find the boy. Had he not made it? His head spun as he grabbed child after child, begging, “Tarren! Have you seen Tarren?”
“Whill!”
The voice rose over the crowd and reached his ears like sweet music. Tarren came running, arms wide. Whill caught him in a tight embrace and held him at arm’s length.
“I thought you dead,” he said with a sigh of relief.
“So did I!” Tarren said.
Rhunis lay broken, having been slashed viciously in the gut and fallen some twenty feet. Abram nursed a nasty spear injury to his hip. Roakore bled profusely from his side, though he insisted it was nothing more than a flesh wound. Whill also showed signs of the great battle, with more than a dozen deep red slashes on his body, including several deep claw gashes upon his shoulders. But they had won the day-they had defeated the Draggard army bent on devouring the innocent, and to each of them that was all that mattered.
Abram limped over to Whill, who was busy tending to Rhunis, though he needed tending to himself.
“How is he?”
Whill replaced the blood-stained cloth upon Ruinis’s gut with a grimace, and spoke under his breath. “Not good, Abram. His body is broken. He has lost too much blood.”
Abram nodded, but his face showed no sign of sorrow. “I know your skills as a healer are great, but I bid you witness the power of the elves.” With that he stepped aside and bowed slightly as the elf maiden stepped past and, ignoring Whill, looked upon Rhunis.
Whill moved back as the elf bent over the broken man and unsheathed her sword. Thinking she was about to put an end to his misery, he stepped forward and began to object, but Abram grabbed him. “Watch!”
She raised her sword slightly and put her other hand upon Rhunis’s chest and began to chant. Whill’s eyes widened as tendrils of blue light emanated from her extended hand and encircled Rhunis. She focused her attention upon the dying man’s stomach, and the wound began to heal before his eyes. Then she ran her hand over the entirety of his body, chanting all the while, as the blue light encircled him.
With a flash the light was gone, and the elf maiden stood with sweat-covered brow. She gave Whill an encouraging smile and said in elvish, “He will be alright.”
It was the same melodic voice he remembered from his dreams, the same wonderful voice. Abram bowed slightly and said, “Whill, I give to you the elf princess, the daughter of Verelas and Araveal, the lady Avriel.”
Whill could not find his voice. A part of him knew he should make some profound statement, some lasting impression. But all that came to his mind, the only word that found his lips, was “Hello.”
Avriel nodded and looked at Rhunis, who had sat up and looked around quite confused.
“It looks as though he will do fine. Once I tend to those near death, I will help with your hip, Abram.” And with a nod to Whill and Abram, she turned and walked away.
“That was her, Abram, that was the woman from my dreams!”
Abram patted him on the shoulder. “I know, Whill. I know.” He gestured to the confused-looking Rhunis. “It is a good thing she and her brother Zerafin found us when they did,”
Rhunis looked utterly confused. “What happened? I remember falling and then…” His face twisted as he tried to recall the events that had led to the state in which he now found himself.
Whill helped the man to his feet. “You have just been revived from mortal wounds by the elf lady Avriel. We have won, the town is safe, the Draggard have been destroyed.”
Rhunis gave Whill an odd smile. “Damn! That makes this the second time an elf has brought me back from death. Looks like I owe them twice over!”
With that the three men shared a much-needed laugh. It was cut short by a gruff voice.
“Bah! elves and their magic. All he really needs is some good dwarf mead an a big-breasted dwarf women to look after ’im.” With that Roakore fell to his knees and mumbled something as his face hit the sand.
Whill and Abram rushed to his side. Rolling the dazed and mumbling dwarf over, they noticed a very deep wound on his side. Blood poured freely from it.
“Abram, call Lady Avriel, quickly!” cried Whill. Roakore mumbled something about “Elves and their damned
