Cacophony and the pounding of boots filled their ears soon after. There was no time to mourn, no time to hang their heads. A battle was happening, and they were right in the thick of it.
Ignatius looked up. From the east side of the beach, a horde of Orcs and Dragon Tongue rushed onward.
It seems they have found a common enemy, he thought bitterly.
He raised his wand, the tip glowing with violent light. Perhaps he would kill. Perhaps he would kill them all.
The spell was already on his lips—the big one, the death spell—when Sherlock and Gelbus rushed over to stand next to he and Frieda. Sherlock barked wildly, a sound Ignatius had never heard from the Bloodhound in all his years. Gelbus turned, his mouth a grim line, a fire in his eyes, and nodded. Ignatius nodded back and stepped forward as the leader of a battalion would. Then he raised his wand to the sky and shouted, “For Dominion! For Maria!”
The four of them took off toward the charging enemy, flames and spells slinging out in front of them. The first line of defense fell as Orcs were stunned, and tumbled into the sand, tripping the men and Orcs behind them. Frieda lit up the night with her white flames. Robes and Orcs alike caught fire.
Through it all, more kept coming.
Gelbus’s stick connected with the broadside of an Orc’s face, busting the creature’s nose, somehow making it more ugly, but another had swooped in and punched the Gnome off of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock fell with him, snapping at the fingers and only biting thin air.
Ignatius shot magic from his wand. The spells hit the nearby Orcs, and Sherlock shot upward, looking in the wizard’s direction with gratitude in his bloodshot eyes. Ignatius nodded and turned his attention back to the battle at hand.
I would die for that dog, he found himself thinking. I would die for all of my family.
He willed more magic toward the group of Dragon Tongue nearby. The electric blue clashed with the Tongue’s own fiery red spells, and a great explosion of light lit up the beach. Both sides were knocked backward. The pain was immense; Ignatius felt blood trickling down his upper lip from his nose.
A momentary calm washed over the battlefield. His head thrummed and thumped, his heart beat wildly.
Dark thoughts crossed his mind. Is this where it all ends, Ignatius? Did the road of destiny lead you to this moment just so you could lie down and die on a beach with fresh blood in your mouth and a burning town at your back? No. No, it didn’t. Get up, Ignatius! Get up!
He forced himself to do so. To his left, sprawled out in harsh angles were Gelbus, Frieda, and Sherlock. They all moved slightly. That was good—that meant they weren’t dead. But they were injured, and in no condition to continue fighting. That was okay. Ignatius would do the fighting for them all; for all of the good in all of the worlds.
But, as he turned to his right, he saw his life flash before his eyes. Standing there, with a great hooked sword above his head and only one arm, was the Orc Frieda had critically injured earlier. Now the Orc had a crazed look in his eye—crazier than before. This was a beast with nothing to lose. Ignatius raised his hand, searching frantically for a spell—any spell—locked away in the confines of his vast memory banks.
But as he saw his hand come up in front of his face, he realized too late that his hand was empty.
No wand.
The Orc swung down, and Ignatius could do nothing but close his eyes. He was a praying man through and through; he believed in the power of prayer as strongly as he believed in the power of his magic. So he prayed to whatever Gods would listen, whether it be his god, your god, or my god.
And when he opened his eyes—he believed in facing death head-on, a sentiment taught to him by his own father and his father’s father before him—whatever gods were up there were listening.
A blast of energy hit the Orc from the side, sending him flying and skipping across the beach into the hazy smoke of the lingering aftermath of Ignatius’s most recent spell. Ignatius turned to see where it had come from, expecting it to be Penelope, the town’s mayor, or one of the citizens.
The savior was neither of those. Standing there like a hero out of a folk tale passed down from generations was Salem.
He had a big grin on his face, his hair was wild, and there was dark blood staining his vest in patches. “You owe me one, Ignatius.”
Ignatius shot up and wrapped his arms around the wizard in a tight hug. When the two parted, Ignatius rushed over to Frieda’s side. She moaned in pain. There was a long gash leaking blood from her forehead. Ignatius swiped some of it away before it could pool in her eye.
“Ig,” she said. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“Can you get up?”
She nodded, but he helped guide her anyway.
“Oh, my ass,” the Gnome groaned nearby. He reached over and patted Sherlock. “You okay, my canine friend?”
Shifting in the sand, Sherlock barked weakly. He was dazed, but he was all right. Probably just hungry, Ignatius thought.
Out of the smoke, Agnes, Claire, and Tabby emerged. They looked equally worn and beaten; they had blood on their clothes and soot in their hair and on their faces.
Claire bounded over to Sherlock, and that was enough to make the Bloodhound perk up.
“How?” Ignatius found himself asking. He held Frieda at his hip, making sure she didn’t fall over and hit her head again.
Agnes and Salem surveyed the battlefield and all its carnage. Orcs moved weakly. Some Dragon Tongue didn’t move at all as flames consumed their bodies. There were a lot of casualties, but for the
