“Show off!” Doran yelled, before swinging both his hammer and axe into an oncoming Reaver. Galanör’s blades flashed again and he was gone, absorbed by the battle.
A staccato of lightning nearly blinded the War Mason when an elven warrior unleashed his magic. He succeeded in repelling four Reavers and burning an entire ballista, but he missed the spearman off to the side. The Reaver launched the weapon with an accuracy it had brought from its previous life, eons past, and impaled the elf through the chest. Before he fell to the ground, there to join his brothers and sisters on the eternal shores, Aenwyn let loose an arrow that brought the Reaver down.
Then she fired five more in quick succession, each arrow well placed to kill a Reaver before they could deliver a killing blow to an ally. Her last arrow spent, Aenwyn dashed from corpse to corpse and retrieved them one at a time before firing them again. When one particular fiend jumped at her, the elf twisted her body and evaded its swing. A swift boot to its back sent the Reaver careering towards Doran’s waiting axe.
Like Galanör, Aenwyn was quickly concealed by the chaos of battle. Doran hoped to see both of them again, but he didn’t give it any more thought than that. They had a long way to go and a lot of Reavers to slay. It was going to be a long day.
At some point, the sun had given in to the progression of stars and a shining moon. Under this new reign, the fields of The Moonlit Plains came to life with their enchanted glow. For centuries, beings of intelligence had marvelled at its beauty and sheer majesty, but not this night. Even if those fighting for their lives weren’t distracted by the heated battle, the enchantment couldn’t be seen through the blood that stained the earth.
That blood belonged to countless elves, dwarves, and Centaurs, all of whom had fought side by side for untold hours and were now dying side by side. The inescapable truth came down on Doran Heavybelly again and again: they didn’t have the numbers. Everywhere he looked, his kin and allies were falling to the many blades of their enemy. He wasn’t convinced they weren’t crawling out of the hole like demons escaping the pits of hell.
He thanked the Mother and Father he had been born a dwarf, lest his fatigue claim him like some human. With what strength remained in his hands and arms, he brought Andaljor to bear and blocked an incoming longsword. Locked between his weapons, the sword was braced as its wielder tried to sink it into the dwarf. Doran looked up at the Reaver with a feral glint in his eye. Then he pulled the axe and hammer towards him, yanking the sword from his enemy’s hands. A strong boot to the knee put the Reaver on its back and a strong downwards swing significantly diminished the dimensions of its head.
It felt good. But it wasn’t enough.
That thought was never so overwhelming as when he heard the deep rumbling growl of a Troll. The ground shook beneath its lumbering stride. Reavers, elves, and dwarves alike were flung into the air by arms as thick as trees. The monster’s chains rattled and whip-cracked as they swung left and right.
The son of Dorain back-handed his hammer across a Reaver’s ankles, taking its legs out from under it, before finishing the fiend off with a heavy strike from his axe. Now he could see the Troll and its rock-like hide. It was heading right for him, though the beast was most certainly oblivious to Doran’s significance.
A tired sigh escaped Doran’s lips. For all his hours of fighting, he had only glimpsed a Centaur here and there. It seemed the bulk of Kelabor’s force were still battling in the north and along the flanks.
“I suppose I’ll be killin’ a Troll then,” he muttered to himself.
The Troll in question, however, swept in with a back-hand that launched four elves and a dwarf into Doran’s path. The War Mason was clipped by an elven boot and knocked to the ground. There were too many dead faces waiting for him.
With a bubbling wrath, he picked himself up and faced the Troll once more. “Now ye’re goin’ to get it!” he promised.
The Troll took no heed of the dwarf and continued to stomp ahead. Doran jumped to the side and avoided being stepped on, but he paused long enough to drive his axe down onto one of the monster’s toes. The beast grunted and staggered right, only Doran’s axe was still buried in the toe and his hand was still gripped to the haft. A sharp yell was raised from the dwarf’s mouth as he himself was yanked from the ground.
Thrown loose from his grip, the son of Dorain tumbled across the battlefield with only his hammer in hand. Protected by his armour, the War Mason jumped back to his feet and came face to knee with a very angry Troll. It roared, blowing out his blond hair, and expelled an ungodly amount of spit upon the dwarf.
Unfazed by the display, Doran wiped the spit from his face and looked at all four of the Troll’s bloodshot eyes. “Ye’ve got somethin’ o’ mine,” he said, gesturing at the axe lodged in its toe.
The Troll growled and raised both of its arms, fists clenched. Doran leapt forward and dived into a roll that took him between the monster’s legs. He felt the ground shudder under the double impact behind him, a blow that would have ground him down to a mangled mess. Rising from his manoeuvre, the son of Dorain rounded the monstrous foot and grabbed his axe, levering it by the top of the haft to pull it free.
Emerging on the other side of the Troll,
