“What are ye thinkin’, lad?”
“There, over the trees.” Whill pointed across the meadow.
Abram and Roakore both squinted as they looked to the west. Abram noticed it first.
“Smoke rises in the distance.”
Roakore peered harder at the spot. “That’s the direction the Draquon was headed when he spotted us.”
Whill nodded. “The beast was headed for Sherna.”
They grabbed their packs and started west at a frantic pace. As the hours passed and they neared Sherna, the smoke could be seen much more clearly. They were at least five miles from the town, and at a lower elevation, but the smoke was easily visible. It was thick and black, and even from this distance, Whill could tell that a great many large fires had caused it.
Rhunis stood at the helm of the warship Thunder as it made its way steadily eastward. His face was stern, brow bent, and his scowl was only intensified by the burn scar that covered a large portion of his face. He had been sent by King Mathus to find and aid Whill and Abram. Mathus had learned that, upon the pair’s hasty leave from Fendale, they had been tailed by none other than Captain Cirrosa. Rhunis had come across the wreckage of the Black Dragon three days after Whill and Abram’s departure and, to his amazement, found it utterly destroyed. He knew well Abram’s prowess as a fighter, and he had experienced Whill’s firsthand, but the idea of the two of them taking down the Dragon with only a fishing vessel made no sense; Cirrosa had a crew of more than fifty, and the Dragon was a warship. They’d had help in the fight, no doubt, but Rhunis could think of no logical explanation. If one of the many Eldalonian warships had helped in the battle, they would have taken the wreckage to port and been treated like heroes for such a kill. No, it hadn’t been the Eldalon navy, but if not them, then who?—or what?
The king had known Whill and Abram’s destination—a small fishing town on the southeastern coast of Eldalon, named Sherna. That was now the warship Thunder’s destination. Soon Rhunis would catch up to Whill and Abram, and find his answers. From there he was to bring them to Kell-Torey, where they were to meet with the king personally.
Rhunis was jolted from his ruminations by the lookout, who yelled down from the crow’s nest:
“Smoke ahead, smoke ahead!”
Rhunis looked eastward and saw it also. They were still five miles from Sherna.
The fires were visible through the trees as Whill, Abram, and Roakore sped through the woods. They had taken a route that would bring them out close to the beach, where they could get a good view of the town. As they reached the edge of the forest they could hear the unmistakable sounds of battle: metal striking metal, screams of both women and men, and the growls and snarls of Draggard.
They reached the edge of the forest, and what they saw took Whill’s breath away. Almost the entire town was burning, as was the navy vessel which had been docked when they arrived days before. A few hundred feet from shore loomed a great black ship Whill did not recognize. He watched in horror as some Draggard hacked away at an obviously dead man with glee, taking legs and arms and tearing huge chunks of meat from the bone. It was a scene from a nightmare brought to life in broad daylight. These were beasts of the dark, monsters of the night; to see them under the light of the sun sent a chill up Whill’s spine.
A small band of villagers and Eldalonian soldiers had taken up defensive positions around the town hall, which—being made entirely of stone—was not on fire. They were outnumbered four to one but held fast their position in front of the large doors. Around them the Draggard stalked, toying with them, waiting and laughing. These monsters were known for their great cruelty; they would drag out a siege such as this for hours, basking in the horror of their victims.
Above the town hall, twelve Draquon circled like a pack of vultures. Whill watched horrified as one descended and plucked a man from the ranks. It soared into the air once again, and the rest of the Draquon were upon the prey in an instant, tearing him to pieces and dropping them on the men below.
Roakore had seen enough. He grabbed his stone bird and his great axe, and ran out from the trees before Abram could stop him.
“So much for a plan of attack,” Abram said as he rushed out after the dwarf.
Whill unsheathed both his swords and joined his friends in their apparent suicide run. The knowledge that these monsters had killed his parents, and now likely had killed Tarren too, filled him with primal rage. He caught up to Abram as Roakore broke into a battle cry that caught the attention of the nearby Draggard.
The beach was now directly behind them as they charged up the grassy slope toward the town hall, and a host of Draggard rushed to intercept. Roakore let fly his stone bird, which sped to the nearest Draggard in a blur. The beast never knew what hit it as its head was taken clean off its shoulders by the strong chain that connected the stones. The weapon did not slow. At Roakore’s silent command, it turned left and slammed into another Draggard’s knees, the heavy stones of the bird shattering both.
Four of the others turned and bore down on Roakore, who immediately charged right at them, and Whill and Abram rushed to catch up. At twenty feet behind, however, they could only watch as the first Draggard engaged Roakore—or rather, tasted his axe.
The sturdy dwarf easily knocked aside another Draggard’s spear and spun quickly to sink his axe deep into the monster’s side, nearly chopping it in half. He pulled his axe free and spun the opposite way, connecting with another Draggard’s head. Through it all he never slowed; Even as two Draggard came at him with axes, he met them with great force, barreling into both simultaneously as they raised their axes. They fell backwards as he charged on and left them for Whill and Abram.
Whill came down hard on the one to the left as it scrambled to get up. He stabbed through the beast’s back with both swords as Abram similarly dispatched the other—and they were off again, following the mighty dwarf warrior.
Rhunis spotted the black Draggard ship anchored near Sherna’s port, and his greatest fears were realized. His ship’s captain instructed the crew to ready the twenty catapults although the other ship had not fired upon them, and appeared to be deserted. Rhunis could see that the town was ablaze, and small battles were playing out within and along the beach. The people needed help. He advised the captain to keep the catapults at the ready, and told his men to make for the town with all haste.
Whill and Abram caught up to Roakore as he paused to summon his stone bird once again. Though they had not yet caught the attention of the main force, many Draggard had taken notice and were coming their way. Whill engaged one as it barreled in, brandishing a nasty-looking spear. The beast stabbed for Whill’s belly, but he was too quick; he knocked the spear harmlessly aside with his old sword and, with his father’s, stabbed the beast through the neck. He spun to meet the next monster, ducking a spear meant for his head, and sliced into its shin. As he twisted he brought Sinomara around and finished the beast off.
Abram pulled his sword from a dead Draggard and engaged another as Roakore’s stone bird whirled past. The dwarf taunted three approaching Draggard as they bore down on them, when suddenly his stone bird came across low and fast, sweeping the monsters’ legs out from under them. The three finished them off quickly.
Roakore then guided the stone bird into another Draggard thirty feet away, and the creature went down with a thud, its head thoroughly crushed. A spear flew by, barely missing Whill, followed by another and another. The three warriors found themselves under a barrage as the Draggard that had witnessed their lethal abilities took a more practical approach.
“There are too many!” Abram yelled as he deflected another spear.
“Bah! We got ’em right where we want ’em!” roared Roakore as he ducked yet another.
They were now being attacked by more than a dozen Draggard.
“We must regroup!” cried Whill as one of the braver beasts jumped at the three, its spear leading the way. Abram blocked the spear and Roakore met the beast as it lan
ded, greeting it with an axe to the groin. Whill quickly chopped its head off.
The rest of the Draggard now slowly advanced, having thrown all their spears. The town hall was still more than two hundred yards away, and hundreds of Draggard beyond these still stood in the way. The warriors were being slowly 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.
Roakore opened his eyes and at first did not know where he was. He lay for a moment upon the beach, blinking at the blue sky above. All around him were great fires, and in the distance were the sounds of battle.
Battle! The dwarf jumped to his feet as he became aware of his surroundings. He turned and saw a great battle playing out more than a hundred yards away. The last thing he remembered was falling to the ground as a host of Draggard had pressed on. Now it seemed help had arrived, for near to the town hall was an army of hundreds of Eldalonian soldiers, fighting hard against the Draggard.
“They’ll not have all the fun,” Roakore muttered, and with that he began his own charge up the beach, his great axe in hand, and a great smile upon his face.
Abram watched as Whill went at the Draggard with wild abandon. The sword of his father slashing, chopping, and hacking the Draggard with ease—too much ease. He watched in awe as Whill not only blocked but chopped a huge, thick spear in half, and in one fluid motion severed the legs of its wielder. Before any of the beasts nearby could react, Whill was upon them, hacking and slicing, Draggard heads and limbs alike flew away before the wild man.
Abram had taught Whill for ten years in preparation for a moment such as this. But never had he expected what he now saw. Whill took down all that stood before him, graceful in his dance of death, meeting aggression with all-out devastation. Though Abram was proud when he looked upon Whill, he was also frightened, for he knew what powers Whill was using, even if Whill himself did not. The thought was more than unsettling to the old warrior.
The men of Sherna fought for all they held dear, and the soldiers of Eldalo
n fought for king and country, all till the bitter end. The numbers were all but even, and that should have meant a bloody victory for the Draggard. But the creatures fought no ordinary foe this day, no mere men. When a man of Sherna received a mortal wound he fought on, blood flowing freely from his grinning lips, and when an Eldalonian soldier thought he could fight no more he cut through yet another monster. The ground was red with both human and Draggard blood as the sun began its descent from its midday perch.
The men of Sherna would not relinquish control of the town halls steps, even as they fell one after another. The Draquon swooped down time and time again, plucking hardy men from the ranks and devouring them quickly. Still they fought, even managed to take down one of the flying beasts. Finally Whill, Abram, and Rhunis met the men of Sherna as they fought through to the steps. At the apparent command of the Draquon, the Draggard came around the charging force and regrouped, leaving the entirety of the human force between themselves and the town hall.
Of the fifty men of Sherna, fewer than ten remained; of Rhunis’s two hundred soldiers, fewer than sixty stood, most bleeding from more than one nasty wound. The Draggard backed off a bit and the fighting ceased. The Draquon came down from the sky to take command of the diminished Draggard force. The remaining men stood together at the very steps of the town hall, along with Abram, Rhunis, Whill, and a very eager, blood-soaked dwarf.
The Draggard force had taken fewer casualties than the humans, but not many—less than one hundred of the beasts remained, along with eleven Draquon, each of which, to many folks of Agora, could be counted as ten Draggard. The men were outnumbered; the many dead lay about them as a sobering reminder. But they did not fall into despair, they did not give in, could not!
The cry was taken up by none other than Whill, who, despite the fact that he bled from many wounds, showed upon his face not defeat but determination.
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