dwarf’s
body came away from his head, which lay motionless on the ground, neck and beard cleft neatly in two. Bundror’s gaze settled
on the pool of blood glimmering darkly in the moonlight.
“Save yourself the effort, groundling,” whispered a voice to his left. “You won’t raise your comrades—unless you can raise
the dead.”
Bundror whirled round, striking out with his ax as he turned. His blade connected with something hard—his blow had been parried
by a quarterstaff of black metal.
Before he knew it, the lower end of the quarterstaff was speeding toward his helmet. He took a blow to the nose guard. The
metal cut into his face, pressing against his nose and breaking the bone with an audible crack.
Eyes watering and warm blood pouring down his face, Bundror stumbled away. Dazed, he took another step back and tumbled over
the corpse of a comrade. “Come on, then!” he shouted furiously, still clutching his ax. He straightened up, braced his legs,
and looked around for his assailant. “Try that again, älf, and I’ll cut you in two!”
The challenge met with no response. The älf had melted into the darkness and the moon wasn’t strong enough, or maybe brave
enough, to deliver the shadowy figure to the dwarf’s vengeful eyes.
Bundror was under no illusions. The älf’s knowledge of dark arts exceeded his axmanship, but he was spurred on by hatred for
the villain who had murdered his comrades.
The next blow came from nowhere. Hearing a low swish, Bundror ducked just in time. The quarterstaff slashed the air above
him, only to swing round suddenly and knock him off his feet. A blade cut into his forearm, and pain stabbed through his arm,
forcing his fingers apart. His heavy ax, his only protection against the murderous älf, fell from his grip.
He looked up to see the sole of a narrow boot. A moment later, he felt the pressure on his throat.
“Did you really think you were a match for me, groundling?”
Gasping for breath, he peered up and saw a tall, slim figure clad in armor. A mask of tionium covered the top half of the
älf’s face, and a veil of black gauze covered the nose, mouth and chin. The älf’s features were framed by a hood attached
to a dark gray cape.
“Count yourself lucky,” he spat back, struggling for breath. “If you hadn’t lurked in the shadows like a coward, I’d have
cut you in two.”
“You want to fight me, do you?” laughed the voice behind the veil. The black gauze rippled gently. “Is that your dying wish?”
“Yes,” he spluttered.
The boot lifted from his throat. “Granted.”
Bundror staggered to his feet, reached for his ax, and saw blood streaming from the gash in his forearm. Hiding his pain determinedly,
he gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders. From the voice, he guessed that his antagonist was female, but the mask, cloak,
and armor made it impossible to tell. “Vraccas will give me the strength to prevail.” He glanced round hurriedly, but there
was no sign of an älvish army.
Surely there must be others? How could she kill a whole unit by herself? Can she work magic?
“You’ll see my warriors when they want to be seen,” she said coldly, as if he had spoken aloud. She windmilled her quarterstaff.
“I’m waiting, groundling.”
He charged toward her and hurled his ax—only for her to deflect it with her staff.
Still, the tactic worked; it gave him a fraction of a second in which to act.
Bending down, he borrowed a less cumbersome ax from one of his dead companions and snatched up a shield. Thus equipped, he
charged again at the älf, hoping that the lighter weapon would lend him the necessary speed.
The duel that unfolded among the corpses of his companions was hopelessly one-sided.
Both ends of the quarterstaff seemed to jab toward Bundror at once, striking him here and there, clattering against his wooden
shield, slamming into his chain mail, forcing the air from his lungs, and
body came away from his head, which lay motionless on the ground, neck and beard cleft neatly in two. Bundror’s gaze settled
on the pool of blood glimmering darkly in the moonlight.
“Save yourself the effort, groundling,” whispered a voice to his left. “You won’t raise your comrades—unless you can raise
the dead.”
Bundror whirled round, striking out with his ax as he turned. His blade connected with something hard—his blow had been parried
by a quarterstaff of black metal.
Before he knew it, the lower end of the quarterstaff was speeding toward his helmet. He took a blow to the nose guard. The
metal cut into his face, pressing against his nose and breaking the bone with an audible crack.
Eyes watering and warm blood pouring down his face, Bundror stumbled away. Dazed, he took another step back and tumbled over
the corpse of a comrade. “Come on, then!” he shouted furiously, still clutching his ax. He straightened up, braced his legs,
and looked around for his assailant. “Try that again, älf, and I’ll cut you in two!”
The challenge met with no response. The älf had melted into the darkness and the moon wasn’t strong enough, or maybe brave
enough, to deliver the shadowy figure to the dwarf’s vengeful eyes.
Bundror was under no illusions. The älf’s knowledge of dark arts exceeded his axmanship, but he was spurred on by hatred for
the villain who had murdered his comrades.
The next blow came from nowhere. Hearing a low swish, Bundror ducked just in time. The quarterstaff slashed the air above
him, only to swing round suddenly and knock him off his feet. A blade cut into his forearm, and pain stabbed through his arm,
forcing his fingers apart. His heavy ax, his only protection against the murderous älf, fell from his grip.
He looked up to see the sole of a narrow boot. A moment later, he felt the pressure on his throat.
“Did you really think you were a match for me, groundling?”
Gasping for breath, he peered up and saw a tall, slim figure clad in armor. A mask of tionium covered the top half of the
älf’s face, and a veil of black gauze covered the nose, mouth and chin. The älf’s features were framed by a hood attached
to a dark gray cape.
“Count yourself lucky,” he spat back, struggling for breath. “If you hadn’t lurked in the shadows like a coward, I’d have
cut you in two.”
“You want to fight me, do you?” laughed the voice behind the veil. The black gauze rippled gently. “Is that your dying wish?”
“Yes,” he spluttered.
The boot lifted from his throat. “Granted.”
Bundror staggered to his feet, reached for his ax, and saw blood streaming from the gash in his forearm. Hiding his pain determinedly,
he gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders. From the voice, he guessed that his antagonist was female, but the mask, cloak,
and armor made it impossible to tell. “Vraccas will give me the strength to prevail.” He glanced round hurriedly, but there
was no sign of an älvish army.
Surely there must be others? How could she kill a whole unit by herself? Can she work magic?
“You’ll see my warriors when they want to be seen,” she said coldly, as if he had spoken aloud. She windmilled her quarterstaff.
“I’m waiting, groundling.”
He charged toward her and hurled his ax—only for her to deflect it with her staff.
Still, the tactic worked; it gave him a fraction of a second in which to act.
Bending down, he borrowed a less cumbersome ax from one of his dead companions and snatched up a shield. Thus equipped, he
charged again at the älf, hoping that the lighter weapon would lend him the necessary speed.
The duel that unfolded among the corpses of his companions was hopelessly one-sided.
Both ends of the quarterstaff seemed to jab toward Bundror at once, striking him here and there, clattering against his wooden
shield, slamming into his chain mail, forcing the air from his lungs, and
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