Chapter 1 – The Second Incursion

Three militiamen made their stand on the bridge crossing the Harborman River in a wedge formation around Georg. Webb Mossfield kept his back against the trunk of an oak tree and watched the gray dwarves die.

The three militia—Irine, Jorun, and Faelin—leapt over and past them, and with every leap another dwarf fell. But they never stopped, never faltered, swinging their warhammers from the hip, forcing their way foreword, over the bridge, trampling over the bodies of dead comrades.

And it wasn't only dueger who died.

A slight tickling in the back of his neck was his warning. He swung around, bringing his hammer to bear without thinking. A gray dwarf that must have swum across the river whirled, and the sword passed harmlessly over him, but Webb continued his spin, caving in the dwarve's skull like a melon.

After a quick look around to make sure no more were lying in wait, Webb rushed foreword to help the militia, conscious of the two dark shapes, too tall to be dwarves, wade through the river and make a beeline for the Farlong house. He caught sight of a long, golden braid, and knew that it was Bevil and Amie trying to warn their elven friend of the dangers outside. We need them here, he whispered to himself, but realized that, sad truth that it was, Ny'ren Vollen would make a great asset in the battle and that Bevil and Amie were right in fetching her.

And then a group of three dueger followed them in. Webb stabbed angrily at an approaching dwarf with the dagger in his left hand. Blood spurted in a high arc from a severed artery.

He landed a solid kick to the exposed throat of one of his attackers, and had the satisfaction of hearing a distinctive pop as his neck broke. It fell to the ground, head bent at an awkward angle.

"Hold them off!" Georg yelled, much to reassure himself than to reassure his team, Webb thought. Not even five minutes in, and the bald-headed militia leader had sweat staining his nightshirt.

Webb was waiting for his next open shot when a massive shadow with red wrinkled skin and pointy horns all over rose up in front of him; intent on the dwarves, Webb hadn't seen him coming, whoever he was, but it wasn't a friend.

The creature growled, and drove his sword straight for Webb's neck.

Webb's knees buckled and he bent backwards like a drawn bow. The creature's fist grazed Webb's nose as the sword passed over the young man's upturned face and bit into the sturdy wooden sign behind him; the unexpected shock loosened his grip on the blade, and it remained stuck fast in the sign.

Before he could pull it back out, Webb flipped his wrist over and cut through his assailant's elbow.

The creature swayed, stunned.

"Demon-spawn," Webb hissed, and cut his throat. His head toppled to the ground, its' expression lost in the shadows.

The corpse fell against him. Webb pushed himself sideways out from under, looking for another target, and the dead creature slid to the ground.

Wyl and Ward were nowhere to be seen. They were either dead or fighting, he knew, but the idea didn't give him much hope. Either way, there was nothing left to do but fight his way towards them. As much as he hated his brothers, he didn't want to see them hurt.

Irine and Jorun fought one gray dwarf who had gone on a rampage, while Georg and Faelin busied themselves with the remaining three. Webb moved foreword to help them take down the dwarf. "This is for ruining my night, scum-packer," he muttered, gripping his hammer tightly.

But the sword was too heavy for him to hold steady. "What the fuck--?"

His knees had turned to cloth.

He glanced over at the creature's corpse. The other blade, the one Webb had completely forgot about, was stained bright red. Dripping.

"Oh."

He looked down. A huge diagonal gash opened his nightshirt across his abdomen, and his legs were soaked with blood—his blood. He sagged against the sign.

"Oh," he said again. "Oh, crap."