Braal ran over and tried to rip the axe from the boarg’s chest. He had to use his foot as leverage before he could pry the axe from the dead body. He hefted his bloody axe and looked around trying to determine what to do. He knew that it was futile to continue to hold their position. His friends were fighting for their lives, but it was obvious to any observer that they couldn’t defeat these ferocious animals. Then he remembered Airos’s words. “Reserves! Fall back!” Braal screamed. “Retreat to the north wall! Front line, hold your ground!”
Braal ran to the center of the front line and Fil followed. Marsk the butcher intercepted him. His face was covered in blood, and a nasty deep cut stretched the entire length of his thigh.
“If the front line stays, then they will die!” Marsk yelled above the fighting.
“If both lines stay then we all die. I will stay with the front line to give you time to get the reserves to the north wall to join with the cavalier! Now go! Take Fil with you!” Braal ordered.
Marsk looked at Braal with respect and shook his head. “Fil, go with the reserves. Tell Airos that Braal and I stayed with the front line to guarantee your retreat.” Fil looked at them both and then ran off into the night joining the retreating men. Marsk returned his gaze to Braal and looked at him seriously. “You ready to die?"
Braal held his bloody axe before him and matched his stare. “I plan on taking a few more with me before I go,” he answered with a wry grin.
Marsk smiled as they both raced to help their comrades as they struggled to keep the powerful boargs at bay long enough to give the reserve line time to retreat.
Side by side they fought; sword and axe cleaving into the gray masses of flesh. The boarg’s long arms and sharp claws were formidable weapons. One hit from their powerful limbs would send a human flying, usually resulting in more than one broken bone. They were not only strong, but their speed was incredible to witness. The men of Manson were tough men, valiantly fighting for their lives and homes, and yet it was not enough to match the boarg’s strength and speed.
Marsk was not a trained warrior, but he fought with the energy and strength of ten men. He was fighting for his home and family and his determination and strength were fueled by the potential loss of all he held dear.
As Marsk struggled to free his sword from the heart of a boarg he had just killed, another creature, with lightning speed, dug its curved claws deep in his leg. Suddenly, Braal’s axe swung down, cleaving the boarg’s arm off at the elbow. Marsk was momentarily free, but the boarg did not stop. The beast leapt into the air as Marsk retreated, the severed arm still clenched to his thigh. Marsk stumbled back and held up his bloody sword as the boarg landed on top of him, impaling itself on the sharp blade.
The boarg, tougher than any human, continued to move in for the kill. Marsk’s arms were buried under the boarg’s weight and he could do nothing to stop the bony head from descending. Time seemed to slow down as Marsk closed his eyes and waited for impending death. He felt the hot breath, and then the sharp teeth close around his face. And pain, excruciating pain, as his own blood filled his eyes and mouth. But the pain did not last long. With one quick jerk the boarg ripped his face off. Marsk was still alive, but the pain was gone. All he saw was blackness and then he suffocated in his own blood.
Furiously, Braal swung his axe in a sideways arc with all his strength. The boarg was sitting on top of Marsk with its mouth clamped on the butcher’s face. Braal had swung the axe just as the boarg jerked its head up, ripping off Marsk’s face. The timing was perfect. The axe hit the boarg in the neck and the strength of the swing carried the axe through flesh, sinew, and bone. The boarg’s head landed five feet away with pieces of Marsk’s face still hanging from its jaws.
Braal looked down at Marsk’s twitching body. He knew that there was nothing he could do for him. Marsk was not a great man, but he had ended his life with dignity