own chest. He didn’t wait to ponder his luck as he unleashed the spell at the confused orc.
“Zithara Um Toric!” he screamed as he directed a crackling bolt of lighting from his fingers into the chest of the astonished orc. The sizzling bolt struck the giant orc solidly in the chest, arcing back and forth across its metal armor. The power of the bolt sent the orc stumbling backwards where it tripped and fell hard on its back. The smell of burnt flesh and hair permeated the tent as the chief of orcs cooked inside his armor.
Jonas turned back to the dark cleric just as the warrior of Dykreel regained his footing. Jonas wanted to end this fight quickly so he called upon Shyann to bring forth his God Fire. The energy built up quickly within him until it felt like he would explode. He pointed his right sword at the cleric and unleashed the power, directing a cone of blue flame that completely engulfed the cleric.
The cleric must have simultaneously called on the power of Dykreel, for the flames parted around him as he held his sword in front of him like a shield. Jonas stopped the flames and the man stood before him, unharmed and smiling wickedly.
“You will need more than that to stop the might of Dykreel,” he muttered, his voice low and dark.
“I don’t need magic to stop you. My swords will suffice.” Jonas spun his blades in unison and attacked the cleric. The cleric brought up his blade defensively and fought hard to keep Jonas’s deadly blades away from him, but Jonas was relentless in his attack.
He flicked his left blade across the pale cheek of the cleric opening up a shallow cut, the red blood from the wound standing out sharply against the pale skin. The cleric grimaced and jabbed his sword forward, toward Jonas’s groin. Jonas turned, stepping back and reversing his right sword to block the stroke. As Jonas deflected the blade, he flicked his left sword across the other cheek of the enraged cleric, opening up another thin cut.
The cleric growled in anger, lifted his sword, and started a powerful downward stroke. But the attack never finished. Jonas quickly lanced his left sword forward into the exposed part of the cleric’s armpit, where his shoulder plate fastened to his chest plate. The thick wool under the cleric’s armor provided no protection against Jonas’s sword.
Jonas drove the sword in deep, right through his lungs and heart. The cleric’s eyes widened in surprise and pain, his sword held high above his head. Jonas withdrew the razor sharp steel quickly just as the evil cleric dropped his sword behind him. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the perfect narrow slit under his arm, and then he fell to the ground.
Kiln fought furiously to keep the razor sharp sword away from his flesh. The man was a master swordsman; there was no doubt. Bomballa had backed Kiln up next to the flames and Kiln grimaced as he felt the heat from the magic fire singe his back.
Alerion had brought forth the fire to keep the guards at bay, but unfortunately it was becoming a problem for Kiln as well. But Kiln concentrated on every move that the man made, trying to find his weakness. When two master swordsmen meet in battle, there are many things that can decide the outcome of the fight. The variables are endless, conditioning, similarity of styles, and ability to control one’s emotion to name just a few.
Kiln was an expert swordsman, but his real skill came in reading his opponent. In the state of Ty’erm, emotion never controlled him. He could focus on every move and every counter. Kiln also knew that no one had better stamina then he. Years of training gave him complete confidence in his abilities to defeat another master swordsman.
After several minutes of trading blow for blow, Kiln began to notice Bomballa’s weakness. He favored his right hand and he signaled a left flank attack by slightly raising his left hand. It was very subtle and most people would never have noticed it.
Kiln smiled inwardly as he waited for the signal and his opening. It wasn’t long before it came. Bomballa’s left arm lifted up slightly and Kiln moved in fast. It was a dangerous maneuver because if he was wrong he would be lining himself up for a forward thrust and the wound would be fatal.
But he wasn’t wrong. Bomballa lifted his left hand