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“Is that a warthog?” Nathaniel asked incredulously. “With a saddle?”
Only his hands and face could be seen, the rest of his stout body protected by plated armour of black and gold. His long blond hair was pulled tight at the back of his head, where it flowed over his shoulders and mixed with a beard that ran down to his waist and ended in a tidy braid.
Russell’s laugh was closer to a snort, though it quickly turned to anger when the high-pitched squeal of a notorious warthog burst into the tavern. The pig knocked one of the patrons over and immediately went for his tankard of ale.
“You best be makin’ that portal big enough for me hog, elf!” Doran said with a big grin.
Doran son of Dorain looked around quizzically. “Does this mean we’re not goin’ to die?”
“Ye have our answer, pisspot.” The dwarf snorted and spat on the ground in front of the assassins. “Are we gettin’ to it or what?”
“Pah! When can we get to the real fightin’?” Doran pulled out his wide sword as he trotted up on his hog. “Bows just aren’ personal enough.”
The blur came back from another angle and Asher finally caught a glimpse of Doran Heavybelly racing through astride his armoured hog. His thick sword couldn’t be denied, as it easily cut through Karathan armour and bone. The ranger was fairly certain he could hear the dwarf laughing.
Killing Argo did nothing for the rage trapped inside of him, a rage that would see him find his feet and keep fighting. Until the empty embrace of death claimed him, the son-of-none knew he would never stop.
“We have followed you this far. If you have the strength to keep going, then so do I.” Her melodic tone was disarming as ever. “You calling me old, Princess?” Asher asked with a hint of a smile.
“I am afraid going back the way you came is no longer an option.” Asher knew that voice, that accent… “Nasta.” “Hello old friend.” Nasta Nal-Aket slowly walked into the light. “It has been a long time.”
Nasta stroked his goatee. “Man cannot name what it has never seen. I have simply come to call it a Bastard.”
