The Rumble of Battle

surrounded them. Their only chance of escape was to break the ring that surrounded them. From the very beginning of this battle, it was clear that it would be difficult, and only a miracle could save them from defeat. The superiority of the Allied Elven and Dwarven Forces was overwhelming. According to scouts, for every Novilgard soldier, there were two elves and three dwarves. Not a happy situation.

Especially for a novice mage. Randalf had come to Novilgrad two years ago, when he began his studies. Now he deeply regretted it. His father had been right; he should have chosen the Academy in the capital. There, he wouldn't be fighting for his life now. He just sat in his room and studied for the exam. Well, there's no cure for stupidity, and besides, he couldn't have predicted that Novilgard would be attacked during his third year of studies. It was too late for regrets now. He was snapped out of his reverie by the commander's shout:

"Hold formation and head east. Anyone who flees because they fear death will find it here. Understood?"

With a trembling heart, Randalf marched after the others. He had to fight, as a tall elf approached, sword raised. Randalf sheathed his sword and quickly uttered a spell, hurling a fireball at the attacker. His hit was flawless; the elf fell with melted armor and a mangled face. He actually did quite well, and he only had four in war magic. Just three thousand more, furious and bloodthirsty, and he could safely return home. He would have to work hard. The dwarven axemen had just begun their attack. He sent a few bullets their way, but it wasn't enough. He was too weak; his magic couldn't protect anyone but himself. He watched helplessly as the enemy forces slaughtered his unit. Hatred and anger grew within him. Rage fueled his strength. Levitating, he rose high above the raging battle and began searching for the elven commander. He found him as a tall, well-muscled elf mounted on a beautiful black steed. He was dressed in the finest dwarven armor and rode at full gallop, leading his cavalry in an attack.

Randalf concentrated, recalling everything he had learned at the Academy: how to concentrate his energy into a single spell to amplify its effects. He pronounced the spell carefully, and vortices of power and lightning began to appear around him. He summoned a great storm; lightning began to rain down from the clouds, striking the allied forces. Randalf flew into a rage, blindly hurling fireballs at the terrified dwarves and elves. Hope began to smolder in the hearts of the Novilgard soldiers that they might win after all.

A chant of praise to the gods rose like thunder from hundreds of throats. Randalf slowly weakened

and began to fall into the darkness. Why? He wondered as he fell further and further. He remembered in his anger that he had expended too much energy. It was hard, but he knew he had done the right thing. It was probably meant to be. He hit the ground and lost consciousness...