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"Be careful to mind my head next time," said Hurd, rubbing the top of his skull. He looked down at Kiev, lying on his back in the middle of the dungeon passage. "That felt good." he said, reaching down to give the dagger a final twist as the last light vanished from the half-orc's eyes. "But it won't be half as pleasurable as chopping Geildarr's head off!" He snapped up the sword and raised it to Sungar. The two warriors clanged their weapons together in a gesture of their camaraderie.

* * * * *

In the bowels of the Dark Sun, where Mythkar Leng conducted his vile experiments, a disciple of Cyric paced through narrow subterranean hallways that reeked of burning fur. An acolyte followed him, a huge ebon key in his hand. They had already freed their captive groundlings, the half-badger assassins which Leng had formed from many of the traitor dwarves. The mutants were commanded to attack all enemies of Llorkh, then were sent racing into the streets. The Cyricists knew they would be little resistance against the behemoths, but this was an excuse to let them go to work.

"Llorkh is under siege," the disciple said in a smooth, emotionless tone. "Our temple may soon be at risk. We must unleash our stock to help defend it." To the trembling initiate he added, "It is what Leng would have done."

"Yes, Dark Master." They reached a metal door, warm to the touch. The acolyte extended the ebon key and slipped it into the lock. As soon as the lock clicked, the hallways echoed with an unearthly barking.

* * * * *

As the last behemoth passed through the gates of Llorkh, he paused and swung his thick neck backward to rub against the wall above it. A few Lord's Men still clung to their places atop the wall, and ran in terror to avoid falling off as so many of their fellow archers had.

The behemoths went separate ways as the streets forked, each taking a different direction and plowing through lines of Lord's Men. Some men were trampled under great feet, but most had the sense to step aside. More arrows and spears pierced Vell's hide, and brave swords slashed at his heels and ankles where he passed, but these were of little consequence to him. What troubled him were the cries of pain he heard from the others. They shared his form, but perhaps not all of his magical armor, so impenetrable when Vell held the form of a man or a thunderbeast.

Vell heard a strange blast of wind, and a moment later one of his fellows let out an agonized moan, which was echoed by sympathetic cries from the tethered behemoths deeper in the city. Vell craned his long neck, looking back just in time to watch Hengin, only his neck and head visible across a block of old buildings, collapse to his knees as he was blasted by a magical blizzard. Even as it abated, frost clung to his scales, chilling his blood. The cold immobilized him and the Lord's Men fell on him. Vell could not see the assault, but he could hear the attacks in Hengin's groans as swords slashed at his exposed underbelly.

There must be a mage in that street, Vell realized. Letting out his own reptilian cry, he spun about, his tail sweeping through the street and smashing through the fragile buildings behind him, bringing walls crashing down. Briefly rising onto his hind legs, he pressed his forelegs into the side of the stone building opposite. It collapsed under his weight, and Vell pressed forward, his legs crushing each floor until his feet were firmly planted amid the rubble. The rest of the building collapsed from the damage, kicking up a terrific storm of dust. Tremors spread throughout the neighboring buildings and they shuddered, some beginning to crack and fall apart.

The opposite street was lost in dust and rubble, the enemy mage surely buried and dead, but it was too late-Hengin's cries had ceased. The vast behemoth, a cloud of grit settling on it, lay in the middle of the street, his skin sliced open by the many weapons of the Lord's Men.

Vell's blood boiled, his gentle behemoth form coming to life, fueled