The Desert Duel.

The enemy force was truly a sight to see.

Some held basilards, blades glinting in the sun. Their fighters held claymores at the ready, and their hunters swung clubs, as if their very lives depended on crushing Jonak' skulls with them. All wore katanas, the weapon of a true warrior in their mind.

Fifty four Inja warriors Charged forth on giant coyotes, war-hammers gleaming. They struck down five of Jonak's warriors, and then seven more before Jonak drove them back, killing twelve and wounding sixteen.

Void-Wind watched in satisfaction as the cavalry of Inja was driven back into enemy ranks. He shouts, calling his warriors into battle as he charges the katana wielding army of Inja, he kills three of the closely packed warriors in a single sweep. Battle lust was upon him. Slash, slice, cut, dice. Such a wonderful thing. Death littered the ground around him, it's scent feeding his lust. Wood for the fire.from the corner of his eye, he sees his army fighting behind him. To his left, magic burns the ground. He cuts on.

Ahead he sees warriors massing, as if to protect something. The battle flame bursts up, growing steadily. He has reached the heart of the enemy. He has reached the warlock.

Void-Wind is light. With the power of the sandstorms of the outer desert, he slays the foe. He is immortal. He is death itself. his blade is as the scythe of doom, finding all chinks in the heavy armor of the opponent. He is the wind which replaces life, with void. With horrible determination, he cuts his way through the lines of the enemies strongest warriors. And meets the one he seeks.

The warlock was covered from head to toe in plate armor decorated with the red of Injan priests. He nods, as if he had expected Void-Wind. “Ello Void Eind.” he said.

He drew his katana, and Void- Wind drew his falx.

(To be continued...)