[Durelin]

A cold, cruel mirth rose in Durelin's throat as he came crashing into the army of orcs and Easterlings, slashing out in all directions, the clang of iron on iron ringing through the air. His laugh bubbled out, loud and clear over the roaring mob. He sliced and hacked, not caring what he hit or how cleanly. He striked an Easterling over the eye. The Easterling screamed in agony, dropping his sword, covered the wound with his hands, blood gushing through his fingers. Durelin stabbed him straight through the stomach, and he crumpled to the ground. But the few seconds it took to pull his sword out of the body cost him dearly. An orc came growling behind him swinging its rapier wildly. Durelin turned in time to parry the blow enough to stop the rapier from slicing his head in half, and got away with only a deep cut next to his eye.

In his berserking, he ignored the wound, it was so small to him right now. He continued on to another orc coming at him. Even in his hazy state of mind, he knew he had to slowly make his way toward the cave. He cut the orc down cleanly and moved on to an Easterling, who he split the helm of. Then another one came up to his left, got a stab into Durelin's leg, then got his own stab into his heart. Another trivial wound.

A slice at an orc's head, a chop at an Eastering's legs, a agonized scream from another orc as he slit its stomach. A gurgle of blood as he broke the ribs of an Easterling and stabbed him in the chest. And all the time, Durelin laughed. He had never felt mirth during a battle, never had his mind been so hazy. Something was different. Was it the fact that, in his mind at least, fate hung over him, waiting patiently for him to kill enough orcs. At the thought, Durelin smiled. Was he going mad? The thoughts were stifled by a fiery haze, a burning rage, a lust for blood. And blood he got as an orc punched him in the side, braking several ribs, causing blood to fill his mouth. In rage, Durelin slashed with both of his knives, leaving himself completely unprotected, slicing the orc clean in half. He felt a heavy object fall on his back, and hit the ground hard. The wind was knocked out of him, and it was a while before he could get up. His vision cleared, for a moment, and he was left helpless, all the pain of the wounds was realized. Then, as he tried to get up, and found a dead orc laying on top of him, the sickly sweet smell of blood reawokened his rage.

With a scream of rage, Durelin lifted the orc up and rose, slashing the feet of a nearby Easterling. His strength redoubled and he ran mindlessly into a large mob. Taking the care to slice a particular orc's stomach open, blood and its bowels filling the air, spraying Durelin in the face, and those near, the elf again left himself unprotected in order to shed the most blood. He felt a sword pierce his right side and he screamed in agony, dropping his knives. But his rage allowed him enough strength to draw his sword and decapitate the Easterling, the owner of the sword. But then an orc slashed his left arm as he turned to stab it in the chest. Durelin's rage could subdue only so much of the pain and fatigue, and he fell to the ground and lay still.

The orcs and Easterlings around him took him for dead and moved on. Durelin shifted his head so he could see around him. Big mistake. His head started spinning, the burning of the berserker haze left him, and a new burning began all over his body. The majority of the agony came from the wound at his side. It was a mortal wound enough without the addition of the rest, no matter how small they seemed. He knew there was nothing left now but to die. Durelin's head cleared as he relaxed, what was so bad about dying? Fate had hung over him, he had had warning. But, what of my destiny? To face my nightmare, free another from it? I have not seen Anuion, he could have been killed when the orcs and Easterlings fought among themselves? Wouldn't my life stretch on till I could find a way to reach the end?

As if in answer to his question, Bordarigorn came running, slicing, hacking and slashing his way quickly to the cave. There was no doubt he was going to make it. No, he is not dead. No. Bordarigorn, my friend. May your life be full of green grass and blue skies. You have saved the life of your friend. Durelin smiled, then let go. He slumped over and was still, his eyes open, glazed with death, but with a smile on his face.