[b]Saamir Syed,

On the Cowfallow Bridge[/b]

Saamir threw himself aside of a panic-stricken mother and her child, who rushed past him with little regard to the world around her. Her face seemed familiar, but no name came. A shoulder struck him hard, stumbling him - a man in his middle years brushing by in a fit of terror - Saamir knew him as Torick the fletcher. 

This was crazy! What was he doing here? On the bridge? If everyone was fleeing the Orcs, then that was a sure sign that he wasn't going to stand more than a second. He was just one man, with a rusted sickle. His mind screamed at him to run, but his feet wouldn't budge. He had to find his father, no matter what. If he ran now, he'd never forgive himself. 

"Besides," he mumbled with half a smile. "All men must die, and all men will be born anew." 

His little monologue stirred him into bravery. He moved aside a couple of running youngsters, their faces wet with tears, their voices hoarse from screaming. 

"Father!" Saamir called, moving forwards across the bridge, doing his best not to get run down by the fleeing villagers. "Father! It's Saamir!" 

An elderly man passed by, slower than the rest, and Saamir grabbed him. "Oron," Saamir yelled above the screams and the crackle of flaming thatch. "Have you seen my father?" 

Oron's creased features were blank, but eventually he shook his head. 

"Very well," Saamir said. "Go, me and the others shall hold them off." 

And just like that, an Orc's cleaver sung across the air, and Oron's aged face flew from his neck. Dark blood spurted like a fountain, drenching Saamir and blinding him. He stumbled backwards, his heart frozen, his mouth stammering panicked mutters - his beliefs in Kalem temporarily forgotten. 

"Human!" the Orc roared, pounding its chest. "Show me you are made of [i]something[/i]. Your kin have failed my expectations spectacularly!" 

Saamir ran his sleeve across his eyes, clearing the sticky-red life force of Oron from his vision. He caught the glimpse of a menacing figure; all black leather and scaly green skin. Saamir had never seen an Orc before, and looking up at his adversary's menacing and toothy grin, he wished he hadn't. 

"Why are you killing us?" Saamir sneered, spitting Oron's blood from his mouth. "Why!?" 

The Orc, at least a foot taller than Saamir, released an earthly laugh that shook its armour with the force. It stopped briefly, to shove a woman from the bridge who had the misfortune of running past it, and then it calmed. "For sport, why else?" 

"I just want my father, have the damned village," Saamir said, the sickle suddenly feeling heavy in his hand. "You must understand mercy?" 

The Orc regarded Saamir for a few moments, and then smiled broadly. "I understand death, human, and I am it: I am death, come for thee. Fight and die, or flee and die, it's your choice!" 

Saamir made to speak again, but the hulking creature was on him. The cleaver swung through the air from an overhead strike, and Saamir darted aside it; wooden planks splintered and cracked half a second later. In return, Saamir struck with his sickle, but the Orc spun quicker than any creature that size had the right of doing. A knotted green fist clenched his wrist, stopping the sickle in its tracks, and then Saamir felt an explosion in his stomach. His vision faded for a few seconds. 

And then he was staring up at the blue sky; the din of battle alive around him. He coughed hard as he tried to raise himself, expecting that the Orc would at any moment finish him off.