The timely arrival of the dwarf seemed in incite the remaining ungor on to new efforts, their blades humming as they threw themselves headlong upon the harried defenders. The three gave as good as they got and more, and already the dead were piling at their feet, and the metallic tang of blood was thick in the air. However the sounds of reinforcements for the mercenaries were nonexistent, and fresh ungor were pouring from the trees even as the first were put low.

	Frans Vou grinned like a wild thing, the battle joy coursing through his veins as the blood of his noble ancestors flowed and burned hot inside him. His face, arms, and blade were splattered in gore, and despite a few ragged kinks in his gambeson he was untouched. The machete wielding ungor before him now was proving to be a more dangerous foe than the ones who came before and assisted by two other spear wielding ungor he pressed on Frans Vou’s defenses, seeking an opportunity to deliver the death blow. Frans Vou stood in the center, between the dawi and Estallian keeping their three man, or two-man one dwarf formation intact. Should he fall the ungor would flow through like water and surround the infuriating warriors who’d already reeved so many of their herd brethren down. The two warriors pummeled each other, neither giving nor asking quarter, their feet and hooves set, one of them would move from this spot, the other it was ensured would fall.


	Momentarily gaining the upper hand the ungor warrior raised his sword two handed lifting the marked weapon high over his head, bringing it down, one, twice, thrice upon Frans Vou’s upraised sword. The Breton could only weather the onslaught, this ungor did not seem to tire, and it was faster, and stronger than any of the others Frans Vou had slain. Already the man’s arms were starting to feel too heavy and sweat stung at his eyes. Spears jabbed at his stomach, turned only by the now worn gambeson but each blow made him wince and left a bruise. This fight needed to be ended quickly, and he needed space. His arming sword was long, meant for thrusts, and the ungor seemed to know that, pressing close. If he wanted to bring the sword into play properly he would have to backpedal, leaving his allies to be surrounded. Coming to a decision Frans Vou shifted his feet raising his sword to parry at an awkward angle, an opportunity he knew an experienced killer wouldn’t miss. The ungor brayed in victory swinging wide and knocking the sword from the Frans Vou’s weakened grasp, and then ultimately gurgled as the Breton’s sharpened shield-edge smashed into his throat, taking advantage of the beast’s opened guard, crushing the windpipe and severing vital arties to the brain.

	The ungor’s allies, presumably its friends seethed in rage doubling their assault on the now weaponless, but still dangerous Breton. One’s lance snaked forward, slicing off a good portion of Frans Vou’s ear eliciting a cry of pain, the other’s spear punched into the shield near piercing it. “Aid, aid!” Frans Vou cried as a mace whistled past his head crunched into his shoulder driving him to his knees. “Give aid I beseech zee!”


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