The sound of battle could be heard for miles around, the screams of the dying, the battle cry of the victorious and the clang of metal swords clashing with vengeance. His own sword was dripping with the blood of the enemy, drops flew as he swung his sword through the middle of a shocked opponent. The unfortunate fell, confused on how one half of his body was laying on the ground and the other half was five feet from it. His last sight was his own blood dripping from the warrior's sword into the red soaked grass.

The warrior rushed into the middle of the fray hacking and slashing, dodging and weaving. An ally yelled behind him to watch out, he ducked in time to see a giant battle axe swinging where he head was but a moment before. He gripped his sword and thrust it under the assailant's rib cage feeling a slight resistance, then submission of the man's body as his sword impaled the man's heart. He quickly removed the sword and didn't watch to see if the man fell or not, he already knew he was dead.

Another and another life taken with his blade, soon many more. He saw red, his rage building with each thrust, with each body falling from hand. He felt the power build in him, his right hand began to tingle as it always did before he lost control. No, he would not lose control this time, he needed to contain the power or all would die. Not just the enemy but his allies as well, his blood brothers. No he would contain it. The blood was powering it, the lives and souls his blade was devouring. Soon the power would burst forth like an acid in a pressurized container with a broken lid. So much force behind it and he would not be able to control it. Even if someone killed him the power would just keep coming until it was gone, until he was dry.

He needed to leave the battle field or more lives would be lost. He told himself he was not retreating, he was merely recouping. He turned to run in the opposite direction and met head on with a hooded man, no bigger than a child, but still decipherable as a man. Not a drop of blood marred his white robe, the only color on this stranger was a symbol sewn on the chest of the garb. The symbol of the Mazarks, the most powerful wizards in the known land, the most evil wizard sect of the world.

The warrior knew this was trouble, if one was here, there had to be more, they never traveled alone. He saw another cloaked figure on his right side, then another on his left. Soon was he was completely surrounded. The sounds

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