Dent hurried to form ranks with the rest of his patrol. He couldn't wait. The adrenaline burned through him like Firewine through a half-elf. He clenched his hands on his huge oak mallet with impatience.

Once the group of fifty men had gotten organized, the gates were open. The skilled knights left the tower and entered the battlefield.

Dent was towards the front with the most experienced veterans. It was an honor for anyone, but especially someone as young as Dent.

Dent had only been in the Biverian Borderguard for seventeen months, but he had already earned the respect of even the most revered war-heroes. So far, he had killed thirteen Biverian Dograts, a local record. Now the elite fighters were on the march to a small village that was recently attacked by a pack of the wild beasts.

Dent wondered if he should use his sword this time. No, he was saving it for a Rankkor. The huge two handed weapon stayed in its scabbard. For now, Dent would keep using his huge mallet.

Both weapons were equally huge and almost equally effective, but Dent had saved his money for years to buy the sword, and it deserved more than ordinary battle. The mallet, however cost Dent nothing. Long ago, he had pulled the wooden shaft out of a rusty axe that someone discarded, and stuck one end through a small oak stump. The big war hammer was now well stained with Dograt blood.

Now, these weapons could not be used easily by the average man, but Dent wasn't the average man. Dent was big. He stood nearly seven feet tall and weighed close to three hundred pounds. In fact, he was so big that he couldn't find a breastplate that he could fit his muscular arms through. Finally, he took the largest he could find and pounded the arm holes bigger. Next to his sword, his armor was his most valued possession. The blue breastplate bore the insignia of the Borderguard and despite the fact that it was battered and bent from his adjustments, he wore it proudly. That's actually how he got his name. But that didn't bother Dent, he knew that what people thought of you or how you looked or even your race didn't really matter. The only thing important was how well you fared in battle.

The soldiers approached the small town. They could see from a distance that it was in ruins. Food, furniture, and bodies littered the streets.

Dent's blood boiled. He couldn't wait to break some Biverian skulls.

The soldiers separated in search of the enemy. Most went in pairs. Dent went alone. He could handle himself.

Dent approached a deserted alley. Snuffling sounds echoed into the street.

Dent peeked around the corner. Sure enough, a large Dograt sat rummaging through a pile of trash.

Dent gripped his mallet and charged into the alley. The Dograt's skull crumpled under the force of the hammer. Dent stood over the body in triumph and placed his hand solemnly over the Borderguard insignia on his breast, as he always did.

Then, a movement caught his eye. Four sets of eyes glowed from a dark doorway.

Dent turned just in time. He was able to deflect the first attack. The Dograt slammed against the far building and stood in a daze.

Another beast lunged at Dent, this time catching him in the armored chest with a huge paw. Dent staggered at the blow, but recovered in time to deal the Dograt a powerful blow to the ribs. This one fell with a yelp and didn't get up again.

There were now two Dograts in front of him and one behind. Unfortunately, they all decided to attack at the same time.

Dent was pushed to the ground under the weight of the Dograts, each twice the size of a large dog.

Dent wrestled and beat them until the one left standing fled down the street. Dent lay in the alley, soaked with as much of his own blood as the Dograts'.

The pain was too great for him to walk away, so he stayed there clutching his bloody mallet until his companions found him.

When they did, they saw his condition and rushed to give first aid. One soldier saw blood oozing from a crack in Dent's plate armor. He tried to remove the armor, but Dent refused to let him. He shouted and struck out at them.

It took four men to subdue Dent enough for the armor to be removed. And when they finally got it off, they stepped back in horror. It wasn't the blood that shocked them, it wasn't the exposed ribs, it was the thick, bark-like skin that covered Dent's abdomen and chest.

Some men backed away, some spat in disgust, some even drew their swords.

"A half-troll..." someone hissed.

"Kill him!" someone shouted.

They kicked him in the side and spat in his face. No one came to his defense, not even those he had considered friends.

Finally, they tied his hands and feet and left him there for the Dograts.

Dent didn't know how long he laid there. He was never more than half conscience. All he remembered was that a man in a green cloak and big hat came treated his wounds, cut his bonds, and gave him food and water. When Dent came out of his daze, the man was gone.

Dent didn't care. He had other issues. He placed his breastplate in the bare street and poured lamp oil over it. When he sparked it, the surface burst into flames. He stood staring into the fire, deep in thought.

He had always fought for the cause of good. He remembered being taught that humans were good and Biverians were evil. But now he new that the only true evil is injustice. Dent laughed despite of himself.

"How ironic," he said to the flames, "that of all things, prejudice knows no race."

Afterward, he put the armor back on. Dent place his hand over his chest. What once was a proud symbol of goodness was now a blackened stain of justice.

It's got a good point, doesn't it? When you've finsihed, please click here to return to my menu of literature, here to go back to my main page, or here to go to GeoCities.