Excerpt from "Instinct of Fire"

Warlord Kraqos leaned forward slightly as the sweat on his sun-weathered forehead beaded and trickled over his darkened eyes. His blood-rust colored sword carried much of his weight in front of him as its flesh-dulled point sank into the barren, ruddy earth. The world before him seemed to be veiled by a white, groaning mist. His eyes could no longer focus on the enemy. The battle seemed to have a life of its own, sipping the life energy of the weak, even before they succumbed to the taunting fingers of the afterworld. Strangely, the two warring camps stopped and faced each other in fear-laden silence for only brief seconds. The seconds became like the rhythmic intervals between the
dull, weakening beat of a tired heart. Death was now like the sweetest water, only inches away from the blistered dry lips on both sides of the battle. The Warlord almost welcomed it. If not for the searing hatred of the Omogs, he could almost release his instinctual desire to return to his family. Almost. As one Omog ran toward him, the Warlord called upon the great Epos and raised his sword up and over his head. The sword, mostly by its own weight in his weakened hands, fell forward in his grasp, missing the charging Omog. A fainting, swirling darkness tunneled his vision. As he fell to his knees, he welcomed death. As his eyes closed he could see nothing but hundreds of Omogs climbing the hill toward him. And then darkness took everything.