All four eyes of the Ettin widened. Shum got it. Right in the heart. The great Elven spear jutted from its chest. “Ugh,” he said, removing his spear. Shum had been fighting for hundreds of years. He’d killed and hunted many beasts, some mystical, some natural. Killing didn’t bother him. It was survival. Him or them. Such was the Roving Rangers way. He closed the Ettin’s eyes and muttered in Rover, “May Nalzambor make good soil from your wicked bones.” He called for his horse. It trotted over. Shum hopped on, muttered a word. The spear collapsed to little more than a pointed rod that he tethered to the saddle. He looked for Bayzog. The wizard was gone. Safe now, he hoped. “Good,” he said. He patted his horse on the neck. “Let’s go.”
What do You think about Clutch Of The Cleric (Book 4)?