The flock of crows burst from the tree tops in a cacophony of caws and flapping wings. The black mass flew as one, soaring over the two men standing in the field. One man put a hand over his face to shield the sun’s glare, and followed the flock with his eyes.

“Something has disturbed them in the forest, Draegon,” he said.

“Indeed, Johann. Something moving fast,” the other replied, rubbing his goatee with a calloused hand.

“Do you think…?”

“Yes. It is the Wailer.”

The Wailer was a being so powerful that no mortal creature could best it in battle. They had stumbled upon it a week ago, and after a mighty battle, they had thought it either driven away, or destroyed. They were wrong. Now it had caught their trail again.

“What should we do, Draegon? Last time we fought it, we nearly died. Only luck and the appearance of Buckethead saved our hides. We barely escaped.”

Draegon turned to his companion and put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “We must fight it, brother. We can not keep running forever. The Wailer can never tire, unlike us mortals.”

The two men turned as a great being crashed out of the forest ahead of them. The Wailer stood at seven feet, having a wild mane of black hair and a wild black beard. Its bloodshot eyes fell upon the two men, and it pointed a meaty finger at them.

“You!” it growled, shaking the ground with its voice. “It took Buckethead himself to allow you to escape. I have driven him back to hell for the next thousand years and now I have come to finish you off. Do you dare to think I would fall so easily? Nonsense. I have no idea why Buckethead interceded to let you escape. You are worthless.”

Draegon and Johann stared back at the Wailer, silent as stone. As one, they drew their axes from behind their backs; Draegon’s a crimson V, and Johann’s a shiny black Reverend. They held them out in preparation for battle.

The Wailer smiled, showing nicotine-stained teeth, and narrowed its eyes. It pulled its own axe from behind its back. It wielded the legendary Fender of Destruction. The color seemed to shift on its own accord in the harsh sunlight.

“So, you still wish to fight?” It plucked a string, sending a wave of wind across the field. The wind tore at the brother’s clothes, and whipped Johann’s hair into a frenzy, yet they remained standing. Their eyes narrowed in turn.

“On the count of three, Wailer!” called out Draegon.

“Agreed, Mortals!”

The count of three was called, and then the battle began. Ferocious riffs and incredible solos crossed the field as each side wailed upon their axes. The incredible sound knocked down the trees in the forest and shook the ground. Still the three axe wielders stood, their legs spread wide, their fingers a blur across their strings. A ferocious wind whirled around them, sending rocks and turf into the air. A storm gathered, the three at its center, with thunder and lightning crashing around them. Rain pelted them from all sides, practically blinding them. Still, they wailed on, sweat beading on their brows.

Suddenly, Johann grunted, his hand cramping up. He froze for just a split second, but that was enough. The incredible sound of the Wailer’s axe seeped into his mind, and Johann cried out. He fell backwards, his mind melted by the ferocity, and collapsed to the ground. With a gasp, he died.

Draegon gritted his teeth, furious and nearly heartbroken by the loss of his brother. Tears welled up, but he blinked them back. He couldn’t grieve at the moment, for to do so would guarantee death. His eyes narrowed, red rage filling his vision, and his fingers moved faster upon his axe. His only thought now was of victory.

The Wailer glanced up to gloat, eager to see the other one perish. It gasped, and its bloodshot eyes widened. Before it, Draegon seemed to grow in size, and it could see the outline of Thor around him. The Wailer paled, knowing now it faced one chosen by the gods.

With a cry, the Wailer fell to its mighty knees, tears coming unbidden to his eyes. “No! It can’t be! I can never be defeated!”

His fingers mashed together, causing a horrible screech to emanate from his axe. He knew he was done.

The power of Draegon’s riffs washed across the field and struck the Wailer with full force. With a last cry, the Wailer reached a disbelieving hand towards the sky, and then its mind melted away. Its body collapsed into dust, and the wind scattered it across the ground.

Draegon stopped on a low lingering note, his chest heaving. The raging storm around the field stopped just as suddenly as it had begun. Sweat dripped from his brow, and he let his axe fall to his side. With a sigh, he collapsed with exhaustion, a faint smile of victory on his face. He had avenged his brother.

Frank Etzler is a junior Biological Sciences and Anthropology major and a Literary writer for Generation.