The Sorcerer

The ground pounded beneath his feet. He conducted. Fountains of earth and fire flanked him, rippling outward; he continued to charge, guns in hand. Lances of fire came. Argen disrupted them. Acidic smoke wafted through the searing air, sweat sprang from his pores. He felt none of it. There was one objective, one thing in the whole world. The sorcerer raised his hands, and choked with a bullet in his throat; three others found his chest and gut. The sorcerer staggered and fell. Red blossomed through his robes. Argen skidded to a halt, reloading his revolvers. The battle raged on.