The enormous beasts collided like two thunderstorms. Zarine and Morgad went crashing to the ground in a whirl of claws and teeth, snarling and roaring so loudly that the cliff above Oliver shook from the force of it.
Felwit was the next to enter the fray. Crouching low to the ground, he began to saw his jointed arms violently against one another. A horrible, rending screech filled the air, high and unending. Oliver had never heard anything like it; the noise seemed to physically hurt him, drilling into his ears like rotating knives. He crumped in a heap, biting his lip to keep from screaming, his hands clasped over his ears as the noise went on and on.
Through streaming eyes, he saw that Zarine had disentangled herself from Morgad and was rolling around on the ground, howling in agony. Morgad, too, was twitching where he lay, his eyes screwed up and his three tongues lolling red on the ground. It seemed that even Felwit’s allies were affected by his screeching.