David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“NO!” Bardiya cried.

Clovis lifted his eyes, and it was like they were on fire, they glowed so brightly. He stared right at Bardiya.

“I will set their souls free,” he said. “Now let us bring some beauty to the world! The feast begins!”

The man reared back and brought the longsword across in a wide arc. Bardiya surged ahead, pulling against his chains, the ox harness, the wagons themselves. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he watched the blades, Clovis’s and the soldiers’, find purchase in innocent flesh. Keisha was the first to die, her head sheared clean from her neck. In a matter of seconds, there were seven corpses atop the dais.

Women shrieked, and the anger and dread of Bardiya’s people spread like a disease. Gordo shoved past a soldier and climbed onto the dais. Bardiya saw the parents of the other slain children emerge from the sea of humanity, and his massive heart thrummed so hard that it might have shaken the earth itself. He thrust his arms with such force that the four-inch-thick iron chains binding them shattered. His mind went blank, and he threw his head forward, splintering the ox harness about his neck. His vision went red as he watched Gordo cradle his daughter’s headless body, and when a pair of elves rushed Bardiya, he lashed out without thinking. He grabbed them each by the top of the head, even after one slashed at his wrist with his khandar, and slammed their heads together. Their skulls exploded into a bloody pulp that coated his hands even after he tossed their corpses aside.

“NO!” he screamed, shaking his bloody fists before him. It seemed the very heavens echoed his call.

More soldiers charged, but Bardiya focused on Clovis. The skeletal man was hopping up and down in what appeared to be excitement, his gaze aimed somewhere to the side. Bardiya looked that way, his blood racing, and saw men sprinting down the tall dune. They were dark skinned and brandished weapons of steel, and they bellowed their battle cry as they ran. He recognized every one of them.

Bardiya only looked away when a soldier stabbed him in the side. He reached down, grabbed the soldier by the leg, and then threw him as hard as he could against one of the wagons. The soldier’s body crumpled like a dried leaf, his head spinning around on his torso until it hung there by a single, gummy thread. Bardiya yanked the sword out of his side, such a tiny thing in his massive fingers, and flicked it away. Four more soldiers and two elves came at him next from all directions. He swung his arm, and the thick iron chains still locked around his wrists pulverized two men’s skulls. The rest he smashed with his fists until they were formless piles of flesh, bone, blood, and steel.

All around him was chaos now, his people fighting with their captors while the elves met the stampeding newcomers. Steel met steel with a clang , and the sounds of screams and the smell of blood filled the air. Bardiya jerked his foot, snapping the last chain binding him to the wagon, and hurled his body headlong into the fray.

In his rage his mind was on fire, his body young. There were none that could touch him, and though he was struck and prodded and stabbed from all sides, nothing could hurt him. Each time he saw one of his people put to the sword, his fury burst anew. He snatched up a Quellan, ripped his body in two, and used those two halves to beat the elf’s brethren to death before continuing toward his destination: the dais, and the emaciated man who still jumped and laughed atop it.

Blood was in his eyes, the salt making his vision blurry. He elbowed his way through the bedlam, tossing bodies into the air, stomping them underfoot. When he finally reached the dais, he stepped onto it as easily as one would walk up a stair. He towered over the deplorable, twisted human, who rubbed his hands together as he cackled.

“This feast has begun!” Clovis cried.

Bardiya said nothing. Instead, he reared back and brought his fist down on the man. Clovis never tried to defend himself, never even attempted to dodge. Instead, he took the brunt of the blow, the side of his head caving in, his teeth shattering. His body crumpled like a pile of dry bones, the red glow from his one remaining eye slowly going out.

In a fit of rage, Bardiya kicked the mangled, shrunken body off the rear edge of the dais. He threw his head back and roared, then turned about. The battle still waged below him, and as he looked over the combatants, he saw a cluster toward the center of the countless struggling forms gradually moving his way. The faces in the cluster were those from his past, faces he had not seen in months. There was Loom Umbridge swinging a two-handed sword; Gale Lumber coming down on an elf with a maul; Antar Fidoros using a large ax to lop the scalp off a helm-less soldier, and countless others wielding weapons of their own. . including Ki-Nan Renald. Bardiya narrowed his eyes, watching his old friend fend off attackers with a long, curved blade.

They had returned to him, all of them, at the time when he needed them most.

Bardiya got down on one knee, staring at the seven mutilated children on either side of him while swatting aside elf and soldier alike with his bare hands. He could feel Ceredon’s eyes on him, gaping at the carnage from his plank above the wagon. Men and elves died all around. Ki-Nan and his pack emerged from the swarm, panting and bleeding. The others formed a protective wall, allowing Ki-Nan and two others to approach the raised platform unharmed, holding above their heads a long crate. If not for the current of hatred flowing in Bardiya’s veins, he might have cried.

When they reached the dais, two of Ki-Nan’s men hefted the long wooden box they were carrying, sliding it onto the platform right in front of Bardiya. Ki-Nan leaned forward, his dark hand touching the giant’s massive foot. Behind him, the battle continued to rage. Ki-Nan said not a word. He didn’t need to. The determined look in his old friend’s eyes told Bardiya all he needed to know.

Slowly the giant reached down and unlatched the long, heavy box. He lifted the lid, and within he saw the gleaming steel of a seven-foot-long sword. It was the same blade that Aullienna Meln and the rest of the Stonewood Dezren had shown to him that day on the stony beachhead.

Ki-Nan stepped back. Bardiya grasped the sword’s handle and lifted the heavy blade from the box. The steel felt cold to the touch, but there was an underlying burn that seemed to leach into his skin and set his nerves afire. It was the first time he had so much as touched a weapon of this sort, and somewhere beneath his anger he was both amazed and saddened by how natural it felt in his grip. He took a swipe with it while still on his knees, getting a feel for it.

“No time, Bardiya!” shouted Ki-Nan, pulling him from his private trance. “We are breaking!”

The giant’s head shot up. To his right he saw small bands of his people scurrying away from the fighting, huddled together like a flock of kobo fleeing a diseased land. Wounded human soldiers were fleeing right behind them, casting aside their weapons as they ran. Bardiya watched as, to the left, the protective barrier formed by Ki-Nan’s men slowly crumbled beneath the attack of the combined elven forces. Men screamed and blood misted in the air.

Bardiya gritted his teeth and launched himself off the dais. He soared, sword held out to the side, and landed with a thud in the midst of the carnage. The elves and the few soldiers who remained in the fight turned his way, and in that brief opening, those left of his people made a dash for safety. The Dezren and humans looked fearful, ready to take flight as the Quellan sounded their battle cry. Bardiya let loose a cry of his own, one that sounded like the universe collapsing in on itself.