ranks on the old man’s flanks and waited for the charge to come.
The Nails sprung from their concealed positions, tore across the battlefield. A wave of arrows hit the ranks moments before the first of them crashed into it, blood erupting onto the battlefield. Hydrus charged from the front. He could sense the shadows moving alongside him as others blindly charged up the middle. It was suicidal, but this man had to die or the Nails were lost. Hydrus weaved between deadly energy blasts, his thighs straining under the pressure as his brain told his legs to run faster, to keep moving.
His dagger felt comfortable in his left hand, his only weapon now except for his fists, but he was worried they wouldn’t be enough. The shield flared once again as the latest barrage of arrows rained down before another blast erupted from the bishop and seared its way through the man running on Hydrus’ left. The dying man’s scream echoed through the trees and Hydrus felt a twinge of guilt for not knowing who had been running by his side. He promised himself that he would find out later, if there was a later.
On the right flank one of the Nails had broken through the line and ran hell-bent toward the bishop and his indestructible magic shell. Hydrus thought he was going to make it when the bishop turned and fired, the man diving forward underneath the attack and burying himself face first into the dirt. He screamed as smoke smouldered from the burn running down his shoulder and back.
Hydrus ran harder, pushed himself faster and crashing through the magical barrier, he barrelled into the bishop. It did little to stop the flesh and muscle that was Hydrus — and he hit with enough force to fling the bishop metres back. Clamping his free hand around the old man’s neck, he began to squeeze the life out of him as the bishop’s thin strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and kept his dagger at bay.
It came down to strength now. Magic couldn’t help the God-fearing man of the cloth and no aid would come from any of the Nails. This was a struggle for survival and Hydrus wanted it more.
As Hydrus’ hand squeezed tighter, the bishop’s grip loosened as he struggled to get oxygen through his crushed larynx. The blade lowered closer to his chest, Hydrus’ muscles straining to bring it down and end his miserable life. The old man’s lips moved fervently, a last prayer to his One God, before they too became slower and more deliberate. Hydrus didn’t care to know what he was saying, didn’t think it was really important. As the bishop took his last breath, Hydrus hammered the dagger down into his heart.
Slowly he got to his knees, taking in the damage around him. It was over. The Nails that were positioned on the flanks were moving in, attracted by the pretty lights and the dying screams. Three Kyzantine soldiers had surrendered: they knelt with their hands on their heads, wide-eyed at the scene that had played out before them. Hydrus pulled himself up even though it was agony to do so. Tired and bloody, he turned to the closest soldier and told him to take inventory. He ran off to do it as Hydrus wondered how many had died.
Looking down over the three prisoners, he stared at the young soldiers who had managed to survive. They were dirty and bleeding but wore that resigned look about their eyes, like it was all too much and they knew what was coming next. Two girls and a boy waited for the death sentence to be carried out, they looked no older than seventeen years of age. He hoped that they hadn’t all been that young.
‘Take their weapons and let them go. There has been enough death today. I don’t need more blood on my hands,’ he ordered the men standing with arrows trained on the prisoners.
He looked directly at the prisoners. ‘Go home to your families; the war is over for you. You have served your Empire and you managed to survive — there is no shame in survival. Just don’t line up against us again. Who knows how lucky a
The Nails sprung from their concealed positions, tore across the battlefield. A wave of arrows hit the ranks moments before the first of them crashed into it, blood erupting onto the battlefield. Hydrus charged from the front. He could sense the shadows moving alongside him as others blindly charged up the middle. It was suicidal, but this man had to die or the Nails were lost. Hydrus weaved between deadly energy blasts, his thighs straining under the pressure as his brain told his legs to run faster, to keep moving.
His dagger felt comfortable in his left hand, his only weapon now except for his fists, but he was worried they wouldn’t be enough. The shield flared once again as the latest barrage of arrows rained down before another blast erupted from the bishop and seared its way through the man running on Hydrus’ left. The dying man’s scream echoed through the trees and Hydrus felt a twinge of guilt for not knowing who had been running by his side. He promised himself that he would find out later, if there was a later.
On the right flank one of the Nails had broken through the line and ran hell-bent toward the bishop and his indestructible magic shell. Hydrus thought he was going to make it when the bishop turned and fired, the man diving forward underneath the attack and burying himself face first into the dirt. He screamed as smoke smouldered from the burn running down his shoulder and back.
Hydrus ran harder, pushed himself faster and crashing through the magical barrier, he barrelled into the bishop. It did little to stop the flesh and muscle that was Hydrus — and he hit with enough force to fling the bishop metres back. Clamping his free hand around the old man’s neck, he began to squeeze the life out of him as the bishop’s thin strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and kept his dagger at bay.
It came down to strength now. Magic couldn’t help the God-fearing man of the cloth and no aid would come from any of the Nails. This was a struggle for survival and Hydrus wanted it more.
As Hydrus’ hand squeezed tighter, the bishop’s grip loosened as he struggled to get oxygen through his crushed larynx. The blade lowered closer to his chest, Hydrus’ muscles straining to bring it down and end his miserable life. The old man’s lips moved fervently, a last prayer to his One God, before they too became slower and more deliberate. Hydrus didn’t care to know what he was saying, didn’t think it was really important. As the bishop took his last breath, Hydrus hammered the dagger down into his heart.
Slowly he got to his knees, taking in the damage around him. It was over. The Nails that were positioned on the flanks were moving in, attracted by the pretty lights and the dying screams. Three Kyzantine soldiers had surrendered: they knelt with their hands on their heads, wide-eyed at the scene that had played out before them. Hydrus pulled himself up even though it was agony to do so. Tired and bloody, he turned to the closest soldier and told him to take inventory. He ran off to do it as Hydrus wondered how many had died.
Looking down over the three prisoners, he stared at the young soldiers who had managed to survive. They were dirty and bleeding but wore that resigned look about their eyes, like it was all too much and they knew what was coming next. Two girls and a boy waited for the death sentence to be carried out, they looked no older than seventeen years of age. He hoped that they hadn’t all been that young.
‘Take their weapons and let them go. There has been enough death today. I don’t need more blood on my hands,’ he ordered the men standing with arrows trained on the prisoners.
He looked directly at the prisoners. ‘Go home to your families; the war is over for you. You have served your Empire and you managed to survive — there is no shame in survival. Just don’t line up against us again. Who knows how lucky a
Similar Books
