One Moo'r Plow - Book 2: Chapter 45: The slaughter of Greysong Keep.

Bellows of bloodlust and trumpets of fury rang through the open square as the gate toppled inwards. It was not yet on the ground when the horde stormed overtop it, a tide of cloven bloodthirst and hate. It was then I stood alone at the defense’s forefront, sword in hand and grim determination in mind.

I was not alone for long.

The air shifted and gave way as a massive, furred white figure crashed into existence at my side. If the horde ahead roiled with bloodthirst, the Behemoth matched them. Thunderous, primal roars shattered the stone around it as the gargantuan being burst forward, right into the horde’s front line.

I joined the battle close behind. Only a fool would stand and wait for the cloven tide to fall upon them. My choice was made, and I took the fight to them instead. Bodies flew through the air with every swipe of the behemoth’s claws, its speed and titanic form wreaking havoc among the fury-tide.

Claymore glinting in blood-stained arcs, I followed in its wake, cleaving through minotaurs that screamed hate into my face.

Another army might have broken from this massive storm of death in their ranks, but I knew my own kind. They’d sooner die than waver. And die they did. Spears and hammers and weapons of every sort were launched at the behemoth as the tide turned to face it, eager for the death and honor that would come from being the one to slay it.

Arrows and bolts rained down from above as I butchered my way through my own kin, following in the behemoth’s path. Too many of them eagerly focused on the rampaging titan before them, and only saw my blade descend when it was too late. Bolstered by Skills and brimming with liquid energy, I moved at a pace outstripped by none in their ranks.

Almost methodical was the descent of my blade, and life after life was cut down. I looked in their eyes as they died and saw only fury and bloodthirst as they went dim.

Still, fast and brutal as I was, to throw myself into their ranks was stupidity. This I found as a mace struck me flush in the back. Even with most of the impact absorbed by my armor and toughened skin, I still stumbled. To fall might have been fatal.

I would never know. The minotaur’s midsection exploded and a dark fist emerged. Valencia kicked the warrior forward and stomped onto his head. Gore followed and the dreadknight lashed out at the next. She stood by my side, her aura of malice giving the berserkers around us pause.

Enough time for me to cut down another one. There was a horde now surrounding us, and we were but two.

Not for long. The Behemoth crashed through the horde, its body resembling a stuck pincushion, snow-white fur stained a pinkish crimson in blood and gore.

“Back?” I grunted, and she agreed. Few minotaurs stood between us and the short gap to where the humans had their defensive line ready. Fewer survived.

Crashing through the horde had taken much of the behemoth’s strength, I knew. Some of mine as well. But every moment I made the horde turn inwards was another moment the humans could fire and whittle down their numbers.

Now, we prepared for the precious few seconds we could as the war-herd turned its focus forward once more.

I glimpsed a golden figure to its rear, hammer held high as it roared orders and gleamed with blinding light.

The other Godtouched. The archon had been ripped from the skies, but I knew it was not dead. It too lurked among the horde’s ranks, ready to strike.

The Behemoth would soon leave, I sensed. It could only sustain so much damage before it would fade away to rest. On impulse, I ordered it forward, eyes locked on the golden champion. Rock crumpled underneath the massive figure as it exploded upwards and lept through the air right into the herd’s back ranks.

Its form blocked my view of the champion as it thrashed about, a whirlwind of crushing might. Claws tore through the thinned ranks of the backlines, fury evoked and overwhelming the fewer minotaurs that hung back.

From their midst appeared the archon, once more mounted. This time on a war-beast that had earlier climbed the walls. A lance draped in shadows blew out the behemoth’s knee, the flesh and blood turned to dust as it struck.

The great titan crumpled, still thrashing about as I now saw the champion stride forward, overwhelming splendor forcing my summon down even as he raised the hammer high.

The satisfaction of the final blow I denied to them. With a mental twist, I cut the behemoth free of the tethers that bound it to this reality, and watched with some satisfaction as the hammer crashed down and found only air.

The great beast had done what I needed it to do, and now it deserved its rest. Its final moments had disrupted the rear ranks of the enemy, drawn the champion and most importantly once more revealed the archon.

A far better trade than having it kill a few more minotaurs before it faded away.

“He’s here for your head, yet stands in the back.” Valencia remarked. “How very unlike your kind.”

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The dreadknight’s dark armor glistened in blood, stained with the gore of those she had killed. Yet her face was sanguine, a picture of calmness I had never seen from her.

“He likely wants his followers to wear me down first. Then step forward and demand single-combat once I am weary.”

“If he thinks it will be granted, he is a fool.” She snorted. “This is war.”

“I only speculate.” I grunted between sips of healing milk. Quick as I could, I tucked the flask away and braced myself. The undead arrayed around us now, a defensive line set as the war-herd advanced.

Bolstered by fury, with momentum at their backs, the furred tide bore down on us. It struck with enough force to break almost any defenders.

The dead cared little. The dreadknight at my side, I impaled the first charger through the chest and halted his momentum entirely, then lopped off his head with the claymore. Greatspear in one hand and blade in the other, I set myself as the forefront of the defense and roared my challenge to the horde.

They were here for me. All else was secondary. One I felled, then another. Valencia’s aura of dread struck like a hammerblow to their faces as they charged close. Full-grown and blooded bulls faltered mid-step as they entered her presence, but I forged on unbothered. Their lapses in movement were lethal as my weapons reaped lives.

The ground around me piled with corpses, every one I strode over lifting me higher into the air. Easier to see, easier to race towards for the horde. The smart ones focused on cutting into the undead to either side of us. The others died to my wroth and wrath.

I found myself atop mounds of corpses, the bodies of my enemies trodden underfoot, surrounded by bellowing berserkers. The undead had dragged down dozens of minotaurs with them, but they too now lay stilled.

Why were more not being raised? My eyes glanced to the walls, and upon them I found my answer. The archon bounded atop his mount, lancing through the defenders. Adric battled for his life as the rider hunted him, tearing through his guards like chaff.

Eyes flicking back down, I caught a swing of a warhammer from below on my claymore and speared the minotaur through the neck. Foot planted on the dying warrior’s face, I booted him backward and roared my defiance from atop the hill of bodies that were stacked underneath me.

They were of my race, but as warriors, they were not my equals. The Gods Above themselves had seen fit to ensure that. Through their gifts, I was stronger. Faster. Able to endure more. My Skills overmatched theirs. These gifts had come from slaying a Godling, and now these hordes scrambled to overwhelm me.

It was working. For every one I slew, another’s blow struck me. My armor and skills mitigated strikes, and draughts of healing potions took the edge off the damage. But they were a tide, and no one man could hold the ocean forever.

Adric had vanished from my sight. Whether he had been run through by the archon or slipped away, I know not. Only that the dead no longer rose to reinforce me. Riders leapt along the walls, springing towards nests of snipers and ballistae crew. Chaos roiled through the defenses, even as I did my best to take away the pressure.

Glancing at the human force nearly cost my life.

The archon blinked into space before me, the beast he rode crushing minotaurs beneath its bulk. The dark thorn of a spear he carried lanced forward, into my side. I nearly buckled as agony flared through me, but swung back at him with all my might.

He was gone before the blow got close to landing.

I reached down and felt dust at my side. My flesh had been transmuted, turned to ash by the piercing blow. Panic in my mind, I uncorked a flask of healing milk and drained it all. Through divine might, the flesh was renewed.

Once more, the beast blinked into existence above me. Now it bounded through the air, its entire mass aimed for me. Atop the perilous heap of bodies, I could not find the footing to dodge in time.

Valencia’s will dragged it from the air, gravity intensified as it suddenly crashed straight down. Through sheer spite it was forced from its leap and down into the corpses below.

Without a rider in the saddle.

The archon’s spear was buried in my chest, I realized numbly. The grim minotaur had teleported right in front of me and spawned with his weapon inside me.

I faltered then. Shock and nothingness within me at the same time. The shadowy thorn spread through me, pain and emptiness at once.

My insides being turned to dust was the most horrific thing I had ever experienced. The gleam of triumph in the archon’s eyes was tired, yet I could not deny it.

Faintly, as my senses began to fade I could hear the dreadknight scream and hurl the archon away, his form blinking through the air.

There were little regrets on my mind as I sank backwards, knowing the end was coming.

Was this how it ended? Just like that. Unable to do anything about it. All my strength, rendered null just like that. Unable to even lift my arms and drink one of the lifesaving potions at my side. Unable to summon the power to activate the Skill I possessed to refuse death.

Valencia stood before me, I realized. Her back to the horde, brimming with hate. Faint sensations of something being sloshed down my throat followed, then pain everywhere inside me as the flesh was regrown.

“You will not die here, Garek.” She spoke, voice hardened with rancor. “Not to this filth. Not today.”

I surged upwards, bellowing even through the hole that gaped in my chest. Eyes wide and filled with rage and fury and some trace of terror at how close I had been to death’s embrace.

The kill had slipped from the archon’s grasp, and now he returned. Once more he blinked into existence as I fought another warrior, off to the side and poised to strike. To stab me and flicker away.

Chains lashed from the dreadknight, constructs of shadows that emerged from her body and raced for the archon. They shackled him, and anchored him to Valencia. His form flickered as once more he attempted to teleport away. But the dreadknight took that from him. With one hand she grasped the chain and reeled him in, aura forcing him down to his knees.

My blade bit into his spine at the same moment Valencia’s fist tore the head clean off his shoulders.

Vengeance may not have been mine alone, but it was still sweet indeed.