By Mair Riley-Jones

This is not my rage

The axe had felt odd in his hand since he’d been handed it. Garruk knew this would be a hard fight even before the first song of war had filled the air. Each time he’d taken the battlefield before there had been a palpable tension in the air. 

Fir Cruthen were good at killing.

The sun shone through the leaves in The Grove, as it often did before they took the field. He’d felt the eyes of the gods on them there. The axe had felt odd in his hand then too. Not entirely Fir Cruthen, not entirely Jhereg, something in between.

Driscol had all but snatched the axe when it was brought into camp, pushed it into his hands, told him to put his strongest armour on. Garruk did as he was told by his Benoic. Not much scared Driscol, but he caught the quaver in the man’s voice.

The sun shone through the leaves of the thoroughfare they were fighting down. There were eyes on them here too. Cold eyes. Dead eyes. Pupils wide and lifeless. One of those eyes popped under the pressure of his swing. The axe hummed with corporeal and spiritual magic as it connected with emaciated skin.

Garruk was good at killing.

He could see his real target up ahead. A huge thing. Easily over six feet of plate metal and sharp edges. Throwing people aside like they were nothing. It picked one Algaian up by the throat. Weapons dangling limply at their side. Tossed them behind it, where they landed in a pile of mail and heraldry. The undead behind it fell upon them. They didn’t scream long.

Too many people in the way. Nothing cutting through the big thing’s hide. Need to get to them. Protect them. 

But you can’t protect them, can you?

Swing the axe, the crunch of bone. Block that sword, shield up, plant your feet. Another body flew over the crowd. Push that zombie back. Swing the axe, the crunch of bone. Shield up, plant your feet. Another body crumpled to the ground. Swing the axe. Shield up. Another body. Axe. Shield. Body.

You can’t protect them. 

No matter how loud he shouted,  no one seemed to hear him coming. He could help, the axe could deal with that thing as it brought its fist down on a helmet. It’s crumpled on the wearer’s head like an empty tinny. 

You can’t protect them.

He didn’t know where Bess was. His family were scattered. Couldn’t find his friends. Just strangers and the dead. Axe. Shield. Body.

Closer now. The huge creature was roaring incoherently. Great fists swinging. Blacksmith hammers, heads and chests for anvils.

Let me through, I can help.

Garruk squeezed his way through the fighters. Pushed his way through the front. Axe ready. Shield tight in his hand. Body exhausted. 

Like a magnet, the beast’s eyes fell on him. You can hurt it. It knows you can hurt it. 

It launched at him. He jumped back. Missed. Morgan called it a dance. Garruk didn’t think much of his dancing partner. He swung, the axe crunched into the armour. The undead giant howled. It struck his shield. Garruk felt himself thrown back off his feet. His back hit the ground hard. That’s going to bruise. Back on his feet. Swing the axe. Bring it down. Keeping dancing. Protect them. 

The undead thing was flagging now. Feet dragging, arms heavy. Once more. Axe. Crunch. Fall. 

Sweat dripped down his brow. He blinked woad out of his eye. Leaned on his shield for a second to catch his breath. 

“I need a spiritual weapon here now!” 

Garruk looked round. Another big one. Another body. He looked down. The bodies of his allies on the floor around him. Blood leaking sluggishly from their wounds. He couldn’t do anything for them but call for a healer. Corporealists and surgeons hurried forwards at his shout. 

He turned. Axe ready, shield up, body trembling with the effort. Back into the fight. New target.

Garruk was good at killing.