Gods of Malcea ✔️

P A R T: S U N

"If we don't end war, war will end us."

-Xamdú

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"Secure the ropes!" Karos shouted.

The ropes fell onto the beast that now laid tethered to the ground. Five other men surrounded the beast as it flailed and struggled against its confines. Before the last stake could sink into the earth, a breath of green fire torched the men. The lariats snapped one by one until the creature's head rose from the ground and let out another gust of fire.

Flames burst around them leaving not a single path open for escape. However, Karos took a chance and leaped through the rising flames. He closed his eyes as the wails and cries of the soldiers being torn apart and burned alive rang into the night air.

More came to replace the fallen. They needed the stake in the ground before it broke free. Their attempts were futile, for the beast shook and recoiled. While spreading its wings, the latches snapped at once. It let out a screeching roar as it reared its neck forward.

"Run! The beast is loose!" a man cried, running while Karos and the others followed. The beasts were too powerful for their numbers. They needed more men. The only option left open to them was to run.

They ran across a barren land paved in the blood and fire of their fallen comrades and of the beasts that now roamed the skies. Towards the valley, continuous flames licked beyond the river and into the desolate land. Karos remembered how it used to be filled with blades of grass that cut across the massive lands in arrays of autumn colors. The only hues left was that of charcoal and tar.

Shouts came from a distance, causing Karos to stop and stumble across his comrades working with a fiery beast. Karos put up a hand, gesturing for them to stop. However, a majority continued to run forward. They had given up hope for both the war and the lives of their brothers. For the ones who had not, they helped pull the powerful beast to the ground with the might of their numbers.

"Pull! The beast is nearly down!" Karos yelled. Mud dripped from his hair and silver blood coated his skin. He wore the armor of a commander and pulled with a fervor of the mightiest of men.

Soon as the tethers were secure, he sprinted the small distance and climbed onto the beast. He slid his sword out of his scabbard, and with a strong thrust of his sword, he shoved the blade through the opening of its scales and into the soft flesh.

The beast cried a long, dying screech before its body fell with a thud that quaked the earth. It caused his men to back up and soon a small chant swarmed the air. He did not bask in their praise because he knew the battle had not ended.

"There will be more! Keep forward." Roaring thunder and lightening rolled across the horizon from above at his utterance. Much like a beacon, it lit the way for the wayward souls of the fallen.

The drum of catapult fire banged to the sound of their hearts as they marched. The roars of the creatures filled the humid air with fear and dread. It caused the men to halt, others to flee. The few left continued. His eyes took in the disheveled, horror ravaged faces he once called his brothers-in-arms. They were a motley crew of dying men and scavengers.

His green eyes hardened at the sight of the hundreds of bodies now speckling the ground like pebbles of sand. The once fly-ridden corpses now lay motionless and still. Their flesh now burning to a fine crisp. The smell of the decaying bodies was putrid, but he kept going.

The dragons were not far. Just a bit longer, he thought as his heart hammered out of his chest. He must salvage what remained of his men. He would get them to safety as best as he could.