John brushed past him, calmly sliding his hand into Alexandra’s death-grip in place of Greg’s. “I’m not leaving.” A tear slid down his cheek from the pain as every bone in his hand threatened to shatter under the pressure. “You wouldn’t leave me in this situation.”
Greg shook his head. “I know I can’t change your mind, and I know that I can’t possibly do this without you…” He sighed in frustration as he turned to the other man in the room. “Doc, please, you have to get out while…”
“What, and tell my wife I ran like a coward, right when you needed my help the most? Abandon the man that saved my life more times than I’d care to mention?” Doc shook his head, almost mocking Greg. “I think not. Go take care of them. I’m going to deliver this baby.”
A lump formed in his throat as he grinned at them. Such fierce loyalty. “Thank you… thank you both…” He rushed out of the bedroom and stopped at the front door, taking a moment to compose himself. He never asked for any of this. Such a good life, wonderful friends and family, a beautiful wife… it felt like he was blessed. Felt like this moment alone could balance the scales against all the bad that he’d ever been through.
He grabbed his pair of swords that hung from a hook just beside the door. He’d sworn a long time ago that he would never again use them. He’d forsaken his warrior days for the life of a simple farmer… after Captain Dorill had left, he reluctantly pulled them from storage, praying the soldiers would somehow disappear, and things could return to the way they had been…
Greg opened the door, quickly realizing there was no escape from this fate as he gazed upon the army. Captain Dorill stood before him again, this time more than a dozen yards back, staring at him with an cocksure grin. Greg stepped out from beneath the overhang of the deck, into the fading sunlight, faking a confident grin.
“Gregory Thraxan Deltravian! By order of his Majesty, King Xavier, you will drop your weapons and comply!” Captain Dorill shouted his words loudly, so all the troops could hear his courage at their overwhelming advantage.
As Greg opened his mouth to speak, he heard the familiar whistle of an arrow flying through the air, piercing left shoulder. He stared at it for a moment in bewilderment, watching his shirt change from light tan into a bright crimson. He pulled the arrow out, tearing muscle and tendons the whole way, not remembering exactly how to deal with the situation.
He held the arrow in his hands, stared at the flesh on the barbed arrowhead, shocked at the sight of his own blood. Deep within the bowels of his soul, an old anger shook itself free of its bonds, squeezing his adrenal gland. His face warmed. His eyes became bloodshot. His lips curled into an evil smile.
Thrax looked upon the army, feeling his deep-seated hatred of Xavier rising to the surface, removing any possibility of negotiation. They weren’t interested in compliance. Xavier was even less interested: he just wanted Thrax out of the way for some petty squabble over a woman those many decades ago. Thrax realized he would never be rid of this burden by running. And they would not take his family from him again. Not this time. Not so close to the fulfillment of his dream of fatherhood and ultimate happiness.
The arrow snapped into twigs as his anger reached the surface. His breathing became erratic as his breathing became like that of an animal backed into a corner. He threw his hair back and let out a terrible cry of passionate fury. “This day, you have made your choice… to follow a TYRANT instead of what you know is right.” In the blink of an eye, he’d crossed the distance between them, wrapping his fingers around the captain’s throat, squeezing tight enough to make the man’s face turn blue. “And this day you will not live to regret it.”
Thrax poured his anger upon the man. A grotesque crushing noise ensued, as the force of his rage shattered Captain Dorill’s spine, as skin and blood squeezed out through his fingers like a pile of clay. He dropped the corpse, its head swiveling like a bobble head, and he turned his rage on the bewildered army.
The nearby soldiers fumbled for their swords, their eyes bulging, unable to believe the sight they beheld. A wave of energy hit the closest of them, their bodies erupting into clouds of dirty ash, like remnants of burned paper.
Thrax’s swords unsheathed with blinding speed, revealing their true form. The sword at his left hand shimmered like the surface of a pool, reflecting the light of the electricity that enveloped the entire sword and a portion of his arm. The other had a blade that had a dull, cloudy look, like it reflected—or maybe contained—the clouds of a vicious thunderstorm, a dark vapor drifting from it.
Like the blades of a meat grinder liberated from their prison, Thrax cut a swath of blood and guts through the center of the terrified troops, unleashing a wrath few would ever see… and even fewer would ever live to tell about.
Thrax dripped with blood as he began to make his way back to his house through the unprepared mass of grunts. His appearance was nothing less than something out of a horrific nightmare: a mountain of a man, whose biceps rippled with the lean muscle of a wild animal, and the face of a creature thankfully forgotten at dawn, drenched in the blood of countless victims.
He ripped his way out of the confused horde with rarely a blade deflected. As he rushed toward the house to cover the door, he saw the troops standing on the roof. They held torches, preparing to burn his house to the ground, not caring of the occupants. His body convulsed as another burst of hate-filled adrenaline surged through him. His flung his swords at the attackers, hitting one on either end, encompassing the whole lot in an awe-inspiring display of electricity and sonic fury.
As Thrax turned, he quickly discovered that the troops had begun to recover from their confusion. The ranks closest to his house had raised their shields, unsheathed their swords, and appeared to be moments away from rushing him. A dozen fireballs shot from his hand with a thought, destroying several dozen of the men, scattering the rest.
