Glory and Death

The megafauna roars, black mouth rude with viscera as if the thing had come from hell and had lived its life waiting on their approach.

The Lord commander knows this is it. He will be forced to kill himself on the beast. He tries to shake the thought away, that this is suicide, but can't. If he fails then there will be another sent to protect the wildflower-strewn meadow and that can't be allowed. This is his task. His burden.

This is his oath and maybe they could find a damn'd fool to replace him one day, but he won't let this mud bull have his way unmolested. A waft of wind blows the moment of great death towards him. It stinks like rotting meat and deeply disturbed swamp yuck.

Eye-watering.

"This is a silly expedition towards inevitable failure." His words to the king of these very lands. "A hundred coming to fall a thing only suggested to be real."

Real enough to be signaling his troops to spread out into a loose battle formation that circles the beast. No easy task given no one wants to be caught by its giant man-sized horn.

When it sees the approaching battle the beast roars and the air is filled with the stench of why they were forced to come. Farmers. Six of them in its belly on their way to being digested.

Too late for them.

The Lord Commander says a prayer to his Goddess, Beautiful gold glowing light fills his imagination just as the monstrosity brings its head back and all air disappears from the battlefield.

Then he swings forward and a hurricane-like gale batters all. The commander watches twenty go down with the blow. One of his men gets back up. He is missing both arms at the bicep. Blood spurts furiously. But the soldier's beserker rage compels him to attack and he throws his body against the massive foe.

The giant armored thing snorts, spraying snot and disrespect taking the soldier in his mouth and shaking him until the rest of his body flew in bits and pieces onto his brethren. His shaggy furred hide protected him from most blows. Another dying soldier bounces off worthless and is caught under a giant foot. Even in the din of combat, the crack of ribs is audible and stomach-churning.

The battle is far from over.

Men die.

That's what they do.

And this is a match worth finishing. Because all matches are.

The commander unties his cape and flaps it dangerously in the air, it's not his job, but there is no one else. So, he flaps and screams and waves his spear.

The bear spots the stupid tact, sets eyes on the tall man from the South and charges.

He smiles, crouched and ready. To him, a fight is a fight is a fight and this one is about to get good.

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