Vassal by Sterling D'Este (reading books for 7 year olds .txt) 📗

the one after that was cleaved from collar to waist, sliding apart in a gruesome unmaking. With the initial surprise of her attack wearing off, the others turned to face her, but it made no difference. Delyth felt no pain, saw nothing but bodies in a red haze. She killed them when they fought. She slew them when they fled.

There was nothing but the wild strength coursing up her arm and the spray of blood to bathe in.

❀

Alphonse fell to the ground with a resounding thud, the air knocked from her lungs. She opened her mouth to gasp, but there wasn’t room in her chest for breath. She choked and rolled onto her back, trying to regain the ability to breathe.

Around her, people screamed and shouted, metal groaned against metal, and the road became a dust cloud as people tussled against one another. Delyth was pure grace and power as she wheeled away from the man she’d saved Alphonse from. Her eyes were distant and cold, hermotions flawless as she slid Calamity through one bandit’s torso, across another’s thigh.

Blood spilled, splattered, dribbled, and oozed…

A clawed hand yanked on Alphonse’s mind, and she screamed in pain, clutching her head.

Enyo wanted out.

NOW.

“No! No! You’ll hurt them,” Alphonse said through gritted teeth and thick, fear-wrought tears.

Let me out.  Let me out. Let me out!

“No!”

The hand took Alphonse by the heart and squeezed until she fainted.

✶

Etienne whirled around at Alphonse’s first shriek, his heart banging to escape his chest. His oldest friend was wrapped in the arms of one of the farmers-turned-bandit, a decrepit blade clutched to her heart.

And he could do nothing.

Nothing but watch as Delyth slew the villager with a single thrust and a spray of blood.

Then, there was blood everywhere, the halfbreed cutting down farmers like they would the wheat in their fields, a grisly reaping. On his other side, Tristan had drawn his knives and moved to attack the leader of the bandits. At first, it seemed as though the rogue would lose to the bigger man, but no. He proved too quick, dodging and cutting until, at last, he reached the man’s throat.

Etienne could only back away, horrified.

Gods, he did not want to kill these people.

He didn’t want to die.

Etienne reached out a useless hand to a screaming Alphonse, the words of helpful spells dying on his lips. He grabbed handfuls of his own hair, tugging. There was nothing to cast, nothing to do.

He was too afraid.

Etienne turned pleading eyes towards Alphonse, looking to her for some kind of clarity, some sort of understanding, even as her eyes rolled closed, and her limp body crumpled to the earth. As quickly as she fell, she was up again. Snarling and vicious, springing to her feet as if this were some jaunty dance.

Enyo.

She rocketed towards the last man, where he cowered and scrambled to flee. She didn’t slow to grab up a weapon of any kind, demand Calamity back, or take one of Tristan’s daggers. Instead, she honed in on the man and came to a sudden stop behind him.

Unaware of the most dangerous foe lying in wait,he continued to scuttle backward, trembling, eyes wide and darting between Delyth, who had turned his way, and Tristan, who was wiping his red-soaked blades on the dead men’s worn clothes.

“Don’t!” he choked out, dropping his rusted spear and holding his hands up in surrender. “Please! I have a family. You have so much, and we were starving. We were ashamed to attack you when you brought fair trade, but we needed—” His words ended in a painful yelp as fingers gripped the back of his neck.

Despite her size, Enyo yanked the man off his feet, as Alphonse had been, his toes barely brushing the ground.Without waiting for the others to intervene, she dropped the man onto his back.

He looked like a beetle turned on its hard shell, legs kicking futility and arms outstretched to stop her as she bent down. Fingers already dripping with his blood made a strange and vicious cup, and then she struck.

A horrific crunching echoed through the empty valley, the sound muddied with screams of terror. Enyo’s hand had gone through the man’s ribs and into the chest cavity, but by some horrible twist of fate, the man was still alive, moaning and praying to Rhan to change his lot.

Enyo chuckled richly and leaned close. It nearly looked as if she’d kiss him.

“Wrong Goddess,” she murmured, her voice raw power; silk and fire, honey and ice, screams of pleasure and moans of despair.

And then she ripped his heart from his chest.

Etienne couldn’t tear his eyes away. She was laughing. Chuckling as though the gruesome death of some desperate farmer was the sort of gently amusing thing that made for fine entertainment, breathing in his despair.

And then she was standing over him, his still heart clutched in her red-soaked fingers, the stuff of his life dripping down her arm in viscous crimson ropes.

His Alphonse… his oldest, kindest friend standing over the body of a dead man, her face as gleeful as he had ever seen it.

Etienne fell forward and vomited between his feet until tears streamed freely from his eyes. When he stood up, Tristan was mere inches away.

The rogue hauled Etienne up by the collar of his shirt and thrust him hard against the rough bark of a pine behind him. Immediately, the mage tried to flee, to get away from this mad man, this man who wielded knives and felled those well over his size and strength. Tristan didn’t let him. He pinned Etienne with one gloved hand, gripping his face just below the eyes.

“That,” Tristan said, gesturing towards Enyo with his free hand, “is your fault. If you had killed one—just one of the marauders, she’d not have had the chance.”

He tightened his grip viciously, teeth bared and fingers digging painfully into Etienne’s cheeks.

“You couldn’t save her today. Couldn’t ever save her. Alphonse is lost, and it's your fault, you useless, cowardly sack of shit.