Eldon Thompson - The Legend of Asahiel 03 by The Divine Talisman

Author:The Divine Talisman [Talisman, The Divine]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY

ONLY THE BASTION COULD STOP him.

A small force awaited him at its base. Threescore, four, it was difficult to know. The living, the wounded, the dead—all were interspersed, working to sort themselves, one from the other.

His own ranks had been lessened as well. Both of his giants remained, but only ten of his goblins—less than half. The rest were carving blood trails of their own through Lorre’s force as it scrambled to finish off the dragon. Some had been overtaken by the natural bloodlust of their host creature, and refused to flee. Others had suffered wounds during the battle, and were more easily trapped. In either case, few were likely to cut clear of the thousands who pressed them.

So be it. They would serve as cover. And those few who accompanied him would be more than enough.

Killangrathor himself remained the largest distraction—still fighting, clinging stubbornly to his unnatural life. Lorre’s men blanketed his thrashing form like a belligerent swarm of ants, each trying to take its little piece, working together to make sure the monster did not rise. Every time Thrakkon cast a backward glance, his jaw clenched.

By now, the remnants of Gilden’s company had spied his approach. An alarm went up. Soldiers set their wounded comrades aside and took up their blades and cudgels once more. Despite their evident weariness, despite their catastrophic losses, they formed their lines as best they could amid the mounds of dead—all under common shroud beneath the wall’s shadow. With bold shouts and reckless sneers, they urged Thrakkon in his charge.

Those who crossed his path fell aside in a flash of crimson fire and spurting blood. Iron and steel, wood and leather, flesh and bone—one and the same to the Sword of Asahiel. Its aura shone brightly as it sheared through shields and weapons and the limbs and torsos of those who held them. Its edge never dulled; its stroke never wavered. It allowed him to sense his foes’ routines almost before they did, to anticipate and thwart their feeble maneuvers.

In less than a moment, he was beyond the front line, and hacking his way through a reserve wall of those who could barely stand. Thrakkon killed them all the same. He knew no pity. Those who stepped or crawled or reached out before him died.

The ground itself was a sucking, slurping mire, littered with human compost. He slipped more than once, and tripped a time or two as he made his way through a rubble of bodies and weapons and crumbled blocks of stone. But none of that proved more than a temporary inconvenience. He would let nothing and no one stand in his way.

By the time he reached the gatehouse, he had outdistanced most of his brood. Only two goblins were on his heels, with another just now freeing itself to follow. Savage as his kind were, none but he wielded a divine talisman. Nor would Gilden’s dregs be daunted by a mere giant or even a handful of goblins—not after the horror they had faced in Killangrathor.

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