He shattered their front line like a mad bull trampling through a cornfield.
The sword arced and danced, shearing through armor and flesh alike, spraying blood and entrails in all directions. Dying and broken men screamed, falling in pieces to the ground as the snow steamed away in the wash of hot blood.
The few who stood past the first rush were fighting for their lives, and dying just the same. Their blows could not find their opponent’s flesh, grabbing only air as he dodged, or rebounding from his monstrosity of a sword the few times they got close to him.
And the red haze overlaid it all, his anger causing the world to move slowly, so slowly as he cut down the quivering men in his path. This was no battle. It was a slaughter.
There was only one part of the world that moved as fast as he did, and that was the beautiful youth all in white.
Griffith.
With Caska in his arms he was dancing, his feet barely touching the ground as he ran along the lakeside, never once faltering or slipping. He was glancing over his shoulder as he ran, and his face regarded Guts with a perfect eye, and a serene half-smile.
He was smiling. He was smiling!
And worse, when he shifted, Guts could see Caska smiling up at him, once more…
Guts wanted to break that pale face. He wanted to rip out its eyes, shatter that perfect jawline, and feed the bastard his own teeth. He wanted to bruise him, HURT him…
KILL him.
But first, he had to catch him.
He barely noticed the second wave, spearmen this time. Spears snapped asunder and the line broken, he tore through them.
The third group was crossbowmen, and one managed to land a bolt in his leg. He didn’t slow down, and the pain was nothing compared to the anger rushing through him. The third group died, before they had a chance to reload.
The fourth group was more infantry, and one got lucky with a saber, cutting a narrow gash from the side of his face. It bled, but it didn’t stop him as he carved them into meat.
The fifth group was cavalry, with bolts jutting from their armor and shambling horses… And Guts stopped. The red haze lifted for a second.
He slowed, and glanced around. And ahead of him, Griffith slowed as well, and turned. And the smile spread, opening his crimson lips and showing perfect white teeth. Realization dawned for Guts.
I’ve been lead around in a circle. And those horsemen…
The living had fled the field, but in the night wisps of fog and shadowy forms were slipping into the bodies of the dead. The curse of his Brand had awakened. The red haze started to fade, to be replaced by sweat, and pain. He wasn’t exhausted, not by a long shot, but…
Is this your plan? Wear me down and kill me yourself? These dead puppets are trouble, but there aren’t nearly enough… Guts stared at Griffith, as the horsemen rode up beside him, saluting him with their lances and swords. Their forms were shot through with arrows and broken, but they still sung in a horrible cacophony. “Hail, to the Hawk! In death, we serve…”
And from across the lake, there was a reply. “Hail to the Hawk, and Glory to the Godhand! You call, and the Apostles come…”
Dark forms were moving through the trees again. Inhuman forms, shambling, crawling, and slithering. Moonlight shone on claws, scales, fur, teeth and eyes. Many, many teeth and eyes.
For a second, all was still again, as Griffith considered Guts. His eyes shown like lamps, and the pupils contracted against gold. They turned into slits, and Griffith nodded. And that moonlike voice whispered out to the Swordsman’s ears again…
“Did you think it would be different? I told you once, humans cannot change their fate.”
Guts stared, the anger ebbing out of him. His eye watered, and for a second, he stumbled. So damn many. He thought. How the Hell did he get so damn many… I can make it through the army of the dead, but then there are the demons to kill… And after them all, Griffith…
I’m going to die here. He realized, his eye opening wide. And Griffith smiled.
And it was at that point that Caska cried out, as the demons moved out through and across the lake. Cried out in fear, and huddled in Griffith’s arms.
And she’ll die too…
No.
No!
“NO!”
One hand went down to his leg. Found the arrow in his thigh, and pulled it free. He straightened up, testing his knee as he went. And rising to his full seven-foot height, he stared at Griffith with his good eye before spitting on the ground.
“Griffith?” He asked, shifting the sword around into “Guard” position.
The Youth raised one immaculate eyebrow, while smoothing Caska’s cheek. “Hmmm?”
“Kiss my ass.”
Griffith’s mouth opened into a perfect ‘O’, before he snapped it shut, and chuckled. “Kill him.” He commanded, and the horsemen started forward, the undead infantry rising behind them, and the horrific apostles following in their wake.
No fate.
The sword worked its carnage on the horsemen, chopping horse and rider alike. The dead felt no pain, but rending their flesh and shattering their bones worked well enough.
No fate.
He worked his way through the groups once more, collecting bruises, gashes, and near-hits as he spun, cut, and kept moving. A sword this big, he had little time to waste when it was moving. The red haze was long gone from his sight, but he could feel his anger, his hatred and rage building again as Griffith simply kept backing up.
No fate, but that we make!
And finally, the dead were gone. And one lone swordsman stood in a circle of demons. Not ten yards from him, the hideous forms of the apostles lolled obscenely, regarding their new feast. Some were no bigger than a grown man. Others were the size of houses, bulging with dripping flesh, extra eyes and arms and tentacles. There were strange insects with the faces of old men, shambling creatures that were all slime and maw, and great furred things with multiple rows of teeth. There were impossible forms in a literally hellish variety of combinations. They laughed and called to each other, wagering on who would be the first to taste his flesh.
They had been human once. That made it worse.
“Not bad, for a mortal.” Roared the nearest, a great man-bull with strips of bubbling intestine spilling from its waist. Its dinner, the chewed remnants of a young woman, were visible in its transparent glowing entrails. He pointed a two-fingered, meaty hand at the figure below him. “But that’s all you are, just a human. What do you think you can do against-“
The man-bull rocked back on its heels, falling backward as Guts SLAMMED into the creature with fantastic strength! The Swordsman was screaming, a continuous angry roar as the first cut hewed away the creature’s pointing hand, the second cut opened his body from waist to throat, and the third cut bit deep into its head. Bull and man screamed alike, as the thing threw him back, sending him crashing into a tall oak at the edge of the clearing! Bones crunched, as he slid down the trunk and fell in a heap…
The man-bull stood up, bloated organs squirting out of its body, as it wobbled, and tried to catch its balance while standing in its own gore with half its head hanging lopsidedly off of its neck. Finally, it reached down and yanked its entrails free with a grunt, letting them fall bloodily to the ground.
It held its head together with its good hand, and looked across the way at the crumpled form of the Swordsman.
“…Huh…Huh…Damn. Not bad at all, not bad. But I’m an apostle, I can survive this. I will regenerate. And you’re just a human, that’s all… I broke you so eas-”
The man-bull blinked.
Guts was getting to his feet.
Planting the sword in the ground, and using it to pull himself up, the black-armored warrior was moving. Teeth gritted against the grinding of at least two broken ribs, limping, the Swordsman pulled himself up.
And he looked at the man-bull, and spat blood onto the snowy ground.
“You talk too much.”
The apostles paused. The monsters simply stopped, staring at this man. Just a human, that’s all.
And then he was running across the clearing, and the manbull was bellowing and lashing out with a hooved foot, but the swordsman was already across and past, landing on the ground in pain, arms twisting with the follow-through.
The Man-bull stood still, as its head fell in pieces from its neck. The towering form SLAMMED to the ground, shaking icicles from the nearby trees.
And Guts stood, as behind him his late opponent shrunk, receding into the withered form of a fat, headless man with one hand missing.
Guts glared out at the horde of apostles with his single eye, clutching his ribs with one hand and leveling his sword with the other.
“Who’s. Next?”