Borne of Fire

Chapter 50

Braxters fingers let go at the same time as his knees gave out and he fell to the ground, dropping the looking glass which rolled to a stop at McSweens feet.

"What's happened? Who...?" McSween stammered, lifting the tube to his eye and jerking it left and right as he tried to work out what had happened to cause such sudden heartbreak to Braxter.

"Ja'aris...he's...Ja'aris..." cried Braxter as tears rolled down his face.

"Oh...Oh, my..." was all McSween could manage.

"Almost there...almost there..." Randyl spoke almost to himself as if oblivious to anything McSween or Braxter had said.

"Randyl...ah, Axis? L'nons in...ah, trouble...He's gathered what soldiers he can around himself but your army is split in two." McSween spoke thickly, struggling to contain his emotions as he concentrated on the job at hand. "I urge you to kill that thing as quickly as possible."

"Almost there...almost..."

"Randyl? Now! Do it now!" McSweens voice tightened as he began to panic. "L'non is surrounded. Ulrogg are all around him. You have to do it now!" He was almost screaming .

"Almost...almost..." was all Randyl said in reply, staring through the scope but still he didn't move.

And then he did.

"Now you die." He said and pulled the trigger.

Of the men still alive on the battlefield, none were looking at the Malgore as its head exploded. All they knew of it was that in one moment the Ulrogg were fighting as one monstrous tide which was about to wash over them and the next they scattered in all directions at once, as if bereft of all order or discipline. They ran from the plain of Boreham with yelps and howls, some on two feet, more on four, sounding little more than the wild animals of which they now resembled.

Only McSween's testimony would be heard about what happened to the Malgore, and although bedtime stories may one day be exaggerated to include visions of demons escaping from its body as it died, with numerous sightings of ghostly shapes fleeing from its corpse in retreat to the netherworld where obviously such a creature originated, the truth was less fantastic than that. And far more bloody.

Where it's head once was, a cloud of bloody vapour appeared, its four arms immediately lashing out in all directions as it jerked back and forward, it's body convulsing violently. Blood gushed from what remained of its neck and it fell forward, running first one way and then the other on all six legs, looking like a giant horrific insect. Eventually its body succumbed to the injury and as the Ulrogg fled from the battle, so too did the Malgore's life flee from its body. It rolled onto it's back, all six limbs curling in on itself and with a final twitch of its nervous system, it died.

The surviving men of Boreham didn't so much cheer at the sight of the retreating Ulrogg as breathe a collective sigh of relief as the creatures ran from the battlefield. Some men were forced to jump aside to avoid being trampled underfoot, such was the Ulroggs haste to flee. Where they were going was anyone's guess - they ran in all directions, all at the same time, snapping and snarling at one another as much as they ever had done against the army of man. Wild and feral they ran through the trees to the North and over the hills to the West. As a fighting force they were broken and defeated.

Men slowly began to gather themselves. Nervous smiles appeared and hugs were exchanged, tears of joy were shed along with tears of sorrow over fallen friends, companions, family. And eventually one by one the cheers began, slowly building as the voices of each survivor able to cheer joined in with the growing roar. Swords were raised high and waived in the air or clanged against shields by those who still held them.