"Kill the godsdamn bastards!" a Black Stripe roared as his axe came down and the fleeing man's helmet toppled with a wet thunk.
No command was needed. All morning the legions had been hammered, prodded, dragged through hell.
In that instant when the tide swung, the restraint they had worn like armor snapped. Men who had marched with bloodied heels and raw, rubbed palms in delight as they ran the routed down.
Helmets skittered across churned earth. Faces went white with terror and then red with blood. A mace rose, a shoulder slammed, an axe found a neck .
Men begged, of course they did. They spat prayers and curses, grabbed at boots and shield rims with fists that already trembled. It did nothing. Mercy was a thing the morning had eaten; there was only the business of killing.
Up close it was a sight that would have made any pious man reconsider how much the gods really cared about their creations or whether they took pleasure in seeing what a man could do to another.
