The blade of King Olaf was descending. Bilal's eyes were closed. His heart was completely at peace. He had done his job. He had bought his family the time they needed to slip into the tunnels. "Take me, Allah," he whispered in his soul.
"HOLD!"
The voice did not belong to a Viking. It was sharp, accented, and carried the absolute authority of the Vatican.
King Olaf's sword halted an inch from Bilal's neck, drawing a thin line of blood. Olaf turned, his face twisting in rage.
A Papal Envoy, draped in the crimson robes of Rome, stepped forward through the mud. He was surrounded by heavily armored Italian mercenaries.
"You promised us the Demon, King Olaf," the Envoy said coldly, looking down at Bilal's massive, kneeling form. "A dead demon tells no secrets. The Holy Father demands to know how he made the green fire that burned our barracks. The Emperor of Germany demands to know how he forged the spring-steel. If you cut off his head, you cut off the knowledge. He goes to Rome in chains."
Olaf's jaw clenched. He wanted the Giant dead, but he desperately needed the Pope's money to fight his civil war. With a disgusted spit into the mud, Olaf sheathed his sword.
"Chain the beast," Olaf growled.
They did not kill Bilal. They did something much worse. They threw a heavy iron net over him, wrapped him in chains meant for ship anchors, and dragged him away from the execution block.
As they dragged him, Bilal looked back at the ruined plaza. He saw the bodies of his workers. He saw the smashed Water Mill.
The peace of death was ripped away from him. He had braced his mind for the end, and now, he was forced to keep breathing in a world where he had failed.