The Gift Of Power | Wattys 2020 (Dance of Power Trilogy: Book 1)

We Are The Monsters

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You wanted blood? You got blood...

Warning! This chapter contains descriptive violence and brutality!

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It was quite a shock to the legions as they first arrived at the boundaries of Judea. They were unprepared for just how many supporters Kokhba had managed to gain. General Sextus had begun to organize his Roman forces into multiple attack fronts right away. By the time Scáth and Toothless arrived that night, each legion was already moving to its designated area. Some spreading out to deal with the small villages and towns that were allied with the rebellion. The remainder joining the troops that were already laying siege to Kokhba's fortified city base of Betar. The goal simply being to get to Kokhba and crush this revolt as quickly as possible.

This was not to be. Everyone could see that this was going to take more men and countless days. Kokhba's forces had held the land for too long and were too well entrenched. Rome's own defences now working against her. Runners were sent to Rome and the surrounding provinces for additional aid. If it would arrive in time to help was the real question. Meanwhile, Kokhba's already vast forces continued to swell as well. Other disgruntled citizens seeing his current achievements as a sign of looming victory for the rebels.

The armies clashed day after day. Night after night the ground was a mess of gore and bodies no one had the desire to retrieve. The wild predators of the land, drawn in by the screams and blood, waiting impatiently as they watched for the armies to retreat for the evening. Then the hungry scavengers would gorge themselves on carrion as the survivors tried fruitlessly to drown their nightmares in wine. All the while, the death and decay leaving its sickly sweet stench of rot lingering in the sweltering air.

Since he and Toothless could travel swifter than any, Scáth was sent to help out wherever the legions were losing the most ground. At first he and Toothless had soared over the fields taking out individual targets with bow and fire blast. Soon though, the militia began targeting the black dragon with their ballista and it became too dangerous to fly during the daylight hours. Toothless could not hide his night black hide against the bright sky. Scáth would just have to fight with the men on the ground.

Each morning Toothless would drop him off where they were needed and leave Scáth to charge into the melee. The young man couldn't say he enjoyed fighting, but he was good at it. In his lighter armour and unhindered by a shield he hacked and slashed his way through bodies with relentless vigour. His speed and strength enhancement spells leaving him virtually untouchable in battle. Easily outmatching the militia soldiers.

He left his sword unlit to save oil and avoid drawing archers' arrows. Both he and Toothless were key targets; as much as any general. Inferno sliced through the bodies of men as if they were nothing more than ripe fruit. It mattered little whether the blow was an instantly fatal one or not. A cut artery or severed limb were just slower ways to die. There was no rescue out here in the killing fields and infections were rampant.

Dodging a heavy blow from a Judean soldier, Scáth spun himself around the man's shield to end up behind him. Weighted down with steel, the man could not react in time to block the lunge that drove Inferno between breastplate and belt. The blade sunk into the man's abdomen, severing everything in its path. Blood and excrement leaking out as the entrails got tangled through the hollow blade. Only to be torn out of the man as Scáth pulled the blade back.

Pivoting agilely on his heel as the disembowelled whelp screamed his agony, he slashed out at a soldier coming up behind him. Gore from the previous man trailing in the swords wake like a morbid garland. Blood streaming from it and drenching Scáth's shoulder pad and back as it passed. His blade caught the soldier on the shoulder before he was able to raise his own in defence. Slicing through sinew and shattering bone. With a hoarse cry the man dropped his sword. His arm hanging useless; blood streaming from the deep gash. Adding to the multitudes already coating the slick ground as the entrails snared in his armour, likely poisoning the wound further.