Devour Them

The hundred-foot Jötunn dropped to one knee. Its chest heaved. Blood poured from its mouth. Black. Ancient. It splattered onto the snow and hissed where it landed. The magic it had summoned was taking its toll. The second sun in its palm flickered. Died.

But its eyes still glowed. And it was not alone.

The two smaller giants pulled themselves from the rubble of the broken branches. Their stone skin was cracked. Their weapons were gone. The brother's dying magic had woken something in them. Their eyes ignited. The same glow. The same ancient fire. They rose together. Shoulder to shoulder.

Chitralekha stepped back. Her blade was in her hand. "Harshal. What is this?"

Harshal wiped the blood from his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the three sets of glowing eyes. "Shit."

The axe came from nowhere.

It buried itself in the golem's back. The stone cracked. The golden veins flickered. The golem staggered. Harshal's body jerked as if the blow had struck him instead. The two smaller giants were already moving. Not at the golem. At Chitralekha.

She raised her blade. Too slow. The first giant's fist came for her face.

Copy moved.

The blade intercepted the strike. The impact rang across the clearing. The second giant went low. Swept at her legs. Copy spun. Blocked. The first giant struck again. Copy threw one back and drove itself through the other's hand, pinning it to the ground. The axe and Copy lay crossed in the dirt. Two weapons. Two giants. One blade holding the line.

The hundred-foot Jötunn rose. Its hand gripped the axe handle. It ripped the weapon from the golem's back. Stone shattered. The golden veins dimmed. Harshal vomited blood onto the snow. His body convulsed. His eyes flickered. But his hands stayed raised.

He pulled the golem together. The dust swirled. The cracks sealed. The stone rebuilt itself. The golem stood. Whole. Again. But slower. Heavier. The golden light was fainter now.

The Jötunn did not wait. Its hand shot forward. Gripped the golem's face. Its fingers dug into the stone. The other hand found the golem's shoulder. It pulled. The stone screamed. The right arm of the golem began to tear from its body. Chunks of rock fell like rain. The Jötunn was still lodged in the mountain, its legs buried in rubble, and still it was winning.

Harshal's right arm dropped to his side. Limp. The gauntlet cracked. His fingers twitched. He did not lower his left hand. The golem's remaining arm rose. Clenched into a fist.

"Get up," Harshal whispered. Blood ran down his chin. "Get up."

The golem's fist struck the Jötunn's face. The giant's head snapped back. Its grip loosened. The golem pulled free. Stood. One arm hanging by threads of stone and vine. But standing.

Harshal raised his left hand. The golem raised its left hand. The golden veins pulsed one more time. Faint. But alive.

Then the world went silent.

The golem stood frozen. The Jötunn's grip still reaching for its shoulder. The smaller giants still pinned beneath Copy. Chitralekha still standing, blade raised, waiting for a strike that did not come.

Harshal was on his knees. The snow was cold beneath him. His right arm hung limp. His left hand pressed into the ground. Blood dripped from his chin onto the white. His eyes were closing. The golden veins on the golem flickered. Dimmed. Almost gone.

What do I do?

The thought was small. Far away. He was losing consciousness. Losing the fight. Losing himself.

Then the darkness took him.

He opened his eyes. Not on the battlefield. Somewhere else. A realm of nothing. No snow. No giant. No golem. Just empty space stretching forever in every direction.

He saw himself. Lying on the ground. Dressed in white. Still. Eyes closed. The posture of defeat. The posture of a man who had given everything and was about to lose.

Above him, standing tall, was another version of himself. Dressed in black. Arms crossed. His face was hard. Disappointed. Angry. The face of a man who had expected more and been given less.

"What are you doing?"

The words were not a question. They were an accusation. Harshal could not answer.

"Why are you holding back?"

The black suit stepped forward. His boots made no sound on the void. He looked down at the white suit on the ground. Then back at Harshal. His jaw tightened. His eyes burned.

"Don't you remember what our teacher said? What Guru Parashurama said?"

The name hit like a blade. Parashurama. The sixth avatar. The warrior sage. The one who taught Bhishma. The one who taught him.

Always go all out to survive.

"Do you think fighting like this would make him proud?"

The white suit on the ground did not move. The black suit stepped over the body. Knelt down. Grabbed Harshal by the collar. Pulled him close. His grip was iron. His breath was fire. His voice dropped to something low and seething.

"Go. Now. Fight."

He shook Harshal once. Hard.

"Devour. That lowly creature."

Harshal's eyes opened.

Not in the dream realm. On the battlefield. The snow was still cold. The golem was still frozen. The Jötunn was still reaching for its shoulder. But Harshal's eyes were no longer dim.

They glowed. Not golden. Something darker. Something hungrier.

He rose to his feet. His right arm still hung limp. But his left hand clenched into a fist. The golem's remaining arm clenched with it. The golden veins flared. Bright. Defiant. Alive.

"Devour," Harshal whispered. "That lowly creature."