“Scythe! Scythe!” demons yelled, fists, claws and talons alike punching the sky. “Scythe! Scythe!” the chant swelled to a roar until the very ground began to tremble. Swords clashed on shields, the tumult feverish in its intensity.
Tarqe lunged forward. The center of the line exploded at the impact. Giselle vanished in a fountain of red as the deadly scythe began its work. Aven and Riggen scarcely moved before the silver streak rent the air and a dull boom ripped them apart. Man and beast alike staggered at the onslaught.
Tarqe gently rolled to his left. A mile or more the line stretched, from hill to shore. At an easy run he took them, wending left then right through the ranks. In their ignorance he slew them, from behind, the side, even right in front, his savage grin imprinted in the last instant of memory.
The last man, edgy, sweaty fingers clamped around a spear. He never knew what hit him as Tarqe stretched the scythe across his chest. A thin line of red burst into life as Tarqe braked and turned.
Pressure swelled behind him, an exhalation of air rushing in his wake as the world came alive. Sand and rocks swirled shrieking from the ground to sting the air as a wave of blood leapt up, pouring forth from those Tarqe had touched. The screams followed a heartbeat after, but fell silent before they began as the first ten ranks toppled. Blood cascaded from the sky, drenching the bodies in bright scarlet.
Tarqe roared in laughter and lifted his muzzle to the skies.