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To a New World
Chapter 12: Pitched duel

Chapter 12: Pitched duel

As the creature started to step towards me, a figure ran out from the alley with a cry, club held above his head. It was the scarred man. I was thankful to see him, criminal he may be. The construct whirled to face him. With a cry, he brought down his arm, striking off a piece of the golem. It responded by knocking him to the floor, leaving him to slide back, his dark leather vest barely holding on to his body.

I didn’t bother to stick around any longer. I turned and ran, down another alley, trying to figure out a way to continue west. Glancing back, I saw Tom pulling himself to his feet, hammer at his side, battered body struggling to get up.

I thought about going back and helping, but there wasn’t anything I could’ve done. My sword wouldn’t do any damage, especially not if the trained guards failed to do so. I didn’t think too hard, however, as the terror and adrenaline focused me like a laser.

My breath tore out of my throat in ragged gasps as continued to stumble onwards. How many people were dead? Surely, if one of the creatures could take down an entire group of guards like that, then there were scant few in the city who could stop them. In fact, could anyone stop them?

I stumbled to walk, hands pressed against my sides, chest heaving, lungs aching. I felt like I would never be able to get enough air again. As I slumped west, I struggled to get going again. I knew I needed to get moving. That my survival might depend on my timeliness. But I was so damn tired. I had been running for the past 20 minutes, legs pumping nearly as hard as they could. I felt them now, burning beneath me, oxygen reserves gone, running off of lactic acid. They weren’t happy with how I had treated them.

The adrenaline keeping my going had faded once danger was no longer imminent. That isn’t to say that I was calm. Far from it. My hands shook, eyes darted around, and I looked over my shoulder whenever I gathered enough energy to lift my head.

As panic faded, I started to think about my situation more and more. These constructions, what were they? Where did they come from? It doesn’t seem like the town was at all prepared for them, or at least not the number that showed up, so they must be fairly uncommon. I can’t imagine many people existing in a world where these things ran rampant, anyway.

And although I didn’t have confirmation, it seemed very, very likely that the blonde woman was involved, somehow. She knew something was going to happen. Maybe it wasn’t this she was warning that thug about, but considering the situation, I wasn’t willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

But was there anything I could do about it? I didn’t know who she was, or what she was actually doing. I figured that my best bet was to tell Davinda what had happened.

A distant scream tore me out of my contemplation. I walked around a corner, into a horrific scene. Crushed, smashed walls, chunks of stone, blood splattered all over the streets, barely illuminated by distant fires. I tried not to vomit as I stumbled past. My shoes stuck to the stones. The sickly sweet scent of blood compelled me to hold my breath.

I keep on walking, pointedly not looking down, ignoring when my feet touched things I don’t want to mention, even now. I started to feel myself go numb, lungs burning. I felt my pulse racing through my arms, and my eyes felt like they would burst from my head. Just as I felt like I wouldn’t be able to hold my breath any longer, I got past the scene of the massacre.

I took a deep breath in, gasping and dry heaving soon following. You never really understand, just how bad these things are, until you go through them. I’ve often thought, in my head, about worst case scenarios, about being the hero, but I can’t tell you how dissimilar my thoughts and real life ended up as. Nothing could have prepared me to watch the devastation that had unfolded before my eyes.

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Looking up, I saw the western gate, peeking over a building. Quickening my pace, I hurried around, desperation fueling tired legs. As I made it around the building, I saw a group of people, bunched up in the middle of the street. Why were they still here? Were they waiting for something? An escort?

There were only a handful of guards around. A few sat, exhausted, blood on their uniforms, swords chipped. Two others were applying a tourniquet to a third’s missing arm. Another guard was arguing with civilians, seemingly trying to pacify them.

I quickly located the reason for their discontent. The gate was still shut. How? It had been at least 30 minutes since everything started, but likely, it was much longer. Why hadn’t they opened the gate? Was it obstructed, somehow? Did they need more people?

As I neared the arguing pair, the reason quickly became apparent.

“We have orders to hold here, and not open the gate. I understand that you’re flustered, but we’re not going to disobey direct orders based on a whining peasant”.

As the man started to say something angrily, I took a look at the guard he was speaking too. Unlike the others, he was spotless. His weapon was still in its sheath, and he didn’t have that pervasive aura of tiredness around him that the others had. Even his boots were cleaned, polished to a near mirror like shine. It seems he hadn’t been involved in any of the night's events.

Wait. They weren’t opening the gates because of orders? This guy didn’t even know what was going on, really. What possible sense could it have made to order them to trap their own citizens in the city, greatly increasing the chances of their deaths? Anger churned in my stomach, as my hands clenched into fists.

I saw what one of those things could do to even a squad of guards, fresh and ready. And what we had here was certainly no squad. Only one looked ready to go. All the others looked like they were ready to collapse or had collapsed.

I opened my mouth to protest when the skittering of stone legs on cobbles reach my ears. The immaculate guard blurred, his sword whipping out, barely managing to intercept a stony limb, aimed for one of the men treating the injured. Sparks flew off his blade.

And they were off. He turned, bring his blade around. It managed to deflect it, but he was already going in for another strike. Again and again, it tried to block him, but he was there, slipping around landing scoring hits all over. Stone slivers fell away from its bodies in flashes of light, striking the street.

The guard continued his restless advance, whirring faster and faster, until there was an almost glowing, silver arc around him, chipping away at the golem.

He raised his sword up a final time, and it was suffused with a white glow that radiated down its entire length, illuminating him, as if he was a fairy tale hero.

A ragged cheer started to go up among the surrounding survivors.

And then, as he started to bring his sword down, a dull clang rang out, as one of the constructs stony limbs struck his metal breastplate. His head snapped forwards, and he was lifted from his feet, flying back, like a doll tossed by a child, before hitting the ground, tumbling over himself. As he lay still, the machine rose up, it’s blue eye casting a menacing glow.

It stood there, in its terrible glory. It was covered in cuts and chips, but while it looked damaged, its function was uninhibited.

With a weak cry, the guards charged forwards.

“For the captain!”

The machine moved through them like a scythe through wheat. Their blades weren’t fast enough, their reactions dulled by tiredness and pain. Compared to the performance of the earlier squad, they were understandably lacking.

As one of the final guards was struck, falling, and rolling by my feet, the captain got back up. He picked up his sword, firmed his face, and struck forwards.

A low cheer went up among the civilians, but it was half-hearted. The captain wasn’t moving as fast anymore. His face was pale, and he lacked the momentum that seemed to have possessed him earlier.

He pushed the construct back, but his momentum waned further, and suddenly he was on the defensive. His parries and deflects only got more and more frantic as he tired. His sword was chipped, and the material seemed to be falling away. I wasn’t sure how much longer it could last.

He backed up, trying to keep it away from the crown of onlookers, but there was only so much he could do.

Finally, with a sound like snapping timber, the captain's leg was struck. It bent at a 90-degree angle, and he collapsed to the ground with a cry.

It stood over him, quickly drawing back to strike.

A blue glow split it down the middle, and it fell to the ground in two pieces. A figure stood behind it, glowing sword in hand. Davinda.