To war! To war!
These were the words that made him. Grizhnakh was torn from the muck, blade thrust into hand, and armor slapped upon him, just another scarlet body in ranks tense for battle.
To war! To war!
For days he marched with his brothers. There were men to kill, puny little humans in a mountain outpost. Only twelve of the Drakhan Ifrit were needed, and for what purpose they were sent was known only to their betters. Grizhnakh could not question. He would obey.
To war! To war!
The rain fell in a deluge, but only the weak feared slick ground. Grizhnakh was not weak. The outpost was in sight! A wall, a tower, a door, archers. With great roaring did Grizhnakh and the Drakhan Ifrit attack.
War! War!
Grizhnakh knew not how he got past the wall. He only knew the burning anger of a kill denied. But he tempered his rage, for he was made to kill, and he was strong, and he would live, and he would kill many in the days to come.
War! War!
The puny human was there! Grizhnakh bellowed and raised his sword, that crude slab of sharpened iron, and struck the guts of the man. It crumpled into the mud.
First. Kill! First. Kill!
He heaved, he panted. The first kill at last!
The rain stopped. Still heaving, still panting, he looked up at the sky, and gasped in wonder. There was a word for what he saw, but he struggled to grasp it. Bands of color stretched across the sky. A rainbow! Yes, that was the word, rainbow. It was beautiful, peaceful. It was… odd. Strange. Wrong. He was a fighting Drakhan Ifrit! He was a warrior, a monster, a killer. He was strong, not weak.
Weak, like the human dead on the ground. Small, without Grizhnakh’s height and muscle. Soft, with no stoneskin on arms, chest, and legs like him. Lesser than him in many ways, but maybe more than him in others? He only knew fighting and strength. There was more out there, but he could not fathom what was beyond. The lack was a gaping hole in him, something missing that was never there in the first place. That human knew more than him, felt more than him, but it was now dead and could not witness the rainbow above. Grizhnakh stole instead of giving. That was weakness, not strength. He sagged, the elation from the first kill washed away.
A brother, Nash, slapped him, urging him on. “Come on, Grizhnakh, you lout, we have more work to do.”
Was that hope that sparked in him? Hope, another strange word. A good word. It liberated him. He and his brothers were made by the thousands across all creation, mass manufactured monsters with no need of things beyond bestial belligerence. And yet, through some alchemical tampering he could not fathom, he had a name of his own — knew it when he first opened his eyes. None of the others in his band shared his name. That was something of his own, something more than being Drakhan Ifrit. If he knew not what was out there, then he, Grizhnakh, would discover it. After all, he had more work to do.
He smiled, lifted his blade, and jogged away, wondering what waited out there. But he would never know, for in that moment of rebirth after his first kill, a human, the so-called Chosen One, fired the arrow that pierced Grizhnakh’s skull, and his brief life was stolen away.
Thomas North is a fantasy and science-fiction writer out of Wisconsin. He also enjoys history, nineteenth century novelists, philosophy, and poetry. Learn more at his website wildersteorra.net.
Patreon keeps us going. You can be part of that.
