Gix vs. Thran Guards

Gix laughed. He’d torn this iron rod from a grate in the sewer. Already it had killed five, now six, now seven. The little jag of metal at the end of the rod made a nice claw for ripping open backs. These citizens were soft. Beneath their finery, they came apart like a white cave fish. Now eight. For all the ruthless oppression of soldiers—for all Glacian’s brutal words and Yawgmoth’s brutal deeds—the other Halcytes were no more formidable than ripe grapes. Now nine.

***

Twenty fanatics against ten guards.

A polearm arced out toward Gix. He paused to let the staff sweep by. He gripped it and hauled hard. The soldier toppled. Gix’s rod descended.

Now eleven. Now twelve…thirteen…

Another band of Untouchables welled up a nearby street. Gix greeted them with a bloody smile. Smoke rolled to the sky. Bodies littered the cobbles.

Their leader—a burly brute—shouted gleefully, “What next, Master Gix! What next?”

Gix’s grin deepened. He jabbed a finger upward. “To the heights, my friend. We’ll tear down the very heights!”

***

The Thran, Chapter 7