Little Teeth
- O -
Run. Keep running. Don't stop. Make me hunt you.
His sword is like the wind. One strike, two strikes, three. Each Bernese dog falls with one cut, a smooth slash through the torso, delivered in time with his stride, no time to stop, no time to reason or bargain or beg. Here on the plain that he once called home, his sword is finally free of its fetters.
Run. Never stop running. I am the master of my anger. My rage will follow me to the ends of the earth, and I'll follow you into Hell if I must!
His sword is the wind. It is the whip that cracks and snaps, and the louder it sings the more pain it brings with it.
Run. My feet won't stop. I'll run until my feet turn to ash and blow away in the wind.
They see his skill, his anger, so they run. They believe they can escape his sword. Their boots are hard and ungainly against the plain, and with every step they march closer to their death.
I was just a boy then, a little boy. Now I am a man. And I am going to run you down.
Another one, a pikeman, caught in the chest. Rutger's sword cuts through his boiled leather and rusted mail as though it were a pound of butter, blood biting down on the blade, every jagged little tooth ravenously gnawing away red pieces of flesh.
This is the law of nature. The weak must die. And I'll make your blood run like you did to the streets of Bulgar, don't you ever think you can get away from me!
From the left and right the horses come down on him, matching him footfall-for-hoofbeat, their riders lunging coldly to gore him on their lances. Rutger clenches his teeth and moves decisively to his right.
Was it you, you who laughed when you killed them, or maybe you just gave the order, maybe you didn't dirty your hands did you? Did you? Well you run, you run but you'll never get away, not from me, not ever.
The killing is automatic. It has to be. Two strokes and the horse falls. The knight's partner closes in quickly and meets a similar fate, his lance not nearly swift enough to match the upward rush of Rutger's serrated edge.
Now the Bern army is in disarray, and the battle becomes a slaughter. From the right, the Liberation army's cavalry crashes like thunder in around them. The young general calls to pull back, to let the few who remain flee or surrender with dignity.
Running, they're—they're running but they can't get away. I see them stumbling, they're stumbling, they're crushing his head with their hands, putting the lance in her back and I can—their teeth why did they have to hit them like that why did they have to knock their teeth out, they already surrendered, already surrendered!
He's shaking, shaking, and he can't control himself. He lets out a yell and cuts down another man, and for one moment Rutger slows his stride, enough to slash at his limp body again, and again as he falls dead, gore spraying against his cheek. He trembles uncontrollably and almost loses his grip on his sword.
They let me live, so why, why did they kill them but let me live? Why? Why why why whywhywhy?
He sees the last soldier fleeing and he cuts him down, so hard the teeth of his killing edge nearly break apart in unison, and as the Bernman falls Rutger falls with him and strikes him again, once, twice, twenty times, astride the man's torso, steel chewing away at his face, his eyes, his screaming lips, chewing him to pieces.
"Stop!" they yell to him. They're his friends, his allies. Deke, Fir, the rich girl with the rich brother and his rich eyes, even the chief of the Kutolah, they all see him, and they yell as loud as they can, dashing towards him, cold and hot with sweat.
On his knees, Rutger hears them screaming, and they don't stop screaming. Women tripping over their own skirts as the soldiers made games of hunting them down. Unarmed men fighting with trembling fists against knights cloaked in red and black, delaying the inevitable massacre. Pieces of armor clanking horribly, limbs lying limply in pools of blood, still twitching, and children with chattering little teeth watching their parents plead in vain, afraid, afraid, too afraid. They scream, louder and louder with every last slash, his mind running with them, running as they try to get away, try to escape the blood and brick and the red clay of the city, but they can't, and their screams follow them, and their screams follow him, and they run faster than he can.
You can't run from me. He sees his own face reflected blankly in the Bernman's terrified eyes, and Rutger keeps slashing. You can't run from me.