"Fanja, what are you doing…" one of the cultists noticed him.
His position was awkward, as if he were hugging a fellow cultist.
And that was strange, as this wasn't that type of ritual.
When they had risen, poised to bow, the cultist noticed the anomaly at the side of his vision. Curious, he asked, as that was a disrespect to their sacred ritual.
Most would not have noticed. As Alaric had deduced, they all seemed drunk on something, either drugs or just their mad fanaticism. But whatever it was, it should be enough for him to at least kill ten more.
But he was unfortunate to meet a less insane person, or maybe his luck had just run out.
Whatever the case, he was caught.
"F*CK it." Alaric clicked his tongue in annoyance and surged forward.
Before the cultist could finish his question, Alaric's blade flashed.
But his numb knees gave in.
The cut was too shallow. He couldn't lean close enough.
The blade connected, but not enough to silence him.
The cultist held his slashed throat, blood seeping through his fingers.
He wailed in agony, blood shot eyes looking confusedly at who he believed to be Fanja.
His voice like a stone thrown into a pond of croaking frogs. It instantly made the room dead quiet.
The quiet humming broken.
All eyes were now on Alaric. Even the bull-masked priest turned to him.
He had paused the ritual, hands stained with blood from carving ancient runes on the unconscious body on the altar.
To Alaric, the silence was deafening, speaking volumes of the trouble he had put himself in.
"Sh*t," Alaric cursed internally, wishing he could hide in a hole somewhere, not embarrassed by the stares, but by his inability to handle it.
He had forgotten about his knees, leading to his current predicament.
"Well,it is what it is," he said internally as he crouched down.
Pretending to bow as well, but that would not work now.
They all saw him.
Everyone had stopped the ritual, all turned in his direction.
"Fanja, why did you do that? It's not time for Mawuli to go to Hathor," a female cultist inquired curiously.
Not shocked, not even panicked, just genuine curiosity.
Unbothered by the fact that her friend was slowly dying, choking on his own blood, just curious why so early.
Everyone seemed to think the same, their gazes trying to look through him. That was when some noticed the anomaly.
Wide shoulders, uneven body structure, and Fanja wasn't that fat.
"Imposter!" the woman who had just spoken screamed.
"Well, it lasted a while though." Alaric smiled, quickly drawing his pistol. Then, with a loud bang, the first person fell.
He expected screams of panic, yet they all looked at him curiously. Not shaken, just wondering who this guy was.
"These people really are sick," he spat at their lack of humanity.
Enraged, he fired again, then again.
The third person fell.
Then finally, a normal reaction.
"He is a heathen," the priest roared.
"Kill the heathen who wishes to interfere with Hathor's will."
The mood instantly changed.
From inconspicuous places, Alaric noticed them pull out weapons.
Rakes, hoes, metal bats, machetes and even a few with guns.
Bang!
A gunshot rang out, not from him, but from one of the cultists.
He had barely noticed it, dodging by a hair's breadth, pain flaring across his shoulder.
Skin burned, blood following.
The bullet had not made direct impact. It brushed past him, yet that was enough to draw blood.
"F*CK." He winced in pain, quickly retaliating with several rounds in the direction the shot came from, three bodies falling.
His magazine emptied.
Before he could think to refill it, something slammed into his side, a metal bat.
The cultist began to attack.
He twisted his body to reduce the impact, but a second blow followed, a machete slicing through his side.
They had surrounded him, each trying to get their hit in.
He grunted and surged forward, skillfully refilling his magazine.
He ducked, barely dodging a machete to his face. His counter, a gun stuffed in the closest cultist mouth, then bang.
Before he could pull his arm back, an axe descended on his arm.
He pulled closer, the blade of the axe missing his arm, finding its place in the shoulder of another cultist.
Alaric pulled back his gun, yet the cultists were unrelenting.
They did not fear death after all. Like zombies or skeletal summons, they moved on without fear, just the crazed determination to kill.
Alaric began to shoot randomly, his technique chaotic, breaths heavy.
He could barely catch his breath. There were about ten or less. He hoped he could take more down, but then…
Something heavy struck his head, and without turning, he pointed the gun behind him and shot.
His vision blurred momentarily, steps uneven, the gun falling from his now loose grip.
The strike almost knocked him down, yet he did not fall.
He anchored his feet to the ground, but almost instantly, he found himself on the ground, head hitting the hard stony floor.
Vision spun, teeth gritted to keep himself conscious.
Someone had swept him off his feet.
The assault now continued, the cultists believing they had him.
They laughed mockingly
They now had him on the ground. No flashy movement needed, they just had to strike downward.
They did not stand and wait, did not gloat in their supposed victory, not even for a second.
They had to finish him quickly so the ritual could continue.
The first strike came, one trying to stab at him with a rake.
Though Alaric's vision was stained with blood, he quickly reacted, knocking the weapon out of their hands, the momentum making the cultist fall on him.
Swiftly, he grabbed the neck in a chokehold, using him as a meat shield.
This made the rest pause, unwilling to kill one of their own.
Not out of compassion or humanity.
What if it was not their time yet?
Alaric finally having time to catch his breath, barely.
"Kill me, for the mercy of Hathor," the cultist who had been held hostage screamed, his eyes crazed.
"Ah f*ck," Alaric cursed. His plan had failed.
A machete struck down, stabbing through the cultist, luckily not reaching him.
But, that wasn't the only weapon,
They began to stab at their comrade, their expression twisted and perverted, enjoying their action, the man who had been used as a meat shield laughing hysterically.
Blood pooled on Alaric's body, yet he held on to him, but then how long can a meat shield hold.
" Argh " he winced in pain as a rake pierced his side breaching his meat shield.
He wanted to scream, but held it in, teeth gritted, jaws attempting to break as he held onto the pain.
The rake seemed to had hit a vital.
Screaming now would not help. He had to move fast before the next attack came.
"F*CK it."
This was not working. If he did nothing, he was going to die.
He swiftly grabbed the rake, pulling the cultist towards him.
The cultist fell on top of him, Alaric stabbing him with his knife repeatedly, his composure slowly dwindling.
The others did not allow him to strike again as they brought down their weapons.
Alaric swept their feet with his right arm. They too falling on him.
His left arm reached his tactical belt, tightly holding onto a grenade.
" F*CK" he didn't want to use the grenade because they were in a cave, but now he had no choice.
Alaric threw one of the grenades into the crowd.
Boom!
It exploded almost instantly, sending several flying, the shockwave pushing him back.
"What are you doing?" he heard the priest scream in rage.
The priest had ignored Alaric all this while, believing his people would handle it. His attention had been on the ritual as he moved on to his next target.
The blast brought him back to the situation behind him.
"AHHH, those with guns, shoot him! Shoot him!!" the priest stomped his feet angrily.
There were still three people close to the elevated platform who had not joined the battle.
"Yes, oh holy one!"
Without a care for their comrades, the three began to shoot.
They had refrained earlier, as it would have endangered their comrades. Not that they cared for them.
They just did not know whether it was time for their death or not.
But with their holy priest giving the order, it was time.
The sounds of gunshots rang.
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A/N
2/2