Britannia Unleashed

Temporalis-9

Belvedere’s eyes opened to chaos. He lay on his back in the long grass close to the towering presence of the behemoth. He did not panic; it was too late for that. The giant creature had regained the initiative although not entirely. The three smaller beasts had relaunched themselves at the larger in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to save their master. They tore at the larger animal with scimitar-like claws and teeth a tiger would envy. The three strove to allow their master time to escape with a venom bordering on suicidal; he had other ideas. The demon rider stood over Belvedere, those reddest of evil eyes fixed upon him. Despite having to duck to avoid the swinging tail of the mega-beast, the demon had drawn a dagger of fearsome proportions with the clear intention of gutting the sprawled Britannian.

Belvedere thought of only one thing in those moments, or of one person to be more exact. Despite the screams of fearsome creatures all about him; despite the leering devil that stood over him, slit-eyed and evil; despite being the only man to have slipped through time, he thought only of being reunited with his beloved Gwendolyn.

Years of military service, time spent adventuring in all the wildest landscapes, and a sheer unwavering resolve to never surrender, never give in, were hard to discard and they forced our hero to kick out with all his might. He caught the devil in the midriff and Belvedere was up and off like lightning. Through the tall grasses he hurtled, their sharp edges slashing like cat-o’-nine-tails in a merciless jailor’s hands. He ran as though his lungs would burst, his breath expire, then ran some more. When the devil barked out, “Shabat! Shabal! Shabe!” from his rear, the supposed names of those lesser monsters, Belvedere knew he’d not run fast enough.

A resolute Britannian turned to face the hurtling lizards, the giant having fled back into the jungle. He even took the time to roll his sleeves back down and straighten his collar, to wipe down his trousers and slick back his hair. He would not face death in an ungentlemanly manner.

“Let’s have it!” Belvedere bellowed to the onrushing triumvirate. “Do your worst, you damnable demons!” For some unknown reason, he even laughed, as he raised his fists to his foes. “Marquess of Queensberry indeed.” He huffed into his knuckles and gritted his teeth.

There was a rush of air, as though snapping jaws were mere inches from his face, then a lightness, perhaps, the precursor to death. But there was no pain, as he closed his eyes, no pain at all, as he felt himself lifted towards heaven at a speed only God could induce.

“Not such a bad way to go,” sighed a lightheaded Belvedere. Then he felt, heard, nor saw, anything at all, a senseless man on one final voyage.