MicroHorror

Dort stood atop the pile of bodies like a demon dressed in blood and held aloft the feather of a Dydow bird.

Dort! Dort! Dort! bayed the crowd

This was triumph. This was the way of the ancestors, the path to light.

Dort! Dort! Dort!

He raised his arm and the crowd hushed. “Show me our enemies,” he called to the assembly. “Show me any who oppose our sacred traditions.”

Dort! Dort! the cry resumed.

Once more he lifted a hand. This time the head of an Eebro showed its grisly grimace to the crowd. The Eebro and Dort looked strangely akin. They had two arms, four legs, two horns just like the Dydoans but the wide mouth and pink eyes announced to all that this was an Eebro.

“Remember the Eebro have no word for God,” exhorted Dort.

A cheer went up for their leader. Every hero-soldier’s chest brimmed full of patriotic pride.

From then on the skirmishes along the border became bloodier and more frequent. The emblem of the Dydow bird flew over many an Eebro town, its crimson feathers a sacrilege to the vanquished.

At the waning of moons, before dawn, Eebro swarmed over the northern ridge. They had their pride too and many scores to settle. Their weapons were swift and brutal.

Dort stood before the mound of bodies, his head bowed. Nothing but severed limbs, bloody torsos, contorted faces many of which he recognized–barely. He turned to the people. He saw only dashed hopes, broken hearts, crushed lives.