The Army f God

The army of god

I stood there atop the empty pedestal, where the statue of a god once rested, still as a creature carved from marble. Unlike the statue, I held none of its godly beauty; my clothes were shredded rags billowing in the wind; begging to go with the strong breeze; my hair a chaotic mass of tangles and my face smeared with dirt and coal from the sword smiths’.



The pedestal lay on the roof of the citadel in the outskirts of the city. The shore was visible from here, the light of the setting sun giving each grain of sand a violent golden hue. The rays of gentle light licked at the sea far below the town’s stronghold, gleaming a range of sapphires and emeralds, making them appear otherworldly and magnificently invincible to mortal power.



It was hard to believe that on such a beautiful and clear night where even the air itself appeared serene, sailing towards the shore was an enemy unfathomable in number and strength. Blowing in the salty seaside breeze came, the underlying sound of battle preparation. Metal burning as swords were wrought form iron and steel, the sound of shields clashing as soldiers prepared for the siege to come, and the worst of it: the roar of men’s voices filled with blood lust and fuelled by foul desires. 



That was why I had turned towards the enemy because the most feared nemesis was in the very hearts of men; their uncontrollable barbarism, led by the master below in the chambers of the citadel, the same man waiting for me to report the arrival of the ships. Turning my thoughts away, I squinted to get a glimpse at the miniscule sails of the ships at the edge of the horizon, their timber decks set ablaze by the light of the setting sun, bringing to this heathen land the army of the gods. How could such an enemy, so mighty and immortal-seeming, their will undying and their strength unfading, be defeated? An army sent by god to wipe out this accursed terrain from the face of existence?



And I welcomed them!

For with them, came sweet, sweet salvation of our sins. So I would let them approach, approach and kill every man and woman and child, their swords hewing a path of justice and redemption through this deep-rooted immorality of Satan’s lair, including me, for the hand of nemesis does not rule out even those who desire reform of the soul.



I let them come; beating their war drums to the rhythm of my heart and along with my silent sobs and whimpering, a melancholic and soul-wrenching symphony was played out under the shadow of Artemis. I let my tears run, rooting my feet to the cold, rigid pedestal, chained by my soul. I felt as much a prisoner now as I had when my bare and bruised feet had first touched this isle. But even now, with the physical chains no longer in place, I felt no less of a slave, imprisoned by my own morals, as I watched the foe, my ultimate freedom creep toward the shore.



Oh, I could not bear it! To wait for death was worse than to die. I pelted from the pedestal to the door leading in to the belly of the beastly structure of the citadel. 

I swung open the door violently, coming face-to-face with a brute of a man: long, shaggy beard, scar-filled body and a bloody sinister sword in hand, made ever more menacing as its reflected light shone on the man’s wide and ghastly grin.



It took me a moment to realize what he must have been: this was no army of god, only a ruthless executioner!

What had I done? 

The sword would lunge at my throat, sever my head and with it, my life from sacred existence. Oh, how my soul wept at my foolish ideals of redemption!



But it did not come! The blow did not come! Every moment I inhaled was another marking my survival. Sweet was the taste of breath, albeit the putrid fragrance of copper-like blood that seeped from my attacker’s stomach. He lurched backwards; the velvet sound of a steel sword being effortlessly drawn from his great bulk wrapped around and concealed his dying grunts. The great barbarian dropped backwards towards his assailant who lightly skipped to the side of the entrance letting the beast’s form crash down the stairs and out of view.



I looked up from the falling bulk, towards my liberator. Standing there was a man of unrivalled physique: raven-black hair, framing his oval-sloped face, falling to his shoulders, melting in the darkness of the chasm below, piercing dark eyes brought out by the contrasting paleness of his face, a face so set in one expression much like his rigid posture, suggesting of an unwavering strength, tall with firm muscles carved into his wide and exposed, heaving chest, mirroring the movement of the waves which I held my back to: no longer the heralds of my saviours.



Coveting his remarkable appearance, I stood there, rooted now by means of a different nature altogether. His eyes held mine for a brief moment, too brief, for after I had barely recovered and readied myself for speech, he bolted down the chasm and out of view. It was as if a part of me was wrenched away along with his hasty retreat; leaving a gaping hole, rapidly filled by confusion, confusion at his sudden appearance, confusion at his equally sudden withdrawal. For lack of a wiser decision, I dashed after his figure.

Chapter 2

As I reached the bottom of the winding stairs, I caught a flash of light as the door at the end was swung open. Sounds of men shouting and roaring came through the door. I ran towards it, knowing better and yet caring not for the consequence, pulled on the iron handle and flew into what was once the throne room but was now recognisable only as a battlefield. I froze. I was caught in the centre of the mêlée, the enemy clad in their blood-red, rusted chain mails and leather tunics, their opponents in black armour newly wrought with fresh and sharp steel swords already bloody with wasted life. But it would not be enough, we were outnumbered.



“Stay back!” He warned his voice calm even as he cut down another of his assailants. He was unstoppable, slashing and leaving a path of blood and bodies in his wake as he moved towards the entrance which was surprisingly and mercifully empty of attackers. I stayed behind him, watching with fear and fascination. No hesitation, no pity, every move was thought out, as if he knew the minds of his opponents, precise and effective. He made only two movements on each of his opponents: first, to their dismay, to distract them or incapacitate them and then came the swift and clean death blow. Their blood washed over him without earning so much as a flinch. He was a natural fighter, conducting more skill and perfect strategy then the rest of these skirmishes void of proficiency. I don’t know whether that scared me or reassured me of my safety.