Bishops of Battle

Six hours have passed and he was still stuck in the hole. Half of his platoon was taken out by the initial strike. Unprepared, most fell without even time to reach for their weapons. While others, like himself, who were fortunate enough to be near the back door, escaped. A mere result of chance let him be alive at this moment. But was it a better fate? Being killed in such quick fashion compared to being hunted, fearing, and knowing the inevitable? He wasn’t sure. They could have ended the battle then and there, if only they stood and fought. But it just took one person to run for it to feel right.

Contorting his body, he took a peek out of the whole.

A flash, a piercing sound of metal against rock, followed by the sound of the rifle.

They are not taking prisoners.

He turned his bead back up to the sky, back flush against the damp soil. Holding his rifle close against his chest he felt his heart racing. There was laughter off in the distance.

The shot was the only gunfire for the past half hour. Tears poured from his eyes. Not only was he stuck in this predicament, the enemy was having fun with his life. He wondered if his comrades shared the same fate. They had split off, but the distant pops told him they saw battle. Whether or not they survived was unknown. Gritting his teeth he continuously kicked the ground with his heel. What can only be described as crying snuck out of his mouth.

Being back home wasn’t a bad idea right now. Hard knuckles dislodging teeth is more comforting then this. At least then he knew when it was coming. All it took was the fragrance of alcohol set the night. It wouldn’t take too long before the force found his mother. The monster thrived on the sense of power. Fueling that appetite with the screams and the crying. And that led to him, always led to him. A defiant little child, eyes tearing with rage, clenched knuckles, and standing by the kicked in door. He was ready. Ready to sacrifice himself. His emasculation for another man’s empowerment. It was worth it as he was told. This was how he will learn to be strong. And the old man may have been right. All the kids in the neighborhood couldn’t fight as well as he did. Didn’t know where to swing. They swung aimlessly at the head. But not him, not how he was taught. The most painful places besides the genitals was the sternum, the kidneys, and even the throat. Those were the places he’d hit first before taking them down, unleashing hell on the poor child. He wanted learn how to enjoy the aftermath of bludgeoned and beaten faces as the old man did. But he never felt like a man. Just a child who cried after nearly beating another child half to death.

Those were the demons he fought. The only weapon he found was in spirituality. And it was shear irony that led him into arms, into battle – for religion. Yet he still feels like a child under the sadistic tyranny of his pursuers.

How many are there?

Is anyone coming to help him?

Are they soon going to flank his position?

The hole was an impact crater. Too large to be from a grenade. It was most likely from an airstrike or a sachel charge. Whatever it was, it was just deep enough for cover. There must have been a building that stood here before. Concrete could be seen among the rubble. He wondered if this would be his grave.

Another shot rang out landing somewhere near him.

He flinched. They were taunting him to come out.

The sun was coming down. Under the dark of night he may be able to get away. But who knows in these times of warfare. All they needed was a simple flare to expose him in this clearing. The next cover was still hundred of yards away.

As the sun set and sounds of the wilderness awoke. Crickets started playing their instruments followed closely by the droning of the cicadas. As noisy as the insects were, they couldn’t replace the loneliness he felt in the hole. Completely isolated from anyone he knew, let alone any friendlies. Even a citizen of the once prosperous would do. Didn’t have to be a favorable one. Just someone that wasn’t out to kill him.

The shifting of rocks alerted him.

Someone was moving in.

It was dark enough for an advance.

They were making their move.

He rolled onto his stomach. He felt fear empty out into his pants. His hands were shaking. His ears only distinguished one person. They were sending someone for him. The noises were spaced apart as if every sound was a mistake.

Without even revealing any part of his head, he propped up his rifle along one edge of the hole. The noise stopped abruptly. The barrel of rifle barely over the hole. He held the rifle at arms length, cradling the end with the palm of his hand. The tears started flowing again. Biting down as hard he could, he tried to suppress the crying that leaked out. He swayed the rifle as if he was scanning the area. There was no movement when he did that. But whenever he stopped, he could hear the rustling start up again.

If he were to run, this would be the best time. He found a few rocks and propped the rifle up. He shifted his body to the other side of the whole and waited.

The sounds came closer. Whoever it was, was being much more careful now. Being so close now, it was critical. He placed his hands against the ground. He looked outward over to a building. It would be quite a sprint to get there. But it was his only choice. He surveyed the battle ridden ground. The obstacles would be a problem. A twisted ankle would be the least of his worries. He imagined if it did happen, he’d have to run through it. It can’t stop him. He wanted to live.

A foreign smell passed through his nose.

This was it.

A soldier sprang forth in front of him. Shots rang out from his automatic. The rifle sitting propped up on the rock shattered to pieces. Startled, he sprang from the hole and ran with all his might, colliding unexpectedly into the other soldier. They both tumbled to the ground. The soldier threw his arms wildly about as his fist found the soldier’s adam’s apple. Choking, holding his throat, the soldier was powerless as the toughened knuckles rained down on the soldiers face. Every punch crushed his skull against the hard rock underneath of him. Until a final muffled crunch told him the soldier’s vertebrae was severed. Their eyes locked for one last time. Like all the other times it tried to relay a message to the foreign body.

“Forgive me,” it told the soldier. “I’ve killed many. Your’s was in battle, this was truly a necessity. Please, this time I have a reason.”

The response was clear.

Pupils closing, the soul of the soldier passed on and whispered on the way out.

“Never.”

The Writer and Fighter

“Go on, take it.”

“No. I don’t, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to take it, you you should.”

“You need it more than I.”

“I’m just not, not comfortable.”

“Stop whining, drink it, and let’s go.”

“Wait, just wait,” turning to elderly peddler. “So this drink makes you… invincible?”

The grin the aging woman wore suggested there was more to it than she led on. A woman in such condition as herself, old, decrepit, and hardly able to stand, would not be here selling wares; wares of such power at the most opportune time. Morale of the soldiers were down. Their battle ahead was suicide. And when the two wander off to think, this woman appears. Coincidence was hardly believable.

“Yes. No weapon would cut, pierce, or harm your skin. Your enemies will slash, stab, and pummel you your whole life, but you will feel nothing.” She packs up her cart. “That,” she pointed to the potion, “will lead you to victory.”

The man holding the drink was small and skinny. Lanky and awkward, he was the least fit to be a soldier. The spear he dragged around burdened him more times than it did help him. Armor was too heavy for him. Instead he only carried a shield, a round one, no bigger than his chest, which was always slung on his back. During battles, he relied mainly on his swiftness to survive. That usually involved him running from his opponents. He’d avoid a hand to hand fight if he could, relying on his wit rather than the brawn he didn’t have. Never once did he try to kill. Now with this power at his hands, it meant he was expected to.

“Here, take it. Just take it. You’re the hero.”

“I do fine on the battle field,” the hero flexes his machismo. “All I need are these.”

Not even looking, he replies, “No. This will just help me live. And that won’t win wars.”

“As you wish then,” the hero leans over and takes the drink. “I was hoping you would stay alive to write about our battle.”

“I’m sure if I, if I, just stay way clear of you, I’ll be fine.”

The hero looks at the oddly shaped container, flips open the top, and cheers “To all the women awaiting our victory.”

Our hero drinks the whole container pausing only to catch his breath halfway. Finishing, he wipes his mouth and lets out a roaring belch. Putting one hand on his stomach he studies the container, while anticipating a reaction. Nothing. Not a thing. He analyzes his hand, to his arm, and eventually down to his body. Still, there was nothing different. He looks over to his comrade. He too was staring at him with curiosity. His skinny body shifting from side to side examining the hero with utmost scrutiny. Eventually, his eyes fall upon his spear.

“What are you doing,” the hero asks unconsciously, already knowing the answer.

“Testing, stand still. I’ll pick… pick an non-lethal spot.”

He walks over to the hero and without hesitation, stabs him in the leg. Instinctively, the hero raises his arm to strike back, but of course stops. There was no blood, no cut, and not even a hint of pain. They both closed in on the missing wound. He prodded the hero a couple more times and then leaned on the spear trying to force it through.

“You feel anything?”

“Nope,” the hero stood defiant. “I suppose the crazy woman was right.”

“Let’s hurry. Hurry! We don’t know how long it will last.”

The hero nods and the two head back to the others. Along the way, the hero tries out every part of his body. He stabs his arm, then his neck, and even his eyes, after second guessing himself many times. Again and again, nothing was damaged. He cackled at every attempt. People along the street just stared at the mad man.

Back at the camp, they relay the new blessing to all the others. The hero demonstrates his power to the strongest warriors. One by one, warriors come up and dish out as much damage as they could. The hero just laughs at the attempts. Hacking and swinging away furiously, each warrior eventually tires. However, the demonstration becomes entertainment as everyone wants to see if they could prove the invincibility false. Spears were replaced by swords to axes to eventually hammers. The body wasn’t even the target anymore. Everyone was aiming for his head. Still he was invulnerable, but his head rolled with every attack. Especially when it came form a warhammer.

“Ha ha,” the hero staggered forward after receiving a blow to the back of his head. “You have to try hard than that.”

Crack. Another warrior landed a blow hit right in his forehead, knocking his head back. “Whoa there… ha ha, one a..”

Another warrior, with a running start, landed a mace right on the side of his head. “Will you…”

His words we drowned in the echo of laughter and screams from the other warriors. All of them striking blows repeatedly against our hero’s head. Inevitable, the head jolts back and forth pay a toll. The hero’s words become murmurs as the nasuea kicks in. He had motion sickness before as a child. That was only because it was a stormy day out at sea. This ordeal he was going through was ten times worse. To make things worse, his staggering only enticed the warriors to attack even more. Unable to get a word out, it was up to his comrade to bail him out.

“Alright, alright, save your energy, energy for the real battle.”

He waved off the warriors away. The hero was holding himself up by the knees. He helped the hero stand up as he pretended to be laughing the whole time.

“I’m impervious alright,” the hero whispered, “but not to motion sickness.”

“It’ll be alright. Everyone looks more hopeful, hopeful indeed.”

It was time to act. The people witnessed a miracle. They were eager to fight, and behind their found hero, they were ready to follow. Victory was once only a dream, had become a realistic. Every man in the camp began to chant. They followed the hero leading them out toward the fortified city. Off they went into battle.

Most would call it a massacre. They overran the city as the hero went first to take out key components in the battle field. He ran straight through the hordes of footman, directly at the archers who were bewildered at the unstoppable man. As focus was drawn toward the hero, the rest of the men attacked the surprised and befuddled enemy. The city had sent out their own hero to face the impending onslaught. The hero’s met in front of the gates, but only one lived. Of course, it was our invincible hero who severed the head of the opposing champion. Riding it straight through the gates of the city, he struck fear into all the retreating forces. The old woman was correct, they were victorious. He soon became a legend.

“My friend,” the hero called to his comrade sleeping outside the tent.

It was late into the night. The city had fallen at sunset. Soldiers were pillaging the city, while our hero was rewarded a harem of women, back at the camp. The hero had walked out in full armament. Affixing his helmet he looked down onto the bony soldier. He was writing into his journal.

“Evening, that was, was rather quick. I figured I’d see you in the morning, early morning.”

“That would be wise to think.”

“Look, I’m writing a poem of our battles, this battle. You are the hero.”

The hero looked long and hard at the horizon, “How does your story end?”

“You arise victorious of course.”

“That’s incorrect.”

“I don’t, I don’t get it.”

“We won the battle, but I myself have lost.”

“Lost? How so?” he stood with his opened journal.

“When man loses the ability to feel, he is dead. He is quite dead.”

The hero starts to walk off as his old comrade tries to make sense of things.

“You will not see me in the morning. But I want you to continue to inspire, tell them I died in battle.”

“How can I, how can I say that? You’re invincible.”

“Use your creative mind.”

The writer stood and watched the hero disappear into the night. The cold night air bit at his nose. Winds howled and buried the sounds of his steps. Before long, he was gone, yet he still stood. More in shock of what had happened. Only a quick kick from one of the harems snapped him out. Her shoe sharp and hard, hit him right above the heel, driving him to the ground grasping his foot. Why is he dealing with the anger of this woman. He’s just a writer, a writer.

<in progress>