The Advent, Chapter 1

Ch.11

A patch of red stains a sea of white as a plague spreads its wings towards the eastern Mediterranean. A tyrant spreads its immortal fist on the coast of the great sea. None to spare as death points its fated finger toward the kings of the middle east.2

“Men, fear not the hands of the hosts of hell gathered before us. We stand here today not for ourselves, but for the people, for we do not die for us, but for the freedom of our lands, as a foul oppressor threatens all we hold dear. A beast of death stalks my soul, but we must relinquish all fear from our hearts, for by defeating fear we defeat death itself. A tyrant, who has defeated all else, believes he can defeat God himself. Today, we will set the stage of history, to show him how wrong he is. His armies spread out as the waves of the sea, threatening to swallow up all in its path under its massive current. But we, who fight for God, and His people, are the rock, and we stand firm in the midst of the torrent that is Thayne. Our spears, and our swords, and our courage, shall create a tempest of such force the world has never seen, as blades will shatter, and shields splinter, our cry will thunder a testimony that will reach the heavens in our glorious death! Our lives will not be in vain, but our courage here today will create a revolution in military, culture, and faith. And from the gates of heaven we all shall witness the seeds we have formed spring forth and shatter the grip of a titan. From the gates of the heavenly kingdom we shall witness the fall of a monster. The courage we will plant in the heart of the people will spring forth, and on that glorious day, the fruits of our sacrifice shall spring forth, to challenge a tyrant who thinks himself immortal, and show him how wrong he is. Men, lift your spirits and swords high, and face death with honour and courage, for the acts you do on this day, will echo in eternity! Now, don the colours of your country, immortalise you name in history. Fight for me, but die for your people, for freedom, and a blood red dawn!”3

A glorious charge met the armies of Thayne, a mighty war cry in its wake. If honour alone won impossible battles, victory would surely have been in the hands of the Byzantines. But courage alone is not victory, and, as the glorious charge of the men of the east is swallowed up by wave after wave of the merciless mercenaries of the hand of Thane, the effort and honour of the men were dwarfed and faint. 4

“My King, the left flank has crumbled and our numbers are waning.” Another report of a losing battle went unheard as the thunder of feet, and the cries of war overwhelmed the pleas for help. The pile of dead slowly rose above King Mirias’s feet. His golden blade gleamed in the afternoon sun, and, though the battle progressed, his strength never wavered, and his cry never faded. A bloodied mercenary rose fearfully above a mountain of dead, sword in hand. A forward lunge from the King’s sword was parried with great difficulty as the man of valour rose above his trophy of corpses. Fear struck the eyes of the attacker as a long, powerful swipe hacked the man from shoulder to hip. Another two men rose almost instantly on his sides, flanking him. A long sweep of his sword narrowly missed one mans ear, catching the other by his outstretched hand as the king pivoted and met the attacker’s gaze. A brief cry of pain was exchanged with a churning of blood as the man was lunged through his exposed throat. Hot blood poured out from the open wound, flowing down the blade and staining the golden hilt red. The man behind him rose up, and, catching the king off guard, brought his sword down hard. A second before contact the king swerved, and the sword, intended for his head, ran down the King’s arm. Sparks rose as the metal slid along the chain mail of his arm, blinding the attacker long enough for the king to bring up his sword. As the sparks cleared, the last the assailant saw was the war invigorated king bring his sword down over his head. Over the mans corpse, split in half, more men poured in. Around him, the king was surrounded, his bodyguard reduced to only a few dozen as wave after wave of attackers poured in, he could see the fear etched on the men’s pained faces.5

“Men, do not fear as the ranks of hope fall, for our hope today is not life, but our goal is to die indeed. As for me, I will make my death glorious, my death is one with a slain foe at my feet at a defiant cry in my mouth, men, as all you know comes crashing down, as the cold of death engulfs you, do not fear! We fight, men. Form in your lines men! For your King fights on!” A spurring rally replaced the fear in the men’s eyes with vigour, and behind it, a relentless power indescribable. Fear itself was slain that day, as the men charged, fearlessly, as the seemingly infinite ranks of men rose over them, the lines held firm. In the forefront of the conflict the attackers receded, as behind them thunder and clouds rose, bringing with it a long silence. The frontal attackers of the opposing armies broke and ran to make clear a path for the approaching masked enemy, but as the enemy cleared, blades of chariots cut their retreat. The men braced. And wheels of steel were met with cries of glory, as more a glorious death was delivered and honour was earned. The king, as soon as a chariot sought to end him under its charging wheels, rose to the challenge. Swerving just in time, Mirias’s sword met hard steel. The chariot turned, facing the King. Man and beast circled each other amidst a field of battle, each eying the other as its prey. The King charged with power as none had seen in his time, and ran right into the hooves of the chariot. The rider, anticipating victory, rose himself his full monstrous height. Gold streaked across a wave of hooves as the charge broke. Horses screeched and blood gushed forth from its wounds. The dismembered steed was crushed beneath the adjacent horse, and, as it stumbled, a golden hilt plunged itself into its neck. The rider, looking on, ambled out the overturned cart. The behemoth of a man stepped forth, mace in hand, and lunged for the king. Dodging the king found no footing amidst the corpses that lay around him and stumbled mid charge. As the mace fell on him, he turned. A crack answered a promise of what would have been as cold, weighted steel drew itself from its personal crater in the mud. The king swerved, lunging for the opponents feet. The man dodged, jumping backwards away from the gleaming sword, buying the King time to regain his footing. Facing each other, the warlord reared. In a full offensive both men charged, king lunging for the man’s chest as the rider swung his enormous load for the head of the king. The king, ducking, swerved just in time for the rider to pull aside from his charge. Facing each other once again the king waited and, as the rider ran towards him the king braced. A ton of steel met his brace and the warrior King fell backwards, stumbling on a overlying shield. Looming over his opponent, victorious, the rider gleaned, and, as his mace swept over the head of the leader, the king, not accepting his defeat, rose, sword in hand, and with a cry, he lunged it through the rider’s heart. Standing once again, with not an ounce of energy drained, the king stood and witnessed the last of his men trampled underfoot. Alone the king was speechless. 6

The horde gathered around him, readying for a kill. Amidst them, Thayne himself reared from his horse.7

“Lower your weapons, I will not bring honour to this man by killing him on a field of battle and glory.” Narrowing his eyes to the king he spoke shrill but clear. “No my friend, your death will be much worse, for you will experience the torment of life, to see me burn your homes, to see me kill your children and ravish your wife, oh yes, after you have died a thousand times over, I shall end your life, and your corpse will rot, unburied, on an open field, with no grave to mark your name. No one will know what you did today, how you fought, no one.”8

To the men he ordered them to bind him. Two guards rose to fasten him with chains, and, as they were nearest him, he rose. The fiercest of cries echoed the most glorious of battlefields, creating testimony of his honour through the hearts of his very oppressors. History is said to be written by the victors, but, as sunlight shed its final golden rays against that bloody horizon, history proclaimed its truth in a bloodcurdling cry of both victory and defeat, as the king had victory over fear and defeat over the very man whom he lunged for, and, as arrow after arrow riddled through his armour, piercing his skin, he never slowed nor feared. At the feet of his victor, he met a glorious end. 9

It is said when a king such as Mirias dies, the world itself weeps for him, and as the tears of the heavens poured on those ill begotten plains, washing away the blood and the stench of death, it is said you could hear the cry of the King in under every shrieking thunder clap, that you could see his maddened eyes behind every flash of lightning as the skies themselves gave testimony to a glorious death. Many things are said of the death of King Mirias, and, whether true or not, his death echoed through the heart of the middle east, and, whether his death was as proclaimed in tales and whispers of the few captives who lay witness to his fall, regardless the matter of the great kings fate, his fate itself sparked a fire that burned within all the land, through all his kindred, though his country, through all the middle east, but such a flame was never so vast or so fierce as the one burning through the hearts of his two sons, Jehoahim and Elias.10

“No!” A mother’s final command of a losing battle, as the newly found widow pleas for her children’s lives. “The death of your father is not for you to throw your lives away, but to live!”11

“What life is slavery and the promise of the whip, to wait for the call brought before our captor as sheep to the slaughter, to cower in your homes in fear as all you hold dear is seized from you. If this is life let death come to me indeed!” Jehoahim’s retort was sharp and fierce, but the response alone did not cause the pain swelling up inside his mother’s heart, but the truth behind it. While it was true that she loved her children, she knew she was willing to give their lives away for the sake of freedom, it was this, not the matter itself, that hardened her heart and stiffened her neck.12

“The poison of war runs through your blood, Jehoahim, and it will kill you, as it will your brother, will you truly bring victory out of an inevitable defeat. If a man could, your father could. Will you lead your men to the ’glorious death’ that you hold in such a high esteem. The lust for glory and hunger for death shadows your eyes as well as your mind, for nothing can come of such sacrifice but death, whether you die as a glorious warrior or as a lamb for the killing the death is the same indeed. Will you throw your life away as well as your father, will you leave me here alone, to search for a glory that exists only in death. For such a glory as the one you seek Jehoahim is only doom, and the fame you crave is only a fool’s hope, for no such fame as a dead man exists, in this world or any other. Many a fool throws has life away in hopes of reaching such a glorious death, but it is as impossible to reach as the sunset itself, for you can travel to the ends of the earth for such a heroic demise, but such glory exists only in the heavens, and to rush to such dreams is to search for death itself, the same death that devoured the soul of your father, the same death feeds on the hope of the hopeless, such a death seeks to take your soul Jehoahim. The comfort that you crave in death will never be achieved, neither will victory over a foe as unstoppable as death itself. You will find no such comfort in death, no such happiness in war, as you will in your own home, among your own family, living a full life.”13

“There is no such life as the life you search for, if I do not go, if such a sacrifice goes in vain, there will be no home for you, no life for you, your loved ones will face the whip and your sons will face the sword, your daughters shall be raped and your tents burned to the ground, you shall see a life of pain, the burden of knowing you could have saved all you hold dear had you the courage, you shall be sold as slaves and your culture shall be abandoned as the chaff in the wind. In such torture all you desire would be the freedom of a painful and agonizing death, a death you will willingly embrace. And if I be so graced as to choose the death I desire, to choose a death under the feet of such a foe, with the blood of my oppressor on my blade, and the hope of the freedom of my people illuminating my banner in a glorious defeat, if I choose to be feared among such men, and to join my illustrious ancestors in the hall of the mighty men of valour, if I choose such a death, then how blessed am I, and how favoured is my death among all the death of my kindred. For who could ask for a more glorious demise, than that at the feet of a mighty opponent, to courageously face death and fear, to march in the face of defeat and fight my way into deaths cold hard grip, who could hope for more than such a death. Will I not be remembered, how fearlessly I charged, how fiercely I fought, how courageously I died, would not such a thing surely be remembered, would my deeds not echo in eternity, would not a death as glorious as mine be envied among the living. If I am to die, I would choose such a death.”14

“Oh sweet death of whom you crave, is its reality as comforting as its appearance. Your comfort in death is surmounted only by your persistence. Jehoahim, know this, though you may truly be more honourable and courageous than your foe, bravery counts for naught when fatigue stiffens your bones and wounds weaken your thrust. When you fight a force that has no end as the armies of Thayne, you will realise that skill is invisible and all you have ever known of war was a lie, that in truth, skill, courage, bravery, are all dwarfed in the eyes of an impossible victory, and when you lay shamefully on a field of a crushing defeat, you will remember me. But I fear for your life Jehoahim, not mine, and I fear you will only realise this when it is too late, but you will realise this nonetheless. You will find that the world pays no respect to a dead soldier, and history will never remember the fallen. With wounds tearing away at your flesh and a sad realization of the truth on a hopeless battlefield you will find, your sacrifice was worthless. That pain alone will be the murderer of Jehoahim. The secret to life, the one you strive so hard to find, the meaning, is that there is none. The calling for great men is the worlds gift to hopeless fighters, to exterminate the brave in the world, and only the wise remain. I cannot divert you from this pointless desire to throw away your life, my dear son, but I fear, for if you leave I will never see you again.”15

“I will return mother, in this world or the next, I will return.”16

A passionate embrace was the only comfort to the widow queen, no words could describe what fell behind the tears of the poor woman. In truth, when a mother loses a son, she dies, and all the deaths and the losses felt in a lifetime could not meet the loss of a this woman, as all that was hers marches off. And as the last of their spears faded behind the rolling hills, as the swaying of the grassy plains swallowed up the echo of marching feet, the cold pain of fear and death engulfed all the widows of the city. The collected cries of widows, robbed of their families, could not be swallowed up beneath the cries and taunts that followed the men, as they formed up, against the armies of Thayne once more.17

And so Jehoahim, the prodigal heir to a bloody throne, left all that he held dear. In his march, he could hear the tormented screams of his mother, calling for her lost son. Her cries and wails behind every step, amidst the rolling of the sea, behind the crashing of the waves, “Jehoahim, Jehoahim!” Never once did he turn, to see the life he left behind.18