Part 1 of the prequel to Body and Soul , my previous chronicle.
Body and Soul
Part 1
Blood and Honor
The hill seemed to rise up above the plains, a looming giant, watching...waiting. The effect was only enhanced by the massive flag on its towering pole, with a red dragon on a white field decorating the emblem. Around the pole stood a half-dozen men, carrying short swords and wearing light armor. And around them, Ares raged.
Thousands, even tens of thousands of men scurried like ants around the feet of the giant. Few had any real distinction as to which side he was fighting for. Sounds reached the color guard, the sounds of crashing swords on flashing shields, hard boots on harder earth. Crashing, flashing swords on soft, weak flesh.
A lone figure dashed up the hillside. It had a short, brown beard, and was clad in leather tunic, breeches, boots, and cloak; nothing more than what a huntsman would own. He was armed likewise, carrying a seven foot-long spear with a wickedly barbed head. Splattered blood dotted his clothes and soaked his spear point, and he was in an obvious battle rage.
"Fear the might of Azmodan!"
This battle cry came from the lips of the savage hunter, and it was answered in turn by one who seemed to be the leader of the flag guards, Might? All I see is a hunters garb and a pointed stick. He began to chortle at the perceived wit of his retort, and the others played along.
Azmodan stopped, cooling down from both exertion and emotion, smiled wryly, and said, Even a pointed stick would be enough to defeat your band of overconfident fools.
The leader sputtered at the insolence of his foe. At-t-tack!
As one the squad rushed Azmodan, their swords bared and thirsty for blood.
The smile remained on Azmodans face. Yes, let them come to you. Conserve your strength. He shifted the spear to his front, parallel to the ground, and held as he would a quarter staff.
The soldiers were less than six feet from Azmodan and still charging when he dropped. His feet and spear lashed out at his stunned foes, knocking two to the ground. A sword crashed down on him from each side. His spear was there, catching the blades on its sturdy shaft. His feet followed soon after, catching the attackers in the stomach.
With a backwards roll and kick, Azmodan sprang to his feet. His hands reverted to a more traditional grip on his spear.
The two standing soldiers rushed him, swords swinging wildly. With calm, precise strokes, he knocked the blades aside as they approached. Azmodan stepped forward and thrust toward one soldiers belly. The spear stuck with a sickening thud. Azmodan ripped the barbed head out, and swung the the wooden shaft to smash into the back of the others neck. One dull crack later, the soldiers head flopped lifelessly, and he slumped to the ground. The one who had taken the gut wound was curled in a fetal position, bleeding. He would not last long.
The four others had since staggered to their feet, the leader among them. With a nod from their superior, the three grunts rushed Azmodan.
Azmodan struck out with the head, then the spears butt, then the head again. The soldiers now laid on the ground, all moaning, one saved, two doomed. The captain turned and ran.
He would not get far.
Azmodan lifted the spear like a javelin and hurled it. The air whistled as the spear sped towards the captain. It sunk deep into his right thigh. The captain stumbled, but hobbled on, blinded by pain. Azmodan drew a dagger from a sheath hidden in his boot, sprinted forward, and, with a kick and thrust, finished the job.
Coward. From Azmodans mouth, the word did not sound like a curse. It was a curse. The others will be honored in the land of the dead. You will lay down with thieves and murderers. He ripped his spear from the corpse and used the things tunic to clean the blades of his weapons. None of the encircling armies approached the hill.
I wouldnt be so sure of that. The land of the dead part, I mean. One of those you struck looks to be in no condition to shed these mortal coils, so to speak.
Azmodan spun to see a young man, dresses in a simple white tunic, white pants, and sandals. He had no visible hair whatsoever.
Who are you? And from where do you come, for you do not look fit to survive the tests of Ares.
As well I should not, for Ares has no hold or power over me. He is the relic of a dead civilization, and a false relic at that. I am one of a better order.
And which order would that be?
The church of God. Explanations can wait for later. For now, you face a choice. Will you visit upon the survivor the same fate that this man was given? The young man pointed at the body of the captain as he said this.
He does not deserve it. No warrior deserves that.
Was this man not also a warrior?
Azmodan thought for a moment. He was a coward. Running from battle. Surrendering while not completely overwhelmed and hopeless, or while on guard. Falling asleep on watch. Killing those who surrender, warrior, noble, commoner, or coward.These are the acts of cowards. When a warrior does such, he is not a warrior, but a coward. A warrior dies gloriously in battle, not by a knife in the back or throat. That is the death of a coward. A coward deserves knives, in the dark, the poisoned cup, the barbed arrow, the well-laid trap. To kill a warrior with such is cowardice.
And this is by the authority of whom?
By that of Ares.
Need I reiterate?
Azmodan sighed. It does not matter whose authority it is by, only that justice is done.
A smile crept onto the young mans face. So, what is Ares? A savage with heart only for battle?
You could see it that way.
What then of a God with the same justice and nobility that Ares gives to battle, but applied to all aspects of life?
Azmodan looked quizzically at the young man. I do not have time for philosophy. There is a job waiting to be done.
Then do it.
Azmodan ran back up the hill with hardly a glance back. He stepped over the wounded and dying soldiers as though they were every day sights. Perhaps they were, to him. The combatants encircling the hill had had their ranks considerably thinned since he had last checked. He stepped up to the flag pole and unlashed the rope holding the flag. After a moments work, the flag was down.
Azmodan raised his voice and cried out, The hordes of BelPhaZat are defeated! The standard of the Dragon Lord now belongs to Cheswick!
His cry served only to draw the attention of a lone archer. A single arrow sped straight towards his throat. By the time he noticed it, there was no dodging the missile.
The arrow stopped, inches from its target. The young man in white gripped it in his hand.
Azmodan was visibly shaken. Sweat poured down his face, and his knees buckled. Well, umm... thanks.
A moment passed without a word. Azmodan took the initiative. What did you say your name was again?
The young man smiled at Azmodan as though he was gazing into the hunters soul.
A name? I dont have one. Dont really see the point.
(This message has been edited by moderator (edited 12-09-2001).)
Could you please clarify which part you are refering to? It would really help my response.