On the Wings of Hope: Prose (Chosen)

Warrior of Odin

"Listen not to this coward and liar! Each one, betraying the mighty Odin in battle is losing the right to enter His halls forever. Cowards are not welcomed in the halls of daring! Let us wipe off these traitors and liars – and start a great battle! Attack, true warriors of Odin!"

Accusatory words once again – and the ardor of warriors is flaming up. Confusion is disappearing from their faces to be replaced by fierceness and pitilessness once more...

"Well, brothers, we have to die here today," he mentally addressed eleven true warriors. But they perfectly understood him even without these words – only have stronger seized their weapons in hands and moved closer – shoulder to a shoulder.

An instant – and one hundred warriors are rushing towards them.

An instant – and weapons are clashing.

Instants – are like eternities themselves.

Here twelve warriors stand shoulder to a shoulder, ready for fighting and dying.

Here the first run up enemy swings his blade – and his blow is beaten off.

Here more and more enemies are coming – and blades are striking tirelessly – they, these twelve, didn't feel weariness this day.

Here the first of them is wounded – and they stand closer to protect him inside the formed circle.

His war cry, which was carried far away by a wind. And here the first wave of enemies rolls back from them as from an indestructible barrier. But enemies assault once again – and two more defenders are wounded. The circle closed even tighter and attacks became even more furiously.

First, second, third, tenth, twentieth... Enemies ran up and were forced back away from them – like from impenetrable wall. But there were many... so many of them... Here only five defenders keep fighting – the others have either been wounded or killed.

Four... three... two...

Only he and the warrior who have first stood for his defense remained. Here he turns to face him – and great wisdom and understanding shine in his eyes.

"Let us battle, brother!" and he stands to his back, protecting.

So, standing back to each other and striking aside incoming blows, they have held for two more minutes. And then almost seven dozens of warriors have crushed them and overwhelmed – and rushed to a monastery, encouraging themselves with wild roars...

***

Instant? Eternity? How much time has truly passed?

He didn't know – only remembered his last fight – one of twelve fighters – and a final blow of poleaxe, which has crushed him.

He didn't die? He didn't... Enemies have considered him dead and didn't finish off...

But... if they haven't managed to resist them... it turns out that monastery has been plundered and razed... They haven't stopped them, they have failed...

He moaned – even not from incredible pain, swirling throughout all his body, but from an aching sensation of melancholy and grief. They couldn't stop them... He and eleven nameless warriors...

Having made extreme efforts and cried from a cutting pain, he managed to rise up. About thirty warriors lied motionlessly before him, having silently observed the sky. And among them were his courageous fighters. Died ones... Let they, worthy ones, be not damned, but blessed instead – and find peace in the world they are traveling to now!

He looked around – there was no sign of war galleys. This means that the fight has already finished and warriors sailed back home. It means the monastery cannot be saved anymore... But maybe someone managed to survive the attack there. Somebody... even if one of the monks is still alive – he is obliged to help him, obliged to come for a rescue – that way he can at least rectify his mistake. Besides, he hasn't a way back, for now, he is both the exile and a cursed one – damned by his own people... let they consider him as dead instead.