The casualties continued. The scarce reports indicated that my men had died—all of them had disappeared into their own entrails. The battle, if it could be called that, lasted no more than an hour. We made this journey, eliminated our houses, lands, lives—we came here seeking the promised land. Only they promised it to us while its owners refused to accept us and die... Now this. Definitely, I would lose my head.
The High Priest's tent was very simple. Since he was the one who had been alive for a long time, he was given the position. There were no priorities or arguments. If he lied, the other priests would know and ask for the punishment he deserved. It had happened before, when we were just preparing to leave. The priest said we had to help others so they would accept our Lord. All the priests surrounded him and called him a liar. Apparently, our god believed we had tried to convince them for too long and that we should eliminate everyone. That blasphemer died. Now the one who would die would be perhaps me.
The entrance was surrounded by faithful. Many of these were new—impressionable young people. God spoke to them in their heads, trained them. We had to keep them close to the priests. These taught them what to eat and not just obsess over listening to our Lord. For now, they looked with bewilderment in all directions, their minds awaiting the next instruction our Lord would give them. The one I sought was inside—for better or worse, the tent absorbed all existing illumination. I plunged into the lion's den to beg for my salvation.
The old man received me with horrible news. My messengers informed me, but knowing there were no more commanders, no more squadron leaders—only I remained, a sergeant who always sought that people not go to war without the certainty of winning. Doubt took hold of me. How did they expect me to win? The mark on my neck gave me quality, made me feel I could take on anyone because I trusted God... but could I trust? Were not my enemies the ones who had just defeated the main invasion force? Thirty thousand left a week ago. If the messengers were not mistaken, we had fewer than five thousand survivors—all novices, equipped with small weapons, nothing with the necessary force. Our armory had impressive things, but if they did not know how to use them, it was the same as giving away valuable metals... Did any of this make sense?
I was on my knees. The news overwhelmed me—the damage they had done to us was so abysmal, and it only got worse. The High Master told me there were more enemies—besides the blasphemers of the promised continent, there were also inhabitants from other continents—not counting the northern and southern invaders. Of course we knew them, but nothing mattered; we would gladly kill them—they were pagans. But not at the cost of sacrificing resources to the blue dragons. The sea was at most their playground. He told me other continents had come, that we needed to use the human resources of nearby cities, that for now and in view that we had failed as God's beings, our God had spoken with the devil, the she-devil Fiery, whom I had only known from the emblems of some small boats that sought to impress us. All returned to the sea in pieces to entertain the sharks. But if they also came, they must be thousands, tens of thousands. I had to protect my people. What? An envoy from the Lord—incredible power? Defensive and offensive ability above average? Of course! If our Lord wanted to give such a gift, I had hundreds of thousands of recruits, all eager to be the ones to bring ruin to the city... My head hurt! You don't want any recruits?
But well, I had my second-in-command—Corporal Ackerman had been writing letters about prophetic visions recently. He could... No! I understand! Master, understand me—you have to see the truth. No one has the strategies of our great commanders. Does God have them? Well, yes, he could teach them, but not direct on the battlefield... I do not doubt my Lord! It's just that if he gives me enormous power, will that be enough? An army of divine men? I regret to say this exceeds me. I am only a sergeant—big and clumsy. If my God asks it, I will die for him. But I do not think my body is a vessel for so much power. No, my Lord! It hurts! It's splitting me in two. My head burns! Master, what's happening to you? Are you crying blood for me? I cannot feel—I will die as a soldier of Blancir, god of the sacred.
I looked at the tent. I had always been able to, but now I saw colors, shapes, names. On the floor lay my preacher—a very good one, I must admit—but nothing that could not be replaced. I took a couple of practice steps. When I felt I had mastered balance and equilibrium, I walked to the tent's entrance. I had to be fast—this body would decay quickly. My power was too much. Even as I left the tent, I could see myself—up and down, inside the hearts of my followers and those we had captured. The priests came to my call, each with a man or woman, all knowing what was about to happen to them. Yet they could not refuse—it would be like a straw fighting a hurricane... Two of them were useless; their vessels were fragile, meant for intellectuals. We were not going there as debtors to talk with them. As the screams increased, I could see their little flames—miniature lives—extinguish in both bodies. Then I rescued their remaining power. Finally, I imbued them with as much power as required for anyone who could bear my word. I did not need to tell them anything—they all knew we were leaving for Stormhammer. We went not for vengeance—I needed food, to recover my pride. I had been wounded, and back then, my people were strong. Now they traveled with me. That insect of a Whitecap could do nothing against me.
As the village fell behind, burying the priests' corpses, I taught them through their tattooed symbol. They fed me and educated them. They would have new priests who would know what to say, new villages to dominate, novices who would adore me as I seized that overestimated power.