"God has not given us a spirit of fear."
That's what our quartermaster had us recite over and over again. The scattered remnants of a war that people don't want to admit is going on, ignore, pull out of, or worse... condemn. For those people, this letter is for you.
I'm here to remind every able bodied warrior that we are still in a fight. Open warfare is upon us, whether we admit it or not. And this soldier is getting bloody tired of hearing about how we shouldn't be fighting or how we shouldn't be involved. Meanwhile, all of you lethargic pansies dose in the sunlight streaming through your stained glass windows. All while the new regime reigns and your silence votes your consent.
You may consider the resistance well and truly over. I do not. Much as our forefather nailed a paper filled with ninety-five issues with the word of man versus the word of God, I am here to nail the account of one charge to your door. That one charge is cowardice.
I'm not a politician. I'm not a general. I'm a simple soldier. Angry as God's wrath and less merciful than he is. You need not apply a title to my name. Simply Alastair will do. And I'm here to tell you my story, as no doubt by now your wondering why someone who is twenty one years of age can have the audacity to stand up and say such things.
It was our first drop since the resistance died off. Our first test as men. Twelve of us. Each given our assignments and sent out. Not empty handed mind you. We have the armor. Helmets, chestplates, belts, sheathes, shoes, even hand shields. The kind of war we fight is the
one where things get rough, bloody and even violent. This isn't some dress parade. The armor isn't exactly for decoration. Servicable gunmetal grey. Steady, hard bulletproof. They say anyone who wears the armor suffers no damage. Even more say that when the King comes we don't need the armor, nor the weapons.
Our quartermaster showed us our weapons. Swords, a blade wrapped in a chain-blade, something that looks like a cross between a sword and a chainsaw. And a machine pistol called all prayer. 48 round magazines. Bullets lethal to the things you call demons, and what we call scum. And lets not forget our other weapons. "Blood" and "Testimony" One's an armor piercing automatic machine rifle. And the other is an armor piercing single shot round, with a blade attached. Now some of you are probably asking "Is this guy for real? He sounds a little off in the head." Yeah, so what if I do? The Irish don't like anyone telling them what to do, when to do it or when to lay off. We're a bunch of crazies you might say.
So, why'd I join? Maybe it's because I don't like seeing our world decay and die a little more every day. Maybe it's because I fear the wrath to come visit us, a wrath more terrible than anything we see now. I don't want us to be caught in that. And I don't want anyone caught in it. Except for those scum.
This was our first real operation. Not some skirmish or training. Everything's real. The bullets, the darts, the steel. Everything. Since we have so few members remaining, we have to split up. Two men to an assignment. My partner, Thyrion, is also a man's man. Sometimes criticized by bluehairs as too rough around the edges. You know the type. The older females who walk around like their God's gift to creation, and the only voice that matters. Apparently, someone didn't read about that whole griping session that Miriam had with Moses.
We head to what some would call the temple. I call it an abomination. Why? Because it's where they live. After all, we're about to do what we're called to do. Rile up some dark powers and principalities. The kind your mother warned you about except bigger, meaner, uglier. And then, we're going to destroy them. Cast them out. They happen to have my friend. In isolation. That's what our intelligence told us. And now we come to the real heart of it. One of the reasons I wanted this operation. Personal reasons. Perhaps some misguided priorities.
"Any man who doesn't hate his father or mother, his wife, his children, is not fit to be in this army."
At first, I thought it was hyperbole. But the more I began to read the writings, the more it became clear that maybe the King was serious. Deadly serious. Nothing could be higher than he. If you were in, you were all in. Hard as the King is, there are provisions for marriage. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
We arrive where they're holding her. Her name is Jess. The thought of anyone putting chains on her and putting her where they could torture her is enough to make any man's blood boil.
This is a small outpost. But we have to start somewhere. Numbers don't matter to us. Lives do. As we approach the gates, we see them. My friend demands their surrender. But surprise of surprises, the scum don't surrender. Good. It's better that way. I have some aggression to work out.
Now I'm sure some of you wonder why I'm about to tell this battle story and demand that it be told to your children and to your children's children. The reason is because we must never forget why we were put here, why we were pulled from the mire, why we have been chosen. Every man, woman and child who signs on for the army must not make this decision lightly. This is war. This is not for the faint, nor the weak, not the double minded, and certainly not for the cowards.
Our all prayer was out first, round after round emptied into the demons from hell. Weakened, yes... but as you all well know, it takes more than that to banish a demon. Their blood was indeed staining the ground, some of them howling in anger and pain. But these foul smelling wretches did not deserve a quick death. And I'm thankful that they are hearty stock. Heartier stock equals more whacks and more bullets.
Next out was the Blood. A few finally went down under its report. Back to back we stood, covering for each other. And sure enough, the darts and the bullets were bouncing off of the armor. Soon came the weapon Testimony. One or two fell. I slit one more open at its throat
out of desperation as we were pressed on every side. But we did not falter. We stood firm.
And now we get to it. The real weapon. The masterwork. The sword. Hand to hand combat. A more personal touch. The bloodletting was getting ugly. Limbs and legs, entrails and heads were lying scattered on the killing floor. It might as well have been an altar of old. Soon, we were down to the last of the sons of hell. I ran him through.
"That... was for my friend."
I turned on the blade with a flick of the switch on the hilt.
"This is a message for your master. Go back to hell and tell him that the armies of God will no longer be held back and we will not surrender one more inch of ground. The Kingdom of heaven suffers violence. But the violent take it by force."
The chain-blade made the body jolt in its death throes and blood stained the ground. I returned the gore soaked blade to its rightful place on my back. I marched into the hall and with the help of all prayer, the captive Jess was freed.
Unfortunately, the myth of the armor protecting against EVERY wound is somewhat exaggerated. There were a few bullets that will at most leave scarring. But this isn't the dog and pony show. This is war. And in war, it's expected that someone bleeds a little for the cause. The
important thing is all of our vital areas are protected. The King, who provides us with the armor, has seen to that.
It has been a year and a half since that battle. And every day, we get a little closer with our small ragtag group. Some of our older soldiers have gone home to be with their King. The rest of us continue on, winning victory after victory because the Great King is with us and he continues to supply our every need.
So now I come to ask the men, women and children of the army reserves. I come to ask them for their help. The King has not created the reserves. That is something of our own doing. I am here
to remind the army that we are not home yet. We are still on this side of the war. And we must continue to press the attack until the King says otherwise.
The fight is hard. Not every battle is won, we are pressed on every side, but we will not falter. We are struck down, but we are not destroyed. But we are getting tired. We cannot hold off the
counterattack by ourselves. Every soldier must do their part. If twelve of us can hold off this fierce resistance, imagine what the rest of us can do. Finally, I would remind the army that when we signed on, our comfort was not guaranteed. For those of you who are fighting, you have my thanks. But I warn you... any man who is not determined to put themselves all in is not fit for service. They are not worthy. Consider your choice. But if you see as I do, and you feel
as I do, then pick up your weapons and put on your armor.
The Lord reigns, let the earth be glad... and let the saints rejoice because the King is passing by, with sword and shield, mighty to save, ready to fight in the day of battle. Now until Him who is able be all glory and honor and praise. Because he alone is worthy.
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