Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

The Heathen Rite

All through the day the battle raged
And Death did drink his cruel due,
While valiant soldiers bravely fought
Undaunted as the death toll grew.
Barbaric foes swarmed through the streets,
With vulgar grimace on each face;
Akrull imparted strength on strength
And guided every sword and mace.

The men who saw their friends hewn down,
Themselves grew weak and longed for rest,
Yet could not pause against the foes
Who by their god were now possessed.
But even gods must be renewed -
And gods who take their strength from pain
Must be reborn by cruel rite
Of helpless men in torment slain.

By eventide the battle turned,
Akrull himself called for retreat,
By hundreds and by thousands then,
The horde drew back from blood filled streets.
The heathen priests with gentle hands
Did place their god upon a bier;
His strength was failed, his life near gone,
And Death himself had now drawn near.

Now all around are keening cries,
From heathen men in trembling fear,
To see their god's cold prostrate form
Laid limp upon that deathly bier.
Throughout the night, as dark grows deep,
And Death stands grim in anxious wait,
There on the plain such silence reigns
As heathen men know fear's full weight.

Dread midnight comes upon the world;
The priests select the godhood price:
A thousand men to lend their blood -
And give their lives in sacrifice.
As one by one the men approach,
In cruelest pain their life is torn;
'Midst tortured screams of suff'ring men
The dying god is now reborn.

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