1 The Rise Of The Antichrist

It was sixteenth-century Denmark. Jutland, the wealthiest duchy in Denmark, was standing with pride and honour in the lap of the Baltic Sea. Dusk was approaching. The stagnant air changed under the lambent sun. Weak rays of sunlight kindled the clouds, and burnt across the sky, turning it into a sea of flames.

The Danish troop was marching towards the town gate. Sweat stung their eyes as tiny vipers, dripping from a gore sprayed face. Their parched, panting tongue collected the dust-choked air. It intermixed with the bitterness of iron. Deafening, the blood pounded in the ears, drumming to a ferocious beat inside the helmet. A sandstorm was howling towards them and a sea of enemies became visible.

The Danish general screamed, "Attack!"

The sound was enough to obscure the thunder of steel striking. Pain from a dozen wounds registered, drowned out by the heightened screams. Throbbing ache from the shattered hand which hung trembling on the right side. Above the lower scent of sweat was the acidic smell of inescapable fear. It carried aloft from clashing bodies that howled amidst a sea of scarlet liquid. It drained from a friend and foe alike, to soak a once vibrant field of yellow flowers.

The General in gold, lustrous armour, his battle horse neighs at the sight of the enemies. Its thick muscular legs match well with its rider coated also in thick armour. Underneath the armour, the wounds scared his body. He gained those from countless battles and skirmishes. His eyes like his soldiers were full of hatred and anger, eager to slaughter the enemies. The piercing stare seems to enter the opponent lines, and none of the enemies dared to meet his gaze.

The General entered the core of the army. Millions of cannonballs blazed the bloody ground. The troops included ally and foe turned into pieces at once. The shields were trying to barricade the flying arrows in the air. The vile burnt smell darkened the evening air. There was nothing but only dead Danish soldiers. The Norwegian troops hacked through the enemy lines and mowed down every single body standing in between them and victory.

The general with the remaining soldiers returned to the palace. The guard walls were standing with pride for protecting the deity of wealth for centuries. The Danish troop entered the armoury when a sharp sound pierced the eardrum.

The Norwegian army broke the wall with siege weapons. They broke into the palace with a hundred and thousand in number. The General ran towards the secret tunnel. But a figure blocked his way, "Now your little game of hide and seek is over."

A knight came out of the group. He took off his helmet. His green eyes were moving like a snake. Sweat was dripping from his black hair. He kicked the General hard on his abdomen. He fell apart from there. Fortinbras went near him, "Now you are on your knees like a good pet."

He kicked the General again. Saliva mixed with blood came out from the mouth of the poor general, "Mercy, Prince Fortinbras."

The General tried to get up. But Fortinbras hit his chest with the leg, "Kneel like a good pet." He came near the ears of the General, "Fortinbras does not have any mercy. You should have to think twice before rising against me."

He took his sword and sliced the skin on the chest. The general screamed in pain. "Does it hurt? Do not faint, so fast. The game is in a middle way," Fortinbras sliced the skin on the abdomen. Groaning in pain, the general stopped breathing.

The air became heavy. Everybody was standing still. Fortinbras hit the general again and again until the floor filled with poppy-red blood. His hands filled with blood, "Now you can see what will happen if someone will dare to raise his head to Fortinbras. Kneel before me like my pet and I shall give you protection"

Each and every living being knelt down to their new mighty king. The Norwegian General entered with a captive young woman. She had deep cuts all over his body and was struggling to walk. But an aura of royalty was coming out from her.

The General threw her at the feet of Fortinbras, "My Lord, this is Duchess Athela of Jutland."

He pressed his fingers hard on her cheek, "Well, well, a naïve girl like you put a good fight in front of the mightiest troop. I will give you a position in my court for that. You will be the oracle in the temple of darkness."

"Maybe I have lost the battle, but I am still the Duchess. Any self-respected person will treat me with dignity even while giving a death sentence," Athela told, looking eye to eye with Fortinbras.

"Why should I waste your life?" Fortinbras grabbed her cheek, "Take her to the dungeons."

The general grabbed her hand and dragged her to the doors. Suddenly Athela kicked the general on the shine. She rushed to the windows with lightning speed. And jumped into the Baltic sea.

But why an outside force captured Denmark? Did not the royalties were worthy enough to protect their kingdom. This question led us to a funeral procession for the answer.