The Great Pyre
He stands on the ridge,
Watching,

His faithful plunge through the muck,
Towards the tips of their enemies' swords,

The clouds are gathering in the sky,
All vision being obscured more and more with every moment,
But from the torrent of screams,
He can infer his reinforcement has arrived,

Cannon shots,
The screams of unearthly beings that he was not made to hear,
He paces the ridge,
Never before has his faith been shaken,
Why now?

He stops and peers into the distance,
But he cannot make out anything,
He gathers his assistants and sends them out to inform him on the battle,

One soon returns,
They are winning,

He waits on the others,
Still pacing the ridge,

What has happened?
If they are winning, where could they have got to?

Shrieks waft across the plains,
The smell of death on the breeze,
He shivers,

No word,
He begins to shake,

Pacing, pacing...

At last! A figure running towards him!
But as it gets closer, his soul sinks,

The man is hysterical,
His eyes livid,
"They have turned on us!
They have turned on us!"

Quickening pulse, quickening breath,
Fear grips him tight,

The smell of smoke wafts across the plains,
Across the great pyre,

All is lost,
The prince flees,

But all the holes have been stoppered.