Impossible

Captain Cloud stared in horror as his men, battle-hardened veterans all, fell like wheat before the lean, beardless boy who moved like water, sword striking like a snake.

The small tribal village had barely seemed worthy of addition into the great empire of King Dardar; it was nothing more than a collection of huts, the people did not even carry weapons to defend themselves.

Sergeant Muro had been the first to fall. When he struck a woman, the youth in the loincloth appeared, saying, “I am going to kill him. If you do not wish it, tell me to stop now.”

Muro laughed and drew his blade, then gurgled in surprise as it was driven into his own belly. The hand covering his was soft, like that of a child. He looked into the grinning eyes of his killer, who gently removed Muro’s hand from the hilt and pulled his sword out of the lump of flesh.

Then he was among them, and blood flowed freely onto the earth.

“Impossible… Who are you, boy?” Captain Cloud shuddered as he listened to the death cries of his men, those unlucky ones who had their bellies cut open or limbs sheared off. In vain they attempted to hold in their guts, or stem the escape of their life blood.

The boy had somehow managed to come out of the melee without a speck of blood on his body; it was only his blade that was covered in blood and gore.

“It is not I, but my God that makes all things possible,” he said simply, as he separated head from body with a quick swing.

The captain watched as his body crumpled lifeless beside him. “Which god do you serve?” he asked desperately, for he knew his time was short.

The young man looked down and said, “There is only one God, my friend. He is called Shalom, the God of Peace.”