Onward
To kill
Pillage
Only a few days before the lighted candles of a chapel. A young monk in prayer. Quietude in his soul. The brown habit—the crucifix lay forgotten.
The maddening din of battle. Its fury burned his soul.
He had been left an orphaned child. At the monastery.
His name was Igor. Some whispered he was the son of a great nobleman.
None knew for sure.
At first his clean soul rebelled at the thought of war, his dark eyes flashed.
Thou shalt not kill called from afar—but the cannons deafened him