You know, I bet you that I can recall every moment of the day that I died. My straw matress was rather uncomfortable, and I rolled over to see the pink beginnings of daylight streaming through the arrowslit beside my bed. Then, far off in the distance, a horn blew, then another, followed by the sound of a marching army that only a soldier or a refugee can truly recognize. We all new what the horns meant, and we all dressed in silence, sometimes exchanging small nods when we met each other's eyes. None of us knew if we would see each other again, and part of us was too afraid to say anything. We didn't want to be remembered as the guy that made a joke in the hold only to be blown apart on the field. Thus the utter silence as I buckled on my armor and slung my greatsword over my shoulder.
Soon, about 499 soldiers were standing in the courtyard of Sentinel Hill. I remember that Williams couldn't be there, as he had broken his arm after a nasty fall off the ramparts. I would say he was lucky, but I know for a fact that the orc army had burned the keep to the ground after our defeat. I feel sorry for him.
The roar of marching grew louder, followed by two more horns, and we all shifted in our blocks. I remember that I was in the sixth block, third column from the left, and seventh in line. Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I had actually gone to my own spot instead of trading with my bunk-mate for a day. I doubt that I would have still survived, but maybe I wouldn't be in the predicament I am now.
A guard, sitting atop a wall with the rest of the archers, suddenly cried out in pain as an arrow hit him in the shoulder. He tumbled from the wall, and landed with a sickening thud. It was like a cannon had gone off. The lead archer yelled 'fire!' and volley after volley flew into an army I couldn't see yet. At the same time, they opened the front gates, and we all tumbled out onto the battlefield like a regurgitated pellet from an owl. To be honest, maybe I can't remember everything, as it's hard to do so when the blood is pounding in your ears and adrenaline was pumping through your veins.
I don't know how many orcs I killed, but I know that it was a lot. I killed and killed and killed, but every time I dispatched one, seven more would take it's place. I definitely remember the moment when I turned around in time to see an orc with a bow pull his string back, and time slowed down. I watched as the arrow left the bow, flew across the battlefield, and completely miss me by a mile. What didn't miss me, however, was the sword point that suddenly sprouted out of my chest. I felt blood well up in my lungs, and I coughed, sending a red mist into the air before the orc pulled his sword from me, and let me drop to the ground. The weird part is that it didn't hurt. I lay on the ground and drew in shuddering breaths and coughed wetly from time to time, but it didn't hurt. My vision got foggier and foggier, and I knew that no priest would reach me in time. I drew in my last breath.
Then I died.
There was no funeral, no grave dug in my name, no light at the end of the tunnel; just darkness...then, a harshly cold stone floor beneath me and a cold, raspy voice that sounded like the very embodiment of death.
"Rise, my son." the voice said. I lifted my head, and a extremely tall man in dark blue armor ingraved with skulls was above me, a exceptionally large sword in his hands that pulsed with blue light. Blue smoke trailed out of the holes in his helmet, where his eyes should have been.
It was extremely obvious now that I was certainly not in God's domain.