Two shots rang down the open plain.
Deep breaths, he told himself, just breathe in deeply.
There was no movement in the distance. The futility of war hung heavy in the air as Heinrik De Graas watched ahead, trusting his entire existence to both his close friend Jensen and the clothes he wore. The canyon rose around them imposingly as the sun glared with full, unclouded and unblemished glory, raising mirages ten feet tall, blurring whatever was beyond half a mile.
He shivered.
A passing wind carrying the warmth of the canyon went eastwards, raising up a puff of dust that grew menacingly large, and Heinrik stiffened. He knew they would use the dust as cover, he knew they were next to invisible. He flexed his toes trying to get his blood circulating again, his mind clear and his purpose defined.
That was when his demons decided to come back to him.
His body worked on autopilot, not missing a single detail as he lay on the lip of the canyon, the entire expanse of the pass open and visible to him. His mind wandered, faces appearing unbidden, and for a hard, cold man, Heinrik shivered again. The heat did nothing to deter the coldness he felt, a sense of numb detachment of self and morality. He was nothing but a tool, a highly efficient one at that. But the sharper he got, the more blunt became his defence against the souls of the damned. He heard a distant yet distinct click of a rifle.
Trusting the wind and trusting his luck so far, Heinrik stayed still. As soon as the shot was sounded, he felt the ground roughly ten feet to his right erupt in dust with a loud crack. Deep breaths, he told himself, just breathe in deeply.
Jensen, a veteran like Heinrik, did not move either, no reaction whatsoever. He tapped once on the stone with a tiny grey hammer, and Heinrik replied in kind. Using a code they had used over the decade and half of their partnership, Jensen communicated with Heinrik, showing him the origin of the first shot.
What was war, while nothing but a means of achieving an equally pointless goal? What were soldiers, while nothing but the tools of the big and mighty who sat their small bodies on bloody thrones of cash, gold and fear? He adjusted his scope, following Jensen’s instructions, making minute changes to his aim. What was death, while nothing but an inevitability of life?
What right did he have,
to play God?
His adversary was good, but not even close to Heinrik’s level. Here Heinrik was almighty, as if the domain of his power bent to his will at his beck and call. Whispering words to sooth his troubled soul, he waited for the wind to settle. He slowed his pulse down to a beat every five seconds. His body was his temple, his mind master of everything within the moment. As his finger slowly tightened over the trigger that drew the thin fine line between a moment of life and the finality of death, he studied his target. The lines of his face hidden behind a yellow shaded mask, the way his body lay behind a set of large boulders and then slightly unprofessional way part of his ghillie flapped in the wind which was why Heinrik assumed his adversary to lack his attention to detail. Here was a fairly proficient soldier, with the same orders as Heinrik, and, given the same chance at survival as Heinrik had, maybe he might be as masterful of the trade as him.
The thought troubled him, his attention thrown awry.
Who was Heinrik? What was his right over the domain of man, the kingdom of heaven? The screams of the damned deafened him.
Two shots rang down the open plain.
Deep breaths, he told himself, just breathe in deeply.