Three Mountain Devils of Macedonia yell curses, ‘Alexander the Foul, Alexander the Tyrant.’ Alexander himself banished them from their mountain to lay bare it’s hide for a castle, and it’s now Alexander who they seek revenge upon.
However, they’ve found themselves in a forest so lush with green compared to their coal-coloured mountain that their eyes have gone blind as their path back home goes unseen.
They know not a direction, not a way. So, they make a choice, stop, and gather their thoughts from running astray.
‘If the Black God were here,’ starts Mesechinata the Moon devil, ‘he would not have let that swine do that to us! Look at where we are now!’
‘Black God sided with the warlord’ says the Iron devil, Nozh. ‘ We’re on our own, Bub, unless the White God turns upon the Sun and favours the old.’
‘Haha,’ cries Zemjata the Soil devil. ‘The Twin Gods have united as per the ragnarok, and the mountain shudders like a wet dog. We’re no longer wanted, brothers. We’re going solo.’
‘Fair is the game,’ says Mesechinata. ‘Though, we need to get home.’
‘There,’ says Nozh, pointing to a small pond, bordered by rocks covered in dead leaves.
Mesechinata spots a branch. He picks it up. Nozh pulls out a long hair from his ear. ZemJata ties the ear hair to the stick and casts a line into the pond.
‘The branch’s strong so that’s good,’ notices Nozh. Mes shoots him a look that reads shut up.
‘What do you see, brother?’ asks Mesechinata. ‘The Moon shines upon the damned.’
‘The ground moves beneath the pond; a figure wakes,’ says Zemjata, who has three names given to him by men and can feel the dirt as far as the devil can pee. The line tightens and the brothers lend Zem their strength.
They pull. And pull. And pull. And from out of the waters, black and oily, comes a shape of a man with a horse’s tail and an archer’s bow.
‘Lele! You caught a star not a fish!’ shouts Mesechinata.
‘No, no, this is good! It’s perfect!’ cries Nozh.
‘Fuck, get lost! I want a fish, not this idiot!’ curses ZemJata.
The archer, breaks the line, steps upon the bank and turns to the three Devils.
‘You three creatures of sins past have caught your death. I’m the fist of Sagittarius, the First Letter of The Lord Star. Behol–
‘Get him!’ shouts Nozh.
Jumping the archer, the three devils, cunning and quick, trick the archer faster then the end of a burning wick. They tie him up, slap him some more, pour out his blood and paint symbols of old lore.
‘We’ve done it, we’ve captured the freak,’ they all sing and cry.
‘We’re the best, we’re the best, let no man say otherwise.’
‘Now our power will burn in Hell forever and ever.’
‘While we three bark and sing as merry devils, plump and clever.’
‘Err…’ interrupts the Archer. ‘Do you idiots even know what you’ve done? I turn the galaxy. Without my arch-form there will never be an archer again in stories and songs. You’ve rid the world of my pleasures and soul.’
‘We know that, moron!’ shouts Mesechinata. ‘And with no archer stories to guide their hands, Alexander the Sly’s archers will cripple in the sands.’
‘His army will be undone,’ says Nozh.
‘Our spirits lifted anew,’ says Zem.
So, in the months that came the archers of Alexander did not fall or stutter. Instead they marched on and helped him conquer. The devils grew tired and old waiting for their exile to end; nor were they told that it was long forgotten, broken without mend. While the archer, wise and without death, sunk back into the pond to target us with his story, forever bold, strong, pregnant with glory.