En Kharakas THOUGH HEAVENS MAY FALL

ENKHARAKAS.COM

En Kharakas THOUGH HEAVENS MAY FALL

BY

SAM KERILLION

KERODINA PRESS, LLC

Text & Cover Art Copyright 2009 by Sam Kerillion, LLC

Visit Sam at Kerillion.com

Cover Art created by Stephanie Shimerdla Visit Stephanie at www.Rainne.com

En Kharakas & all related Characters

and Elements are ™ of and © Sam Kerillion, LLC.

All Rights Reserved.

Published by Kerodina Press, LLC.

First Edition September 2009 www.KerodinaPress.com

No Part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the Publisher.

For information regarding permission, write to Kerodina Press, LLC

15732 Crabbs Branch Way, Rockville, MD 20855.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9841777-0-7 ISBN-10: 0-9841777-0-1

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2009907768

THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN FOR MY SINE QUA NON

We Dedicate this Book to our D ear Friends

Frankl in & Karen

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

NyteOrchid ~ Our Heroine, the Mighty Crimson Sorceress. Alas, she travels into this realm created by the God of Gods to save her

husband and his allies…only to find she is stripped of her access to

majik! Blast!

Shingen ~ Husband to NyteOrchid. A Warrior unlike most.

Shehrah ~ The brash and passionate Ashe Elf. Born of a Human

father and Drowess mother, the unique Shehrah traces her Drow

roots back to Tribe Dökkálfarh in the Ancient Islands, and her Human

roots back to the disgraced House of…

Kirre ~ The Boy Champion of Ariel. He would be King…but for the

Legions of Malpractors, the entire Church of Leira, the High Priestess

of the Church of Leira, and one verily outraged Demi-Goddess who

all share a singular goal: Kill the Boy! Oh – he is also adorable!

Ol’ Nikolo ~ A cranky old fellow who lives at the old Citadel. He has

a secret…

Ariel ~ The Goodly and Benevolent Demi-Goddess upon the precipice

of extinction. Twin of, you guessed it, Leira.

Leira ~ The not-so-goodly and downright Malevolent Demi-Goddess

upon the precipice of Victory. Twin of, you guessed it, Ariel.

Sarah ~ Sad and lovely, Sarah, too, has a secret…

Theana ~ She wants to be a Priestess for Ariel, one day. Then she gets

a Field Commission!

Theron ~ Cleric of Ariel. Broad, tall and strong, Theron is devout and

sincere in his conviction that killing Malpractors is a holy obligation!

Tainya ~ Maid to Alyssa M’ylnal. She has a secret…

Alyssa M’Lynal ~ She has her eye on the top spot in Leira’s Church.

All she has to do…Kill the Boy!

Baron Brennikyl ~ Trainer of Champions for the Bad Guys. He has

his eyes on everything East.

Lord Ja’mere ~ Wicked Lord of HighPort. He has his eyes on many

things, including Baron Brennikyl’s domain in the West.

Finneas D’elnir ~ Counsel to Jonas C’Neth, Champion of Leira. He

takes the fight into his own hands, and regrets his journey into the

city under the realm where the Dark Elves live.

Simeon Prentice ~ A Spy.

Tomas ~ A strapping lad who becomes a friend.

Celeste ~ Twin sister of Chloe. She sings. She was bound for the

slavers of HighPort until she met the Boy and the Warrior. She is

smitten with our Hero.

Chloe ~ Twin sister of Celeste. She sings, too. She was also bound for

the slavers of HighPort until she met the Boy and the Warrior.

Selva ~ The blue-skinned slut. It’s not her fault. Don’t hate.

Sileath ~ Momma Dark Elf who unmans the fine Finneas.

Q’Saria ~ Daughter of Sileath, sister of Syndel. Dark Elf to her very

core.

Syndel ~ Daughter of Sileath, sister of Q’Saria. She’s the mean one.

Enta ~ NyteOrchid’s ranking Adept. An able little Sorceress…in any

other land.

Amenia ~ Spy for Ariel. She doesn’t like it. Not one little bit.

Dralith ~ A Cleric for Ariel who refuses to yield…

Loreth ~ A Rogue and Pirate, redundancies notwithstanding.

Mishel ~ A Healer that chatters a bit too freely.

Marekl ~ A squishy beastie in the Great Dead Sea. Gives a good hug.

CHAPTER ONE

Dymea

Snow. A cold, fine snow that defined this place. Dawn struggled to rise against a thick, clouded fusion of

uncompromising sky. Rugged and cold, this place. Four days had passed since Shingen entered this land from across

the hard, unapologetic mountains to the west. Each day the gray sky had set like a lid upon a pot, hiding mountain tops and horizons with falling snow.

A single mule pulled the creaky old cart with no guidance from the creaky old man he hauled. Sam, the mule, knew the way to Dymea even with the blanket and curtains of snow.

Sam had finally grown familiar, if not comfortable, with the strangers walking alongside Ol’ Nikolo and his cart: Shingen, the rider. The mare, a massive black beast with rage in her chest. Sam knew the mare wanted to kill him.

“He still be slinkin’ back there, Shingen,” the creaky old man said to the cloaked rider, age in his voice.

Snow crunched under hoof and wheel. “Aye,” the rider said simply, his strong voice wrapped in a gentle

nature. Sam knew that it was the rider of the mare who held her bloodlust in check. But for the will of the rider, Sam knew his fate.

A half mile behind, a small man-form rode upon the back of a sturdy Steppe, trudging without complaint in the wake of the mare and the mule cart. The Steppe and his rider had shadowed the mare for nearly a month, across the Great Plain, through a corner of Jade Forest, and finally over the brutal Great Western Mountains that rose to the rear, well-hidden in the snows. “Hardy,” Nikolo added a half mile later, “to follow ye so long

across them blasted mountains.” Snow crunched under hoof and wheel. “Hardy,” he added once more. “Aye,” the rider agreed quietly. The wind was still, allowing the

snow to drift gently from the heavens, man and beast each in their own thoughts.

“The lad been a Palace Guard, eh?” Nikolo asked, recounting earlier details revealed by the rider. “At jus’ five year’n?”

The rider smiled affectionately deep within the cowl. The boy had been an orphan, and won many hearts when he wandered into the Palace. He had bonded particularly with Shingen, the Captain of the Guard, who soon gave the lad a means of paying for his keep. At the age of five, the boy was sworn into the Guard, armed with a dagger from the Captain’s own belt, and began standing post. Everyone took it seriously…especially the boy.

“Caelum, ye say?” Nikolo asked eventually. “Aye.” The old man was thoughtful for several moments. “Never heard of

the place,” he said finally, secretly glancing once again toward the boy upon the Steppe, who was bundled against the snow in a heavy, red, man-sized, woolen sweater.

“An’ ye ain’ spoke nary a word to the lad since leavin’ ye home?” Nikolo asked again, shaking his head in astonishment.

“He chose to follow,” Shingen said simply. “He never approached me or my camp.”

Nikolo nodded gently, intuitively sensing that Shingen was anything but unconcerned about the boy. The old man knew a boy that age could never have survived without benevolent assistance—even if that assistance were delivered covertly, by a man who chose to appear aloof.

The cart creaked on its wooden wheels heading slowly eastward, until subtle shades of gray—darker than the sky, denser than the snow—began to move about the murky landscape ahead. The forms sharpened slowly into familiarity as Shingen and Nikolo drew closer to the edge of the small village known as Dymea. Shingen searched from within the shadows of the deep cowl as the scent of morning fires and meals greeted his senses. The men and women of the small village were already well into morning chores, just a half hour past dawn. To the north—Shingen’s left—shepherds tended to small flocks of sheep, lambs bleating for mothers. Goats milled about, some tugged by small children. A small herd of undernourished cattle slugged through the snow further east, scraping to find anything to eat. Dogs barked intermittently, and

En Kharakas: Though Heavens May Fall

bundled children hurried about, focused on chores rather than the hunger in their bellies. An old stone fence lay mostly buried in the knee-high snow, marking the edge of the village. The pair moved past this boundary, met by curious, though brief, glances from residents. None had noticed the Steppe in the distance. Life in Dymea was too hard to be concerned with a small speck in the snow, so far away. The focus in Dymea was always limited to the next meal. Rations were meager, little more than leftovers of the crops and meat not confiscated in tithe by the Lords of the realm.

The cranky old man in the cart, Ol’ Nikolo, earned a polite nod from those close enough to catch his eye. Cranky and queer, folks said. The old man lived at the ancient Citadel, they say. But, what about the dragon? Ol’ Nikolo was too cranky and old to be eaten, most reckoned. Nikolo was, in fact, cantankerous and often fell short of basic manners. But Ol’ Nikolo seemed often to have a bit of extra fish or meat at those times when a family most needed a meal. Queer.

Curious, pensive glances fell upon the massive, black beast whose muscles rippled and coiled majestically beneath a fine black coat of nearly invisible maile covering her flanks, her broad chest, and neck. The rider felt only the most fleeting glances, as most concluded by his mount and his poise upon her that he must be a warrior of some sort. His heavy brown cloak draped across an average frame, the deep shadows of the cowl masking his face. The long, sleekly curved killing sword lashed to his back, hilt down, scabbarded in finely lacquered wood and covered with a simple cloth against the weather, was telling.

Most noted the mare first, then the rider, but then found their attention gripped by the beautifully muscled black beast once again as she moved with the fluid grace of a master war mount. Yet her essence was dismissive, a chilling disdain that bordered on malevolence. The beast might be of this world, though she seemed resentful that it might be true. Kaahos—the name bestowed upon the mare years before by her fallen Amazonian mistress—indeed held little regard for the bi-peds of the world…especially men folk. Attention to mare and rider was brief in all instances, save one. Defiant green eyes flecked with blue, bordering on accusation, watched the mounted man who bore arms, yet no armor. She sensed the malice in the mare and felt a kinship by mere shared emotion. Yet she could sense nothing of the rider. A warrior, certainly, but not of this place. Until she felt his gaze from the shadows of the cowl, she had no insight to him. Then she shuddered, a deep, crawling dread

Sam Kerillion

that entered the place where abysmal fear is born. She tried to break her gaze from the void of his cowl, yet this

defiant woman felt her legs weakening as his attention was now upon her. The edges of her vision narrowed as Kaahos carried the rider slowly passed, and the woman felt herself at the edge of collapse. Just then, the rider released his gaze and looked beyond her, lifting the ominous weight from her chest. She spun on shaken legs, averting her focus to her straw cart lest he look to her again. With white knuckled tension, she moved split fire logs within the cart, sensing the growing distance between them every moment.

No. Better not to focus awareness on the man on the mare, for he rides with Ker.

Sam guided the cart toward a long dwelling at the center of the village, its thatched roof piled with snow. “Ye might be able to buy a meal here, Shingen. An’ some stores. Thes’n folk ain’t got much, but they’n decent, and will share with ye fair ‘nuff,” Nikolo said as he began the arduous task of climbing slowly from his rough wood seat in the cart, accompanied by the creaking of the aged. The old man paused suddenly, looking north toward the shrill cry of pure terror that shattered the morning stillness!

Sheep dashed in panic as the woman who screamed scampered from the path of a thundering trio of riders who had exploded from the edge of the wood, brandishing swords, crossbows, and malice in their war cries. To their flank emerged another pair of riders. They all wore matching light armor of leather and plate, the luster of the black enamel discouraged by neglect born of arrogance, hard use, and days in the saddle.

Kaahos shifted without prompting to face the riders, still a hundred yards away, as a ripple of anticipation coursed through her shoulders and flanks.

“MALPRACTORS!!!” A terrified woman shrieked just yards from Shingen and Nikolo as she scooped her young son into her arms and fled for the marginal safety of the small store.

“Bedamnable motherless trash!” Nikolo growled through clenched teeth, slipping the old crossbow on the bench seat next to his leg under the blanket that draped across his lap. “Ye sword be a capital crime in these parts, Shingen,” he warned, noting that the Warrior made no move to conceal his weapon.

Sam whinnied softly, fearful of the commotion from the forest, but deeply relieved as he felt the hatred of the mare shift from his hide to others. A subtle heel to Kaahos’ side was all she needed to understand her rider, and the big mare complied, easing backward several small

En Kharakas: Though Heavens May Fall

paces until much of her bulk was hidden from the advancing riders by Ol’ Nikolo’s cart, though she kept her chest squared to the threat.

The advancing riders shouted and laughed at the fear they had instilled so quickly as they rode hard on the village. A lamb became tangled in the pounding hooves of their mounts, crying a sickly whimper and left to thrash in their wake, twisted and broken. The people of Dymea moved in panicked swiftness. Men and women gathered loved ones and children, any child who was near, scurrying them toward safety. But there was no safety here, only delay against the will of the marauders; and the hope that parents admit not even to themselves, that it is someone else’s child who is taken.

More dogs barked and howled at the invaders, but wisely kept distant of the riders and the thrashing, deadly hooves. Kaahos tingled and shifted subtly between Shingen’s legs, powerful muscles rippling and coiling in delighted anticipation. A heavy snort purged her lungs, then refilled with the fresh, cold air that now held the scent of terror and the promise of blood.

Shingen reached to the hilt of his long killing sword near his hip, and delicately released the silk braid that held the cover in place. The fabric fell aside. She was ready to draw. His strong hand pressed between the mare’s shoulders, urging patience. The beast settled. Kaahos hated men—all human men. She hated males of every species. Yet this proud and dangerous mount had permitted this Warrior to join her in battle for two years, for she had learned that with Shingen upon her back, she would never be far from the delight of killing men!

Now, in the snow of Dymea, the battle mare waited with deceptive passivity as the lead trio of riders reigned to a halt in the center of the small village. The second group of riders approached more cautiously, crossbows charged and ready.

Silence fell. Villagers stopped running from fear of drawing too much attention to themselves. Fearful eyes watched the raiders in black, who gathered behind one. His face was the most cruel. His breastplate was decorated with a more elaborate pattern than the others. He, obviously, was in charge. He guided his horse to the point and swept the villagers with a hard stare as they hid in doorways and behind carts, or huddled in the open, women clutching children to their skirts. A few men dared to stand very close to pitchforks and shovels. But this was a hollow protest. The black-hearted Crusaders dominated the land.

Sam Kerillion

mounts pushing the walls to the ground. Walls and roof collapsed into a splintered heap. Four terrified forms scattered into the gray and white morning. One rider reached and grasped upon the locks of a fair-haired lass, perhaps 13, roughly slamming her across the shoulders of his mount. The girl thrashed, screaming, fighting violently and seeking flesh for her nails to rake. The raider’s savage fist to her forehead stilled her protest. The blackness claimed her.

Suddenly another form charged the raider, bellowing an anguished scream that could only be maternal. The soldier’s booted foot drove into her chest. She flailed rearward crashing into the snow. The woman lay very still.

The officer pointed again and the scene repeated. Two captives: this time red-haired twins, not yet middle teens. A man charged from within the shack as it fell around him, hurling a makeshift spear toward the offenders as tears of outrage and terror streamed down his face. The weapon sailed wide from the farmer’s hand. The riders were trained butchers, who did not miss as they released a volley of crossbow bolts that brought a tragic, gurgling end to the man’s advance. His knees folded, then the ground rushed upward to claim him. Steam lifted from the crimson pool that spread beneath his corpse.

A sturdy lad in his late teens cried out, leaping a fence in the distance as his father fell and his twin sisters were doomed to the evils of these riders. Crossbows reloaded with methodical calm, only to be denied killing the teen as a trio of village men intercepted his suicidal charge, pinning him to the ground and only partially muffling his heartbroken wails.

“Bastards,” Nikolo seethed. “These be Crusaders for Leira, Goddess of all that ain’ right. Malpractors, they be callin’ themselves. Murderin’, rapin’ butchers be closer to the truth. These be her warrior Crusaders, Shingen, strong in soldierin’ an’ some be strong in majiks, too. They be havin’ only one purpose in they miserable lives, to cause strife an’ heartache.” He spat to the ground. “They be rightly good at it, too.”

Within the cowl’s shadow, Shingen watched. His mind was silent. There was no rational thought taking place; no philosophical determination of lesser evils, or relative morality, or even analysis of conscience. The world is full of injustice.

Shingen simply breathed. This is not his fight. His obligations lie elsewhere.

Nikolo trembled in his indignation, vast expulsions of spent air found the cold morning through his nostrils. His old hands slowly caressed the wood of the crossbow hidden by the blanket on his lap.

En Kharakas: Though Heavens May Fall

The village settled as raiders with hostages turned their horses, forming a loose circle around their leader as he dismounted. His eyes raked the village in challenge.

“We are but five men, to your sixty, and you cower!?” he bellowed, his punishing tone rolling into a cruel laughter. “You let us have your daughters with barely a whimper!?”

He turned, snow crushed under foot, and spat contemptuously upon the corpse near his feet. Slowly he raised his gaze, eager to find anyone willing to fight. He saw many who would like to kill him, none who would try. None who could succeed.

He found himself drawn to the aura of one. She stood near a hay cart holding a split log for the fire. She had refused to run in fear. She refused to turn away her eyes. He laughed and swiftly covered the two strides, grabbing a fistful of her fiery, red hair and savagely pulling her near to him.

Shingen had noticed her as well: green eyes, flecked with blue. Angry Soul.

“Ariel has lost her final Champion!” the commander bellowed, dragging the woman by her hair as she struggled to stay on her feet, paraded by the fist in her mane. “He will die at the hands of Jonas C’neth in Palace Graisalle just three days hence!”

The Crusaders laughed. It was a rude, ugly display. The people of Dymea, and most other places in En Kharakas, had long ago lost hope that the Goddess Ariel would prevail. So the end is at hand. The long twilight of hopelessness will finally enter into the blackness of despair. Few could discern the difference.

“Do not worry good people of Dymea!” another Crusader taunted, patting the unconscious backside of the girl draped across his saddle. “We will treat your daughters well, all the way to HighPort, and we will teach them all they will ever need to know to live the rest of their lives as mattresses for rogues and beggars!” And they roared! The commander on the ground sneered and grasped the front of the flame-haired woman’s dress. “Let’s start here!” he said, pulling hard at the fabric above her bosom. The Crusaders laughed, spitting at the villagers, knowing that the red-haired woman was to be raped in the snow at thei r feet. His face neared hers. Defiantly she refused to struggle. The moment his chapped, filthy lips touched hers, she swung with all her being, hurl ing the thick piece of firewood in her hand toward the man’s head like a club. He was fast, partially deflecting the blow that would surely have crushed his skull! Jagged wood sliced and ripped his scalp. Blood flowed suddenly and freely down his face. His eyes flared in rage as his men roared in laughter! His massive arm rose to deliver a crushing back fist to her face. All

Sam Kerillion

knew that the woman would be dead in moments, beaten to death by the Commander. His mind flashed as he readied the blow. He saw the entire village slaughtered in response to her defiance! A message to others!

Perhaps… A sudden blur of red movement from Shingen’s left flank raced

toward the struggle! A pony whinnied in the distance. A young boy, his too-long, man-sized, woolen sweater flapped in his wake with every step of his single-minded trek! Silent and swift he moved, cutting around terrified villagers, weaving around obstacles, running in channels and ruts in the waist deep snow that had been created by others. The boy did not earn the trajectories of the laughing Crusaders as he neared the Commander; after all, he was only a child, probably the bastard offspring of the doomed village whore.

The woman’s eyes held triumphant defiance as she stared mockingly at her attacker, willing to endure the deadly beating she would surely feel in moments as retribution for the small wound she had inflicted to an insignificant thug in Leira’s army of ruthless souls. And then she saw the charging child!

Confusion swept her face, then fear, for she had never seen this child before. Intuitively Shingen knew, as he felt the darting figure, that the boy had succumbed to his base nature. Pure instinct to protect guided him through the snow toward the brutal Crusader who would hurt the innocent. The lad’s Soul could not idly bear witness to such an affront—consequences be damned!

In that instant the cloaked stranger, who had entered the village alongside Ol’ Nikolo, threw back his cowl and whirled a thin steel spike toward the Crusader Commander. The end-over-end trajectory of the deadly weapon was precise, sinking six inches into the lowest part of the man’s spine, just below the edge of his armor’s back plate. The soldier cried out in surprise and began to wobble instantly as his brain no longer received impulses from his legs.

Knowing that he had hit his mark, and that Fate was now responsible for the coming moments, Shingen ignored the would-be-rapist Commander and filled his hands with the long, sleek, killing sword from his back and a similar short sword from beneath his cloak.

Now, there was no choice. The circumstances had altered. His Obligations were in jeopardy! Now, it was his fight!

Death had to claim every Crusader. No quarter! No survivors to sound an alarm to other butchers, lest the entire village of Dymea be

En Kharakas: Though Heavens May Fall

damned to the vengeance of unjust retribution! By sheer intuition, the massive war mare exploded forward with a

thunderous stomping of hooves, shattering the song of evil that had descended upon the small village. The ground shook as every eye turned upon Shingen and Kaahos just as the small, unknown boy leapt gallantly and unafraid upon the back of the sagging Commander! In her confusion, the red-haired woman could only watch the unkempt little boy, his long and scraggly brown hair trailing him in the wind, the ungodly rage in his eyes, and the thin steel dagger he clenched in his tiny young fist, as he rode the Crusader to the ground!

In a single moment, the Warrior and his hellish mount crashed into the formation of Crusaders swinging two wicked blades with effortless reflexive ease! Cruel laughter ebbed as the startled fighters raised their weapons, bewildered that an enemy—any enemy—was somehow upon them! In their midst! Shingen’s black warhorse, utter contempt in its black eyes, pounded with abandon into their own mounts, unsettling riders from saddles! The brilliant green eyes of the Warrior flared as he attacked the black-clad riders of Leira. Immersed in his natural state, he methodically, coldly, set about his task of killing.

Horses turned and protested the presence of Shingen’s mount, fright setting several to hind legs as they found themselves faced with an animal intent upon killing soldier and mount as one!

Surprise was on the Warrior’s side as his blades arced and found neck flesh. Slick, warm blood eased the edge through meat and bone, effortlessly felling a pair of heads as geysers of crimson erupted skyward.

Released from harm by dying and retreating church warriors, the three young girls who had been taken from their families fell to the snow in the pandemonium.

The cavalry formation of Malpractors collapsed under the onslaught wrought by Shingen and Kaahos. Black riders wheeled in defense, firing crossbows. What melee! Crossbows released within the formation, threatening friend and foe alike. No choice! Fire and retreat!

Shingen twisted his shoulders violently as a pair of crossbow bolts cut thin lines across his chest. A third bolt sank deeply into his left shoulder from behind, throwing the Warrior forward into Kaahos’ strong neck, a burst of agony exploding from his lungs. His long blade wavered and rang harmlessly from a soldier’s armor. The short sword in his left hand fell to the snow. Prudence and battle sense sent the remaining fighters to retreat.

Sam Kerillion

Kaahos snorted hard and nearly threw Shingen as she whipped her hips, savagely kicking the cavalry mount on her right. The doomed animal bellowed in agony and tumbled to the ground, his crushed hips refusing to bear his weight. The Malpractor in the saddle cursed and shrieked as the animal toppled, pinning one leg beneath. The man thrashed in a vain attempt to free his leg. Kaahos exploded forward, forgetting the felled mount, setting chase after the two remaining—and fleeing—soldiers still sitting saddle.

Dazed and dumbfounded, villagers slowly began to focus on the pinned black rider as he frantically thrashed, kicking his wounded mount, trying to push himself away. They slowly advanced on this now-defenseless and impotent thing that had, only moments before, planned to slaughter them all, to the last. The teenaged boy who had raced from the fence line in defense of his sisters and his father, numbly lifted the bloodied short sword Shingen had dropped. Vengeance burned in his eyes. He turned the blade in his hands, lost in the crimson smears as they blended with the brilliant steel. He felt power rising within him. As one, a dozen villagers joined his ominous advance on the pinned child thief, each with a remembered anguish to appease. The pitiful cries of the Crusader were soon lost under the savage retribution, ending his unanswered pleas to his dark Goddess with pick, shovel, ax, short sword, and boot.

Nikolo set aside the blanket in his lap and lifted the old crossbow as his heart raced. With Kaahos and the wounded Warrior in close pursuit, two soldiers sought escape toward the forest whence they had come. The old man concentrated on the escaping bandit furthest from Shingen. He affectionately nuzzled his stubbled cheek to the cold, worn stock while adjusting his aim to compensate for wind and range. Caressing the trigger mechanism tenderly as the target bounced rhythmically in the sights, the old man whispered to his Goddess and loosed his bolt. Moments later the bandit peeled from the saddle and lay still upon the snow-covered meadow, only the fletching of the bolt protruding from his twitching spine. “That be for me Abigail,” he choked in satisfaction, as his gaze released the dying bandit and moved right. Ol’ Nikolo watched Kaahos and Shingen doggedly chase the final retreating Crusader of Leira into the edge of the forest. The weakening Warrior bounced about the saddle as Kaahos chewed the ground with her massive hooves, hurling mud, stone, and snow in a showering wake. The mare moved with savage intent, closing the distance between her and the enemy. Kaahos simply refused to let the enemy escape; she refused to be denied the chance to kill again! Should Shingen be unsaddled, Ol’ Nikolo was certain the mare would push her relentless pursui t until

En Kharakas: Though Heavens May Fall

she caught and killed the Leiran. Nikolo slowly felt his senses return as Shingen and Kaahos

disappeared into the tree line, just paces behind the final enemy. Adrenaline ebbed from his blood slowly, leaving a gentle ringing in his ears. An eerie, hollow silence lay upon the small village. A small group of blood-splattered villagers stood around what had once been a Crusader for the Goddess Leira, now just a sickly, steaming remnant of what had once been human. His mount, too, lay still, having succumbed to the injuries inflicted by Kaahos.

Then he heard it. There was a horrid sound in the village, and it brought the old man’s eyes to the young boy in the too-large woolen sweater, who had crossed the Great Westerns in the shadow of Shingen; the young boy, who had raced across the village and leapt upon the armored back plate of the Malpractor intent on raping and killing the red-haired woman.

Nikolo gasped sharply at the sight! He watched in horror. The soldier lay face down in the crimson snow, his legs unfeeling from the weapon Shingen had hurled at the base of his spine to cripple him. He struggled weakly and in vain to reach the lad clinging to his back, passionately stealing his life away with a thin dagger!

The woman had fallen and scrambled a few feet away from the assault, her back pressed to the wheel of her hay cart, holding her hands before her to block the spray of blood that pumped with less vigor as each second passed. The boy attacked relentlessly, the sturdy dagger blade driving into the neckline and other seams of the man’s armor, scoring time and again upon his neck, arms, and sides!

Now alternating noises lifted upon the blood-soaked air: the sound of slicing flesh; blood gurgling in a throat; the ring of steel on steel as the boy’s aim was off and occasionally struck armor. The attack never wavered. Pressed by rage and indignation, the boy plunged the blade again and again, his free hand gripping the collar of the armor as he tenaciously rode the Leiran like a wild beast, until the beast thrashed no more. Again and again the blade sank to its hilt in newly dead flesh and muscle that now only seeped through its wounds. The boy refused to yield his rage even after long moments of complete stillness from the corpse beneath him. Suddenly the red-haired woman gasped and lunged at the boy, unable to endure another moment of the boy’s torment. She risked this wild, blood-soaked boy with his hacking blade of vengeance who plunged and stabbed and cut, as if convinced he could send his enemy deeper into the hells with each thrust. She blocked the stabbing arm, the keen and bloodied edge renting her sleeve as she gathered him into her arms. She called upon all of her

Sam Kerillion

strength, fueled by fear and pain, to pull this boy from his task. He struggled against her even as she pulled him away, twisting and thrashing in her arms in an attempt to free himself and scamper back to his dead enemy to kill him more!

She clung to him, feeling his frustration, as he dragged them both back toward the corpse. But she braved him, overpowered him in a heap in the snow, calling to him as her face was buried in his shoulder and neck.

“Shh now! Shh, boy! Your task is done. He is felled!” she pleaded, over and again, trying to reach beyond his clouded fury. “Shhhhhhh now, boy.”

Just as suddenly, he went limp. His thrashing and twisting stopped, his breathing deep, fast, urgent. He was spent, though his eyes refused to leave the dead man and he refused to relinquish the blade.

“Shh. Shh, now,” she soothed, feeling him soften. She drew him tighter to her chest and scooted back to the hay cart, holding her little hero. “Shh now,” she whimpered gently. Tears fell freely from her eyes as she rocked the young boy in her clutching arms.

He spoke softly, calmly, very clearly. “I had to whoop him…I had to. I’m a Pr’tect’r,” the blood-soaked boy explained with a child’s innocence.

The villagers of Dymea had closed to bear witness to the boy’s carnage and bravery. As one they shared the pain, and they wept. The red-haired woman held him close to her chest and ignored the gore on them both.

“Shh now.” Even Ol’ Nikolo, one who had seen too much of the world,

swallowed hard and took pause at the boy’s deed. “This world canna stand long like this,” he said in his tired, old

voice. “The Gods canna abide it.” Then his voice boomed, shattering the stillness and sobbing. “Ye

lad, come now! Be swift!” he bellowed to the strong, young man who held Shingen’s bloodied short sword. Nikolo patted the wooden seat next to him in the cart. The teenaged boy numbly obeyed, the short sword hanging loosely in his hand, his attention rapt upon the red-haired woman and her young Protector.

Together, Sam led Nikolo and the boy across the snow-covered meadow, following the blood trail left by Shingen and the razed ground of Kaahos’ path toward the forest. Silence overtook the world again, but for the creaking of the old cart as it neared the forest edge.

Snow crunched under hoof and wheel. “What be ye name, lad?” Nikolo whispered, passing the crossbow

En Kharakas: Though Heavens May Fall

to the boy. “Tomas, sir.” “Reload this, Tomas. Do ye know how?” He did not, but it took only a moment to work out the details as

adrenaline coursed through his veins. “Just point an’ press that trigger bar, lad,” he instructed quietly, as

the edge of the forest was upon them. Sam stopped suddenly and refused to step further. The big, black

mare stood just a pace inside the forest edge, riderless. Her coat was lathered, sheened with the blood of her rider and her enemies. Slowly, the beast turned her gaze deeper into the quiet forest; only the sound of snow falling upon the leaves filled the air. Nikolo, Tomas, and even Sam slowly followed the mare’s gaze across the snow-covered forest floor to the crimson stain at the base of a noble oak.

Two figures lay motionless. A crossbow shaft protruded from Shingen’s left shoulder. The armor-clad Crusader lay trapped beneath the Warrior’s body.

A dozen feet away, eyes glazed in a shocked, deathly stare, lay the Malpractor’s head.

“Come, lad. Help Ol’ Nikolo get Shingen into the cart.”

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Sam Kerillion