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Authors: Mark Eller, E A Draper
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work demands a lot of time and dedication. Most of the married are too busy with their spouses and children. The priests don’t want to take people away from tending their families. It would buy you at least twelve months and give you time to find a better suitor. I have several good friends within the mission. Getting you accepted wouldn’t be a problem despite your engagement.” Larson laughed softly. “Not to mention most of Trelsar’s priesthood detest Charmaine. Nothing would please them more than putting a bee in his butter and slow his rise to nobility.”
Oh gods, no. Simta hated religion, but the look in Larson’s eyes and the memory of the love and peace she felt within his arms came back to her. If ever there was a time she could believe in the gods, it was now. Would it hurt to give them a chance? Could things truly change for her if she prayed to Trelsar for help or asked Anothosia for guidance?
Maybe, but maybe not. Either way, twelve months might buy her enough time to find a solution to her Charmaine problem. Hell, what did she have to lose?
Looking up at Larson, Simta nodded. “I’ll do it. If I have faith in nothing else, I’ll at least have faith in myself to find a better life.”
A broad smile lit up Larson’s face, and by the gods, Simta actually thought she could feel the summer sun caressing her skin, warming her body.
“Good girl, Simta, good girl. I know you can do this. Now up we go. You still have time to make the party over at your house and start your new life. I hear your father had a small fountain erected in the main hall with wine instead of water pouring from it, but before you go, I suggest you clean the blood from your hair and change your clothes.”
They stood. Simta swayed before righting herself. The smell of blood and other body fluids made her stomach clench and her head throb. The thought of drowning herself in a barrel of wine and whiskey was tempting. Okay, so maybe she would start her new life in two days, after the festival.
Lifting a hunk of flesh off her dress, Larson flicked it to the floor.
Chapter 3 — Similian Rising
The waning light from the pale slivers in the sky of Terra’s two moons, Callendale and Cafia, cast just enough illumination upon the wreckage lying in the middle of the street to reveal how dangerous and out of control things had become. An hour earlier all hell had broken loose, literally. Now, the businesses and walkways in and around the Hellhole Tavern remained eerily quiet and empty, except for the few people who had not yet finished dying. There was nothing Larson could do for those except speed them on their way, but to be honest, why should he? It was their own fault they were lying in pieces instead of spending the rest of this night in peace.
A sharp crack sounded, making Larson jump. A rusted hinge had popped off the tavern’s battered wooden doorframe. Out of three hinges holding the door in place, only one remained. Larson, Lord Morlon, thought this was a bit of a miracle. From the way this night’s debacle had been described to him, this entire area had been one huge concussion of sound and blazing light. Bits and pieces of tables, chairs, and body parts had exploded outward from the rickety doorway into the narrow, dirty street in a wide arc. The cesspool’s denizen’s had run screaming off into the night leaving six people, all of them deserving their fate in Larson’s mind, ripped and torn apart in a most hideous manner. A harsh judgment, he knew, but those six sleazy, depraved individuals were the cause of the mess before him. Because of them, death had arrived.
How little anyone cared about this had already proved itself. Carrid Brewer, the tavern’s owner, stepped outside the tavern shortly after Larson arrived with his knights. He took a look around and shook his head. Frowning, he began pulling at the remains of his furniture, looking for unbroken pieces.
“Can’t let good
Oh gods, no. Simta hated religion, but the look in Larson’s eyes and the memory of the love and peace she felt within his arms came back to her. If ever there was a time she could believe in the gods, it was now. Would it hurt to give them a chance? Could things truly change for her if she prayed to Trelsar for help or asked Anothosia for guidance?
Maybe, but maybe not. Either way, twelve months might buy her enough time to find a solution to her Charmaine problem. Hell, what did she have to lose?
Looking up at Larson, Simta nodded. “I’ll do it. If I have faith in nothing else, I’ll at least have faith in myself to find a better life.”
A broad smile lit up Larson’s face, and by the gods, Simta actually thought she could feel the summer sun caressing her skin, warming her body.
“Good girl, Simta, good girl. I know you can do this. Now up we go. You still have time to make the party over at your house and start your new life. I hear your father had a small fountain erected in the main hall with wine instead of water pouring from it, but before you go, I suggest you clean the blood from your hair and change your clothes.”
They stood. Simta swayed before righting herself. The smell of blood and other body fluids made her stomach clench and her head throb. The thought of drowning herself in a barrel of wine and whiskey was tempting. Okay, so maybe she would start her new life in two days, after the festival.
Lifting a hunk of flesh off her dress, Larson flicked it to the floor.
Chapter 3 — Similian Rising
The waning light from the pale slivers in the sky of Terra’s two moons, Callendale and Cafia, cast just enough illumination upon the wreckage lying in the middle of the street to reveal how dangerous and out of control things had become. An hour earlier all hell had broken loose, literally. Now, the businesses and walkways in and around the Hellhole Tavern remained eerily quiet and empty, except for the few people who had not yet finished dying. There was nothing Larson could do for those except speed them on their way, but to be honest, why should he? It was their own fault they were lying in pieces instead of spending the rest of this night in peace.
A sharp crack sounded, making Larson jump. A rusted hinge had popped off the tavern’s battered wooden doorframe. Out of three hinges holding the door in place, only one remained. Larson, Lord Morlon, thought this was a bit of a miracle. From the way this night’s debacle had been described to him, this entire area had been one huge concussion of sound and blazing light. Bits and pieces of tables, chairs, and body parts had exploded outward from the rickety doorway into the narrow, dirty street in a wide arc. The cesspool’s denizen’s had run screaming off into the night leaving six people, all of them deserving their fate in Larson’s mind, ripped and torn apart in a most hideous manner. A harsh judgment, he knew, but those six sleazy, depraved individuals were the cause of the mess before him. Because of them, death had arrived.
How little anyone cared about this had already proved itself. Carrid Brewer, the tavern’s owner, stepped outside the tavern shortly after Larson arrived with his knights. He took a look around and shook his head. Frowning, he began pulling at the remains of his furniture, looking for unbroken pieces.
“Can’t let good
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