Read Online Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name by Edward M. Erdelac - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edward M. Erdelac
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react to
Gersh’ sudden appearance in the least.
At
first, Gersh hesitated. What was going on? What did Sheardown’s name on Rider’s
flesh mean? Was it a message to help the doctor, to protect him, or to save
Rider from him? Was he with the men on the ridge somehow? Was he helping Rider
against them? He peered at Sheardown’s pristine, bright clothes. There was no
fresh blood on him anywhere. It was all the dried stuff left over from the
shelling. He wore a placid smile on his reposing face. His greatcoat was
unbuttoned, and Gersh could see pendants such as Rider wore hanging from around
his thin neck. He looked at the designs. No, these were different than the
one’s Rider wore. Some of the images carved on their faces harrowed Gersh’s
soul. He saw cavorting beasts of shapes he couldn’t place—mismatched forms culled
from every crawling thing he had heard tell of, and others he had not.
A
strange instinct had led him to catch an artillery round with his bare hands
today—to save the lives of four people. He decided to trust that same instinct
now. Gersh lifted the cannonball and with a grunt, brought it down on
Sheardown’s balding skull, mashing it flat. Blood spurted in four simultaneous
gouts from the slight man’s nose and ears. There was a crackling as his head
was driven down between his shoulders. The doctor’s little body crumpled inward
and sagged to the dirt. He was dead without any protest.
Gersh
looked down at the murder he had done, but somehow, felt no shame. Perhaps he
had no time. He heard the galloping of horses, and turned and ran from the
shack.
* * *
*
Sheardown’s pistol disappeared in his hand as his trigger finger
twitched with mortal intent. The strange amulets draping his narrow shoulders
disappeared also. His whole astral image wavered like firelight on water, and
suddenly his feet left the ground.
His
expression went from one of self satisfied deliberation, to confusion, to
terror in the span of seconds. He stumbled, and like a man suddenly bereft of
the assurance of gravity and all physical laws, the momentum carried him head
over heels. He seemed to blow every which way, like something carried on the
wind. He spun and somersaulted and twisted away.
The
Rider stood and drew his Volcanic pistol. Evidently
his message to Gersh had gotten through. Bereft of a body to anchor him to the
mortal plane, his etheric tether to life severed, Sheardown’s consciousness was
adrift like an unmanned skiff in the mostly unpredictable tempest of astral
‘weather.’
Sheardown
twitched and cavorted madly, trying to regain control of himself .
He was blubbering, in a scared panic. The supernal currents were intent on
blowing him into chaos, something only a master traveler’s willpower could even
hope to prevent. Favorite pupil or not, Sheardown was obviously no master. He
was only a ghost now, subject to the whims of more powerful forces. Adon might
call his shade back from the gulf for answers, but he was off to where there
was no returning.
“If
he asks you, tell him I’m coming! Tell them all I’m coming!” the Rider yelled
to be heard.
He
aimed at Sheardown and fired, and the blue-white blast struck Sheardown’s face.
Sheardown screamed in despairing horror as his ethereal body dispersed like a
shattered pain of glass. All that he was went swirling off in twinkling
fragments across the green desert on purple, chaotic winds that funneled into
the raging red sky. Let Adon look for his pieces in Sheol.
“Thank
you, Gershom,” he whispered, and taking out his horse talisman, he conjured his
mount once more.
In
a moment he was again galloping towards the cannon, all aglow with red-gold
fire on the crest of the uneven hogback.
* * * *
Two
riders galloped into the settlement on black horses. One was a bald man with a
tremendous curling black mustache, big arms rippling from the sleeves of a
dirty wool vest, a pair of black bullwhips bouncing on his hips like
Gersh’ sudden appearance in the least.
At
first, Gersh hesitated. What was going on? What did Sheardown’s name on Rider’s
flesh mean? Was it a message to help the doctor, to protect him, or to save
Rider from him? Was he with the men on the ridge somehow? Was he helping Rider
against them? He peered at Sheardown’s pristine, bright clothes. There was no
fresh blood on him anywhere. It was all the dried stuff left over from the
shelling. He wore a placid smile on his reposing face. His greatcoat was
unbuttoned, and Gersh could see pendants such as Rider wore hanging from around
his thin neck. He looked at the designs. No, these were different than the
one’s Rider wore. Some of the images carved on their faces harrowed Gersh’s
soul. He saw cavorting beasts of shapes he couldn’t place—mismatched forms culled
from every crawling thing he had heard tell of, and others he had not.
A
strange instinct had led him to catch an artillery round with his bare hands
today—to save the lives of four people. He decided to trust that same instinct
now. Gersh lifted the cannonball and with a grunt, brought it down on
Sheardown’s balding skull, mashing it flat. Blood spurted in four simultaneous
gouts from the slight man’s nose and ears. There was a crackling as his head
was driven down between his shoulders. The doctor’s little body crumpled inward
and sagged to the dirt. He was dead without any protest.
Gersh
looked down at the murder he had done, but somehow, felt no shame. Perhaps he
had no time. He heard the galloping of horses, and turned and ran from the
shack.
* * *
*
Sheardown’s pistol disappeared in his hand as his trigger finger
twitched with mortal intent. The strange amulets draping his narrow shoulders
disappeared also. His whole astral image wavered like firelight on water, and
suddenly his feet left the ground.
His
expression went from one of self satisfied deliberation, to confusion, to
terror in the span of seconds. He stumbled, and like a man suddenly bereft of
the assurance of gravity and all physical laws, the momentum carried him head
over heels. He seemed to blow every which way, like something carried on the
wind. He spun and somersaulted and twisted away.
The
Rider stood and drew his Volcanic pistol. Evidently
his message to Gersh had gotten through. Bereft of a body to anchor him to the
mortal plane, his etheric tether to life severed, Sheardown’s consciousness was
adrift like an unmanned skiff in the mostly unpredictable tempest of astral
‘weather.’
Sheardown
twitched and cavorted madly, trying to regain control of himself .
He was blubbering, in a scared panic. The supernal currents were intent on
blowing him into chaos, something only a master traveler’s willpower could even
hope to prevent. Favorite pupil or not, Sheardown was obviously no master. He
was only a ghost now, subject to the whims of more powerful forces. Adon might
call his shade back from the gulf for answers, but he was off to where there
was no returning.
“If
he asks you, tell him I’m coming! Tell them all I’m coming!” the Rider yelled
to be heard.
He
aimed at Sheardown and fired, and the blue-white blast struck Sheardown’s face.
Sheardown screamed in despairing horror as his ethereal body dispersed like a
shattered pain of glass. All that he was went swirling off in twinkling
fragments across the green desert on purple, chaotic winds that funneled into
the raging red sky. Let Adon look for his pieces in Sheol.
“Thank
you, Gershom,” he whispered, and taking out his horse talisman, he conjured his
mount once more.
In
a moment he was again galloping towards the cannon, all aglow with red-gold
fire on the crest of the uneven hogback.
* * * *
Two
riders galloped into the settlement on black horses. One was a bald man with a
tremendous curling black mustache, big arms rippling from the sleeves of a
dirty wool vest, a pair of black bullwhips bouncing on his hips like
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