what he knew lay ahead. By late afternoon they were at the top of the false pass and remounting to resume the hunt for the rebel soldiers, and hopefully, Lieutenant Martin.
Chapter Eighteen
(Present Day: 237 Cycles into the Light)
Death stood perfectly still. His given name had died many years ago at the hands of the man he searched for now. Watching from the shadows within the tree line, he patiently took in every detail of the homestead directly in front of him. He watched as an old man walked over to the shed, and with difficulty, climbed atop. He hadn’t seen the other man standing on top until that moment, and it took every ounce of his considerable will power to stay still once he had. As he stood frozen, muscles tensed and teeth clenched nearly to the point of cracking, he recalled the events of Bloody Beach twenty years ago.
“Hold fast men!” Lieutenant Daniel Szerimi towered above his men as he shouted to the company of hardened warriors. The men could fight, oh how they could fight. In fact, what frustrated him most was that he couldn’t contain them once they began killing. They were a hodgepodge of criminals and mercenaries brought together by a common goal: money. He had no illusions that his leadership was what kept them together.
Before him, the men fought for months under several commanders. Lieutenant Szerimi hoped he would last longer than the last one. He couldn’t be sure, but it was likely that his own men had done him in. Whatever the case, Szerimi slept with a knife in his hand, and when possible, a wall to his back.
His company held their ground as the King’s soldiers pounded their way across the muddy ground toward them. The Lieutenant was confident his men would win this skirmish, but his stomach was in knots anyway. He held a crucial position on the battlefield. Success here would mean promotion, and perhaps a different assignment, away from these animals. His back tensed as always, half expecting betrayal in the form of a silent blade from one of his men. Even when the enemy closed, and he shouted the command to engage, he imagined the point of a blade poised to thrust between his ribs.
As he fought, killing and maiming the King’s men rushing in to take his life, he was ever aware that his back was exposed to his own pack of hired killers. But today, the blade would not come from one of his own, and it would not kill him. Oh, he would wish that it had. For many years he would wish for death, until slowly, as pain and ruin twisted his mind, death is what he became.
The strike cut up at a hard angle through his groin, severing his testicles and penis, and shattering his pelvis. The second strike sliced down his towering body, and laid him open on the muddy shore. Both strikes were delivered by the man he stared at now, the commander of the enemy unit at Bloody Beach. That man stole his hope and left him wasted and bleeding in the mud. Lieutenant Szerimi’s body didn’t die that day, but his soul did. He could no longer be a man, so he became something different. He became something dark, something to make other men quake. What he wanted most; what he dreamed of all those years, was to find this man and kill him slowly: very slowly.
His fury slowly subsided as more recent events played out in his mind. His upper lip curled in a grimace as he remembered the well-dressed man who commissioned the killing. The grimace became even more disturbing as his mouth contorted into a malicious smile. He recalled the man whispering the name of the mark.
He showed no emotion or outward reaction then, and not even his own men knew of his hidden agenda with this man. Not that it would make a difference if they did. They would do as he wished or they would die. That was the way, and they knew it.
Death turned slowly to look behind him. Only three of his crew had caught up so far. He stared hard at each of them, saying nothing and everything at once. They had come to know his methods. Watch for
Chapter Eighteen
(Present Day: 237 Cycles into the Light)
Death stood perfectly still. His given name had died many years ago at the hands of the man he searched for now. Watching from the shadows within the tree line, he patiently took in every detail of the homestead directly in front of him. He watched as an old man walked over to the shed, and with difficulty, climbed atop. He hadn’t seen the other man standing on top until that moment, and it took every ounce of his considerable will power to stay still once he had. As he stood frozen, muscles tensed and teeth clenched nearly to the point of cracking, he recalled the events of Bloody Beach twenty years ago.
“Hold fast men!” Lieutenant Daniel Szerimi towered above his men as he shouted to the company of hardened warriors. The men could fight, oh how they could fight. In fact, what frustrated him most was that he couldn’t contain them once they began killing. They were a hodgepodge of criminals and mercenaries brought together by a common goal: money. He had no illusions that his leadership was what kept them together.
Before him, the men fought for months under several commanders. Lieutenant Szerimi hoped he would last longer than the last one. He couldn’t be sure, but it was likely that his own men had done him in. Whatever the case, Szerimi slept with a knife in his hand, and when possible, a wall to his back.
His company held their ground as the King’s soldiers pounded their way across the muddy ground toward them. The Lieutenant was confident his men would win this skirmish, but his stomach was in knots anyway. He held a crucial position on the battlefield. Success here would mean promotion, and perhaps a different assignment, away from these animals. His back tensed as always, half expecting betrayal in the form of a silent blade from one of his men. Even when the enemy closed, and he shouted the command to engage, he imagined the point of a blade poised to thrust between his ribs.
As he fought, killing and maiming the King’s men rushing in to take his life, he was ever aware that his back was exposed to his own pack of hired killers. But today, the blade would not come from one of his own, and it would not kill him. Oh, he would wish that it had. For many years he would wish for death, until slowly, as pain and ruin twisted his mind, death is what he became.
The strike cut up at a hard angle through his groin, severing his testicles and penis, and shattering his pelvis. The second strike sliced down his towering body, and laid him open on the muddy shore. Both strikes were delivered by the man he stared at now, the commander of the enemy unit at Bloody Beach. That man stole his hope and left him wasted and bleeding in the mud. Lieutenant Szerimi’s body didn’t die that day, but his soul did. He could no longer be a man, so he became something different. He became something dark, something to make other men quake. What he wanted most; what he dreamed of all those years, was to find this man and kill him slowly: very slowly.
His fury slowly subsided as more recent events played out in his mind. His upper lip curled in a grimace as he remembered the well-dressed man who commissioned the killing. The grimace became even more disturbing as his mouth contorted into a malicious smile. He recalled the man whispering the name of the mark.
He showed no emotion or outward reaction then, and not even his own men knew of his hidden agenda with this man. Not that it would make a difference if they did. They would do as he wished or they would die. That was the way, and they knew it.
Death turned slowly to look behind him. Only three of his crew had caught up so far. He stared hard at each of them, saying nothing and everything at once. They had come to know his methods. Watch for
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