This episode marks the end of this installment of The Chronicles of the Life-Taker.

Notice I said this “installment” - oh yeah, there will be more in the future.

As most know by now, I'm working on the second full-length novel for the Life-Taker, and I started these “Chronicles” to help me out with some writer's block I was having on the main story.

I found that writing Kurzhon's somewhat smaller adventures helped to unlock some of the problems I was having on the second book.

So now I want to focus more on the Life-Taker novel, hopefully to be released in first-quarter 2024.

With that said… what will come next week??

I've got more. Much more. We'll be taking a look at another story I came up with that is kind of technical and yet kind of fantasy.

Make sure to be back here next time for some more of my, well, "John Garrett Stuff".

The Life-Taker…!

As for Kurzhon, it's time to violently wrap up the violent adventure of a violent character. In the last episode, Kurzhon was rescued without consent (is such a thing possible??),and as the kids would say... he feels some type of way about it!

CHAPTER 10

“I am Kurzhon, Called The Life-Taker. Do What You Will.”

~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker

* * *

Time seemed to slow down around Hossy as the big man approached him.

Hossy was many things, but he was no coward. He had seen fighting, and could even be judged “pretty good” by the usual standards.

But to Hossy, it was his mind that had allowed him to excel. He could always see an angle where others could not. Because of this he always had the utmost confidence in himself, even when others would write him off.

It was that very confidence, which overrode an almost animal urge to run, that was indirectly responsible for his death that day.

The direct cause was known to Vultaikan warriors as “Master Ihzan’s Cobalt Strike”, which would soon be administered by the hulking, enraged man stalking toward him.

Even though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Hossy stepped forward. He raised his hands, palms outward in a calming gesture.

“Now look, friend,” he began, “I’m certain you had that under control but—”

Those were the last words Hossy ever said.

One moment the big man was ten paces away, and the next he was in the air, spinning wildly as he blotted out the sun.

Even if Hossy had reacted quickly enough to try to block the incoming blow, Master Ihzan’s Cobalt Strike allowed any warrior proficient enough to master it the ability to gather energy, convert it to force, then strike using the power of gravity to assist in such a way that blocking was nearly impossible.

The fist that struck Hossy full in the face hit with such power that the front of the bandit’s skull collapsed inward in a fountain of bright red blood.

He died instantly.

But that was not good enough for Kurzhon.

Before the body fell, Kurzhon struck again and again, howls of rage echoing through the sunlit morning along with the cracking of bone.

What had stood just a moment before was a living, breathing, talking man.

What fell to the ground was a misshapen lump of bloody meat.

More screams —not from Kurzhon— erupted into the air.

The gathered crowd had finally had enough. Kurzhon’s animalistic rage drove everyone to make for less dangerous places, and quickly.

People ran every which way, shouting and crying out as they did so.

Kurzhon looked around for the friends of the man he had just killed, and spotted Kavel drawing back his bowstring, preparing to fire an arrow at him.

Kavel’s face was bone-white, his eyes and mouth wide with horror as he loosed the arrow.

His eyes and mouth grew impossibly wider as he watched his arrow plucked from the air and viciously hurled to the ground.

Then the large dark man was running at Kavel, crossing the distance fast.

Too fast.

Before Kavel could prepare another arrow, the big man snatched his longbow from his hands and began beating the archer with it, using the dense wood as a club.

Kavel was actually grateful when the bow finally broke, but his gratitude only lasted for a moment, because then the kicking and stomping began.

***

Nearby, Wakely was disgusted.

Not by the violence itself, but he was attempting to recover Hossy’s coin purse, and the vagaries of fate had conspired to lay it to rest in the middle of a quickly congealing puddle of Hossy’s own blood.

Repulsive, Wakely thought. The things I must do to procure just a little coin these days…

Wrinkling his nose, Wakely pulled a handkerchief from inside his colorful cloak. He was reaching for the purse when he heard a particularly sharp cry of agony.

Wakely turned and saw that the man who had fired the arrow would never fire one again. At least not in this lifetime.

I suppose that’s what one gets for murdering a Drake, Wakely thought, conveniently forgetting that he had just been rooting for his companion to do the same thing.

Turning back to Hossy’s brutalized body, he plucked the coin purse from the bloody mess it was in and tried wiping it off. He was pleased by the weight of the purse.

As he stood, he tucked it away into his large bag, which by now was the heaviest it had ever been.

He wondered what would become of Whudhold. Just then he realized he did not know much about the town… but who did?

Was there a Mayor? Who would replace the guardsmen? Who would replace the ferryman? Someone must be paying these people… but who?

Did Whudhold levy taxes?

Wakely shook his head. So many questions, and he would likely never know the answers.

All he knew for sure was that he was never coming back here.

He walked the short distance to the post where he had tied his horse, which was waiting patiently with the Life-Taker’s impressive tan mount.

It seemed a whole world had been unlocked today. He wondered where they would go to next?

Wakely had planned to use today’s bounty to pay off some outstanding debts he owed, but now he wondered if he must pay those debts at all. Perhaps Kurzhon might… negotiate… a settlement of those debts for him.

He smiled then. Yes, things would be different from now on.

He was packing his newly gained treasure onto his horse when a shadow fell on him.

Wakely, alarmed, spun around quickly. Then he heaved a sigh of relief.

It was the Life-Taker.

***

Uncomfortable moments passed, until Wakely could stand it no more and began speaking.

“I was just about to tend to your mount, friend! I think it best we take our leave of this place and I thought next we might head back east to—”

“WE?” Kurzhon barked out the question in such a way that the challenge was obvious.

Wakely fidgeted, suddenly very aware that there was now no one… not one blessed soul… other than he and the Life-Taker in view.

“Er, yes, I think we’ve developed a fine partnership, and I just thought—”

Now Kurzhon threw back his head and laughed. Rich, throaty laughter. The laughter went on for quite some time, and Wakely began to feel offended.

“May I ask why you’re laughing?” Wakely snapped, not liking the way this conversation was heading.

Kurzhon finally managed to quell his laughter. He sighed, then wiped a small tear away from the inside of his left eye.

“Ahhhhhh… ‘partnership’… thievery is wasted on you,” Kurzhon said, with a very real smile on his face, “you should have been a mummer.”

Wakely was about to snap a retort, but Kurzhon’s demeanor changed, and the laughter was gone.

“Hand me that bag, thief.” Kurzhon stretched out a hand toward Wakely’s bag of ill-gotten goods.

“Wh-what?” This was all Wakely could think to say. He was trying to put off handing over the bag as long as possible.

“Surely we can work this—”

“The bag, thief. Now.”

Kurzhon’s eyes had flicked over from the bag and locked onto Wakely’s.

Swallowing, Wakely averted his eyes and slowly handed the bag over to Kurzhon.

Without another word, Kurzhon snatched the bag and opened it, rifling through the contents with zeal.

He removed coins, jewelry, paper money, and even things Wakely thought were likely worthless.

Kurzhon stepped over to his horse and began stowing the items in his animal’s saddlebags.

Again, without speaking, Kurzhon swung his arm back to hand the much lighter bag back to Wakely.

Wakely reached for it, hopeful that there were still some choice items remaining, but then Kurzhon seemed to think better of it, and he brought the bag back to his chest.

He rifled within the bag again for a few moments, then said “ah!” and grabbed at something toward the bottom.

Wakely’s heart sank when he saw Kurzhon pull Lady Monidale’s ruby brooch out into the light.

Kurzhon tucked the brooch into his saddlebags with the other items he had removed from the bag.

“There, thief,” said Kurzhon, handing the bag back to Wakely, “what remains is what you deserve for your efforts today. Be happy with what you have, it is more than you would have received without me.”

Wakely heard the warning in the deep voice, and clamped his mouth shut, lest he say something unwise.

“Now,” said Kurzhon, “I am going north.”

With that, he grabbed his horse’s reins and simply began walking away, leading the animal along. He turned and looked over his shoulder as he did so.

“You go another way.”

The tone was such that Wakely did not consider following the Life-Taker.

Dejected, he looked into the bag to see what Kurzhon had left him. While it was nowhere near what had been there, it was still a decent haul for one morning.

Still, he could not force himself to be positive. For a brief moment that morning, he’d had a fortune, respect and power. He could not forget such a thing easily.

He ruminated on what could have been for awhile, daydreaming in the late morning light.

Then he heard the creaking of doors opening, and rustling of people venturing outdoors.

Looking around, he realized the Life-Taker was now gone from view, and he was alone…

…with angry people that he had spent the whole morning robbing.

Quickly, he untied his mount and hauled himself into the saddle. He nearly kicked the poor beast’s guts out getting him to run, but he had to be away, now.

As he feared, he saw more and more people appearing from the structures around the town center, more and more men pointing at him. Some actually called out after him. Some ran, presumably to get their own mounts to give chase.

Wakely clenched his teeth and hoped his horse still had something in him after last night’s ride. He was going to need it!

As the sun began a final ascent to it’s midday crest, Wakely the thief rode west out of Whudhold, possibly never to be seen again if the pursuing mob caught up with him.

***

Had Wakely looked to the right of the western trail as he and his horse raced out of Whudhold, he might have seen something peculiar there among the tall grass and trees.

But he did not look, so concerned was he with keeping his head on his shoulders. His attention was focused on nothing but escape.

Neither did the riders that followed soon after him look to their right as they charged after their quarry. The focus of their interest lay ahead of them.

Had they looked they might have seen the alabaster skin, dark hair and wide eyes of a lithe young woman lying prone in the thick grass, desperate to escape notice.

The Lady Monidale lay quietly as first Wakely, then the thunderous hooves of his pursuers shook the ground not ten paces from where she was hiding.

Damp grass and crawling things clung to her, but she was not afraid. A mere day earlier she would have been screaming if she had found some multi-legged thing on her person.

But now…

…now, she had experienced true fear. The dark man, his cold eyes, his cold voice. His terrible, monstrous strength…

Her body shook in response to the thought.

The man had meant to kill her, but she had survived.

And I will have my revenge, she thought, gritting her teeth.

She did not know how, but she would make it back home, back to Tersi. She would!

Then she would have that man hunted down. Her people would hunt him to the ends of all lands. They would find him and bring him back to her, then she would do much worse than making him cook a meal.

She smiled at the thought of humbling the foul man.

All she had to do was get up and start moving. The sooner she moved, the sooner she would be back home.

Yes, get moving… get moving, she told herself.

But she did not move. Not for a very long time.

***

Relatively nearby, Lundy had steered clear of the trails and plunged headlong into the forest at a run his husky frame could not maintain.

He ran on as long as he could, the images of Hossy and Kavel being murdered replaying in his mind’s eye.

Finally, the forest became too thick and he tripped, landing in a wet, mossy mound of foliage.

The tears came then, and he howled, raged and swore at the thought of his friends’ brutal deaths.

Hossy and Kavel had always told him what to do, and they had always taken care of him.

But now, he would have to decide what to do, and he didn’t need Hossy to tell him.

That man, Lundy thought, he’s gotta pay!

Gradually the tears stopped flowing, and Lundy sat up, placing his back against a moss covered tree.

Lundy knew he couldn’t do it himself though. He had seen what the man could do.

No. He would need help to get that man. A lot of help.

But how? How could he get people to help him?

Then he remembered some of Hossy’s lessons. They would find someone who had common cause with them, and team up to accomplish a goal they couldn’t do alone.

Later, they would usually double-cross and kill those people, but Lundy decided this time he would not do that.

That man… someone like him had to have many enemies. Lundy just needed to find them.

Lundy stood then, resolve burning in his chest. He clenched his fists in affirmation.

He would find the man’s enemies, he would join them, and he would be there when they brought him down.

Lundy began pushing his way through the tight spaces of the forest, vowing that the man would regret making an enemy of him.

***

As the day moved on and turned into evening, just as the last light of the sun was surrendering the sky to early stars, a group of men waited nervously at the western gate of Whudhold.

Hoofbeats could be heard now, the sound growing louder. The sound of many hoofbeats.

Bristan Barriston, the Mayor of Whudhold, tried to project authority as he stood with the remaining several town guardsmen, most of whom had not even been on duty earlier in the day.

The guardsmen paid little attention to their Mayor, only on the approaching riders.

It was as they feared. A contingent of warriors… from New Shenjen.

The riders charged through the open gate, past the waiting men, and then swung around, expertly and gracefully moving into a rigid formation behind one man.

Mayor and Guardsmen stared open-mouthed at the newcomers.

New Shenjen. Perhaps the most powerful nation in all of Straifus, perhaps the darkest and most vile.

It was always best to keep contact with New Shenjen to a minimum, and yet their resources were such that doing business in the northeast of Straifus was almost impossible without interacting with them on some level.

They wore black, their armor and liveries trimmed with maroon borders. The national insignia of a double-edged sword held aloft by a fist was in evidence in many ways.

It was not a welcoming sight.

There were thirty men in this company, not including the one man who took position in front of them.

This man quickly dismounted his horse and began walking toward the Mayor. He did not speak or otherwise greet the waiting men.

Bristan stepped forward, attempting to take charge of the situation.

“Knight-Commander Joon,” he said brightly, “Don’t worry, I got rid of the Drake’s body, no one will know! It is an honor to—”

The back of a gloved fist colliding with his jaw silenced Bristan. The Mayor’s head snapped to the side with a painful cracking sound. The guardsmen all watched as a tooth flew from the Mayor’s mouth.

The backhand was followed by another backhand, which snapped the Mayor’s head back, and finally a third which collapsed Bristan to the ground.

All sunlight was gone now. The men from New Shenjen had banished it as they arrived. It was only in the torchlight that Knight-Commander Joon was visible.

The man turned his back on the Mayor as he spoke.

“Were you not told… to alert New Shenjen… to the presence of the Life-Taker immediately should he appear?”

No response came. Bristan struggled to pull his wits together and stand up.

Knight-Commander Joon turned around.

“Must I repeat myself?” he hissed.

“N-NO!” Bristan cried.

“No, what?” Joon demanded, through clenched teeth. “You weren’t told to alert us about the Life-Taker?”

“N-no! I mean, YES! I was told,” Bristan cried, tears streaming down his face.

“Then why do we find out about this at such a late hour?!” Joon screamed, causing the Mayor and guardsmen to jump.

“Had you sent the bird the moment he arrived we could have been here, or at least on his trail!”

“He was busy whoring, my lord!” came a voice from the darkness.

All turned, and a Whudhold guardsman appeared, dragging a young girl behind him.

The other guardsmen immediately cried out.

“Steffun, you coward! You ran away during the fight and now you come back here—”

“SILENCE!!” Knight-Commander Joon shouted. And they all went quiet. Only the crackle of the torches could be heard for a long while.

The smirking guardsman pushed the dark-haired young girl toward Knight-Commander Joon.

Joon grabbed the wide-eyed girl by her jaw, turning her head this way and that.

“Well,” he said, “it seems the pleasures of your flesh have denied my great King his own much longed-for pleasure.”

In a flash, Joon’s other hand came up, then he grabbed the girl’s head and twisted. An audible snap! cut through the air.

The girl fell dead in front of the Knight-Commander.

“Noooooooo!!” shouted Bristan, “I love her!! NO NO NOOOOOO!!”

The Mayor fell to his knees and began crawling to the dead girl.

Joon was disgusted. As such, he put everything he had into his kick to the Mayor’s head.

The Mayor flopped over onto his back, completely unconscious.

Joon observed the man laying there for a moment.

Without turning he called out.

“Wait until he wakes and then hang him.”

Joon’s arm shot out, pointing at Steffun, again not turning to face the recipient of his words.

“You will now be Mayor of this foul pit!”

Steffun grinned and stepped forward, “I pledge my—”

“Yes! Yes!” Joon, cried, annoyed. He turned then to face Steffun.

“Remember, as your predecessor did not,” Joon growled, “that New Shenjen pays for this rat heap, and we only keep it operational for our purposes, no one else’s.

Steffun lost his grin. “Absolutely sir, absolutely, I—”

But Joon turned his back on the man. He was already wondering how he would deliver this bad news to his King, that they had been close to the Life-Taker yet again, and they had lost him, yet again.

There were only so many disappointments a King was willing to endure.

“Um, sir?” Steffun asked, and the urgency in his voice actually reclaimed Joon’s attention.

“What is it?” he barked, even more annoyed with each passing moment.

“The guardsmen. I’ll need all new ones. This lot will never follow my orders.”

“Ah,” said Joon, nodding in the affirmative, “of course not. You’re a scheming, cowardly traitor.”

Steffun reacted as if he had been slapped. He looked as if he was going to say something in retort, but Joon raised his hand.

“Kill them.” was all he said.

Instantly, all thirty New Shenjen men dismounted their horses with crisp, practiced movements.

The night air was filled with the sounds of swords clearing their scabbards.

The New Shenjen warriors advanced on the much smaller group.

Joon paid no attention to the quickly-finished skirmish, but instead wondered again about his own predicament.

He had failed to procure the Life-Taker. Again.

His King very much wanted this man, for his many offenses, some against New Shenjen, and some against the very family of King Minos.

Knight-Commander Joon knew he did not have many failures left before he would be… replaced.

He vowed that the next time he came close, he would not miss.

He would take the Life-Taker, no matter the cost.

***

Far away to the north, Kurzhon the Life-Taker walked on beside his horse (who was also named Horse), thinking not at all about the fate of the town of Whudhold or its people, those he had hurt or even killed.

If, by some miracle, Kurzhon would have known about the declarations of revenge left in his wake, about the massing of a nations’ resources against him…

… he would not have cared.

Such was his nature. Any who desired his death were encouraged to come forward and attempt to realize such a thing.

Not only would he expect it, he would expect nothing less from those he considered his enemies.

And as far as Kurzhon was concerned, everyone was his enemy.

As if to belie that notion, Horse whickered softly.

Kurzhon turned and smiled, a genuine smile of affection no human would ever see.

“No, not you, Horse,” he spoke, and laughed as he did so, “you are not my enemy.”

He reached out and placed a calming hand on the animal’s neck.

“You are my friend,” Kurzhon said in a soothing tone.

“My only friend in all the lands…”

Kurzhon smiled then. He would have it no other way.

As he continued down a path toward a destination and goal only he could fathom, he smiled and lost himself in dreams of power and glory and violence and death.

This land is weak, he thought, and knew those words were truth.

***

THE END (of this installment)

Thanks a lot for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought of the ending of Chronicles of The Life-Taker!

I have to admit that I haven’t been as productive as I would have liked this week, and that’s because I was playing the awesome Baldur’s Gate 3!

Mind you, I didn’t say I was any good at it… being good at these video games is for people younger than me :)

Still I enjoy going through the world that’s been created and seeing all there is to see.

Every night I tell myself “just 30 minutes, and then off to bed!”

Well, that 30 minutes turns into an hour or longer, then the next thing I know it’s the middle of the night, and the next thing I know after that is that it’s time to get up and go to work!

Whew! My trials and tribulations are epic, I know…

The Life-Taker…!

At least I managed to bring forth another installment of Breakfast with Kurzhon, er, I mean Chronicles of The Life-Taker.

So now… here is Part 9 of Kurzhon's adventure (part 8 seen here).

CHAPTER 9

“Drakes Are Good For Killing, And Not Much Else.”

~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker

* * *

The Drake stood before Kurzhon’s table, his eyes locked with those of The Life-Taker, who remained sitting in a pose of complete relaxation.

There was near total silence in the tavern. No one spoke. The only sounds were from people adjusting themselves in their seats, or trying to get closer to where the upcoming action was sure to begin. A small crowd surrounded the table.

As the staring contest continued, Wakely took the opportunity to look over the Drake from his vantage point.

The tall man’s skin was weathered, as it would be due to the Drake’s constant traveling. His dark blonde hair was pulled back in a severe hairstyle that ended in a tight bun.

Wakely thought the tightness of the hair made it look as if the Drake’s entire face was being pulled back across his skull.

Beneath the Drake’s gray cloak Wakely could see the thick hilt of a sword on the man’s left hip, ready to be drawn at any moment.

But the Drake’s clothes were ordinary and unremarkable, at least to Wakely. He couldn’t find any items of interest to his particular hobby.

The Drake’s face was another matter. Wakely could see barely contained fury on the tall warrior’s face. His cheeks were red, his jaw was tightly clenched, and his eyes were narrowed to slits.

Then the Drake spoke.

“The bodies outside. That was you?” the Drake’s voice was deep, though not so deep as Kurzhon’s. 

But just as hard.

Kurzhon smirked even more than before.

“It was,” he replied.

“And what did these people do to offend Kurzhon The Life-Taker?” asked the Drake, contempt in his voice.

“Yes, I know who you are, and I am not impressed. Again, what did these people do?”

Without giving Kurzhon the chance to answer, he kept speaking.

“Did someone step on your boot? Did they share harsh words with you? Did they ask you to follow the laws that every civilized person follows without complaint?”

“How many must die to satisfy your murderous whims!?” shouted the Drake, no longer able to contain his anger. Many people in the crowd jumped at the sudden exclamation.

Kurzhon, still smiling, answered quickly.

“At least one more.”

The tone of his deep voice left no doubt of the intended threat.

Again, the tavern fell silent, and the two men kept their eyes trained on one another.

Finally, the Drake broke the silence. Adjusting his position and tone to address the entire crowd.

“My name is Davillo Yantry! I am a Knight of the Order of The Drake! I hail from the GrayRock Citadel, and I promise you there is no more need for you to fear! This man will be taken for trial, where he will answer for his crimes!”

He then reached into a pouch hanging from his waist and pulled out a set of dark gray wrist manacles. He held them in the air for all to see, then returned his gaze to Kurzhon.

“Stand up,” he said. His voice was hard and his face was stone.

Kurzhon did not stand. Instead, he used his foot to push a chair away from the table toward the Drake.

“Not yet,” Kurzhon said, through a smile that was no longer genuine, “first, you will break bread with us, Drake.”

Again, the word ‘Drake’ was dripping with contempt.

Davillo scoffed audibly.

“You are mad! I will never sup with the likes of you!”

Kurzhon spread his arms to encompass all the food on the table.

“But we have so much,” he said, his voice strained, “and prepared by a noblewoman of some renown. You simply must.”

The last words were hard, and the smile fell from Kurzhon’s face as he said it.

“Do you lack wits?” Davillo barked, “I said —”

Before he could finish, Kurzhon burst up from his chair, shocking everyone and causing many to cry out in alarm.

In a flash, Davillo had his sword out to fend off attack, but the attack never came.

Instead, Kurzhon had grabbed the nearest woman to him and held her by the neck. Her face was drained of blood and her eyes were wider than should have been humanly possible.

“YOU COWARD!” shouted Davillo, brandishing his sword. “Release that woman at once and face me!”

The Drake bounced on the balls of his feet, unable to take action, but desperately wanting to.

Kurzhon smiled as he held the woman’s throat in his massive hand.

“Not yet, Drake.” He hissed. “First, you will pick up that bread… and EAT. IT.”

As he spoke, he nodded his head down toward the meal that had been prepared by Lady Monidale.

Again, all in the tavern were stunned into silence.

Wakely could see the captive woman’s body shaking uncontrollably. All except her neck, which was held fast by Kurzhon’s strong grip.

Kurzhon spoke once more.

“You must realize how easily I can and will kill this woman. Do it, Drake. EAT.”

When Davillo didn’t move, Wakely spoke up.

“You heard him, Drake. EAT IT!”

Wakely tried to sound as imposing and ominous as Kurzhon, but he knew he had failed when the Drake cut his eyes down toward Wakely.

He couldn’t hold the Drake’s stare and looked away, shrinking back into his chair.

Davillo moved, barely restrained fury obvious in every move. He thrust his sword back into it’s scabbard, then stepped forward to the table.

Reaching down, he plucked a piece of Lady Monidale’s lumpy, misshapen bread from a plate. Then, with his eyes again locked onto Kurzhon, he took a large bite of the bread.

Kurzhon’s smile nearly split his face in two.

“Now chew, Drake! CHEW!” Kurzhon shouted, laughing as he did so.

Davillo began chewing… then his eyes grew wide and he stopped.

Wakely burst out laughing, but Kurzhon snapped at the Drake.

“Do not spit that out, Drake! Eat it! Swallow it!”

Davillo had no choice but to continue chewing the foul bread. He worked hard, as the bread refused to be vanquished, retaining it’s rubbery consistency and disgusting taste no matter how long it was chewed.

After many long moments of chewing, Davillo was finally able to swallow. He did so with an audible gulp that caused Wakely to again laugh out loud.

The Drake was shaking with anger, but he visibly composed himself.

He replaced the manacles inside his cloak and stepped backwards.

“I am going outside, where we will settle this. After I defeat you in combat, you will be taken to the GrayRock where you will stand trial for all the crimes you have committed across the entirety of Straifus.”

This came out as a vicious whisper, then Davillo turned and stalked out of the tavern. The gathered crowd parted quickly and silently before him.

All eyes turned to Kurzhon.

He simply opened his hand and let the woman he held fall to the ground. A few hesitant people came forward to help her. They did not want to get too close to the angry man who had murdered so many people that day.

Kurzhon stepped over the body, not giving the woman a second thought as he drew his axe from it’s back scabbard.

“Finally, this pissant town provides some entertainment,” he growled as he stalked toward the door.

The crowd, which had already parted for Davillo, drew even further away to clear a path for Kurzhon.

Wakely grabbed his bag of recently acquired merchandise and scurried out the door after Kurzhon. There was no way he was missing even a moment of this.

***

When Kurzhon walked out into the sunlight he saw that the Drake had already removed his cloak and stood in the wide lot of the town center.

The Drake had his dull gray sword at the ready. With his cloak now gone, Kurzhon could see that Davillo was wearing a loose-fitting, common white doublet with a dark gray leather jerkin over it. The strong build of the Drake’s body was apparent even under the clothes.

Dark gray breeches and black boots completed his outfit. Kurzhon thought the gear well chosen. Loose enough to provide any range of movement, yet not loose enough to provide distraction.

Drakes certainly love their gray, Kurzhon thought, his attention drawn once more to the dull metal of the gray sword.

He wondered what that metal actually was. Drakes guarded the secret closely. The metal was not unbreakable, Kurzhon knew, but it was pretty close.

The Drake’s facial expression was one of cold contempt as Kurzhon neared, and then stopped mere paces away.

“You could surrender now and spare yourself injury,” Davillo said. “Spare your audience the trauma of more bloodshed.”

Kurzhon knew Davillo was referring to the crowd of people who had followed him out of the tavern.

“I don’t know, Drake,” Kurzhon said, “not many can say they have seen a Drake beaten and killed. I would not deny them that.”

Before Kurzhon could finish, Davillo launched himself forward, directing a vicious overhand strike to Kurzhon’s head.

Kurzhon easily blocked, as Davillo knew he would, but then a series of lightning strikes followed, each probing a different skillset, requiring different defenses.

Axe whirling, Kurzhon blocked each attack as it came, impressed with the Drake’s speed. This was not a foe he could disregard, and yet he was still not fully engaged.

“Come now, Drake!” Kurzhon shouted over the ring of metal on metal, “stop testing me and fight!”

Kurzhon went on the offensive then, but he was not simply testing.

A hurricane of assaults came down on Davillo then, and as he was forced into pure defense, he was also grudgingly forced to admit that this “Life-Taker” had a well-deserved reputation. His skill could not be refuted.

But this admission did not shake Davillo’s confidence one bit. He was a Drake, and the lawless thug before him had taken too many lives. He would not fail.

***

Meanwhile Wakely and the rest of the gathered people watched with silent awe.

The two men moved so fast it sometimes appeared that they moved from position to position by skipping the intervening movements that should be necessary. Because of this, the sounds of the metallic strikes did not match what Wakely was seeing.

From his perspective it looked as if there were a hundred whirling axes and a hundred gray sword blades swinging and striking and swinging again.

And yet neither one of the fighters appeared to have the upper hand.

Strangely, despite the fury of the battle, Wakely began to grow… bored.

He wondered if this fight might go on forever, with no one ever landing a solid strike.

Then one of the fighters kicked the other in the groin.

***

Kurzhon went down to one knee when the groin kick landed.

At the very last instant he had turned, sparing himself the worst of the blow, but the impact he did take caused him to lose his breath and nausea to erupt in his stomach.

He had not dropped his axe, but he realized his head and neck had been unprotected for crucial moments as he kneeled, recovering from the blow.

Had the Drake wanted him dead, he would have been dead.

Kurzhon looked up at the Drake. The man’s face was still cold and angry.

The kick to his face came before he could react.

This time Kurzhon did drop his axe as he fell onto his back. He scrambled onto his stomach and dove for the axe, but was beaten by Davillo, who kicked it even further away.

“Yield!” Davillo shouted down at Kurzhon.

Kurzhon turned onto his back, then stopped moving, glaring up at the Drake.

“Your contempt and dismissal of Drakes was your undoing,” Davillo said, loud enough for all to hear.

“Yes, we are honorable! Yes, we are good!” Davillo shouted, then pointed his sword down at Kurzhon.

“But you thought dirty tricks and unfair fighting were solely your province. You were wrong!”

Kurzhon’s scowl was such that it would sour milk still inside the cow.

Even though he was at a distinct disadvantage, and he had underestimated the Drake, he would still turn this situation around somehow.

He locked eyes with Davillo, preparing a hostile remark that he hoped would get under the Drake’s skin.

But then something seemed wrong about Davillo’s face.

No, not his face… his entire head.

There was an arrow through it.

***

Hossy slapped Kavel on the back. He was giddy.

“Great shot, mate!” he squealed. “Did you aim for his head?!”

Kavel smiled but scrunched his face up in mock anger.

“You wound me, sir! Of course I was aiming for his head!”

“I could’ve also taken’ him, Hossy!” Lundy said.

Kavel and Hossy both looked at each other, then burst into laughter. Lundy frowned. Anger apparent on his face.

As the three continued talking, the crowd of people fell back away from them as if they had been on fire.

Kavel slung his bow back over his shoulder.

“Well, I hope you were right about him, because I just killed a Drake.”

Hossy waved the concern away with a quick hand movement.

“Ahh of course I’m right! This is just the start of a new time for us, boys, you mark my words —yes what is it, Lundy!??”

Hossy reacted irritably as Lundy tapped him repeatedly on the shoulder with a staccato pattern of alarm.

“Hossy! Hossy! He’s coming this way! He don’t look happy!”

Hossy turned to look, and Lundy was right. The big, bald man was stalking toward them.

He did not look friendly. In fact, the look on his face could be described as distinctly murderous.

Hossy swallowed hard.

***

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT TIME

Thanks for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought of Chapter 9 of Kurzhon’s adventures!

Be back here next time for the thrilling conclusion of this installment of Chronicles of The Life-Taker!

Last time I mentioned getting finished artwork for my comic, The Bill Collectors, and moving on to the less-glamorous work of putting in the words.

Boy it is going slooooooowwwwww.

The main problem is that I’m on the wordy side, I like my characters to be saying a whole buncha stuff on each page.

Well sometimes the laws of physics work against me, and there just isn’t enough room for all the clever little dialogue I had written down in the script.

What you write in the script may look brief, but it doesn’t always appear that way once it gets onto the comic page, surrounded by a bubble that itself takes up space.

So then I have to decide ”is my dialogue so important that I should cover up the art?”

99% of the time the answer is “no”, and that means some text has to be cut or re-written. Very painful.

And this is a best-case situation. I’m the writer and the letterer.

Imagine in a traditional comic setup if the letterer has to go back to the writer and say “sorry man, I’ve got to cut your beautiful words.”

Well, in that case an argument will likely ensue.

In comics, for the most part people are there for the art. They don’t want to turn the page and see a wall of text balloons.

So that’s what I’m mostly dealing with these days, I’m hoping I can get through it with most of my original text intact. Keeping my fingers crossed!

The Life-Taker continues…!

Oh boy, last time someone was charged with cooking breakfast.

Not a traditional fantasy storyline I know, but even angry, violent axe-wielding barbarians have gotta eat.

So now… here is Part 8 of Kurzhon's adventures (part 7 seen here).

CHAPTER 8

“The way to man’s heart is through his stomach. Unless that man has no heart.”

~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker

* * *

Long moments of silence drew out after Kurzhon’s proclamation.

The waitstaff of the tavern made no move, just watched the party of three before them, likely hoping that someone else would make this situation go away.

Lady Monidale, wet and bedraggled, hair plastered over her pale white skin, stared up at Kurzhon with her mouth agape.

Wakely stepped forward to address the noblewoman.

“You heard my friend,” he told her, “we are hungry and we desire breakfast. Off with you!”

Wakely had not been expecting this, but now that Kurzhon had brought it up, he could not imagine another time coming when a noblewoman might serve him for once. He was truly looking forward to it.

Snapping his fingers at the waitstaff, he shouted.

“One of you take the Lady and get her started on our breakfast! Hurry now, we are famished!”

Still, no one moved. Then a meek voice spoke, this from an older woman carrying a tray of dirty glasses.

“B-but… she is a Lady!” the woman exclaimed, her tremulous voice high pitched and breathy. “We cannot make her work!”

Kurzhon, once again, was disgusted. He would never understand how these fools deferred to nobility, how they allowed themselves to be taken advantage of by worthless, freeloading, mincing fops.

He stepped forward, and everyone in the room stepped back, even those who were not close to him.

“Hear me,” he spoke. He did not shout, but all in the room were riveted by his low, rumbling voice.

He gestured at Lady Monidale.

“This woman is moments away from death. The only thing separating her from that death is my good will.”

Wakely had thought Lady Monidale was pale before, he smiled as he watched the blood drain from her face.

“My good will is not infinite. It grows less as my hunger grows more. If I do not receive sustenance soon, she will be the first to pay…”

Everyone tensed, hoping he would not say what was coming next.

“… but she will not be the last.”

Hopes dashed, the woman holding the tray of glasses quickly set them down and ambled over to Lady Monidale. Grabbing her by the wrist she pulled the noblewoman along harshly.

“Come on, now! I’ll help you but you’ll not forfeit my life!”

They were almost out of the room when Kurzhon spoke again, much louder.

“Do not help her too much, old woman. And if she should happen to escape, I will become most unpleasant.”

Wakely saw the look of fear on the old woman’s face and assumed that was what Kurzhon was looking for. Although he found it hard to imagine his new companion becoming even more unpleasant than he already was.

Just then, a young man who looked looked to be a coach driver burst through the door, backed by small group of dour-faced older women.

He marched up to Kurzhon, showing no fear on his face.

Wakely thought that in any other company the man might considered big, but compared to Kurzhon he appeared as if he had shrunk in the wash.

The young man cleared his throat and squared up against Kurzhon, who looked on with interest.

“The Drake is coming! You’d best be on your way or else—”

Kurzhon’s backhand happened almost too fast to see. There was a blur of motion, the sickening slap of meat on meat, and then the young man fell to the ground, unfortunately landing on his face. He did not move after that.

The women who had come in with him now tried to back out, as they had clearly put the young man up to it.

Alas, curious crowd members who had followed Kurzhon up from the dock were just now gaining the courage to enter, and forced the group of women even further into the tavern.

Kurzhon paid the women no attention. Instead he moved to a table and sat down. He had his back against a wall and a clear view of the entrance. Wakely sat down with him, also picking a seat with a view of the door.

No one moved to pick up the now unconscious man from the floor.

More and more people from outside were now gathering just to the inside of the doorway, murmuring among themselves and eyeing Kurzhon sideways, none willing to make direct eye contact.

Wakely noticed that they did not have a problem eyeing his bag, though. It had only been a matter of time before people started noticing their missing belongings and suspecting what had happened to them.

He surreptitiously slid the bag off the table and onto the floor next to him. He was enjoying himself immensely.

Normally, he did not receive much respect in his travels.

It was usual for the local law enforcement to suggest that he move on to another place, that is if they could not prove he was a thief. In times when he had made mistakes, he had been chased out of towns by dogs and torch-wielding mobs.

This was a much better experience. He thought he could get used to it.

A young serving girl appeared before them, eyes wide.

“D-drinks, my Lords?”

Wakely spoke first. “Do you have any milk?” he asked, excitedly.

Kurzhon shot a look of confusion and disgust at him. Wakely cleared his throat.

“I mean ALE, we’ll have your best ale, please.” Wakely looked to Kurzhon for approval, and Kurzhon nodded his head shortly to give it.

“And it had better not be piss-water,” Kurzhon growled.

The waitress nodded emphatically and then was gone in a flash, eager to be away from the two men. Wakely felt a charge from the girl’s fear.

“So, my friend,” Wakely began, “the tales say you are the last Vultaikan. What happened to the rest of them?”

Kurzhon answered quickly.

“Gone,” he said.

“Yes,” Wakely said, “but gone where? Surely of an entire nation there must be some others around somewh—”

“I said… they are GONE.” Kurzhon snapped. Wakely found the baleful eyes trained on him, and realized he had made mistake.

“Ahh, yes, gone! That is good enough for me! Who needs to know where they are, anyway? We can get along without them! Good riddance, I say!”

Kurzhon gave him another hard glance, and Wakely decided to change the subject.

***

Unnoticed by Kurzhon and Wakely, three men had entered the tavern along with the rest of the gathered onlookers.

They appeared to be fighting men, youthful, with well-made weapons, yet they had not lifted a finger in the day’s earlier action.

One of them, a bit shorter than the others, with a mop of wispy brown hair falling into his eyes, had lead his two companions to the back of the tavern, and from there they kept a steady eye on Kurzhon.

“So we’re not leaving, Hossy?” asked one of the men, a tall and lean man who carried a longbow. His dark hair and dark eyes made his sharply cast face appear to be hawkish in some ways.

The short man, named Hossy, responded cooly.

“No, Kavel, we’re not going anywhere just yet. I think this big man could be the muscle we need for the band.”

Then the last of the three men spoke. He was larger than the other two, but it was more fat than muscle. He was balding and carried a thick cudgel with him.

“But Hossy,” he blurted, “I’m th’ muscle of this group!”

The two other men laughed.

“Hey, Lundy,” Kavel said, “where are you keeping that muscle? Is it in here?”

With that, Kavel grabbed a fistful of Lundy’s prodigious belly fat and shook it, causing a procession of jiggling around the big man’s body.

“Aw, stop it!” shouted Lundy, pushing Kavel’s hands away.

“You two cut it out!” Hossy turned and hissed at them.

“Bottom line is we need a fourth for the kind of business I have planned, and somebody like that won’t work cheap. You’ll both have to take half-pay until we make some scores.”

There was a lot of grumbling from the other two, but Hossy was the leader, so they eventually gave up.

Hossy wasn’t listening anyway. He kept staring at Kurzhon, already dreaming about the kind of loot they could take from people with a man like that working for him.

***

A lot of time passed, and business in the tavern area of the inn became almost normal again. Regular conversation and the clinking of glass and silverware you might expect to hear in such a place was now in evidence.

The smell of food cooking began wafting out of the back of the tavern.

There had been some loud exclamations from the kitchen, and then outright shouting, but it was obvious that food was being prepared.

It could not come a moment too soon, as far as Wakely was concerned. He simply could not engage his large companion in any sort of decent conversation.

All he could get out of the man were one-word answers and hard stares.

The most Kurzhon had said at one time was “piss-water”, after he had taken a draft of the ale brought to them.

Wakely thought it was a bit rude, and after all he had done for the man, too.

Oh, well, he thought, at least I have breakfast to look forward to.

Even though the conversation was bad, he still enjoyed the feeling of power that came with attaching himself to such a feared personage.

As Kurzhon was not talking, Wakely began listening in on the chatter around him. Some of the women were chastising the menfolk for not standing up and taking care of the “ruffian” in their midst.

Wakely stifled a laugh. Ruffian. Anyone who had seen any sort of fighting would know that this man beside him was nothing less than a one-man army. These men weren’t stupid enough to engage him.

That’s why they’re waiting on the Drake, he thought.

Then his mood darkened. The Drake. There was one coming.

Wakely had seen a lot in his travels. He had seen Drakes. They were not like the guards here. Their abilities were storied, many times exaggerated, but Wakely had seen what they could do in real life. They were not to be trifled with.

But are they good enough to stop The Life-Taker? He thought.

So far, as the man was still at large, the answer seemed to be “no”.

But there was a first time for everything.

Wakely’s thoughts were interrupted when the serving girl appeared with a large tray of hot food.

Kurzhon smiled.

“Good,” he barked at the terrified girl, “what do you recommend I try first?”

“U-um, uh…” she stammered. Wakely took a moment to look over everything.

There was a lot of food on the plates, but he couldn’t determine what it was all supposed to be.

He identified some chunks of burnt bacon, and some lumpy, doughy things that he suspected were supposed to be biscuits. Then there were other lumpy, doughy piles that he guessed were potatoes of some kind.

There was a disgusting blob of something he determined must be eggs, and burnt bread that he thought was supposed to be toasted.

As the serving girl didn’t answer, Wakely reached over and plucked up one of the biscuits.

“If this goes wrong,” he told Kurzhon, “avenge me!”

Then he popped it into his mouth and began chewing.

Kurzhon looked on expectantly.

Wakely spit the blob of dough out from his mouth, launching it with violent force. It landed on the table and then fell onto the floor. The serving girl jumped back in alarm.

Kurzhon threw back his head and laughed.

Wakely was no longer in a good mood.

“I don’t see what’s so funny! This was your idea! I’m hungry and Lady Monidale can’t cook to save her—”

Even as he said the words, he realized exactly what was so funny to Kurzhon.

“—life.”

Lady Monidale is a dead woman, thought Wakely.

Then, before anyone could move, the door to the tavern opened again, but it was no regular townsperson or traveler.

It was a Drake.

The man was tall, and even though Wakely could not see much of his body under the long gray cloak he wore, the man appear to be fit.

He had straight dark hair and tanned skin. There was generous stubble across his face but no true beard.

The man looked hard. Wakely didn’t like his look at all.

“Now you’ve done it!” shouted someone who Wakely couldn’t see. “Now you’ll get what’s coming to you!”

The crowd parted and the path between the Drake and The Life-Taker became clear.

Without acknowledging the person who spoke, the Drake stepped forward, exuding grace and supreme confidence as he moved toward Kurzhon.

As he grew closer, Wakely began to regret the day’s choices more and more. This Drake looked strong. Capable. He looked angry.

Finally, as the room grew more and more quiet, the Drake came to stand directly in front of Kurzhon’s table.

Now there was supreme silence. No one spoke or moved. Kurzhon and the Drake stared at one another, with Kurzhon smiling and the Drake scowling.

Finally, Kurzhon spoke, contempt infusing his voice.

“It’s about time, Drake.”

***

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT TIME

Thanks for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought of Chapter 8 of Kurzhon’s adventures!

As for me, there’s always so many projects and just not enough time.

I finally reached a milestone in my comic-related endeavors, and I can happily announce that the artwork for my upcoming comic The Bill Collectors is officially done!

If you haven’t seen any of this stuff you can read about it and see a two-page special here by me and Leonardo Romanelli, the same artist as the upcoming comic.

I have to say, it’s kind of weird working with another artist on something.

Since I’m an artist myself I always have a vision of how the panels and story should play out.

Sometimes it’s shocking when a new page comes in and it looks abso-fraggin-lutely nothing like what I envisioned, lol.

Seeing how another artist interprets my words is frankly, fascinating.

There were also a couple of times where he suggested a different approach to what I had in the script.

When those times happened, I had to really think about how to proceed. Was his way better? If I kept my way was I being egotistical?

Usually he had some pretty good ideas, and I went with his suggestion. There was only one time I can remember where I had to tell him nah I need it drawn like so.

The bottom line was the story comes first, not my ego. Much easier said than done, trust me.

So that’s only one part of this thing done.

I still need to put in all the words yet and combine this thing into an actual comic.

This comic is in black and white, but if my budget allows I may find someone to color it in and make a “deluxe” version later on.

Very exciting times!

The Life-Taker continues…!

When last we were in the land of The Life-Taker, a certain ferryman had found himself in dire straits.

Who wants to bet on if he survives or not?

Here is Part 7 of Kurzhon's adventures (part 6 seen here).

CHAPTER 7

“Not horse, nor wagon, nor boat can deliver you from my wrath.”

~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker

* * *

The ferry tilted wildly back and forth after Kurzhon’s weight landed on it’s edge. Screams ripped through the air, crossing the water and reaching the shore, where many of the town’s onlookers had now just arrived to continue their gawking at the day’s events.

Wakely heard a shriek of terror and judged that it came from Lady Monidale’s Lady in Waiting, who had been thrown over the side when the Life-Taker landed on the ferry. The woman had been catapulted into the air and had landed harshly in the water, silencing her scream abruptly.

Gunther, having captained the ferry for decades, managed to keep his feet with the help of his pole, but he did not take his eyes off the large man now sharing the ferry with him.

He couldn’t. The large man’s dark skin, while covered in welts and scars from old battles, did not appear to have any new wounds.

Gunther cursed the useless guards of Whudhold. Apparently not one of them had managed to land a blow and soften the big man up. The only positive was the man had replaced his axe into his back scabbard to make the jump onto the ferry, and he had not drawn it yet.

“Good ferryman,” the large, dark man said, “do I have your permission to come aboard?”

The last was said in a growl, and Gunther’s heart leapt into his throat as the dark man surged forward, closing the distance between them much faster than Gunther would have believed possible.

With speed and strength borne of pure, distilled terror, Gunther swung his pole. The pole had served him well for almost ten years. It was solid oak that had been treated with resins to harden it further, the composition of which Gunther did not know or care. It had taken down many a ruffian, and he hoped it would take one more.

His hopes came to nothing.

The irresistible force of the hard oak wood met the immovable object of Kurzhon’s left forearm.

The pole shattered, breaking almost completely in two toward the top. It had been no match for dense, hardened bone that had been broken, healed, broken and healed over the course of a lifetime while enduring the harsh training of the Frozen Masters of Vultaika.

Shocked, Gunther reacted too late to prevent the large attacker from snatching the broken pole out of his hands and tossing it to the deck of the ferry.

Gunther, already more afraid than he had ever been, felt an impossible swelling of even more fear in his chest, and then he heard screaming.

He realized Lady Monidale had been screaming this entire time.

Then the big man reached for him. Gunther turned to run, planning to jump from the ferry, but he felt the hands grab him.

Gunther began to scream.

***

When Lady Monidale saw the big commoner man start breaking things on the ferryman she decided it was time to go.

She threw aside the smelly robe that had been given to her to hide her appearance, hiked up the skirts of her travel dress and jumped as far as she could into the water.

Lady Monidale was no stranger to swimming. She had been ready to fight the drag caused by her dress while swimming, but she was not prepared for the harsh cold of the lake water. The temperature shocked her and caused her to exhale prematurely under the water.

Spluttering, she fought her way to the surface. Air, sound and light seemed to crash down on her at once.

She greedily inhaled precious air, then saw that she was facing the ferry. The ferryman was screaming. The big man had already savagely pummeled the ferryman, now each blow seemed harder and more vicious than the last.

Then, he picked up the broken pole and began beating the already vanquished ferryman with it again and again.

Lady Monidale turned and began paddling out into the open water. She did not know if she could make it back to the other side of the lake, but it was obvious that she could not stay here.

As she paddled, there was an eruption from under the surface of the water off to her right. It was her Lady, Tumisa, and she was struggling to remain afloat.

“My —glurg!— Lady! Help me!!” Tumisa cried, before she went under again.

Lady Monidale kept paddling, not even slowing for a moment.

After another few strokes, Tumisa surfaced again.

“CANNOT! SWIM!!” she cried, “HELP ME!!”

Then Tumisa went under again. She did not reappear.

Help her? Lady Monidale knew she would do nothing of the sort!

Tumisa had grown up adjacent to the same court as her, surely she could not be blamed if the woman had neglected her swimming lessons.

With the intensity of the condemned, Lady Monidale continued her progress out into open water that looked to her as if it had no end.

***

On the ferry, Kurzhon used the broken pole and rained blow after thunderous blow down upon the nearly non-responsive Gunther.

With the indignity of the ferryman poking him with his wooden pole the previous day fresh in his mind, Kurzhon readied another volley of attacks, but then he heard a shrill voice carry over the water.

“—GETTING AWAY—!!!” the voice cried.

Again, Kurzhon found himself warned by Wakely the thief. Immediately, he took stock of his surroundings.

Besides himself and the pitiful ferryman, the ferry itself was empty. In the distance, he saw what the thief was screaming about.

A woman, who he assumed to be Lady Monidale, was swimming off into open water.

Kurzhon knew she could never swim the entire breadth of the lake, especially with her full dress on. He knew she would drown out there. A horrible death to be sure.

Just not horrible enough.

No, Kurzhon thought, no easy escapes, my Lady. Not from me.

With that thought, Kurzhon threw the bloody wooden pole into the water and took a step back from the defeated, broken ferryman, who mistook the action for mercy.

“P-please, my lord,” Gunther said, “please… no more…!”

The ferrymen held up a hand, or as much as he was able. He felt so much was broken inside of him now. He could barely make his limbs respond to his will.

Kurzhon’s attention returned to Gunther. His head snapped down and his teeth clenched.

“NO MORE?!” he shouted. “YOU’LL GET ONE MORE, FOOL!”

Then Kurzhon drew back his leg and put all the power he could muster into a kick that he thought even his horse would be proud of.

Gunther cried out in sharp agony as Kurzhon’s foot made contact with his side, then his cry changed from pain to one of alarm and panic as the force of the kick lifted him from the ferry and sent him sailing briefly into the air.

The ferryman hit the water hard, screaming the entire way. Within moments, he disappeared under the water.

Kurzhon waited the space of a few heartbeats, but the ferryman did not resurface.

Satisfied, he turned his head and trained his sight on the receding form of Lady Monidale. Her swimming was visibly slowing.

Kurzon smiled.

***

Lady Monidale was tired. So tired.

She did not think she had ever exerted herself so much in her entire life. Yet she still could not see the other side of the lake.

New levels of panic began to set in, as the very real, likely in fact, threat of drowning emerged.

The thought of turning back filled her mind, perhaps reasoning with the large man, offering him anything. Gold. Her hand in marriage. ANYTHING.

She looked back at the ferry. Fear struck her anew.

The big man was gone.

The ferry was empty, swaying in the water with no one to tend to it.

Lady Monidale hoped that the man had jumped in the water to swim back to shore, but something told her that was not the case.

A surge of energy flowed into her and she redoubled her efforts to swim to the other side of the lake.

Stroke after stroke, she determined that she would live. She was going to LIVE.

Then she felt something close around her ankle. It closed tightly. Painfully.

The burst of fear had barely touched her before she was dragged under.

***

Wakely and many of the crowd from the town had taken up a vigil on the shore, the better to see the action.

It had been a bit distant, but he had been able to make out most of it.

He had not cared about the brutal drubbing given to the ferryman. That old bastard had taken delight in denying him passage on many a night.

But when Lady Monidale’s companion had sunk under the water, Wakely had felt an icy hand grip his heart.

He knew that whatever jewels or valuables she’d had on her person were now gone.

Gone, he thought, gravely, why do bad things always happen to me?

After he had shouted at the big man again, he had been slightly mollified to see him jump into the water and go after her.

However, he could only hope against hope that the Lady… and all her valuables… would be brought back to the shore.

Wakely wrung his hands and bounced on the balls of his feet.

Come on! He thought. Come on! Come on! Come on!

The big man had to come up for air sometime. Even if he planned to drown Lady Monidale, he wasn’t planning to drown himself, right?

Where was he??

“The Drake has been sent for!!” someone shouted behind Wakely.

Shouts and exclamations went up in the crowd all around him.

Wakely felt a cold wash of fear at the thought of a Drake appearing, but surely he had time to get away.

First though, Wakely sidled over to the man who had shouted, fingers ready to appropriate whatever loose valuables were available.

Then he frowned, realizing he had already liberated anything of worth from that particular individual.

He was trying to decide whether he should wait or take his leave while he could, when there was a disturbance in the water.

“LOOK!” shouted a man who appeared to be some sort of cloth merchant. Different, garish colors of cloth draped from his arm as he pointed at the lake.

Wakely saw a form emerge from the water. A large, bulky form of a bald, muscular man. The man walked with no hint of concern or agitation, as if he had just crossed a stream, not just beaten a person to death and swam across a lake.

Somehow the large axe was still strapped to the man’s back, and he looked to be dragging something.

“Oh, praise Rhona!” shouted Wakely.

Lady Monidale’s bedraggled form became clear as she was pulled along by the scruff of her dress’s neckline.

Whatever weight the Lady had was clearly insignificant to her captor, as he dragged her along behind him without so much as a backward glance, sloshing through the shallow water with ease.

As he walked up onto the beach, Kurzhon dropped Lady Monidale onto the sand, eliciting a coughing, spluttering cry of pain.

Only then did Wakely realize she was alive.

“Oh, my Lady! Allow me to help you!” Wakely sprung forward and knelt beside the sopping wet noblewoman. His hands roamed her body with no regard for her privacy or well-being. She tried to push his hands away but was far too weak to do so.

No one was paying them any attention, as the crowd focused all of their attention on Kurzhon.

“The Drake is coming!” shouted someone in the gathered crowd at the beach. “You’d best be on your way!”

Barking laughter was his reply.

“Is that so?” laughed Kurzhon. He had pulled off his boots and was draining the water from them, curling his toes in the sand to dry them out.

“It is so!” shouted someone. Then more and more shouts came, screaming at him to move on. That the Drake would punish him.

Kurzhon, undeterred in even the slightest bit, put his boots back on, then stepped forward to face the sorry mob.

The shouts quieted immediately. No one met his eyes.

“Why wait for the Drake?” his voice boomed. “Surely there are enough of you to finish me yourselves!”

Wakely smirked, knowing the good, righteous people of Whudhold would not take it upon themselves to deny a Drake his opportunity to dispense justice.

Lady Monidale’s protestations had become stronger as she recovered from her plight, and she finally succeeded in pushing Wakely’s questing hands away from her.

It was too late though, Wakely had actually recovered the ruby brooch from around the half-drowned woman’s neck. He stood, smiling wildly, overcome with emotion.

He held up the ruby to the light.

My days of debt are over! He told himself.

He tucked the brooch away just before the Life-Taker reached him. The man had stomped over to him after cowing the entire crowd.

Without a word, he stepped past Wakely, then reached down and grabbed the back of Lady Monidale’s collar. Then he began walking back up toward the town, dragging her easily along as he walked.

Easily for him, anyway. Lady Monidale bounced harshly, her legs and feet becoming scraped and bruised as the sand of the beach gave way to the cobblestone pavement of the town center.

The woman yelped and squealed as she bounced across the ground. She grabbed onto Kurzhon’s hand with both of her own as if she might force it open, but even had she been at her best, she would not have possessed anywhere near the strength necessary to break that grip.

“It’s true, you know,” Wakely said, waking alongside Kurzhon. “They sent someone after a Drake. Apparently there was one here yesterday. If their rider catches him, he could be back by mid-day. We’d best be gone.”

Kurzhon did not look at Wakely as he replied.

“You can go wherever and whenever you wish, thief,” he said. “I’m hungry, and I’m not leaving until I’ve had my breakfast.”

Wakely thought about it, and decided he could use a bite. He was going to ride this bit of good fortune out for now.

Kurzhon, Wakely and a small procession of people made their way toward the Wudhold Inn. The bodies of the men he had killed were still in front of it.

Wakely could not help but notice that Lady Monidale exhibited no signs of distress at seeing the members of her retinue dead in the street as she was dragged roughly past their bodies.

Kicking open the front doors, Kurzhon and Wakely, along with an uncooperative Lady Monidale entered the Inn. The entire bottom floor of the Inn was a tavern, and there were a few waitstaff staring in terror and the larger murderer who had just burst into the room.

It was quiet for a long moment. No one spoke. All waited to see what Kurzhon would do next.

Finally, after some inner decision was reached, Kurzhon yanked Lady Monidale onto her feet and stood her before him.

“Now, my Lady,” he growled, it was obvious there was nothing but scorn in his voice as he spoke, towering over her.

“I desire breakfast, and you are going to make it for me.”

Wakely’s eyebrows darted up. He had not been expecting this.

Lady Monidale’s face also took on an expression of utter shock. Then Kurzhon spoke again.

“And if you want to live…”

Lady Monidale shrank back away from him.

“… I had best enjoy it.”

***

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

Thanks for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought of Chapter 7 of Kurzhon’s adventures!

Next week I’ll have some comic-related updates, but this week is all about a certain angry Vultaikan.

Here goes Part 6 of Kurzhon's adventures (part 5 seen here).

CHAPTER 6

“Guardsmen Are No True Men At All”

~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker

* * *

Wakely had been impressed when the guards had surged forward, showing no signs of fear or intimidation, to engage his large traveling companion.

They don’t know who he is, Wakely thought as he smiled, then he mentally shook himself. He had work to do, he couldn’t simply stand around gawking!

As the fight raged on, neither side landing a strike, Wakely threw himself onto the body of the fallen Steward.

“Somebody help this man!” he cried, proud of how he could take his voice just to the edge of hysterical.

As he feigned checking a man who was clearly dead for life signs, his hands roamed over the Steward’s clothing, into every pocket and seam.

While there was little coin, there was actual paper tender. Wakely preferred such in a tense situation like this. He was able to deftly tuck the paper into his sleeve with no one noticing.

Of course, there were more interesting sights to see at the moment. The clang of steel on steel rang out again and again in the morning air.

The growing crowd stood mostly paralyzed, with the odd cry for someone to fetch a Drake repeated from time to time.

As the battle continued, Wakely threw himself onto the Squire’s body with a shout of anguish.

“Squire Bartholomew! Noooo!” he cried. He had not known the Squire’s actual name, but he looked like a ‘Bartholomew’.

Again, his expert fingers searched the body and came up with even less than the servant. Wakely was not surprised by this, though. Much of the time, the nobility had little reason to carry actual money on their personage.

He frowned, thinking he would have to make do with the jade ring he had taken from the Squire’s finger. It looked somewhat poorly cut to him.

Oh, well, what else can you expect from Tersi? he thought, un-generously.

Tucking the ring away, he focused his attention on the fight between his traveling companion and the Tersi guardsmen.

Wakely squinted. If he did not know better, he would say that the Life-Taker was not mentally engaged with the battle. He looked…

…bored.

***

Kurzhon had grown bored with the two Tersi guardsmen.

He had hoped to be pleasantly surprised by men with actual battle skill, but as usual, his hopes were dashed by reality.

These men were no fit opponents for him. Kurzhon had lost count of how many openings he had allowed to go unexploited.

As an exercise, Kurzhon had left himself open to strikes. True warriors would have seized on this, but these men were not true warriors.

They were house dogs, trained to growl, but never bite.

He blocked strike after inexpert strike, all the while wondering if the Drake he had heard called for would ever appear.

Then out of the corner of his eye, Kurzhon spotted motion.

More guards! Whudhold guards! He counted six of them running directly at him. They were still far back, but they would be there soon.

Good! He thought, finally they send true fighters!

With that, he decided to end his skirmish with the Tersi guards, and engage the Whudhold men.

He spun into the personal space of one of the guardsmen and brought his axe down, chopping off the man’s hand just above his wrist.

The hand flew a good distance away, the guardsman’s sword still clutched in it. A quick splatter of blood sprayed out along the arc of the hand’s journey, some of it landing on the watching crowd, many of whom shrieked as if they themselves had been cut.

The second Tersi guardsman saw the fate of his friend, then leapt forward to help him.

That was the wrong thing to do. Kurzhon had anticipated this, and so arranged for the blade of his axe to be at just the right position and angle in space as to take the guardsman’s head off as he ran forward.

Unfortunately, although the axe penetrated deep, the guardsman’s head did not come completely off. Instead, it dropped to the side, and fell under the body as the guardsman fell to the ground.

Now there were uncontrolled cries and wails from the crowd.

Kurzhon was disgusted with the womanish screaming, but even more disgusted with himself.

That head should have come clean off.

He felt no small amount of shame. He would have to do better next time.

Luckily, he realized that the guardsman who he had separated from his sword hand was still alive.

This man was now wailing even worse than the women in the crowd. Fresh disgust for the man welled up in Kurzhon. It seemed that whenever he chopped off a hand, instead of using their surviving hand to continue the fight, most men chose to stand there, weeping, as they stared at their new bloody stump.

Kurzhon would never understand such people. He quickly rushed over to the man and swung his axe.

This time the guardsman’s head almost flew from his body, as Kurzhon had put extra effort into it.

“Hah! HA HAAAAAAHHHH!!” Kurzhon shouted in glee. He now felt he had redeemed himself.

With that taken care of, he spun and began running toward the oncoming Wudhold guardsmen. Before he closed with them he leapt into he air, axe held high.

To one trained in merciless Vultaika, by the deadly Frozen Masters, sometimes lesser warriors seemed to be moving in slow motion.

This was such a moment. As Kurzhon fell back to earth, time seemed to slow, and he examined each of the six guardsmen who would be his new adversaries. Not their weapons, or size, but their eyes.

Fear, fear, fear, and more fear. Only one of the men before him had a true warrior’s spirit.

Time snapped back to its regular forward movement then. After that, everything seemed to happen at once.

Kurzhon brought his axe down on the closest guard, who just barely managed to raise his sword across his body to block the strike.

Unfortunately, Kurzhon’s weight and downward momentum forced the guard’s own sword blade down into the flesh above his collarbone. The lightweight leather armor the guard wore was no help, and the man cried out sharply in pain.

As Kurzhon landed, he backhanded the man to shut him up. The brute force of his blow somersaulted the guard and deposited him face down on the ground, where he lay sobbing, clutching his wound, blood flowing between his fingers.

Four of the remaining guards halted in their tracks as they witnessed their comrade so easily dispatched. Only one guard, a bearded man who seemed no longer young, but not yet old, sprang forward to engage Kurzhon, who had expected just that.

“I fought the war out by the Chanti Empire!” the man screamed as he attacked over and over, trying to find a way past Kurzhon’s spinning axe blade.

“Get him, Werner!” shouted one of the other guards, whom Kurzhon had written off as cowards.

“Let’s see how you handle a real fighting man!” Werner shouted as he continued his attack.

Kurzhon mustered all of his willpower and concentration in an attempt to prevent himself from bursting into laughter. He failed.

When Werner saw the big man laughing at him, he became enraged, and redoubled his assault.

The crowd watched as lightning quick sword strikes were blocked and rebuffed by a whirling, seemingly omnipresent axe.

***

In the midst of the crowd, Wakely’s fingers were also moving at lightning quick speeds.

He knew he would have to stop soon… his bag was almost full at this point. He wanted to save some room for whatever jewelry the Lady Monidale would have on her person. He had seen the ruby brooch she had worn the previous evening. If he could only…

… suddenly, Wakely halted.

Where was the Lady Monidale?

He did some quick math. There had been six in her entourage total. He had seen his large companion kill four men just moments earlier. That left…

Wakely stood his tiptoes and looked over the crowd, toward the docks.

He spotted three figures scurrying away from the commotion down to the ferry.

Wakely easily spotted the ferryman, but the other two were in drab cloaks that covered them head to toe. But there was no one else it could be, it had to be…

***

“LADY MONIDALE!”

Kurzhon heard someone shout the name out, and he realized it was the thieving fool he had traveled with.

“What?” he shouted back. “Speak again!”

Wakely stepped forward from the gathered crowd and pointed, excitement obvious in his movements.

“The Lady Monidale! She’s getting away!”

While Kurzhon had little regard for the man he was engaged with, he had just enough respect for his skill that he would not turn his back on the guard.

Instead, he moved into a vicious assault that caught the guard by surprise. In the blink of an eye the guard went from offense to desperate defense.

With a flourish, Kurzhon’s axe came down on the Werner’s sword blade in such a way that it was knocked from the grip of the guard. Werner went to dive for the weapon, but the only thing he caught was Kurzhon’s foot to his face.

Werner collapsed, but immediately tried to regain his feet.

After putting Werner down, Kurzhon whirled, meaning to leave the guard chastened, but alive, then run after Lady Monidale.

Even as he turned, he changed his mind.

He continued his spin, completing a full turn back to the way he was facing. He then stepped up to Werner, who was trying to stand, grabbed ahold of his head, and twisted.

Yet another audible snap! filled the air. The crowd cried out yet again. Again, someone called for a Drake.

There were four remaining guards. Kurzhon glared at them, then stepped toward them.

Immediately, two threw down their weapons and turned to run away. The other two just turned and ran. One of the first guards to run spun around again, came back, picked up his weapon, then turned and ran.

The crowd condemned these men even more than Kurzhon. Shouts of “COWARDS!” grew in intensity, and howls of disgust filled the sunlit morning.

Now Kurzhon felt good about going after Lady Monidale.

He, too spun and ran, but his speed was like something the gathered people of Whudhold had never seen.

So too, was the look on Kurzhon’s face.

Had they been able to see it, most everyone there would have packed their belongings and left.

***

“Hurry yourself, woman! We must make haste!”

Three cloaked figures moved quickly down the wooden planks of the long dock down to the ferry.

Not quick enough for Gunther, though.

The noble Ladies were taking little bird steps and hobbling along as if their lives did not depend on speed.

They did. They very much did.

Gunther had been the ferryman of Whudhold for more than twenty-five seasons. He had seen all manner of brigand, criminal and malcontent.

But this…

What he had just witnessed in the streets was something beyond his experience.

He had grown up on the docks around the southern ports of Banrata, and that had been a pit of filth he wouldn’t wish on anyone. When he had finally left, it had been because there was a price on his head and there was no choice remaining.

After wandering for years through the bigger cities and towns, he had ended up in this little no-place called Whudhold.

It had been perfect.

After growing up in Banrata, he had easily been one of the toughest men around. Gruff Old Gunther. Nobody messed with him here, and they gave him respect. Or else.

Running the ferry every day gave him the only reminder of his childhood home that he cared to remember.

Grabbing ahold of the nearest Lady’s upper arm, he began hauling her toward the end of the dock and the waiting ferry.

The arm was snatched away.

“I’ll thank you not to lay your common hands on me!!” shouted Lady Monidale, disgust evident in her tone, and on her face, even under her hood.

Gunther felt like backhanding the fool woman. Her and her entourage were responsible for this madness. Yes, he had jabbed the madman with his pole, but that was after these fools had insulted him. They had gotten him involved in this.

He was only helping now because he would need somewhere to go after today. He hoped gratitude at saving her life might make the Lady Monidale amenable to putting him up comfortably in Tersi, far from here.

They were still going too slow. Gunther glanced backwards, and his guts turned to ice.

The man was coming.

FAST.

Gunther had never seen a man with that much bulk move that quickly. It was not possible,

But on he came.

Panic welled up in Gunther, and he grabbed Lady Monidale, this time with two hands, and dragged her to the edge of the dock.

“What are you—?!” she cried, but never finished her sentence as she was then hurled through the air by Gunther. She landed hard and collapsed on the floor of the vessel.

Gunther jumped quickly onto the ferry, then spun and held out his hand to Lady Monidale’s subordinate. He had never learned her name.

“Come now, or be left behind, woman!!” Gunther screamed at the noble Lady.

Luckily, this woman seemed to grasp the situation better than Lady Monidale, she sprung forward and took Gunther’s hand. He yanked her roughly onto the ferry and then snatched up his pole.

It would be rough crossing with just himself to steer and row, but it could be done. Especially when his life was on the line.

He pushed off hard, exerting himself as never before. If he could get out into the lake, even the best swimmer could not follow them forever without giving in to fatigue.

Rapid, heavy footsteps on wooden planks caused Gunther to look toward the sound.

No! He screamed internally, he cannot be that fast!

But he was. Even as Gunther pushed and pushed, creating more and more distance between the ferry and the dock, the dark man ran on, gaining speed with every step he took.

By now he was close enough that Gunther could see the dark fury on the man’s face. He pushed even harder.

The dark man reached the end of the dock and launched himself into the air.

Gunther would have screamed, but he was using all of his energy attempting to push the ferry out of range of the big man’s leap.

In his lifetime, Gunther had failed at a lot of things, but this time he knew when he felt the man land on the ferry, when he felt the vessel wildly shudder and tip in response to the man’s sudden weight, he knew…

…this time his failure had cost him his life.

***

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

Thanks for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought of Chapter 6 of Kurzhon’s adventures!

No really juicy project updates this week, so let’s get into what Kurzhon The Life-Taker has been up to.

Here goes Part 5 of Kurzhon's adventures (part 4 seen here).

CHAPTER 5

“Those who oppose me must pay!”

~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker

* * *

Lem and Werner, the two guards stationed at the Eastern Gate of the town of Whudhold, had no reason to expect trouble that morning. At least not at the gate.

When they ferryman had returned the prior evening he had reported a minor altercation at the Whynnag dock. This was not unheard of. There was not always room for everyone, and those who had to wait would sometimes take issue.

In response, Whudhold would just assign a few extra guards to the ferry for the next week or so. It lowered the number of passengers they could take, but better to be safe than sorry.

As such, the guards, dutifully vetting all travelers entering the town, expected any trouble to come form the docks, not from the Eastern Gate.

Thus, they were unprepared when exclamations were heard from the end of the long line of travelers looking to gain entry to Whudhold.

First there were muffled shouts, then cries of alarm, and finally outright screams as people threw themselves to the sides of the road, scattering their belongings everywhere.

The guards finally saw what the people were trying to avoid.

Riders. Two men riding at full speed. The first rider was a large man, dark-skinned, bald, his face angry. His horse was also large. Large, tan, and looked to be some sort of war horse. Bulky and intimidating.

Lem stepped into the path and raised his arms.

“NO ONE RIDES INTO WUDHOLD!” he screamed. “YOU’LL DISMOUNT AND —”

He never finished his demand. Werner cried out, grabbed him and pulled him roughly to the side, causing both of the guards to tumble to the ground. Just in time, too. The large man on the horse had not even slowed down, nor had he acknowledged Lem at all as his mount thundered past.

As the two guards climbed to their feet, a second horse rode by. This one slender and white. It’s rider was also slender and fair-skinned. He wore bright, garish colors and waved his hand at the guards as he rode by.

“Apologies, friends! My companion is in quite the hurry!” he shouted with a playful tone, and his words were just barely heard, so quick was his speed.

Werner scrambled past Lem and began closing the gates, ignoring the angry shouts and cries from the travelers looking to enter.

“LEM!” Werner shouted, “don’t just stand there, go gather the others!”

Lem, who had in fact just been standing there, reclaimed his faculties and obeyed the order, running to alert the other guards to the presence of the two riders.

***

The largest, most convenient Inn in Wudhold was, practically, but uncreatively, called The Wudhold Inn. It was considered the best place to stay, as it was nearly centered within the small town, equidistant from the East, West, and North Gates and the South Dock.

In front of the Inn this day was a large carriage. Two men were at the back of the carriage, taking inventory of the items to be loaded. Both wore some combination of green and gold trappings.

“I believe all the Lady’s belongings are accounted for, Squire Reginald.” said one of the men in a dry, sharp voice.

This man was the Steward to Lady Monidale of the nation of Tersi. It was his duty to keep all of the Lady’s practical affairs in order as she traveled, and he took this duty most seriously.

“I expected nothing less, good Farrel,” said the Squire. His voice was nasaly and high-pitched. The Squire, though tall, well-built, and easily over thirty summers, had always wished he could do something about what others called his “squeaky voice”.

In contrast, Steward Farrel was possessed of not only a dry, laconic voice without notable inflection, but also a look that suggested the same. He was balding, and what was left was gray. His build was slim and he actually looked dry, as if he might blow away in a stiff wind.

“I will alert the Lady immediately. We can leave at once.” Steward Farrel said, even as he mentally counted the luggage items once more.

Hoofbeats were heard behind the two men, but neither turned.

In this place, where everyone was always going somewhere else, it was not uncommon for horses to be moving at all times of day and night, and not even uncommon for them to be moving fast. Many times travelers were late and wanted to be on their way.

As they were directly in front of the entrance to an Inn, it was unremarkable that the hoofbeats would stop behind them.

“I was hoping to find you.”

This came from a deep, rumbling voice. The tone of menace in the voice was unmistakable.

Both Squire and Steward spun around. As the sun was still rising behind the speaker, they could only see his silhouette.

A large shape dismounted from a large horse, bright morning sunlight shining around the dark figure.

Squire Reginald stepped forward, shading his eyes to block some of the sunlight.

It was then that the features of the man coalesced into visible details.

The man was big. No, not big. Huge. His skin was dark and covered not only in rippling, hard muscle, but criss-crosses of old wounds on his mostly bare torso.

The man’s face was both angry, yet pleased. That smile, though. No one could mistake it for pleasant.

Then Reginald remembered the man from the Whynnag dock. Immediately, he reached for his short sword, but not before the big man’s hands shot out, grabbing both the Squire and Steward by their necks.

As easily as a normal man might lift a child’s doll, the big man swiftly hoisted the two men in the air and brought their faces before his. Kurzhon had found something gratifying in the fear that had bloomed in the Squire’s eyes as he was recognized.

Thought he couldn’t breathe, Reginald moved again for his sword. In response to this action, the big man shook both the Steward and Squire like rag dolls, grinning madly as he did so.

“Reach for that sword again and I snap both your necks right here,” said the man, his voice washing over them like waves.

“Now…” said the man. “I am going release my grip enough for you to speak. When I do, you are going to say these words…”

Wide-eyed, both men nodded as much as they could. The man continued.

“My Lady. From the looks of him… I bet he smells… of ripe old cainder fruit.”

As he spoke, the smile on the big man’s face faded, and all that was left was undisguised malice and contempt.

And the promise of violence.

Nodding at Farrel, he spoke again, voice raspy with controlled fury.

“You first.”

The Steward, now knowing who the big man was, and what he wanted, confidently rasped out the words.

Wakely stood nearby, noting with growing unease that people from both sides of the street were starting to pay attention to the altercation.

No one moved to intercede.

Kurzhon stared at the older man as he finished the line, saying nothing. For awhile, Wakely swore that nothing moved in the town. Not men, or horses, or insects, or wind, or even time.

Finally, Kurzhon spoke.

“So, it was not you who said those words,” he said, his voice flat and hard.

The Steward shook his head as much as Kurzhon’s hold on his neck allowed.

“No! No, my Lord!” he rasped out. “I did not say it! I would not say such a thing!”

Kurzhon tightened his grip on the Steward’s throat.

“But you certainly laughed when it was said,” he growled, the anger welling up in his tone.

Both the men in Kurzhon’s grip began scrambling and trying to speak but it was too late.

With a vicious twist of his arm, Kurzhon snapped the old man’s neck like a dried branch. The crack! of the breaking bone echoed through the air.

Immediately, the bystanders that had accumulated burst into shocked outcries of fear and condemnation. Some began shouting for a Drake.

Kurzhon dropped the dead man to the ground without care, then turned his attention to the Squire.

“Now you,” he snapped. “SPEAK.”

Squire Reginald shook his head and tried to adjust his voice. He prayed to all the Gods who might be listening that now, just for one small utterance, his voice would not be as it truly was.

The Gods were not listening.

“It wasn’t me!” Reginald squeaked out.

The Squire knew he had failed as he watched instant recognition appear on the large assailant face.

Unrestrained fury replaced that look when the large man spoke again.

“So, cainder fruit, eh? Why don’t you tell me what I smell like now!”

With that, Kurzhon forced the Squire’s face into his armpit, then immediately wrapped his powerful arms around the man’s neck, crushing in on it with brutal force. Reginald’s face began turning red, then that red shifted to purple, and his eyes bulged.

Before another moment had elapsed, the door to the Inn burst outward and two guards in the same green and gold as the Squire appeared.

“Unhand him you common DUCK!” screamed one of the guards as both advanced on Kurzhon.

“That is a Squire in the service of the Lady Monidale of Tersi!” the other guard shouted.

“Squire?” Kurzhon barked. “I hope those are easily replaced!”

With that, Kurzhon squeezed and twisted, the result of which was to audibly snap the Squire’s neck. He let the body drop.

“NO!!” shouted both the guards. Even more shouts and cries came from the growing crowd surrounding the action.

“Now,” Kurzhon said his voice dark and cold, “where is this Lady Monidale?”

He took a step forward toward the guards, drawing his axe from it’s back scabbard as he stepped over the recently deceased Squire.

“I would like to speak with her.”

Wakely swallowed hard. He hoped, for their own livelihoods, the guards would run away.

***

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

Thanks for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought of Chapter 5!

As for me, I’m at that stage of the game where no projects are close to the finish line, so they won’t be out for awhile. It’s both exciting and frustrating as you want things to be done NOW, and yet good things take time to do well.

For one, I’ve got the artist for The Bill Collectors comic book slaving away on the back half of the upcoming 36 page special, so nobody will be seeing or hearing from him for at least another month!

TIKTOK BOOK TRAILER

I keep reading about how the TikTok #Booktok hashtag crowd is making sales and just getting their work seen by a lot more people than on other social media sites.

So I started making up some short videos to post on there and I’ll show the first one here in this email.

When The Life-Taker novel first came out, I hired a voice actor to voice Kurzhon’s “philosophy/manifesto”, and I loved his voice!

So when I decided on doing the TikTok videos I went back to him and hired him again to voice even more work for me. Again I think his work was perfect for The Life-Taker.

This first video is trimmed down to make it TikTok length (it might even be a little too long yet), but I liked the finished product. Check this out:

So I’m in the process of making a bunch more short videos like this to post on TikTok… I’ll report success or failure in a later email.

Now for the main event, Part 4, the continuation of Kurzhon's non-novelized adventures (part 3 seen here).

CHAPTER 4

“If it take a thousand years, I will have my vengeance.”

~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker

* * *

Kurzhon rode through the dense trees and narrow trail of the Whynnag forest. His speed was not ideal for traveling such conditions on horseback, and at night no less.

Yet, the slight he had suffered at the hands of the ferryman and his Noble passengers could not be allowed to pass unanswered.

He knew that if he waited even a day, those who had insulted him would slip away. They would disappear to their places of comfort, where they would re-tell the stories of how they had laughed at Kurzhon The Life-Taker and lived.

Even as his surefooted horse galloped at breakneck speed, Kurzhon knew the objects of his fury likely had no idea who he was.

But they will learn, he thought, eyes burning and face tightened up into a hideous grin.

Behind him, riding slightly less assuredly, was another man.

This man was Wakely O’Cantor, and though he was most definitely a thief, he never thought of himself as a bad man.

He merely relieved people of possessions they no longer cared for.

After all, if they wanted the items that much, surely they would not leave them lying about for one such as him to appropriate.

Although, if he was being honest (and a frantic nighttime ride through uncertain trails was definitely the time to be honest), sometimes the things he liberated weren’t exactly lying around.

Either way, Wakely knew himself to be a man of peace, and not given easily to violence.

Thus, had he seen the look of pure, distilled violence that was currently on Kurzhon’s face, he may have slowed his horse, or even turned completely around.

But he did not see it, and so traveled on with the large, dark-skinned stranger. In Wakely’s mind, the promise of the exorbitant jewelry he had seen in the possession of the Nobles on the ferry was more than enough to warrant a little discomfort.

As they rode, Wakely understood that he was not so much riding, as being carried along.

The big man’s horse rode without hesitation and somehow navigated the trail even when it had been almost completely overgrown.

Wakely knew his horse was just following the leader. There was only one moon out this night and a sliver of that one as it was. He did not have confidence his ability to travel this path alone and in the dark.

Finally, after a long, increasingly anxious ride that Wakely thought must have been half the night, the two riders burst from the forest and out into open air. The clear water of the lake was now to the west of them, with muddy grasslands receding into the distance to the east.

Kurzhon slowed his horse and jumped off, leading the animal to the water’s edge, where it drank greedily.

“We water our horses, then we continue!” Kurzhon barked, his back to Wakely as he spoke. The big man retrieved some utensils from his saddlebags and began rubbing and brushing his horse.

Wakely dismounted his horse, nowhere near as surefooted as his companion. His knees buckled as he hit the ground, but he managed to quickly right himself.

“Surely we could camp here for the night, friend?” Wakely asked, hoping the words did not come out sounding like the desperate plea they really were.

“No, thief, we ride until morning,” said Kurzhon.

Wakely’s horse had walked over to the water’s edge to drink without being led, so Wakely stepped over to the large man.

“Perhaps we should introduce ourselves? That way you don’t have to call me thief, and I don’t have to call you large intimidating man? My name is Wakely. Wakely O’Cantor of Munberry.”

Wakely extended his hand in greeting, but the large man did not even turn around to face him, he merely continued brushing down his horse.

“Oh, come now!” shouted Wakely. “Surely there’s no harm in exchanging names?”

The big man stopped his brushing. He turned around to face Wakely, and suddenly the thief regretted having forced this exchange.

Although it was dark, there was enough of the paltry moonlight reflected off the water that Wakely could see the cold, hard eyes of the other man focused on him. He felt then that it was not a good thing to have this man focus his attention on you.

The large man spoke then.

“I am Kurzhon. Called The Life-Taker. Of Vultaika.”

Then he spoke no more, but simply watched Wakely, waiting for the repercussions of this knowledge to sink in.

It hit hard. Wakely swallowed and took a step back.

Here was a man before him out of legend. A supposedly un-killable nightmare spawned from the depths of fallen Vultaika, perhaps the most despised nation in history.

Much of the recent tragedy that befell the nations of Straifus had been laid at the feet of this man. The Life-Taker.

Wakely, like most, had heard of him, but never had he thought to meet the man, or be standing with him… alone… in the middle of nowhere.

Kurzhon smiled then. Wakely swallowed again.

“I ride until morning, thief,” Kurzhon said, and his voice was low, rumbling like soft thunder.

Kurzhon turned his back then, and began preparing his horse to move.

“You can come along or stay here, I care not a rabbit-shit either way.”

Then Kurzhon launched himself into his saddle and gave a command to his horse, which bolted away, keeping to the shoreline of the lake.

Wakely felt immense relief when Kurzhon rode away. He had been traveling this whole time with the nightmare-man of all of Straifus. He could have been killed!

But he hadn’t been.

In fact, this “Life-Taker” appeared indifferent to him, to say the least. Maybe the stories weren’t all true?

Then Wakely thought of all the spoils to be had. Left to his own devices, he knew he could have procured some of the items he had seen.

But with the Life-Taker’s assistance, maybe he could get it all.

He had debts to pay, and there were some major cities that were now off-limits to him until he had paid what was owed.

What he had seen on the ferry earlier would cover those debts and then some.

Wakely was not a violent man, but he was a greedy one.

Scrambling, he mounted his horse, then set off after the Life-Taker at an all-out gallop.

* * *

After a hard night’s ride Kurzhon arrived just outside of the town of Whudhold.

He paused on a small hill that looked over the middling town. The path here was much wider, and properly maintained. It led down to the eastern gate of Whudhold, where Kurzhon could see two guards inspecting those looking to enter.

The morning sun had been up for a short while, and Kurzhon was concerned that his prey had taken a carriage out of town. If they had left at dawn, they could have headed north or west, and he might have missed them already. He would find out shortly.

There was a good deal of foot traffic here. Far more than he had expected. He could see a fair sized line forming at the gate.

He was about to ride down when he heard hoofbeats behind him. He recognized the pattern of the horse’s gait and so was not alarmed as the rider grew closer.

“It’s about time, thief, I’ve been here too long” Kurzhon said, in what passed as friendly for him. He was in a good mood since he was so close to the promise of vengeance.

Wakely rode up beside him and halted his horse.

“What kind of horse do you have, man?!” Wakely blurted out. “My poor steed had to have a little rest!” Wakely rubbed his horse’s neck and head as he spoke.

Kurzhon laughed. “My animal comes from the deepest horse pits of Vultaika. Much is expected of such a mount.”

Horse pits? Wakely thought. He was about to ask, and then decided he didn’t want to know.

“Regardless,” he said, “we are here at long last. So what now?”

“What now?” Kurzhon repeated, and Kurzhon could hear the incredulity his voice.

He turned to look at Wakely, and Wakely lowered his eyes when he saw the fire in them.

“Now, thief… it is time for the slaughter.”

Wakely swallowed as the big man spurred his horse and galloped down the trail to Whudhold.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

Thanks for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought of Chapter 4, I read all responses!

For those who have finished the novel and want a little bit more you could always check out the short story "The Raiders" which can be found here ($0.99 U.S.):

https://www.amazon.com/Life-Taker-Raiders-John-Garrett-ebook/dp/B09GLNRJ96

or even the original Life-Taker comics which can be found here (free):

https://www.supertransitory.com/category/the-life-taker-2/

While all of these stories take place before the events of The Life-Taker novel, the events of the comic continue to reverberate through the novel and beyond...

ADVENTURE REDUX

For those of you who want to know a little bit more about me, you can hear my thoughtful blatherings as I play one of my favorite video games, Uncharted: Drake's Fortune!

I love video games, although I'm the first to admit I'm not great at them. Still, the Uncharted series is one of my favorites and I can't get enough of it. I posted the first episode of my walkthrough of the first game in an earlier email, and in this one I'll post the second chapter:

If you're looking for the whole thing, the playlist is here:

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL8Z78hlprX9kpq1M_A7jU_GnqD5XRp9v6

Now for the main event of this newsletter, Part 3, the continuation of Kurzhon's non-novelized adventures (part 2 seen here).

CHAPTER 3

“To anger a Vultaikan is to forfeit your right to live.”

~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker

* * *

After killing the useless rabble, Kurzhon and Horse continued up the sparsely traveled road for the rest of the day. He walked beside the animal at a brisk pace as the day wore on.

He passed no other travelers, which suited him fine. The road, open sky and surrounding forest were best enjoyed without the annoyance of men interfering with his peace.

As it began to grow dark, Kurzhon turned north at a fork in the road. He knew this would lead him to Lake Whynnag, a fair-sized lake. On the other side of that lake was his destination for the night, the town of Whudhold.

Whudhold was a small fort town known for it’s mediocrity. Kurzhon could not think of a single commodity, pastime or service provided in Whudhold that was not done better somewhere else.

The only thing it was good for was it’s location. It was smack in the middle of the road to better places. It was the place you went when you needed to cross the lake, thus shaving off a good day or more from your journey by sparing you from traveling around overland.

Kurzhon picked up his pace, as he meant to board the last ferry of the night and cross into Whudhold. There, he would spend the night in a room and have Horse looked after.

His true destination was further north yet, but he would strike out on that leg of his journey in the morning.

Before him, the trees began to thin out and the road widened. He saw the signs indicating the Whynnag Ferry Dock was ahead.

Pleased that he had made good time, Kurzhon quickened his pace. As the trees dropped away and the lake came into view, he heard voices. Agitated voices.

“Surely there is room for one more, my friend?” asked one of the voices, in a tone of disbelief.

A different voice answered, this one gruff and harsh.

“I’m not your friend! And you are hard of hearing, fool?! I said no more boarders! Especially not known thieves!”

Kurzhon walked closer with Horse in tow. He saw two men facing each other. One was on the ferry, and the other on the dock.

The man still on the dock was tall and thin, and dressed in bright, gaudy colors. His fair skin seemed to blend into the mashing of colors that made up his clothing.

To Kurzhon’s eyes the man looked no more than thirty seasons. He wore a short sword, but had no armor to speak of. Kurzhon marked a spear fastened to the man’s white horse, which was waiting on the dock beside him.

The ferryman, by contrast, was an older man who was short and squat. He wore the dark blue and brown colors that indicated service to Whudhold, and he wore both a longsword and whip. The man looked as if he knew how to handle himself.

“But, good sir, there is more than enough room! Perhaps we can come to an arrangement?” The brightly dressed man spoke with a suggestive tone.

As Kurzhon drew close he saw the tall man withdraw a small pouch from inside his cloak. The familiar clink of coins carried through the air as the man handed it to the ferryman.

“In this purse is a fair sum that I think will—”

The rest was never heard, because the ferryman’s hand shot out, snatching the purse from the man on the dock. In the same motion, he threw it over his shoulder and into the lake, where it sank from view.

“Toss your paltry tin coins, you fool DUCK!” the ferryman shouted. “You were already told to piss off! The Lady Monidale and her retinue ride the ferry now, and they don’t want to be bothered with your stench, you filthy thief!”

The man in the bright clothes cried out in shock and threw his hands up in the air as his coins sank into the lake water.

A burst of rich, raucous laughter erupted from the ferry, and Kurzhon turned his attention to it.

On the other end of the ferry were six people. Two women and four men. Kurzhon saw that three were of high standing, and guessed that the other three served them, based on their postures. Two were guards, and the last man appeared to be an assistant of some sort.

They all laughed heartily at the misfortune of the man on the dock. The loudest one was a woman who Kurzhon assumed was Lady Monidale, as the rest seemed to take their cues from her.

They wore green and gold, and diamond shaped crest was available. He did not immediately recognize it.

Kurzhon saw the ferryman snatch up the large pole he would use to push the ferry off into the deeper waters.

Realizing his time to board was short, he stepped forward.

“Ferryman,” he called, his deep voice commanding attention from all, “hold a moment. I would ride over to Whudhold.”

The ferryman did not wait. Instead, having seen Kurzhon, he pushed even harder with his pole, forcing the ferry farther away from the shore.

“Be here in the morn’!” he called, “Plenty of room then!”

Kurzhon dropped Horse’s reins and began stalking toward the receding ferry.

“I do not care to wait until morning. I will ride NOW!”

Then a nasaly, high-pitched voice sounded out from the back of the ferry.

“My Lady, from the looks of him I bet he smells of ripe old cainder fruit!” shouted one of the men.

The laughter that erupted this time was double the intensity of the last outburst.

Enraged, Kurzhon surged out into the water, meaning to catch up to the ferry before it got too far out into the lake.

He did not reach his goal. Instead, he caught the end of the ferry pole as the ferryman expertly jabbed him in the chest with it, knocking him backwards into the water.

An exponentially louder cacophony of laughter exploded into the dusk air. It washed over Kurzhon as he spluttered comically in the water, trying to regain his footing.

As the ferry workers began rowing, the ferryman called out to Kurzhon.

“This’ll teach you! Nobles first, then common trash like you! Next time be mindful of your betters!”

Kurzhon, now standing waist-deep in the water, chest heaving in fury, stared balefully after the ferry.

More laughter wafted over the lake to his ears.

“It really is a shame, friend. I would have come across some choice items if they had let me on that ferry. Did you see the jewels on that Lady?”

Snapping his head to the side, Kurzhon saw the tall man. He was still on the dock and staring wistfully after the ferry.

Instead of responding, Kurzhon turned and stalked back through the water toward the shore.

The man matched his pace and began walking with him, he on the dock and Kurzhon in the water, pulling his horse behind him.

“If you’re thinking of waiting here and accosting the good ferryman on the morrow, I’d think again. They usually bring a few strong arms for the next week or so after trouble. Trust me, I know.”

By now Kurzhon had reached the edge of the water, and he continued stalking up onto the shore, heading straight for his own horse.

“I’ll not be waiting here,” Kurzhon growled, not looking at the other man. He took off his boots and wrung them out, then put them back on, stomping angrily on the ground with each foot.

“Well then—” the man, who had walked to within a few paces of Kurzhon, was not allowed to finish.

“I’m going to Whudhold to kill everyone on that ferry!” Kurzhon growled again, the words erupting out into the night air.

The man shook his head.

“Sorry, friend. Those people will be long gone by the time you get to Whudhold. And the ferryman will be under protection.”

“There is no protection from me,” said Kurzhon, his voice flat. He began adjusting Horse’s saddle and arranging some of the saddlebags.

As Kurzhon swung himself into his saddle, the man stepped closer.

“Wait, allow me to introduce myself, I am—”

“To the Hells with your name, thief!” Kurzhon shouted.

The man looked as if he was going to protest, but Kurzhon continued.

“I care more about a squirt of my piss than who you are, but if you would have spoils from those Nobles, then come! We ride this night!”

The man appeared shocked.

“Ride? At night? It takes a full day and then some to ride around the lake. No one stays in Whudhold that long. They’ll be long gone by the time we arrive.”

Kurzhon laughed.

“Not the way I ride!”

Then he spurred Horse into motion.

“Come or not, thief, but decide now!” And with that, Kurzhon and Horse surged forward into the night.

The man, now left alone by the lake shore, decided he could do worse than follow the big man.

He quickly mounted his horse and charged after the dark-skinned stranger, hoping he hadn’t just made a huge mistake.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

Thanks for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought, I read all responses!

There's just a little news on my other non 'Life-Taker' projects this week.

I received some new art from the artist I hired to bring my 'Bill Collectors' comic to life, more on that one here:

So I'm hoping he can get the rest done by the end of the year and I can start promoting that one.

Although I still have to put the words in and maybe/possibly get someone to color it. Ehh, who am I kidding? This thing won't be out until next year for sure!

Anyway check this page out.. .very cool stuff!

But aside from that, it's time for another installment of everyone's favorite Vultaikan, Kurzhon The Life Taker!

Last time (seen here) the big man had just been set upon by bandits.The thrilling continuation begins now!

“Try to leave one alive…

… but do not try too hard.”

~ Kurzhon the Life-Taker

* * *

There had been times, in battles past, when Kurzhon had found himself nearly overwhelmed by superior numbers.

Many times, he had been surrounded. Many times he had only survived by using the utmost of his abilities. Strength, skill and concentration joined together in order to strike out again and again at his foes, wearing them down with precision and planning.

This was not such a time.

Though his attackers enjoyed greater numbers, Kurzhon had little, if any, respect for their skill.

As such, only a small part of his mind was dedicated to the current assault on his person. The rest dwelled on mundane matters that might as well be dealt with now.

Should I head north or west from here? he thought, as he sidestepped the short sword strike from the man with the graying hair.

The man had overbalanced, and so leaned in toward Kurzhon. His head was met with a rock-solid closed fist that both collapsed his cheekbone and broke several teeth.

Another result of Kurzhon’s strike was that the man let go of his sword, which flew into the air.

Kurzhon snatched it mid-flight. I have much business to the west, he thought, but I may not be back in these lands for at least a year.

The injured man fell onto his hands and knees, blood pouring out of his mouth. Kurzhon swung the sword down with a sharp snap, swiftly lopping off the man’s head. It bounced toward Kurzhon and he kicked it absentmindedly behind him. Horse fidgeted as the head bounced toward him.

This left three boys and the girl. The very tall boy who had been in the road paused and shouted.

“Dad! No!”

Then he growled, face contorting in fury,

“Dellon! Kurry! Let’s get ‘im!”he shouted, and charged at Kurzhon.

The girl, Mina, was frozen, hands covering her mouth in horror, but the other two boys from the forest moved in with the tall boy, daggers at the ready.

North, Kurzhon thought, I should definitely go north from here.

The tall youth attempted an ill-advised overhand strike with his dagger. Kurzhon reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist, then bore down and twisted, snapping it easily.

A sharp wail of pain erupted from the boy. Kurzhon was disgusted by the undignified cry, and used the short sword to run him through, pushing the blade through the boy’s stomach.

Then Kurzhon grabbed the dying boy and turned, throwing his body into the path of the two final armed companions who had almost reached Kurzhon’s position.

One of the boys, a round-faced youth who Kurzhon decided would be ‘Dellon’, dodged and attempted to circle around Horse in order to get behind Kurzhon. The other boy, Kurry, was not so lucky, and collided with the tall boy, both of them falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

For a brief moment, Kurzhon had nothing to do but look at Mina, who had now removed her hands from her face and balled them into fists. Tears streamed from her eyes and her expression was pure fury.

Then he spun around and struck out sharply with the short sword. Dellon had attacked just how Kurzhon had expected, and so his strike connected with the boy’s dagger in such a way as to knock it from his grasp.

Dellon had one heartbeat to register that he had been disarmed before Kurzhon flicked the blade of the sword up and slashed his throat.

Immediately the boy’s hands flew to his throat, but there was nothing to be done. A waterfall of blood fountained between Dellon’s fingers as he dropped to his knees.

Meanwhile Kurry, the last attacking bandit, had just freed himself from beneath his dead comrade when he witnessed the throat slashing.

He stared, frozen in terror. Then he looked to the big man.

The big man was staring right at him. His face was cold.

Kurry turned and ran into the forest.

“Kurry, no!” shrieked Mina. “Come back! KURRY!!”

Kurzhon exploded into motion, sprinting into the trees after the boy.

“Horse, TAKKA!” he shouted as he ran.

For the smallest fraction of time, Kurzhon entertained the notion of letting the boy go, but then he dismissed it.

It was usually good to leave one alive, and so to spread tales of his deeds and prowess, but he thought he could leave the girl to live, as she had not tried to attack him.

Instead he pushed on relentlessly, powering through the thick trees after the boy.

Kurry, in contrast, was so panicked that he tripped and fell much more than he actually ran.

Even worse, he kept looking back, and each time he did, the big dark man was closer… bigger…

… angrier.

Finally, he tripped for the last time. Kurry flew forward a good distance and skidded across the cold, hard ground onto his stomach.

He tried to get up, but something pushed him back to the ground, hard.

It was a foot. Pressed hard into his back.

The pressure lifted a bit, and Kurry frantically turned over onto his back, trying to scramble backwards.

But there was nowhere to go.

The shape of the dark man blotted out the sky as he reached for Kurry.

* * *

Back at the road, Mina heard a blood-curdling scream, then a series of squeals, and then nothing.

She decided it was time to go, and she also decided she would rather ride than run.

Moving quickly, she reached for the reins of the big man’s horse.

Now it was Kurzhon, who had begun moving back to the road, who heard a shriek of pain cut through the morning air.

Smiling, he knew what he would find when he reached the road.

When he cleared the trees, he saw just what he expected.

Mina was on her knees, desperately clutching her forearm. Blood seeped from between her fingers as she rocked back and forth in agony.

Kurzhon stopped to admire the scene. The command he had shouted to Horse earlier directed the animal to allow no one near but himself.

Until he rescinded that command Horse would attack any and all who attempted to lead, ride or otherwise interact with him. The girl was lucky she had only been bitten, she could have easily been gutted.

Then Mina recovered herself.

“Stupid horse!” she shrieked. She scrabbled across the ground, reaching for something.

Kurzhon saw she was going for the dagger he had knocked away from one of the bandits earlier.

Mina stood and marched toward Horse, brandishing the dagger before her.

“I’LL KILL YOU!!” she cried, lunging forward.

But suddenly, between her and the animal, there was a solid mass of dark brown muscle.

Mina realized she was staring into the chest of the big bald man.

In a flash she felt a painful, iron grip on the hand that held the dagger, holding it closed. Then she felt an even tighter grip on her throat.

“GLLLKK!!” she spluttered.

She felt herself rising off the ground, being lifted by her neck. She couldn’t breathe.

“GRRRRRK!” she said.

Then her face was brought level with the face of the bald man. A face contorted in fury and hatred.

“You would attack my HORSE?!” he growled, his deep voice booming into her face.

Then the man began moving the dagger, still enclosed in her fist, toward her chest.

Mina saw that he was going to stab her - make her stab herself! She brought her free hand up to fight it. She fought it with every ounce of her strength.

It was nowhere near enough.

Mina felt the entire length of the dagger’s blade as it was pushed slowly into her chest and into her heart.

Kurzhon watched with satisfaction as life faded from the girl’s eyes.

He let the body fall to the ground, then turned back to Horse, placing his hand on the animal and rubbing his neck.

Damnation, he thought.

If he had known he would be forced to kill that fool girl he would have let the boy in the forest live.

Now there would be no one to spread tales of his great deeds. Shaking his head, he moved to calm his companion.

“Shhhhhhh. Horse, takka no. Takka no,” he said, thus releasing Horse from his alert state. It was never good to keep an animal in that level of high-alertness for longer than necessary.

After he made sure Horse was calm and steady, Kurzhon searched the bodies of the would-be robbers.

There was little of any use. He found several copper coins, which he took, but the weapons they had used were all inferior to anything he already owned, and so he left them.

They had no food or water at all, which annoyed Kurzhon. He assumed they must have some sort of home or hide-hole nearby from which to base their robberies, but it was not important enough to try to find it.

He retrieved his axe from the body of the bandit he killed and cleaned it perfunctorily on the boy’s cloak. He would clean it more carefully tonight when he made camp.

North, he thought, I will head north.

With no more business there, Kurzhon took hold of Horse’s reins and continued his walk up the road.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

Thanks for reading and make sure to let me know what you thought, I read all responses!

Welcome all to another John Garrett Stuff newsletter! This one will be focused on news of my fantasy novel "The Life-Taker" and related topics.

First I want to give a special welcome to a bunch of new readers today. Many of you are here due to the giveaway I ran of The Life-Taker novel, so I hope you've had a chance to read it and I really hope you enjoyed it. I hope even more that you stick around for what's coming next.

GOOD REVIEW(!)

I mentioned in a previous email (newcomers can see my email archives here), that I had bought myself a Kirkus Review for The Life-Taker novel.

Kirkus is an independent review service that's been around for almost a century. They'll give your book an unbiased review for about $450 (I paid $375 during a promotion they were running), but they don't promise a *good* review.

So I rolled the dice and I came out pretty good. Here's the review excerpt they wrote:

While I didn't receive their top "starred" review, I got a pretty good overall review which you can read in it's entirety here:

https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/john-garrett/the-life-taker/

So while they had some issues with the story, this tells me that my writing isn't complete and total dreck, I guess.

Now, how does this help me?

It remains to be seen. I placed the review excerpt on my Amazon page and plunked it out on social media, too. Maybe it will be the deciding factor if someone is on the fence about buying it.

CHRONICLES OF THE LIFE-TAKER

No, that isn't the name of the second novel, that one is called The Return of The Life-Taker.

"Chronicles" was actually a failed experiment with Amazon's Kindle Vella serialized fiction service.

The idea was that you would put up weekly (or even daily) episodes of your story, and people would pay "tokens" to read your stories.

Well, I discovered quickly that Kindle Vella is not very popular and people aren't really reading it, so I stopped posting stories there.

However, this left me with nowhere to put these tales.

"Chronicles" features Kurzhon in smaller stories that just don't belong in his larger novel adventures, but I still wanted to tell those stories somewhere.

Therefore, I'm going to post those stories in here for the time being and see if they are well received.

So on that note, please enjoy the first chapter of "CHRONICLES OF THE LIFE-TAKER". I'll see you guys next week!

For centuries, they had plagued the lands of Straifus.

This plague was not formed of pestilence or of vermin, but was instead made up of legion after unending legion of the most vicious, merciless fighters ever known.

These men came from the burning hot, blistering cold land of Vultaika. It was a place not truly a part of Straifus, and yet far closer than most would like, for it was separated from Straifus only by narrow, easily traversed water.

Time and again these hard men, marked by the dark brown skin of their bodies, dark eyes of their faces, and even darker hearts in their breasts, swarmed over Straifus, destroying nations, alliances, breaking history.

When a nation fought alone, they were defeated. When the nations banded together, they were defeated. Even the much vaunted Drakes could do naught but slow them down.

If those cold Vultaikans had been interested in rule, they would surely have taken all of Straifus.

But they did not want to rule. They fought for their God, Holy Vultaan. He was their God of War, their Master of Battles, their Lord of Strife. They fought for a God the rest of the known lands did not acknowledge.

Until one day, a day within living memory, the Vultaikans disappeared.

They did not die. They were never defeated.

They were simply gone.

All but one.

* * *

It was a gray morning on the road. Cold and gray.

The pine forest on either side of the wide road, though presumably teeming with life, seemed still and silent.

Despite the cold, there had been no snowfall yet. It would be heavy snow when it finally came. The man walking the road thought it would be only a matter of days now.

Even so, it did not matter to him. As a Vultaikan, perhaps the last Vultaikan the lands of Straifus would ever see, it would have to be much colder than this for him to even notice, much less be discomforted.

This man was Kurzhon, called The Life-Taker by many, and for good reason.

But the lands of Straifus were vast, and composed of an abundance of disparate nations, each striving against the other, each with their own irreconcilable ways.

There were yet many in those nations who thought The Life-Taker a myth. Or even if real, perhaps his martial skills were exaggerated. Surely the tales could not be true?

Alas, too many had discovered that some parts of the tales, the very worst parts, were true.

Some claimed him a giant, as tall as the tree-tops, but any who came upon him on the road now would clearly see he was just a man. A very large man, perhaps even a huge man, but still a man, usually at least a head taller than anyone around him.

And no, his skin was not the dark of ebony glass or black pitch, but it was a dark brown color that was out of place in most of Straifus, save for the far northwest.

The man’s body was a study in hardened, battle-earned muscle, and the scars that crisscrossed his form had been won from a lifetime of fighting.

He was dressed bare to the waist, except for a sparse harness that crossed his chest and allowed him to fasten a large, ugly battle-axe to his back.

The man wore leather banding from forearm to bicep, and unremarkable black pants that disappeared into well-worn black boots.

Finally, those who had seen him would agree, it was his face that was most important. Not his bald head, but his face. A face with a scowl as it’s resting expression.

Looking out from that face would be his eyes. Cold, merciless, remorseless eyes.

And yet, there was a burning fury behind them. Those who found that pair of eyes focused on them would never forget it, assuming they lived past the moment.

Kurzhon, called The Life-Taker, traveled one of the northbound roads out of Banrata, a nation at the southeastern tip of the continent of Straifus.

Beside him was his steadfast companion, which was a horse, who he had named Horse.

Kurzhon did not care to ride unless urgency demanded it. Right now, he had accomplished many tasks he had set for himself in Banrata, so he decided that it would be acceptable to relax for a time, until the pieces of his next plans came into his orbit.

He knew the nation of Banrata would not be sorry to see him go. Kurzhon managed to circle back to that divided country every few years, hoping to stir up dissent, foment chaos, and widen the cracks in the already-failing monarchy.

It was not full-blown civil war yet, but it would be soon. He thought one more trip in a year’s time or so would tell the tale.

He chuckled to himself, thinking of the minor noble whose estate was likely even now being overrun with Royal troops.

Kurzhon had put the ideas in his head. Told the Baron that he should be the one to lead Banrata, he should be the one with the vaults full of gold, harems of women, and the love of the people.

The Baron had believed it.

Fool, thought Kurzhon, laughing louder. His harsh, barking laughter rang out in the crisp morning air.

Finally, his laughter subsided and Kurzhon inhaled a deep breath of cool air.

Good times, he thought.

The King would no doubt grant the seized lands and income to one of his own coalition, further angering his enemies.

Banrata was a cesspit of a nation to be sure, but Kurzhon had found the large country held no end of resources. He could always find some manner of fun, information, coin, women, and many opportunities for battle.

It was too bad the country was so friendly to the hated Drakes, one of which he had killed not even a day earlier.

He had no fear of Drakes, but thought it best to be elsewhere when one of their own was killed. When such an event occurred, they began buzzing around like hornets when their nest had been disturbed, interfering in business and making life in general somewhat bothersome.

Kurzhon’s mood began to shift as his thoughts turned more fully to the Drakes, those gray-cloaked, arrogant, self-appointed lawmen of Straifus.

There was always a pompous Drake underfoot when you had important business to conduct. You could count on that.

Another certainty would be the words “fair” or “justice” coming out of their mouths every other moment.

In Kurzhon’s case, words to the effect of “we are arresting you and placing you on trial” were said, usually shouted, over and over until he was forced to silence the Drake… with his axe.

Kurzhon’s face darkened as he walked the road with Horse. This happened when his thoughts turned to Drakes, as he could not prevent what happened next.

As always, his mind drifted onto the Drake’s patron Goddess, Rhona the Wise.

Rhona, the Huntress. The Warrior. The Goddess of Plenty. And somehow, the Goddess of Peace.

Bile rose in Kurzhon’s throat. How he hated Rhona, but few in this forsaken land knew the truth about her. He spat in disgust.

Only he and his fellow Vultaikans knew that Rhona was a usurper. A vile, inferior twin to his own God, the God of his people. Mighty Vultaan.

Vultaan, the Master of Battles, God of Strife and Fury.

A foul trick had been played upon Vultaan by Rhona and the other Gods. The end result being all the mountains of the world dropped onto him, trapping him. Anything less than every last measure of Vultaan’s power at all times to hold up the mountains would see him destroyed, crushed into nothingness.

Kurzhon gritted his teeth at the thought of his God deep under the earth below him, desperately waiting for his followers to release him. Waiting for vengeance.

He was brought out of his own thoughts when he became aware of a nearby, out of place sound. As if in confirmation, Horse whickered and adjusted his gait.

Kurzhon placed a hand on the animal to steady him.

At first he thought his obvious mood change had upset the horse, as Vultaikan steed were ever aware of their master’s bearing.

But then he realized he was wrong.

Horse was just letting him know they were no longer alone.

For good measure, Kurzhon cursed bitch-goddess Rhona again for distracting him, then focused his full attention on his surroundings.

Now that he was paying attention, he could easily detect three people shadowing him from the forest alongside the road.

Two were on his right, and one on his left. They were clumsy and ill-suited for this task. It had only been his preoccupation with the hated Rhona that had allowed these fools to go unnoticed for this long.

A poorly-voiced hawk call came from one of the stalkers on his right.

Kurzhon shook his head in disgust. He could see where this was going. The road curved up ahead, and he had no doubt there would be some kind of obstruction there. The hawk call had just alerted those ahead to his presence.

The only question was… would they try to kill him, or simply block the way and demand payment?

He smiled. It didn’t matter. He was certain one way or the other his axe would soon be covered in blood. Unworthy blood.

Continuing his forward movement, Kurzhon rounded the bend in the road. His suspicions proved correct.

Blocking the way was a dilapidated wagon filled with old hay. A man’s body was laying face down in the pile.

There was no horse or mule attached to the wagon. Kurzhon suspected these sorry highwaymen could not afford one, and so made it appear as if the animal had run off.

Before the wagon stood two figures. A young, thin woman with long blonde hair and fair, pale skin, who was pretending to be menaced by another youth. This one was male, also thin and pale, but quite tall. He had short brown hair and held a long dagger. He lunged unconvincingly at the girl several times.

Kurzhon smiled at the obvious ruse. It looked as if he was supposed to believe the girl some sort of noble, or at least a wealthy merchant’s daughter.

The cut of her blue dress was certainly refined, but it’s condition was well-worn, and as such it no longer denoted any sort of high station.

The boy wore drab brown pants and a tunic, both of which had been patched many times over. His dark maroon cloak had visible holes in it, and was clearly unraveling at the seams.

As he drew closer, Kurzhon heard the rustling from the forest on either side of him grow louder.

A piercing scream erupted from the girl as she threw herself to the ground. Her hand shot up in a warding motion as if to protect herself from the boy with the dagger, from whom she was obviously in no danger.

Then she pretended to notice Kurzhon. Her face, full of false terror, turned toward him.

“Please, good sir! Please! HELP ME!” she screamed.

Kurzhon sighed, again shaking his head. Releasing his grip on Horse’s reigns, he stepped forward.

“I would be happy to help. Which one of you should I kill first?” His deep voiced rumbled and carried across the road.

The two erstwhile actors froze, then looked at each other.

Recovering first, the girl spoke again.

“Sir, please, I beg of you! I need help!” she cried out, and Kurzhon noted a better effort to convey fear was given this time.

Stepping closer, Kurzhon smiled. The smile was not friendly.

“Again, I offer my help. Again, I ask, which of you wishes to die first?”

The forest seemed to grow very still at that moment. Kurzhon continued.

“Shall it be you, my lady?” Kurzhon asked, the sneer apparent in his tone.

Then his eyes cut to her ‘attacker’.

“Or should I begin with you, patchwork bandit?” he asked, not expecting an answer. Kurzhon turned his head to look at the wagon.

“Would the man feigning death in the wagon care to die for real? Or perhaps your compatriots in the forest would agree to be first?”

No one spoke. The silence was near total. Although there was a slight breeze, it was so minor it barely produced even a rustle of branches.

Kurzhon held in his laughter as he watched the false expressions on the faces of the two youths slowly replaced by flat, undisguised malice.

The man in the wagon turned himself over and sat up.

“Well,” he said flatly, “it looks like we have ourselves a whip-smart wanderer here.”

The man stood up from the wagon. Kurzhon could see he was much older than the two in front of him, perhaps the father of one or both.

Though not as tall as Kurzhon, or the youth with the dagger, the man was above average in height. Kurzhon took in his weathered appearance and drab, frayed clothes. The man’s brown hair was graying at the temples and thinning on top, but he was solid, and carried himself well.

Kurzhon said nothing as the man reached into the hay and pulled out a short sword.

“This could have gone quick and easy,” said the man, “you might have even got a sweet kiss from Mina here.” He gestured the short sword at the thin blond girl, who smirked mischievously in return.

The man stepped in front of the two youths. Kurzhon thought he must be a former soldier from his bearing and stance.

“But now you had to go and get all smart.” The word ‘smart’ was roughly emphasized. The two youths chuckled at that.

Then the man whistled sharply, and the rustling sounds from the forest started up again.

Kurzhon watched as two more ragged-looking youths emerged from the trees on his right, each holding long daggers and wearing similar patchwork clothing. On his left another boy worked his way out of forest.

This last one moved slowly, as he was holding a bow and arrow trained on Kurzhon. Curly black hair framed his face. The boy’s eyes were wide, and it seemed to Kurzhon as if the arrow may fly at any moment.

Kurzhon shook his head. None of these fools, excepting the man with the short sword, could be older than twenty. Not that their young ages would elicit sympathy or apprehension from him. Never that.

“Just do what you’re told,” the gray-haired man said. “Hand over everything you got and you live. Understand?”

“You never answered my question,” Kurzhon said.

“What?” The gray haired man asked, now obviously annoyed.

Kurzhon spread his arms to include all of the bandit troupe.

“I asked,” Kurzhon said, voice booming out into the gray morning, ”which one of you wants to die first?”

The gray haired man grimaced and shook his head.

“We don’t got time for this,” he snapped. “Bart! Loose!”

As soon as the command was shouted, the black-haired youth, apparently named Bart, let the arrow fly, aimed directly at Kurzhon’s chest.

It never reached it’s destination. Faster than the bandits could track, Kurzhon’s arm shot out and the arrow was caught in his fist.

To the onlookers, an arrow had suddenly bloomed in the large man’s hand as if by magic.

Kurzhon squeezed, snapping the arrow in two. He dropped the pieces to the ground at his feet.

The bandits looked on in astonishment.

Kurzhon was not finished. Less than a heartbeat later, he spun. In one smooth motion he both drew his axe from it’s back harness and threw it with all his might.

It flashed unerringly across the road, spinning like lightning, then embedded itself into the black-haired youth’s chest.

The boy flew backwards as if yanked off his feet by a rope. His body smacked against a tree and then slid down to the ground.

Bart had not made a sound as he died.

Kurzhon turned his back on the now-dead archer. He faced the remaining bandits, who one by one tore their wide eyes from the body of their dead friend to look at his killer.

“Who will be next?” Kurzhon asked, his deep voice flat, face dark, all amusement drained away.

The man with the short sword recovered first.

“He threw ‘is weapon away! He’s unarmed!” he shouted.

Surging forward, he waved to his companions.

“ATTACK!”

—CHAPTER 2 COMING NEXT WEEK!