Fragments IV: The Village Slaughter

The young boy peered through the branches of the bush he was hiding in. He could see naught but smoke until a harsh, piercing breeze tore through the clearing and the smoke was dragged along with it, revealing the burning remnants of his village. As he watched one of the black clad raiders that his mother had told him to run and hide from, dragged a screaming woman from a blazing hut. He couldn’t recognise the woman from this distance from her features but as her screams tore through the air, he recognised her as the mother of his closest friend, Jakob. She was struggling with the raider, kicking and screaming for help. He pulled her along by the hair as she lashed out with her feet. One of her kicks connected with his knee and he stumbled, nearly falling. As she broke free of his grip he tore a chunk of her bright red hair from her head, causing her to unleash a howl of utter agony. She started running towards the forest, heading towards where Michael hid. She had taken a scant five steps when she was thrown forward and to the right by the impact of an arrow on the left side and towards the middle of her back. She hit the ground and stayed there. Michael willed her to stand and keep running, she didn’t move. She wasn’t even screaming anymore. The radier who had been dragging her walked to where she laid and knelt down near her. He rolled her onto her back, snapping the protruding arrow and looked her over.
“She’s dead. You killed my catch.”
The archer replied shortly, “She was hardly your catch, she was getting away.”
“I would’ve caught up to her soon enough. You’ve ruined her now”
“She’s still warm, you can use her once”
The raidier glanced in the direction of the archer, as he considered the archer’s idea. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad an idea; she certainly had been a beautiful catch.
Michael was still watching, tears streaming down his face, as the soldier raped the lifeless corpse of Jakob’s mother.


Michael stayed hidden long after he had seen the raiders mount their brutal warhorses and ride off. It had been dark for several hours when he crept from the bush he was hiding in and started searching for others in the gloom of the new moon through the thin layer of clouds. He found his father near the smouldering ruins of their shack, his head was lying on the ground several feet from his body and he had a series of deep slashes to his chest and belly. His sword was still held tight in his hands. Michael turned and vomited until he could no longer vomit, tears rolling down his face. He stumbled around the village searching for his mother and Jakob. He searched the village without success and headed towards the small clearing by the creek to see if they were hiding there. There he found his mother She was tied to pegs in the ground, naked, with numerous cuts, bruises and slashes on her. She wasn’t breathing. Michael’s knees gave way and he sank to the ground, the tears streaming down his face faster now as he began to sob loudly.


He was still crumpled there, unmoving, when the knights rode into the clearing the next morning. The captain dismounted and cautiously approached him, not wanting to scare him. The other knights also dismounted and set about searching the clearing. The captain looked at the boy, he appeared to be eight, or maybe ten. He was a slim boy but he looked as if he would fill out substantially. He removed his gauntlets and placed them in his belt, as he knelt next to the boy, the boy was trying to cry, but had long ago ran out of tears. The captain placed his large, warm hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, comforting him.
“What’s your name boy?” the captain quietly inquired.
The boy did not respond at first and the captain was about to ask again when the boy stammered his reply “M-Michael, My Lord”.
“Is this your mother?”
“Y-yes, M-My Lord”
The knight nodded his head gravely in sympathy as he pulled his water canteen from his belt and offered it to Michael. Numbly, Michael clasped the flask and drank deeply. For the first time, he looked up at the captain, staring into the captain’s caring blue eyes. He thanked him for the water and sat there, numb to the world until the captain asked him where to bury his mother. At this Michael burst into tears again, stammering out over several minutes that his mother had always loved swimming in the creek and lying on its bank, so it should be there that she was buried. The captain ordered two of his men to dig the grave as he set about undoing the bonds holding the boy’s mother.


The Captain escorted Michael back to the knight’s fortress. There he ordered a novice to take Michael to the kitchen and provide him with a meal and to then organise a bed for Michael for the night. The novice introduced himself to Michael as Tyson as he led the apprehensive boy to the keep’s kitchen. There Michael ate several helpings of a hearty venison stew. Michael was provided a hard, utilitarian but relatively comfortable bed in Tyson’s quarters. A fellow novice had occupied the bed until a week earlier when he had died raising the alarm as marauders, agents of Chaos with no care but for battle and the destruction of all, attacked the fortress.

The following morning, the captain asked Michael if he would tell him about what he had seen at the village, after a large breakfast of warm porridge. Michael told him what he had seen and the captain became enraged with the disgusting acts the boy had been forced to witness by the raiding marauders. The captain vowed to Michael that those responsible would be hunted down and sent to Sigmar to receive judgement for their atrocities. Michael begged to be allowed to accompany him, the captain steadfastly refused this wish. He led his forces out the next day, leaving less than half of the garrison to guard the fortress. Tyson was ordered to ensure that Michael did not attempt to join the knights who hunted the marauders. The hunters returned nearly two moons later, their mission complete and the captain’s vow fulfilled. Michael had remained in the fortress the entire time and was now determined to become a knight himself, so he could rid the world of the threat of the marauders. At first the captain refused, but after Michael’s fifth request, he relented, saying that he would vouch for Michael’s petition to join when he was two summers older. Satisfied with this Michael asked if he could remain within the keep in exchange for working within the keep. The Captain allowed him to do so, making him a stable hand.

Fragments III: Sweetest Sadness

The sweetest sadness consumed the young man as he sat incapable of speech. The light of the room belied the darkness of the night and the deep melancholy within his soul. He sat and he pondered, as great men have been wont to do. He pondered on the vastness of existence, and of the infinitesimal life he would lead. A brief moment lying between two eternities, engulfed in a vast and desolate nothingness. He pondered the slow pounding in his chest and the ease with which it could be silenced. That it could be stilled as though one were but extinguishing a candle, a mere indistinguishable one amongst millions. His thoughts were the deepest black. His slow breathing and calm demeanour belied the inner anguish, a pain that coursed through his veins, through his life, through his very existence. Inescapable torment consumed his very essence. He sighed. It was not a loud sound yet it seemed, for but the briefest moment, to fill the room. The air swirled and for that moment the room seemed to have life. His chest heaved with the sigh, not a sudden movement nor a violent movement and yet, had there been one there to observe they would have been shocked by the enormity of it, infinitesimal in motion and yet all-consuming to the room. It was the man’s first movement in a seeming eternity, an eternity that stretched back further than he could remember and that had been but an instant in arriving. His downward cast face pointed his stare at the floor just beyond his outstretched feet, a stare that never went anywhere. His eyes where open but they did not see, they merely looked. His mind saw bleak emptiness and naught but the sweetest sadness.

A noise broke his reverie. Outside, in the cold and swirling mist a falling branch struck the ground. The crack of the branch resonated throughout the still night, the snaps of the twigs rattled in harsh counterpoint. The man’s head snapped up, a violent and jarring motion, his now-alert eyes swivelling in the direction of the sound. His body tensed, prepared to leap to action. He let himself relax as he heard no other sounds through the chill of the winter’s night. Bitterly he shook his head. He was angry. Angry that he had fallen into such careless and useless melancholy and angry that he had been jolted from its enthralling sweetness. He discarded the notion of returning to its alluring embrace, knowing that it would be but a hollow after-taste of its former agony. He sighed again and stood, folding his dark grey cloak about himself to ward against the icy air.

Fragments II: The Apothecary's Apprentice

Fragments is a collection of unrelated stories that I started writing, never really finished, and probably never will.

The ornate blade slid effortlessly into Michael’s belly, a gasp of pain escaping from his lips as he pushed it deeper into himself. He felt his warm, sticky blood ooze down the blade and over his fingers. His vision blurred as his life force ebbed out, his grip weakening on the blade as he felt more of his tainted blood gush across his hands and spill onto the already blood-soaked dirt beneath his feet. He took once last glance around him, at the scene of the massacre that he knew he was responsible for, before his vision clouded again and then cleared. He seemed to be standing in a shadow of the world, everything gray and wispy as time seemed to stand still. Before him, stood a young man he recognised from long ago.
"Martin? But it can't be. You can't be..."
"Quiet Michael. I've come to help you. There is still time. If only a preciously small amount. Trust me Michael, it cannot end this way. It cannot."
Martin started to fade from view and Michael turned at the sound of a cough from behind him. There he saw a ghostly apparition of himself, half standing, half falling in slow motion as he passed his sword through himself. Beyond himself stood a tall, broad shouldered man wearing the black robes of a priest of the Death-God. The priest's eyes locked with Michael, and for the first time in years Michael felt fear. The priest's eyes were a swirling maelstrom of raw force and power, they seemed to be as deep as eternity and everything that fell under their gaze was instantly seen in it's truest form. The priest seemed content to stand and stare at Michael as the ghostly form of Michael slowly died between them.
"What do you want?" Michael inquired of the priest. The priest chuckled before responding, "It is not a question of what I want, but what you need my son. I have no wants, I am here because your friend begged that I come and give you another chance. I agreed to come. As for the chance, whether that will be received remains to be seen."
"Chance? A chance for what?"
"So many questions. A pity you did not question things so in the mortal realm."
"The mortal realm? Where are we?"
Stepping through the shadow of Michael the priest responded "We are in the realm between realms. The shadow's you see are shadow's of what you would call the real world, the mortal realm. The shadow of you dying is you dying."
"But..."
"Do not interrupt me, boy. I will have no more of your questions. Your time is limited and mine is valuable. How did this happen?"
"How did what happen?"
The priest glared at Michael, and Michael realised that the priest referred to his own imminent death. "I pushed my sword through myself."
"That is not how this happened. How did this happen?"
"I saw what I had done and decided that there was no choice but to fall on my sword."
"Again you have not answered my quesion. How did this happen?"
"But, I did, I saw what I had done and fell on my sword. What more do you want?"
Shaking his head like a benevolent mentor does when a student can not grasp an obvious concept, the priest replied, "The beginning, Michael, start at the beginning."
"There was a battle between my forces and those of Lord Argemmon's, I caused the massacre of hundred's on each side. At first I was oblivious to what I was doing, the pain I caused, but then my eyes were opened and I could no longer live with my deeds and thus I fell on my sword."
"Still you do not start at the beginning. There is no helping you if you cannot even recognise where things begin. I know you know where it begins. In your heart the beginning screams to be heard. But you have suppressed it, refused to listen to it for so long you no longer hear it's call. Open your ears and hear. Tell me the beginning."
Michael's face creased in puzzlement, and then understanding, closely followed by anguish crossed his face.
"It began about a dozen years ago."
"To the day. It began exactly a dozen years ago to the day."
"If you know the story this well, why must I tell it to you?"
"Because my son, whilst I may know this story, it is evident that you yourself are not fully aware of it. Perhaps by relating the story in it's entirety will allow you to begin to see. If it cannot then there can be no saving you from your fate."
"My fate?"
"Questions are for the mortal realm and your own actions and thoughts, not for those such as me. Start your tale."

"Twelve years ago today I sat in my uncle's shop. He was an apothecary, I was his apprentice. It was the middle of a dry, dusty summer and as I worked hard to crush the juja beans that I had picked in the dark caves to the east the day before, I became increasingly bored and wished I could tear off my sweat soaked tunic and dive in the cool creek that ran through our town. I dreamed of seeing Alise and of fishing under the shade of the coorabah trees with Martin. I hated crushing juja beans, and I hated the careful extraction of the juice from the delicate oran flowers. To me that didn't seem like the true work of an apothecary. Whilst I crushed beans my uncle got to travel to the homes of the ill and treat them, help them. To me this seemed to be the be all and end all of been an apothecary. How naive I was. I can remember the afternoon clearly and the night even more so. That afternoon a squad of the King's Finest rode into our sleepy little town, disturbing our market and kicking many traveller's out of the inn's, forcing them to camp under the stars. Decree's started popping up around town that all males of fighting ages were to assemble in the town square the next day at lunch time. Those who did not would be executed and hung from the town walls for all to see their shame.

At my mothers insistence my father bade me to hide for the next few days, until the King's Finest had rode out of town. They didn't want me to be forced to join the army, and I was as eager for me to avoid that fate as they were. Except that I didn't want to look like a coward in front of Alise. A foolish thing, had I not gone to see her that night I would never have gotten into this trouble. Still I do not regret it. Better that this has happened than I have not stopped what nearly happened that night. I snuck out just after curfew to talk to Alise and see what she thought of my going, or more accurately of my not going. As I neared her house I heard the high pitch scream of a woman and it soon dawned on me that it had been Alise who screamed. Forgetting the need for stealth I sprinted to her house and scrambled up the lattice that held the beautiful icola vines. Fortunately her shutters were not barred and I pried one open whilst balancing precariously on the creaking lattice work. Sticking my head in the window I saw one of the so-called Finest holding Alise on the bed by her throat, choking the life out of her as he had his way with her. In a blind rage at the Finest's desecration of my beloved I threw myself through the window and landed behind the bed. Thankfully he was too engrossed in his own pleasure and Alise's pain to hear my awkward landing. I pulled his dagger from it's sheath on his belt and without even considering the implications of my actions I slid the knife under his ribs, angled upwards and pierced his diaphragm. Pulling him off the bed, I stood over him as he slowly suffocated, unable to breathe. I ground what passed for his manhood beneath the heel of my boots and watched with a small sense of satisfaction as his eyes bulged in pain and panic as he slowly lost consciousness and slipped into death.

Alise was sobbing on the bed, gently rocking back and forth.

Fragments I: Kahlia

Fragments is a collection of unrelated stories that I started writing, never really finished, and probably never will.


With a weakening grasp, Kahlia clung to Yves’ mane as he galloped across the open field. His hooves carved a path through the grass as he stretched his stride harder and faster than he had ever sprinted before. Barely conscious, Kahlia battled to maintain her one-handed grip on Yves’ mane, whilst her other hand vainly struggled to staunch the flow of blood from her belly wound. Sensing her life slipping slowly away, Yves renewed his valiant struggle to carry her to safety. His mind raced with terror and desperate conviction. Though he had lived many of Kahlia’s lifetimes before they bonded, he could no longer envision existence without her constant companionship. Part of him wanted to curse himself for letting her be wounded so, to blame himself for her death, but the better parts of him shouted down his darker demons. She was not yet dead he told himself, he could yet save her life. All he had to do was get her to the temple of Isayyla, the Goddess of Winter and Icy Death. She would surely exact a high price for the deed, but Kahlia had led them deep beyond the tamed lands, and no other temple was close. With a shrill whistle, an arrow flew past Yves’ head, missing him by mere millimetres. Yves looked for trees, or rocks, anything to hide behind, to lose their pursuers, but he saw naught but endless grass. Kahlia had slipped into unconsciousness on his back, and he could not fight the pursuers without throwing her. Desperate to save her life, he redoubled his efforts to flee, whilst trying to awaken Kahlia across their telepathic bond.

Kahlia was floating in black nothingness; it was a peaceful slumber, an oblivion of thought and physical pain. She became dimly aware of an urgent calling. Someone was shouting to her, calling her to help. Dazedly, she strove to answer the call. She fought to rouse herself, and slowly became aware of the rhythmic pounding of hooves on the ground, of the grass that whipped by, of the dark shapes that chased her. Some part of her realised that she would die if she did nothing to stop them; that she would fail at her mission, that she would condemn a friend. Feebly she drew on what few reserves she had left and summoned a voice from deep within her. It resonated across the open field, stunning some of her pursuers with the mere idea that such a powerful voice could come from such a small, crumpled, wounded woman. Those that stumbled in their pursuit out of confusion and surprise were the lucky ones. At first Kahlia’s voice was incoherent, a simple throb of meaningless sounds as she struggled to control herself. Slowly coherence formed.
Rhodanthe Agais Tor Impresa Nirs Huras! Iseana Sigaras Tor! Iagos Limisan Tor!
The words tore from her chest and power flowed in their wake. Momentarily startled by Kahlia’s plea, Yves hesitated before he realised the power and destruction that was about to descend. Leaping ahead, he avoided the first wave of destruction by barely a hairsbreadth. A ghostly apparition sped from where Kahlia had been. With impossible speed its ghostly sword effortlessly cleaved the closest pursuers in half. Those that were behind turned and fled as the ethereal figure gave pursuit.