The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 17 – The Elusive White Stag (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 30, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Morgan has made up her mind to kill Princess Isolde. But how? In the depths of her angst and dark desire she hatches a plan. Even if the consequences pit two warring kingdoms against each other and thousands perish in the fire, Morgan will have her way. Isolde must die.

Chapter 17 - The Elusive White Stag

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 17- The Elusive White Stag
By Rock Kitaro

The next morning, Morgan woke up with darkness in her heart. Her eyelids opened without any drag or drowsiness in her, just an eerie clarity as if she had been awake for hours.

She sat up and scanned the room. Her mother was sleeping on her pillow. Elaine was at her left while Annaliese, Fierva, and Giselle slept on feather beds that were brought in.

Dusk came with thick clouds casting a blue tint over the castle. Silently, she slipped out of bed and put on her black cloak of wool, before walking to the mirror and combing her fingers through her dark hair, glowering at herself with unblinking contempt. Then, carefully she picked up the enchanted red ruby jewels and wrapped them around her right wrist, fastening them tight with twine.

The hallway outside her bedroom was quiet. The wall-mounted torches had fizzled and there was barely enough light for her see the doorframes and nooks. The guards were still standing, but their eyes were closed, snoring from the pit of their throats. And just across the hallway, sleeping with their backs against the wall were Gawain and his little brother Agravain.

The sight of Gawain in a blissful slumber made Morgan twitch into a scowl. A rush of heat immediately spread up from her chest and burned in her cheeks. The right side of Agravain’s face was resting against Gawain’s shoulder while Gawain’s chin was nestled over Agravain’s bowl-cut hair.

Morgan reached out like a talon ready to rip at Gawain’s face but stopped just as the tips of her fingers touched the curls of his bangs. Her hand moved closer to his neck. She could feel his breath. Her cheeks quivered as an internal battle waged within.

Abruptly she pulled back and stood up straight. The scowl faded. Her purple eyes gazed upon Gawain with the sudden realization that he was simply beneath her. With bated breath, Morgan put on the hood of her cloak and hurried down the hall, disappearing down the shadows of the spiral staircase.

…

The blue fog had enveloped and spread throughout Chadwyck Forest. The sun was peeked over the horizon but thick rainclouds extended the twilight and pushed back the morning light. Birds huddled on swaying branches. Dew, like glistening pearls blanketed the forest floor, making it soft and slippery

The Lion of Dumnonia was on the prowl. In stealth, Tristan held steady the nock of a single arrow pulled within his longbow. He had anticipated a blue day and as such, Tristan was wearing a pale blue tunic with light brown pants. A dagger was holstered on his waist and there were twelve arrows in his quiver, twelve arrows he carved himself. His leather boots had thin soles, perfect for feeling the soil beneath his feet, careful to avoid snapping any sticks or twigs.

His cold blue eyes were locked with the focus of an apex predator. A fly landed on his cheek and he didn’t react in the slightest. His entire body seemed to glide through the forest in a slow controlled pace. A long eared owl was watching him. Following him. Studying him.

Keeping low, Tristan entered a narrow groove in the forest. A herd of fallows was just beyond the ridgeline but Tristan wasn’t hunting fallows. Tristan was chasing a legend, a myth that only those who had seen dragons and mermaids would be foolish enough to believe. Tristan was searching for the elusive white stag.

According to legends, the white stag was said to appear when the hunter had committed some grave sin and no one but the sinner knew what he had done. It was also said that when a white stag appeared, it was a signal for great tidings in a knight’s quest.

Tristan didn’t care about legends or contradicting superstitions. He’d been festering ever since the Hibernians landed at the Port of Talons. He knew everyone suspected he was just some mindless lapdog, loyal and obedient to the king’s every whim. But that’s only because Tristan respected the importance of discretion.

In truth, Tristan was furious. He clashed with King Mark behind closed doors for more hours than the king had spoken with his own council. Tristan reminded the king of what Morholt did to his parents and his entire village. Tristan reminded the king of old oaths to never trust the Hibernians, to help him avenge his parents. Watching his king break bread with the enemy was sickening. And now that King Mark intended to wed one of them, Tristan didn’t know what to do with himself.

Thus, Tristan came to Chadwyck Forest with every intention to bathe in the blood a white stag. The muscles in his forearms and shoulders began to burn as he kept the bow armed, ready to fire on impulse. His stern gaze scanned the blue forest, penetrating branches of green and brown in search of any flash of white.

Suddenly, there was a crack of splintering wood. A branch snapped. His eyes darted left. There was a glimmer of white. Tristan raised his bow and fired. Almost as soon as he did, a paralyzing fear gripped at his lungs. He had just shot Princess Isolde.

“ARE YOU INSANE!?” she screamed.

Princess Isolde was standing on higher ground next to a tree with massive roots. She was wearing a regal white dress with green trimmings and knee-high traveling boots. Tristan’s arrow had sailed between her legs and snagged the tree behind her, pinning her gown to the trunk.

Tristan squinted with disappointment as Isolde pulled and tugged at the arrow. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get free. Meanwhile, Tristan turned around and scanned the clearing. The fallows were gone. Even the owl had flown off. If there was a white stag in the vicinity, he had no doubt Isolde’s screaming just scared it away.

“Christ! Why can’t I get this?!” Isolde complained as she tugged at the arrow with all her strength.

Tristan approached and gave the arrow a quick yank. The gown was free. Isolde lost her balance and fell from the ridge. Tristan calmly caught her in one arm and set her upright.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“You just stuck me with an arrow!” she shouted.

“Correction. I struck your dress. I’ll ask again. What are you doing here?”

Isolde scoffed. She was about to storm off before Tristan’s big beefy hands latched onto her arm. He thought he was being gentle, but to Isolde it felt like a bear trap snagged her.

“I said, what are you…”

Before he could finish, Isolde began smacking him with tight close-fisted punches. By the seventh blow, Tristan grabbed her wrist and turned her around.

“As I was saying. What are you…”

“WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!” she screamed. “You’re not even a knight. How dare you lay a single finger on me. How dare you! I’m a princess!”

“Then act like one!” Tristan growled in her ear.

“Insolent knave! I’ll see you flung for the cliffs for this!”

“Well since you put it like that, I might as well kill you now and blame it on some wild beast,” Tristan snarled.

“At least you’d be telling the truth. Because you are a wild beast, you big ugly brute! There’s no sort of gentleman in you. No gentleman at all! LET ME GO!”

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 17 – Don’t Fear Me (Paranormal Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 27, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

It’s a showdown in the cotton fields. Cloud confronts the Slave Quarter Killer and sets the perfect trap…but as per usual, other people keep getting in the way.

Chapter 17 - Don't Fear Me

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 17 – Don’t Fear Me
By Rock Kitaro

Calvin and Jason arrive under the auspices of a full moon. They can see their own breath in the frosty cold air. All is quiet on the cotton fields. The crickets aren’t chirping. There isn’t any gospel music. No wind. No humming. No croaks from the big house. Just the packing of soil beneath their feet and the occasional chirp from the radios strapped to their shoulders.

An unsettled agitation creeps to their core. They know they’ve been had. They came responding to an emergency but the plantation seems devoid of all life. Even so, they feel as though they’re being watched. They are. Jason is scared out his mind. I can see it.

“Hey, son! I’m saying though. Ain’t nobody here,” he says.

“HELLO! IS ANYONE OUT THERE?” Calvin calls.

“Yo! Let’s go!” Jason begs.

The paramedics are snug in their dark blue coveralls. The ambulance is parked on the side of the road with the engine still running. With his red medicinal bag in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Calvin embarks in the direction of the slave quarters. Jason is right behind him but he keeps throwing wild-eyed glances to the big house. Calvin remains fixated on the slave quarters as if he expected a Doberman to come running out.

They’re waist deep in the middle of the cotton shrubs when Jason flinches and shines his light on the big house.

“Yo! You see that?” Jason whispers.

“There’s nobody in there.” Calvin says.

“I’m telling you. I saw something up on the second floor. Let’s get the fuck out of here, man!” Jason shrieks.

Calvin sweeps the field with his flashlight once more before heaving a heavy sigh and starting for the ambulance.

…

“Quick question.”

My voice cuts through the silence, clean, crisp, and clear.

They’re dropping f-bombs as they fumble with their flashlights. They cast their lights on the slave quarters and there, they see a new and improved version of Cloud Beaudry, one exuding with the swagger of a champion. My blazer is in the rental, parked further down the road. I’m wearing a bulletproof vest and there’s a .380 on my hip.

The sleeves of my white collared shirt are rolled up and if you think I’m freezing, think again. I’ve been practicing Wing Chun drills for the past two minutes. My chain punches, front kicks, and Ton Saus are on point.

The paramedics emerge from the cotton fields to enter the soft patch of soil in front of these here slave quarters. They look pissed. Reasonably so.

“You would be the one to call us out here in the middle of the goddamn night!” Jason snarls.

“Let me ask you something.” I begin, pausing for a moment to stretch out my neck. “1896 Drew Street. Ring any bells?”

They ponder for a moment. Then a bewilder expression befalls Jason.

“That’s my girl’s house, homie. How the fuck you know Kyrah?” he snaps.

I’m snickering out loud. I never snicker. After unclasping my watch and sliding it into my pocket, I lock eyes with the Slave Quarter Killer. He has no fucking clue.

“Sup, Calvin. You want to tell him. Or should I?”

“Man, whatchu talkin about?” Calvin says, as if I’m wasting his time.

“Not bad. Yes, your performance was very convincing. When we first met, I never thought for a second you’d be capable of stalking six teenage girls. Abducting them. Raping and molesting them until you’ve reached the pinnacle of pleasure. And then…Well you couldn’t let them go, could you? So you killed them. And you didn’t just kill them softly. They all died brutally. You could have just shot them. You could’ve slit their throats. Hell, for someone in the medical field, it would have been easy. But no! You bludgeoned them. You choked them. You drowned them, you unimaginable piece of shit. And perhaps the worst came when a girl felt so hopeless, so utterly defeated that she’d rather bash her own brains out than see your face again.”

Jason turns to his partner. He doesn’t believe me at first, but Calvin…He just stares at me with an empty gaze of morbid denial. I’ve seen that look before. It’s one of the worst feelings in the world. The realization that everything is caving in and there’s nothing he can do about it, like a submarine filling up with water.

“Hey, fuck you!” Jason shouts. “There you go again, pointing fingers. I heard ya’ll already caught the motherfuckuh who did this so why you messin with us?”

Calvin drops his red medical bag. It hits the dirt and I hear something break, prompting me to whip out my Glock and aim it at the bridge of his nose, both hands holding it steady.

“Don’t move a muscle!” I warn.

“Whoa! What the hell are you doing? I don’t believe this!” Jason shouts.

“Calvin Chalmers. You’re under arrest for the rape and murder of Tiquasia Payne. Denedra Harrell. Samantha Fox. Ashley Hunt. And Alisha Collier.”

“WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” Jason screams.

“Tell him, Calvin! Tell him what you been up to every time you drop him off at his girl’s house. Go ahead. Ask him, Jason. I’ll wait.”

“Nigga…What is he talkin about?” Jason asks.

“He’s got nothing.” Calvin snarls. “Probably hit his head one too many times. Should have someone look at that, bruh.”

I’m smirking as I lower my weapon and take the finger off the trigger. “Just tell me one thing. What exactly did you say to KeNedra? If I’m not mistaken, once you boys picked her up, it was Jason doing the driving while you had her alone in the back cabin. She recognized you didn’t she. You must have told her something. So let’s hear it. I want to hear what the devil said to the angel. To get her to kill herself like that. SPEAK!”

Calvin shakes his head with a cocky grin. “Don’t know what you talking about. And to be honest, you starting to work my last nerve. Got us out here in the middle of the…”

“Look around! There’s no one out here but us. You don’t hear any sirens. No helicopters. No cops. Other than the three of us, not a single soul knows you’re an ass-raping murderer. I don’t give a damn about the justice system. We all know there’s no right or wrong, only public opinion. All I care about is closure for KeNedra’s family. If a coward like you met them, you’d break down on the spot. I can tell just by looking. You don’t have the balls. All reserved and hiding behind your silence. To be honest, I respected you more when you throwing hands in the big house. That was a warrior. That was a beast. Frankly, I don’t know who this scared little shit is.”

My words…they sting. I know they do. He’s grinding his teeth. He doesn’t know what I know or if he should even believe me, but there’s one thing he took away from my little speech. Other than the three of us, not a single soul knows he’s the Slave Quarter Killer.

The Alpha Male vs. The Nice Guy

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 23, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Food for Thought, rock kitaro. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The following is one of the more popular videos from a Youtube Vlogger who discusses his version of Alpha Male Strategies, how attract women, how to treat women, and pretty much how to be a player. I warn you, the language is a bit vulgar and he gives you some perspective that you might not be aware of, and thus will probably find offensive.

I’ve seen about ten of his videos. They’re quite amusing. I appreciate how straight-forward and honest he is about his perspective on the dating scene. But mind you, it’s his perspective. He claims to have dated over a hundred women. Having sex with multiple women in a given week. And assuming this is all true, it’s understandable why he’d have these world views about the dynamics between men and women.

However…When it comes to all the crap “Nice Guys” are getting on the dating scene…I had some choice words. Here’s what I told him:

After watching about ten of your videos…I really do walk away with a greater understanding. Mind you, when I hear of new philosophies and perceptions of the world, I really do go in with a humble heart, the mind of a pupil. But in the end…it’s as you say. These tips are for your interpretation of the “Alpha Male,” which I think is a bit different from my own interpretation of the phrase.

To me, the Alpha Male is the master of his world. He does what he wants. He takes responsibility for what’s going on in his life and blames no one. The Alpha male is “on his purpose” as you say. But that purpose can include the goal of getting married to a good woman. The kind of woman your suggestions and tips attract…in my opinion, is the wrong women. Which, these days, seems to be a majority for a great deal of their youth until they’ve been hurt, dated enough jerks, or pumped out a few children out of wedlock before finally growing up and realizing they’ve had the wrong priorities and values out of life. Of course, the majority, doesn’t mean all women are like this.

Now, let me tell you about the kind of Nice Guy that doesn’t seem to get a lot of representation. So much so, that it seems like these caliber of nice guys don’t exist. But they do. A lot of them are married. Some stay single because they see what’s going on and refuse to betray their own personal constitution, which in most cases, revolve around their Christian values. These kinds of nice guys are aware of what’s going on. They know that women and men will think this or that about them based on their nice guy actions, but we don’t care. We will still be gentlemen, polite, respectful, and strong. Our confidence, our discipline comes from doing what’s good in God’s eyes and having faith that this is the ultimate fulfillment of purpose. I say, we don’t care about how we’re perceived, but really that’s only part of it.

The truth is, a person’s perception of those nice guy/virtue qualities tell us a lot about who you are. If you look down on them. Keep walking. If you want someone to play mind games with you. Keep walking. If you want the drama of having us argue with you over silly things like being late, keep walking. If you think that we’re thirsty because we genuinely text when we feel like it, which could be right away…keep walking. If you think that we’re your fans because we show how much we cherish you and that this somehow makes you our celebrity, our everything…keep walking.

And more importantly…if you take away nothing from this, remember that nice guys of my caliber aren’t in it just for the sex. If all you bring to the table is your body, i’m sorry, but you’re worthless to us. Every woman on earth has a body. Even straight 10s are a dime a dozen.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 16 – Another Vision (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 22, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

A single scream wakes the entire castle. Morgan le Fay has another vision. Again, it’s about Gawain but this time he’s not alone. This is the climax that turns teen angst into a mad obsession. The concepts of guilt and innocence don’t matter. Not when you know what you saw and the only one who believes you is absolutely no one at all.

Chapter 16 - Another Vision

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 16 – Another Vision
By Rock Kitaro

Exasperated breaths passed through her lips like bursts of steam. She was shivering but she wasn’t cold. She was sweltering but not hot. Morgan’s entire body was soaked from head to toe, her gown drenched, her hair wet and melded to her flesh. She tossed and turned, gripping at the bear fur spread over her bed. She drained with each exhale, getting weaker and faint. As if her very soul was evaporating from her body and her heart could barely take it.

“God no.”

“Please…”

“Please. Not another vision.”

“My heart…”

“I can’t take it!”

“It hurts!”

Her whimpers were soft and barely perceptible. The orange glow from a single lit candle revealed beads of sweat trickling from her forehead. Her chest fluctuated as she struggled to breathe. Her thighs tightened as her knees came together and curled in a fetal position. Her grimace displayed unimaginable torment as her eyes clamped shut with harsh guttural groans.

Morgan was indeed having another vision. Again, it was of Gawain. He was sleeping. Not the Gawain of now, but a slightly younger version of him with shorter brown locks and less muscle tone. He was sleeping bare-chested on a bed of hay in the horses stable, his sheathed katana, propped up against the waist-high door of the stall. And lingering by this stall was Isolde in the middle of the night, staring at him like a thirsty survivor coming upon an oasis in the desert.

“No! Please don’t! Don’t!” Morgan anguished in her sleep.

Isolde removed her pearl white night gown one shoulder strap at a time until the garment slid from her slender body like a sleeve of silk. A creak emanated from the rusty hinges as Isolde open the stall and caught the katana before it could fall. Resting the katana softly in the hay, Isolde lowered to her knees and crawled over Gawain until her knees were on both sides of his hips. Straddling him like a horse, an anticipating Isolde placed her hands over Gawain’s stomach and chest as one would a finely polished shield. Then, just as Gawain opened his weary eyes, Isolde brought the heat of her bosom down upon his.

Gawain gasped. Isolde’s lips caught the end of that suction. Gawain grabbed her by the shoulders but Isolde hooked his arms. She was older than him by three years. Their naked bodies rolled and grappled as Gawain struggled to break free, but Isolde was an anaconda and her hold was airtight.

When he rolled on top of her, Isolde clasped her wrists behind his back and wrapped her legs around his hips. She thrust her tongue onto his and sucked in as their shoulders fastened and became one. The sensation, the heat of stimulation, and the explosion of hormones corroded Gawain’s resistance. Once his toes curled, he was lost. He submitted. The pleasure pulled him in. Gawain thrust himself, grinding into her, slowly at first before a hard ride developed.

Morgan flung the sheets off of her bed. She rolled onto her back and raised her knees. With bated breath, her hands slowly slithered their way from her belly to the smooth groove between her legs.

“No. Stop…” she gasped with agony.

Isolde wrestled to mount Gawain. Her head cocked back. Her legs and the muscles in her core did all of the work. From there, all Morgan could see were flashes of fornication. Morgan cringed as her hips moved up and down the same way she saw in the vision. Her chest fluttered with an intense anxiety until tears trickled down her cheek.

“No!” Morgan cried. “Please stop!”

As badly as she wanted to wake up, she couldn’t. She was spellbound in this sadistic trance, watching as Isolde’s long golden hair whipped to and fro, as her mouth gaped open in ecstatic pleasure. Each time Isolde exhaled bursting with delight, Morgan exhaled bursting in pain like a woman in childbirth. When Isolde’s nose furled with electricity tingling through her thighs, Morgan’s teeth clenched as if she was just prodded by a burning hot poker.

This horrific experience continued for what seemed like an hour until finally, Isolde threw her head back and released an elated exclamation of glee. All the muscles in her golden body relaxed and melted onto Gawain. Resting her chin on Gawain’s sweaty shoulders, Isolde’s blue eyes looked forward as if she was staring directly at Morgan.

Then…Isolde smiled, the same devious smile from the dance hall.

Morgan’s traumatized eyes shot open as the candlelight blew out. She was paralyzed, frozen in sheer terror. And as soon as she regained her senses…

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

The siren of Morgan’s scream blared and permeated through the entire palace louder than the roar from a canon. Every soul in Tintagel heard the piercing scream as if Morgan was right there in bed next to them. It was a frightening display of her raw untapped power. No one knew what was going on and Sir Ekner, one of the oldest knights in the kingdom, nearly suffered from a stroke. There was great panic and confusion. She kept screaming. It didn’t stop. Over and over again like an alarm of extreme urgency.

Gawain was one of the first to wake up in full alert. Agravain was in the bed next to his. Gaheris was missing but it wasn’t difficult to guess where he was sleeping. In unison, Gawain and Agravain jumped out of bed, grabbed their weapons, and darted into the hallway. As doors banged open with disoriented residents demanding to know the commotion, the brothers were sprinting barefoot and bare-chested down the cold stony corridors.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 16 – Assemble the Pieces (Detective Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 19, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Taking a haunted stroll down memory lane, Cloud and Miranda connect the dots, narrowing their list of suspects down to two. After being attacked, hated, and criticized for his relentless pursuit of the truth, Cloud’s lost confidence in the legal system. He’s tried it their way. Now, he intends to set a trap. Either way, the Slave Quarter Killer’s gonna get what’s coming to him.

Chapter 16 - Assemble the Pieces

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 16 – Assemble the Pieces
By Rock Kitaro

When I was a kid I used to hate coming to the Augusta Riverwalk. It’s been over a decade since my last visit. Looking at it now, I almost want to slap myself for having taking its beauty for granted. I now possess a greater form of respect, an acknowledgment of its history, its significance. The Augusta Riverwalk is Augusta, Georgia.

The terrain of this scenic park isn’t what you’d expect from most riverwalks. It’s better. A wide red brick promenade lines the edge of the river, winding half a mile from the Museum of History to the back entrance of the convention center. It’s at the base of a forty-foot high earthen levee of stones, grass, and giant oak trees covered in Spanish moss. A steep cement stairway connects the lower level to the upper level of this natural levee, a natural levee that more or less looks like a small hill or a bluff.

Looking down from the upper level gives you a breathtaking sensation of peering over a broad canyon in which the valley is mostly filled with freshwater. South Carolina is on the other side with waterfront townhomes.

It was common to indulge in a brisk Saturday morning jog while the kids exhausted themselves on the playground. Magnificent oaks with their outstretched branches separated the tiers, providing ample shade for all her visitors. Its natural beauty stimulates the imagination. Easy to lose yourself to the idea of a simpler life, one without car problems or taxes or moving up in the corporate world. The rich fragrance of healthy vegetation fills your lungs and suddenly you feel closer to God.

Also constructed on the upper level is a famous science museum called Fort Discovery. It was mostly catered to elementary students, children, and families looking for wholesome entertainment. The massive cream-colored building took up one fifth of the riverwalk. Many of its attractions, such as a helicopter, a human gyroscope, and a moonwalk replica, were parked right outside, free for passing pedestrians to observe.

Well…this was where Fort Discovery used to be. Due to a lack of funding and a drop in her attendance rate, the museum closed a couple of years back. The building itself remains but it’s completely empty. Its outdoor attractions are gone. Feels like I’ve come back to a childhood home to find all my toys sold or repossessed. A bit disheartening.

The upper level was also home to flags and monuments of the foreign nations that had a hand in shaping Augusta since its founding in 1735. It had plaques dedicated to the Creek, Yuchi, and Shawnee tribes that occupied the land long before the British. There was an Episcopal church with a small cemetery in the back. A towering Celtic cross keeps watch over this graveyard. Furthermore, erected stones with engraved messages educated visitors about historic battles and the city’s role in the Civil War.

Yes…this is why it used to give me the creeps.

The riverwalk was haunted by the souls of the dead, a river of animosity, a park of resentment. As a child, my mother would bring me here in a failed attempt to get me play with the other kids. And while she’d eventually wander off to make conversation with some single father, I’d spend hours slumped on the steps, curled in the fetal position. I’d pour out my eyes, crying on the most beautiful of days. Parents would pass by and wonder what’s wrong. They had no idea. The tears seemed unprovoked. They’d watch as I alternate between covering my ears and eyes as if I was hiding in the midst of a massacre. Needless to say, they kept their children away from me.

Who could I talk to? Who would believe me if I told them what I saw?

I’d hear the bellows of the dead, the racist slurs of lynch mobs and desperate pleas of mercy that fell on deaf ears. I’d hear the gargling sounds of men and women choking to death as they hung from strained ropes. The crackle of old rifles and blasting cannons echoed across the park and even the haunted oaks themselves whispered to me. I always assumed the whispers came from the souls of Native Americans speaking in tribal tongues. As the branches swayed in the wind with scraping leaves, the trees would whisper, “Look! Look! Look at the boy!”

The hollow whispers would get louder and louder as if the trees themselves were expanding to lean closer until abject horror compelled me to open my eyes.

What I saw was far worse than the horrid sounds. I saw an endless procession of dead scabby Confederate soldiers, the “Clinched Rifles,” trudging four men abreast on the promenade skirting the river. I’d cringe with nausea as I saw rotting flesh drop like globs of wet clay from the men’s disgruntled faces. Sometimes whole limbs would detach like brittle twigs left littering the walkway. I was the only one who could see it. People thought I was “retarded” the way I stepped over rotting forearms and toes that curled like maggots.

Worst of all, the soldiers would moan and groan and every once in a while, I’d get locked in a trance, honing in on one of them like a jack-in-a-box about to pop. My intense focus would zero in on a single soldier. And every time I honed in on that single soul, the Confederate soldier would lash like a snapping turtle and snarl at me with the vile, twisted grimace of a monster that wanted to eat the flesh from my face.

Slaves and Native Americans hung on the oaks like ornaments. Behind the Episcopal Church, there was always an orange glow of controlled fire like the burner from a stove that served as a perimeter around the entire cemetery. The Celtic cross itself blazed bright green, ever so often, erupting like a geyser. Within its emerald flames, I’d see a mask of agony lighting up the night sky. It was the death mask of a martyr burning at the stake.

Perhaps the only tolerable presence to a precocious child, such as I, were the soft orange wisps that floated about like tiny clouds of glowing smoke. I’d hear giggles in these dull orbs of light. The words they spoke were in a language I couldn’t understand but somehow I found them benevolent. As if they understood me. And isn’t that what all children want? To be understood?

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 15 – Crush (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 16, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

Tristan & Isolde…a match made in heaven. News of their wedding spreads but sadly, it’s a bit premature.

Chapter 15 - Crush - WLOPartwork by WLOP for his creative series

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 15 – Crush
By Rock Kitaro

“Marriage?”

“Yes. Is it truly so surprising?” Isolde chuckled. “Political marriages date back for centuries. You’ll probably be bound to one yourself someday. To keep the hounds at bay, the belligerents in line, a show of unity in which both factions have a vested interest for the sake of diplomacy. A preemptive strike to conflicts without the common side effect of bloodshed and mayhem. It’s ideal, really.”

It was a hazy day. The same as before, except it was getting colder as autumn said goodbye. Gawain and Princess Isolde were alone on the breezeway three stories up in the Western Ward. From their position they could see the training grounds below. There were more soldiers than usual. Apparently everyone had the same idea, to shake off their anxieties through the burn of rigorous exercise.

While Constantine and Gaheris practiced their archery, Pellinore and the Black Bloods displayed an unusual amount of goodwill as they volunteered to help train the more inexperienced soldiers in close-quarter combat. Over 300 men had separated into groups of eight and took turns in freestyle sparring sessions. The Black Bloods watched and pointed out flaws. Pellinore was the loudest. He yanked older men and screamed in their ears.

This went on for some time…until Agravain grew weary of his spit-flying insults.

Agravain charged Pellinore, determined to even the score from their last bout. Everyone stopped what they were doing and cheered them on. Even Toothless Kersey and the lancers took a break and brought their horses over. Pellinore was taking it easy on the fourteen-year-old at first, but more and more, Agravain gave him no choice but to clutch his claymore with both hands. It was amazing, like a choreographed dance of aggressive swings and silver flashes. Agravain was smirking. A flustered Pellinore was beginning to sweat.

“Like a damn jackrabbit!” grunted Pellinore. He was about to say more but Agravain was on him.

Isolde giggled before she realized Gawain was barely watching. His eyes were on the match but his sights were on the future.

“Yes?” Isolde said as she leaned into his shoulder.

“You say ideal but that would suggest…I dunno. I suppose you’re right. I just, I guess I never dreamed we’d reach a point where our houses could ever be joined as one.”

Isolde picked up on his skepticism and reacted with a twitch. “Because we devils are so treacherous and evil?”

“Forgive me but I do recall being enslaved and abused for a number of years. And that’s putting it lightly.”

“Yes and why do you think that is? You assume we have nothing better to do than lock you simple people up in chains? Don’t make me laugh. My father was murdered by pirates flying under your Tintagel banners. They sacked his ship and killed him and my uncle. I’ll never forget the sight of crows picking at their bodies. It was your people who forced my mother to take slaves and engage in wholesale annihilation. Or did you think our clans stayed loyal out of the goodness of their hearts, that they’d follow a woman into battle out of respect for my father or silly things like oaths and honor! No, Gawain. A ruthless show of force was necessary to keep my mother’s kingdom from falling apart. And yes! We’ve turned a profit by pitting warlord against warlord. But it’s more so to keep them occupied. If they’re too busy defending their own, they won’t think of invading ours.” Isolde declared with tears glossing over.

“I never knew,” Gawain uttered.

“Well of course you wouldn’t, my handsome little crow. Algayre and Morholt are vile creatures, sure. But you shouldn’t judge us by our worst. I bet they think we drink from the blood of goats and pass our children through fire out of sacrifice to some pagan god. You’ve sheltered with us for years. You of all people should know that we’re not so different, our houses. One could even argue that we’re equal but opposites. It’s all this blood for blood that needs to cease. Otherwise, we’re stuck on a perpetuating cycle, doomed to repeat the sins of our fathers for generations to come.”

Gawain smirked. “Who knew you gave so much thought.”

“We are heirs to the throne, you and I. The legacy of our kingdoms rests on our shoulders. Down there, they will never know what it’s like to make difficult decisions for the betterment of an entire nation of men, women, and children, to govern. They are free to live for the here and now while we are forced to sacrifice the present for a more prosperous future. A wise man once taught me that.”

“Who?”

“Merlin the Magician, back when I was a little child and too stupid to remember which dress to put on. For some reason, I never forgot those words,” Isolde said as she gazed off in the distance.

Pellinore and Agravain were still going at it. It was good to see everyone in good spirits. Gawain stood up to stretch out his back. He started smirking at the next subject he wanted to broach.

“So a marriage then. Given your history, I do wonder how well you’ll get along with Tristan.”

Isolde smirked and batted her long eyelashes. “You girl!”

“What?!” Gawain chuckled.

“If you want to know, just ask. I’m not Morgan. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me,” Isolde assured him.

“Alright, fine. Do you want to marry Tristan?”

Isolde’s blue eyes widened with excitement as she stood up and arched her back against a stone pillar. And as she inhaled through the nose, moaning at the thought, she suddenly erupted with joyous laughter.

“He’s all I ever wanted!”

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 15 – The Wrong Man (Detective Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 12, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud is alone, alienated, and outnumbered. Jessica and Leanne are convinced they have their Slave Quarter Killer in custody but Cloud isn’t convinced and he’s called back to Atlanta. The ladies lay it on thick, scolding Cloud for striking out on his own and not being a team player. Considering the facts, he has no choice but to submit to their logic and starts to second-guess himself…that is until he runs into KeNedra’s ghost.

Chapter 15 - The Wrong Man

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 15 – The Wrong Man
By Rock Kitaro

Since 1:30, I’ve been sleeping in a hospital bed on the 3rd floor of Augusta Medical Center. I have the whole room to myself. The alarm on my phone is set for seven. A strip of light floods the floor from the base of the door, getting brighter in the darkness. It wakes me up fifteen minutes earlier than expected.

It’s cold. My blazer is resting on the back of a chair but I’m still too tired to get up and get it. Thus, goosebumps prick up and proliferate my arms, causing me to slip my frigid hands into my pockets.

I’m staring at the ceiling with brooding eyes, dissatisfied, annoyed, disheartened. Nothing seems to be going my way. Now here I am, laid up in a hospital bed with the bumps and bruises stiffening my joints.

Meanwhile, Griffin’s the celebrated hero. Thanks to his “hunch,” he located the bodies of five missing girls. He’s rallied behind the judgment of my colleagues to settle on the idea that Jacory Godchaux is the Slave Quarter Killer and thanks to his provocations, he backed the poor fool in between a rock and a hard place.

Jacory’s shootout caused a stampede of protestors that resulted in five more injured civilians. He then led the police in, I would say a “high speed pursuit” but in downtown Augusta with its old narrow roads and stop signs galore, it was more like a game of cat and mouse. Either way, a victorious Griffin and his sidekick Jessica captured him without a single civilian casualty. They have every right to believe Jacory is the Slave Quarter Killer after everything he’s done.

I shouldn’t blame them…but I do. Especially Griffin.

After Jacory smashed his father’s SUV, he was brought to this very same hospital for emergency surgery. His right leg had to amputated and due to heavy blood loss, he hasn’t been conscience since. Right now, there were two officers stationed outside his hospital room down the hall from me. He was cuffed to the bedpost…as if they figured he’d try and hobble away on one leg.

Jamar and O’Shea Thompson received a police escort back to Coventry where their mother Amarah laid into them real good. The Thompsons, something about that family pulls at my heartstrings. They’re a good family. If KeNedra was still alive, I imagine she would’ve fared well with the lot of them backing her. I wish I had a family like that…little brothers, a sister, a mother who preached forgiveness but had the resolve to use the rod when the situation calls.

“Your mom is dead right?”

Jamar’s question comes out of thin air as clear as when he first said it.

“Are you glad?”

It wasn’t out of malice, I’m sure. Jamar was just curious. But still, why on Earth would he ask me that? My brows furrow at the thought. It’s in times like this that I could usually count on Maggie turning up to get a rise out of me, but at present, she does not reveal herself. She’s letting me rest, letting me think.

…

…

Focus on Griffin. He’s my guy. My next move is to lure him into a trap. Make that oaf give himself away. He’s out in front of everything, which means all eyes are on him. So what are you worried about? This should be easy for you, Cloud. So think…How do you get him?

Someone’s calling my phone. It lights up the room. A fiery sting spreads across my neck as I reach over to pick it off the nightstand. It’s Miranda. She’s been blowing up my phone for the better part of the afternoon, eight calls and twelve text messages.

“Hey, missy.” I groan.

“Cloud, what happened? Why aren’t you answering your phone?!” Miranda stresses with touching concern.

“Dude, you’re not gonna believe…” I’m just about to get started when suddenly I’m blinding by the overheads. Leanne whipped open the door and flipped on the lights as if she’s trying to wake a suspect for questioning. Jessica is right behind her, carrying a bag of fast food and sodas in foam coasters. My eyes are squinting with a confused grimace. Comical, I’m sure.

“Mm-hmm! Who ya talking to? One of your lady friends?” Leanne asks.

“Could be a guy,” Jessica smirks.

“Nope. All of Cloud’s friends are women. Trust me, I know.” Leanne points out as they drag over screeching chairs to sit in front of me.

I wince to sit up with the phone still pressed to my cheek. “I’m gonna have to call you back. I’m fine, Miranda. I promise.”

“See. Girl!” Leanne brags.

I’m a little embarrassed for the ladies to see me so disheveled. My hair looks like a blond fire that’s been hit by a freeze ray. My wrinkled white shirt is unbuttoned halfway down my chest and I have pillow lines engraving my red cheeks. I’m sure I smell or at least my feet do. My shoes are off and I have to move like an old man to keep my feet from touching the women. Jessica’s laying out burgers but from the way she keeps her chin tucked, I can tell she wants to laugh.

“Just got off the phone with Chomsky. He wants us back in the office by tomorrow afternoon,” Leanne says.

“Afternoon? We haven’t closed the case yet.”

Leanne and Jessica shoot me the same scathing stare.

Leanne continues with, “The local authorities can take it from here, Cloud. Chomsky’s been briefed. It’s a done deal. You should be glad. And you should know that while it was tempting to tell him about your gallivanting off by yourself and getting beat to a pulp, I refrained. We’re partners, you see. I wouldn’t throw you under the bus. Contrary to popular belief.”

“Thank you, Leanne.”

I say that bluntly. Now I have a time limit to catch the real killer. The ladies just swept the rug out from underneath me and I’m struggling real hard to hide my frustration.

Leanne senses it. She bats her lashes and leans back to cross her legs. Once settled, she gives me a long hard stare as if I stole her money and she’s still waiting for me to fess up. I don’t react. I’m starving. After putting on my shoes and buttoning up my shirt, I dig into a platter of burger and fries.

“Cloud, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why exactly did you ask to join this case?” Leanne starts in.

I’m sipping on lime soda through a noisy straw.

She continues with, “Ever since we got here we’ve been carrying you on our backs. I mean, seriously. What exactly have you done? We told you to come with us to the other plantations. You didn’t want to do that. We asked you for a hand in profiling Jacory. You didn’t want to do that. It shouldn’t have been Griffin in their questioning Jacory. It should have been you. But no! You had to go off and get yourself damn near killed. Yet, I’m the one who needs the partner! See! This is why I can’t stand this, condescending, patriarchal society. Meritocracy, my ass! It’s sexism at its finest!”

I sigh as I stay chewing on my burger. Leanne…Don’t worry. For all your talk of misogyny, I certainly see you pair on you. That’s what I’d like to say. What I do say is:

“Leanne…I hate to keep coming back to this. Fuck it. I need to know what time Griffin left your hotel room last night.”

“Cloud!” Jessica snaps.

“Un-freaking-believable!” Leanne shouts at the same time.

“That’s none of your business, Cloud. It’s extremely rude!” Jessica says.

“Thank you! Geez!” Leanne adds.

The purpose of my question isn’t to shut her up and get her off my back. I really need to know. My stubborn brown eyes are locked on Leanne. She’s munching on a fry but she knows I’m waiting.

“It’s none of your business when he left my hotel room, Cloud. That’s just none of your business.”

“What if I told you it’s pertinent to solving this case?”

“Alright, you need stop right there!” Jessica objects as her hands coil into a clenched fist.

I’m suddenly gripped with suspense as Jessica removes the box of fries from her lap, gets up and paces around while massaging the back of her neck. I’ve never seen her like this. In my own fantasies, I always imagined her anger as a source of arousal…not terror.

“Don’t tell me you think Griffin did this. And before you answer, consider this. Your line of questioning is extremely disrespectful and unbecoming. You’re insulting our intelligence and demeaning all our efforts, the integrity of our investigation. Believe it or not, you can’t always be the smartest person in the room. Jacory confessed!”

“To statutory rape, Jessica. Not murder.”

“Yeah and it adds up! You’re not a certified behavioral specialist. I am. The first victim, Alisha Collier, the arrangement of her body was positioned in a congenial state. That’s postmortem. She’s on her back with one hand resting over the other, on top of the navel. That tells us the killer was either racked with guilt, remorse, grief, or regret. All emotions displayed by our suspect during interrogation. Maybe if you had enough sleep you would’ve seen it for yourself instead of sitting there all high and mighty as if wisdom speaks only to you. Seriously, it pisses me off more than I fucking can stand!”

Jesus…I can almost see the steam fuming from her shoulders, her cheeks quivering with rage. From the way she stood in the center of the room with that arch in her back and those glowering eyes, feels like I just poked and prodded a caged jaguar whose on the verge of snapping. Even Leanne was surprised. To her, Jessica was still a newbie to the GBI.

I contemplate telling them what I know about Griffin, the racism and how it makes more sense that the Slave Quarter Killer could be a cop. But even if I did, all they’d see is the color of jealousy. Because honestly, I am a little jealous. It’s pointless to deny it. Jessica thinks she has the right man and after her little tirade, I’m starting to believe she might be right.

“I think you owe us an apology, Cloud.”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 14: The Juggling Act (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 9, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Everyone’s on pins and needles as the enemy Hibernians finally arrive to take back Princess Isolde.

Here we’re introduced to infamous figures such as Morholt the Destroyer and the warlock Algayre. Then there’s Queen Iseult, the Emerald Queen who’s dominated all of Hibernia for nearly half a century. But King Mark isn’t about to just hand the princess over, no questions asked. A pact needs to be made. A proposal is made.

Chapter 13 - The Juggling Act

Chapter 14: The Juggling Act
By Rock Kitaro

The Port of Talons was an inlet harbor shaped like a horseshoe. Ancient walls of limestone stretched up over a hundred feet to conceal its presence from most of the coast. Saltwater entered and passed through its only accessway beneath high arching bridges that connected two collossol cliffs. This strategic seaport was closed to the public, reserved for the purpose of the palace, for receiving and leaving.

Over five-hundred ironclad soldiers had assembled, dotted on the rocky hills that sloped down like an ampitheather. There was a glazing mist. It moved, making the air grainy and tangible to touch. The fog was so dense that no one could see beyond the gap of the two cliffs. It was as if the world simply ended after the gate.

No one made a sound. Save for the seagulls and gushing waves, no one so much as cleared their throats. Everyone had the same grim expression as if they were standing on the front lines of battle. The only one smiling was an eager Princess Isolde, glowing in her white dress and braided blonde hair. As she stood by King Mark’s side, her heart racing with anticipation. She’d been fantasizing about this moment for quite some time.

The Lord Chamberlain, Sir Cador, made it clear that everyone was to be on their best behavior. Anyone accused of shouting or so much as coughing risked getting their teeth knocked out by a fist full of chains. On this, Sir Cador promised to show no mercy.

The Cornish rallied behind King Mark, Sir Ekner, and Tristan, all daunting in black and gold with their banners flapping high in the wind.

The Lothians stood behind King Lot and Queen Morgaus, all coordinated in silver and green, save for Morgaus who insisted on her favorite color of purple.

Gawain was with the Lothians higher up on the hill. Agravain and Gaheris stood his side. The brothers watched in awe as a gigantic ship with seven green sails of dragon wings suddenly took form and emerged from the fog. The dread was sudden and immense. Gawain knew it was the queen’s ship. He’s seen it a dozen times, but never in action. He never thought such a massive ship was capable of moving, let alone float. It was larger than most of the banquet halls, yet it seemed to slide across the water so smoothly that the crests of its wake rolled like silk.

On the other side of the inlet, Morgan sat on her horse from a high precipice. She overlooked the scene dressed like the grim reaper the way her hooded black cloak shredded in the wind. She wasn’t impressed with the ship. She expected nothing less. It was the throbbing in Gawain’s heart that made her purple eyes glower with growing intensity. From two hundred yards out, she could sense the sweltering heat from his tight fisted trepidation.

The ship came to a gentle wood-creeking halt as workers tied the mooring lines ashore. An unloading platform extended from the ship to the dock. Once it was fastened in place, loud horns blared from the trumpeteers. It was a jaunty tune, certainly bringing life to the macabre faces on the hills. And when Princess Isolde spotted Sir Ewangish, she nearly jumped with glee. Sir Ewangish was the same weathered knight who accompanied her to the Picts. He was relieved.

Sir Ewangish was the first to disembark, followed by twenty of the queen’s guards. The Hibernians wore dark intimidating green and black armor and carried long pikes that were sharp enough to pierce chainmail. They marched in a double-file formation, stomping in perfect unison, clanking to create a synchronized cadence of rattling steel. The two lines stopped in front of King Mark.

Ewangish signaled to the ship. The horns stopped blaring.

In its place were soft angelic voices that blended and lifted up to the heavens. Their Latin song was so pleasant, so clean and pure. It alleviated the tension and imbued a subtle breath of optimism. Three girls approached the rails high up on the ship. They held hands and kept singing as they looked down on gawking eyes. They carried and extended their falsettos in ways no one had ever heard. The spellbinding emotion invoked by their voices was truly indescribable. They were the queen’s beloved songbirds. Her treasure.

Then, like an elegant swan spreading her wings, the queen herself approached the platform. She was known far and wide as the “Emerald Queen” and it was for good measure. Even as she neared sixty in age, there wasn’t a single crack in her exquisite visage. Her long flowing hair was so devoid of any pigmentation that it appeared pale green, the same shade as her peridot eyes and the waters that flowed through the inlet. Her long velvety gown was forest green and there was the soft fur of a beaver draping her shoulders.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 14 – Interrogations (Mystery Suspense)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 6, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

With their main suspect in custody, the entire department’s on pins and needles as Jessica and Det. Griffin grill him about the Slave Quarter Murders. Cloud, in particular, has his stomach in knots as he still thinks they have the wrong man. And as per his rotten luck, bad turns to worse when the suspect shoots his way out of the precinct. This is how the innocent dig their own graves. Because they’re idiots.

Chapter 14 - Interrogations

Chapter 14 – Interrogations
By Rock Kitaro

I’m really beginning to hate Augusta, Georgia.

Knowing that Jamar and O’Shea are locked up in a holding cell does very little to assuage my angst. And oh look! Here comes Jessica and Leanne. It’s five past nine so I guess I should’ve expected them. But still, I could’ve used another five minutes to come up with more plausible lies.

Again, I’m sitting at the vacant desk, this time with an ice pack to my face. My blazer is sprinkled with spots from being laid out in the middle of the road. O’Shea’s punch was strong, but he lacked power. He more so pushed me down, than hit me. If not for my previous injuries I could’ve taken it like a boss instead of getting carried off like a…

“Cloud! Oh my god! What were you thinking?” Leanne gawks.

The ladies lean in to examine the swelling. They’re upset, understandably so. I don’t know what they heard, so I’m not sure what exactly to apologize for. Jessica appears well rested while Leanne looks a couple years younger, more vibrant with color in her cheeks.

“Did you really go to the slave quarters by yourself? In the middle of the night?” Jessica asks.

I nod and for some reason smirk at the same time.

“You’re an idiot! You know that? I read the report. Someone threw you out of freaking window? You could have been killed!” Leanne snaps.

I’m still smiling.

“This is serious, Cloud,” Jessica tells me.

I’m just about to speak up but I see Griffin and Agent Dixon approaching.

“Don’t give him too much grief.” Griffin says in good cheer. “At least that gives us two alibis Jacory, aka J-Pooy now has to account for.”

“Yeah, Assuming he’s our guy.” I let slip.

“What?” Griffin asks.

“Nothin. But, hey! Thanks again for saving my ass back there. I appreciate it.”

“You got it, Cloud! You and I are like Shaq and Kobe. We got each others back!”

“Yeah, well Chomsky’s gonna throw a natural fit when he finds out about this. Honestly, what were you thinking? No back up!? No service weapon!? Freaking idiot!” Leanne says as she continues to lay in.

Agent Dixon gives me a suspicious look as if he could tell I’m holding something back. I resolve to say nothing in my defense. Whatever they’re thinking, it’s best to just let them run with it. I rather do that than mention something that could come back to bite me in the ass.

“It’s insane out there.” Jessica frets. “I think it’s going to get worse. Jacory just came in with his father and their attorney. They’re meeting with one of the captains.”

“Good! Just put me in a room with him and I’ll wrap this up,” says a determined Griffin before he strolls off toward the elevator lobby.

Dixon goes with him. I try to follow but Jessica yanks on my arm, sending a scorching pain down the left side of my body. She looks me square in the eye, casting a spell by which I’m left speechless under her control.

“Talk to me. What’s going on?” she whispers.

God…how can I deny those brown eyes? I look at Leanne. She too, is waiting.

“Leanne, was Griffin with you all night?” I ask as politely as I could.

Just like that, Leanne gushes with a haughty smile. It’s like she can’t wait to spill the beans, but of course, she wants me to work for it. “Cloud! That’s none of your business. Geez!”

“Talk to us! What’s going on?” Jessica urges.

“You guys…” I begin with a heavy sigh. “I don’t think Jacory is the man we’re looking for.”

Leanne claps. “I fucking knew it! I knew you were going to say that. Why? ‘Cause you didn’t figure it out first?”

My lips tighten. Why did I even bother?

Jessica adds, “Cloud, we got this guy on camera a few miles from where KeNedra was picked up by paramedics. He can’t account for the time of the abduction and he has a history of sexual abuse. Also, forensics found blood and dirt in his truck. They haven’t connected it to the victims yet but it’s only a matter of time. We’re just waiting on DNA results. So tell us, why don’t you think he’s our guy?”

Jessica…she’s not raising her voice or frowning, but I can tell she’s just as insulted as Leanne. Just then, the doors to the bullpen open up with a loud wooden creak. The clamor of conversations blare in. A stern Dixon and Griffin are leading an entourage of grim faces, all of them ready to stand trial.

The short, bald, and stocky Jacory “J-Poopy” Godchaux isn’t wearing handcuffs. He’s dressed in a respectable neutral tone suit behind his flashier father. The popular emcee preacher, Tavvy Godchaux is dressed in a loud purple three-piece suit with matching gator skin boots. Next to him is their estimable defense attorney/civil rights activist, Malachi Sanders Esq. Malachi is dark, lean, and deceptively young with a clean shave and thick-framed glasses. His tall frame and long dreadlocks make him standout, even amongst the grape looking Tavvy.

I’m sizing Jacory up. He lacks confidence, as if he’s already been sentenced to death.

“You want to know why I think he’s not our guy?” I tell the ladies. “Because there’s no way he could’ve taken me in a fight.”

The Knights with No Lord: Chapter 13 – Lions and Wolves (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 2, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Tristan and Pellinore finally throw down to settle an old score. Meanwhile, Gawain comes to terms with his own inner demons and the threat that’s looming beyond the horizon.

You see, on the surface, Prince Gawain is the so-called paragon of virtue, always doing the right thing, embracing responsibility and fending off indulgences. But deep down, Gawain has a gift for manslaughter. He showed a glimpse of it last night. Morgan thinks he’s wearing a mask. So badly, she just wants him to take it all off.

Chapter 13 - Lions and Wolves

Chapter 13 – Lions and Wolves
By Rock Kitaro

“Sorry for calling you all the way out here. The lads will get mad if they find out about this,” said Pellinore, squatting with the naked blade of his claymore propped up against his shoulder.

“No matter. It’s my duty as the Champion of Cornwall to accept any challenge, anytime,” Tristan grinned with crossed arms resting on his puffed out chest.

“That’s good. That’s good. This pleases me.”

“Just one thing, Pellinore. After I finish beating you to a pulp, you better not blame it on last night’s libation.”

“You bastard. That’s my line.”

Both men were without armor. The golden lion wore a gray shirt with brown slacks. The dark wolf was without his red scarf, wearing a black sleeveless shirt and black pants.

It was a brisk clean day with clear blue skies. The morning sun gleamed like a pearl, not too bright, not too dull. A refreshing wind rustled through their light fabrics. The duelists had convened on an isolated ridge near the coastal cliffs of Treknow with their horses grazing nearby. The grass beneath their boots was soft and slick. Waves crashed against the rocks, erupting with a spray that cooled their heated bodies.

Pellinore’s claymore was four and a half feet long. It was double-edged with one side serrated like a steak knife. He’s had it ever since he was sixteen and not once has it cracked or slipped from his grasp. Tristan’s long sword was a foot shorter but had a longer handle, long enough for four hands to clamp it at once. Tristan didn’t have any special bond with this sword. It was just one that he picked up from the armory as he was riding out for the morning.

The alpha predators circled each other with razor sharp focus. Pellinore made the first move. He sprung forth in a spectacular leap, clutching his sword with both hands for a vertical strike. Tristan sidestepped and countered with a rising sweep. It was blocked and sparks flew. The two crossed blades in a test of strength but it was Pellinore’s heels that scraped back as Tristan pushed forward.

In a snarling chuckle, Pellinore taunted, “I’m not the same whelp from before! Everyday I’ve trained with the thought of beating you.”

Tristan responded with three swooping strikes. Each time Pellinore deflected it, sparks flew. The third strike hit Pellinore so hard that he was sent stumbling back. A laughing Pellinore jumped to his feet and extended in a straightforward lunge. Tristan spun out of the way but it was just a ruse. Halfway through the lunge, Pellinore twirled his blade and swiped at Tristan’s thighs. He drew first blood.

Ignoring the pain, Tristan unleashed another procession of whistle-singing swings. Pellinore blocked each one and when Tristan got too close, Pellinore whacked him with his pommel. Tristan staggered back but kept his guard up as his opponent maintained pressure.

Pellinore was clearly the superior swordsman in terms of skill and technique. He displayed a dazzling array of difficult moves with effortless precision. He punctured and landed cuts all over Tristan’s upper body, shredding his shirt and stinging him like spikes of searing hot metal. Even when it came to defense, Pellinore was better trained. He could telepath Tristan’s trajectory and was quicker on his feet.

The problem was Tristan’s ungodly strength. Each time Pellinore blocked an attack, his arms would rattle and send teeth-clenching vibrations to tense up his back. It was an extreme exertion of energy just to push away and Tristan seemed to have the stamina of a racehorse, pounding, hacking, and grunting with monstrous aggression.

Every time the two crossed blades, Tristan would use brute force to shove Pellinore away like kicking a door off its hinges. Pellinore would fall with the wind knocked out of him but he’d keep coming back. Again and again, he rose and unleashed a relentless barrage until suddenly, Tristan started smiling. It wasn’t to taunt Pellinore, but rather it had been a while since Tristan was able to spar with an opponent of his own standing. He acknowledged that Pellinore had indeed improved and was genuinely impressed.

“You bastard. DON’T THINK YOU’VE WON!” Pellinore screamed.

…

Five minutes later, three galloping horses approached the highlands of Treknow. It was Princesss Isolde riding with two Cornish knights, her armed escorts. Isolde was kept warm by a gray wool cloak that covered her borrowed blue dress. A bare-chested Tristan was using the rags of his shredded shirt to wrap his shallow wounds. He turned and saw Isolde staring with her blonde hair blowing in the wind.

“What are you doing here?” said Tristan.

“Your king was gracious enough to allow me a ride under escort,” Isolde said as she leaned over and scratched the neck of her mare.

Tristan furrowed his brows with disapproval.

“And you, brave Pellinore? Do you require a physician?” Isolde teased.

An exhausted Pellinore was sprawled on his back with a half-sedated gaze fixated on the blue sky. Oddly enough, there wasn’t a single laceration on his body. But after being tossed about like a rag doll for well over three minutes, his bones were brittle and his organs were on the verge of rupture. He might as well have been thrown from a speeding carriage.

There was, however, a stream of blood gushing from his broken nose. That’s because Tristan knocked him out with a vicious overhand right. Poor Pellinore had only just regained consciousness as the horses arrived.

“Tristan. Listen up,” Pellinore wheezed. “I’mma let you off the hook for today. Okay? You’re free to go.”

Tristan beamed with a bright, unexpected smile. It was probably the funniest thing he’d ever heard and he couldn’t stop snickering. Isolde shook her head with bewildered amusement as she wondered why Tristan found it so funny.

“Did you hear what he said?” Tristan said.

“Yes. We all did. Didn’t we?” Isolde smirked.

Tristan roared in a laugh so hearty that he collapsed to his knees and clutched a handful of soil. Pellinore started to laugh with him, but the pain in his midsection caused him to coil up tight.

…

Just two miles north, another young man had risen early. Gawain was sitting on a smooth rock slab within a cove on Trebarwith Strand. It was a scenic beach of crashing waves and cawing gulls. Monolithic towers of earthen formations were scattered along the shoreline as turbulent breakers exploded against them. The majestic cliffs surrounded the Y-shaped cove casting cold shadows over Gawain who was stationed in the middle.