setting. "You take it." With sword pointed to Silvanus' back, Hugh backed away.
Silvanus faced the tabernacle, unmoving, entrenched in deep thought as eyes glanced down at the corpses under the table. Either by God or by Hugh, I'm dead. I wonder if the boys escaped. The cornered spy noticed an absent breeze. He smiled. Somehow he believed that they had survived -- and somehow he knew it for truth. The spy laughed, and received a painful thrust to his spine for the outburst.
What God of peace bloodies His hands with innocents, and what do you say for the fools who die in His name? The question flowed through his mind unbidden. An answer, secret until this moment, followed.
Unafraid, the sacrifice turned and gazed up into the Hugh's eyes. He laughed at the hatred within them. "I refuse." Silvanus crossed his arms. "We'll both die here."
An impotent scream, full of venom and fury replied as the sword impaled his chest. Pain erupted within him, bringing darkness and with it -- The Light.
THE END
About the author:
L. D. Dailey, a happily married father of four, slaves as an engineer during the day and dreams of becoming a published author throughout the night.
If you enjoyed the story, please leave a review at your favorite retailer and check out more stories below.
More Stories from the author:
Fallen Empire
Riri Gast maneuvered her gilded war chariot behind a rise representing the natural border separating the cities of Asnium from the Libaias Empire. Her trio of horses, seeming to sense their master's apprehension, whined soft neighs while excavating the ground with steel shoes. She reassured the animals with an expert twist of leather reigns. A clean-shaven spearman sharing the chariot nodded in approval as the morning sun glistened off his baldhead. A scruffy archer, his pale skin a stark contrast with the spearman's ebony hue, flanking her right grunted a confirmation while unbuckling a simple leather cuirass. Riri pocketed the respectful gestures as a sign that the men would follow any competent leader, regardless of gender, regardless of deformity.
Captain Gast sensed a palatable tension while surveying her company of war chariots. She shared their trepidation as they changed into soiled cotton robes, obeying their benefactor's need for stealth. A miscalculation meant war against the fabled One Hundred Legions. Three thousand mercenaries stood little chance against one hundred thousand infantrymen.
The sound of approaching footsteps and foreign words caught Riri's attention. In the distance, a procession of hideous ogres, two thousand strong, marched toward the impromptu camp. Riri swallowed rising bile as the dread of the undisciplined hordes accompanying the Black Knight proved far more palatable than the imaginary threat of facing the One Hundred Legions. Suppressing memories of their weeklong march proved difficult, as scenes of ogres devouring captured enemy scouts arose unbidden. She did not begrudge the death of Asnium's enemies encroaching upon their lands, only the manner of it.
A Wasted Life
Squeezing his slight paunch between a maze of empty desks obstructing a direct path, the weary cop meandered his way to the women's restroom, now the co-ed bathroom because of a bad pipe. In the triple-stalled bathroom, the officer stared at a pathetic image in the mirror while washing his hands. Tired, sunken, azure eyes stared back. A wrinkled hand traced the lines along his clean-shaven face. One more and you can turn me into a raisin. Combing over an ever-expanding bald spot in a futile attempt at concealment, he once more contemplating shaving all of the silver hairs and being done with it, and once more rejecting the insanity. Look like one of those Saturday Night Live Coneheads if I did. Straightening the chestnut tie, the vice detective pursed reed-thin lips as a chocolate stain revealed itself. Fifty-bucks down the drain. That's enough for one day. Time to go home.
Three minutes later, the officer began the journey home in a standard issue, ebony Expedition. He decided to check in on his partner, busy stashing away the cocaine from the earlier bust. The senior detective pressed the autodial on his Nokia. "How's my investment, Ernie?"
"We got a problem, Duvall." Mandrel sounded strained, and not from his forty-year-old smoking habit.
Duvall assumed the worst and leaned for the half-empty bottle of Rolaids stashed in the glove compartment. It never ends…
Connect with the author:
Portfolio: https://Writing.Com/authors/duggadugga
Blog: https://lddailey.blogspot.com/
Facebook: https://facebook.com/ld.dailey.7
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends