The Massacre by Eric K. Hasler (best classic romance novels .TXT) 📖

Standing at the edge of the village while staring at the moon an uncomfortable eeriness enveloped him like a creepy fog inspiring a strange and frightening sensation that he knew he shouldn’t be enjoying. The mysterious sensation was kindling a fire deep within the pit of his stomach producing anticipation that rests somewhere between hope and fear. Attempting to keep the fire under control proved futile. The excitement of the strange and frightening fog fused together with hope and fear rose with fervour and assumed power over him releasing a flood of passion like nothing he had ever known before. While the night air caused a shiver to run the length of his body and the burning passion within produced beads of sweat across his forehead, he tentatively walked towards the first hut. Reaching the door and twisting the knob he was surprised at himself, not for entertaining these kinds of thoughts, but for pushing them into action. But what surprised him the most was the stupidity of Jason for leaving his door unlocked. Slowly and silently he drew his sword then proceeded to creep through the hut until he reached the bedroom.

While standing at the door staring at Jason and his wife Denise sleeping he started to wonder what it would be like to have someone love and care for him. “That will never happen,” he thought, “it’s for the best I just do what I’m here to do.” With the fire now raging up from the pit of his stomach and burning through his eyes he carefully tiptoed to the side where Denise was sleeping. He put the blade to her throat and slit her from ear to ear. There was nothing she could say or do, the cut was too deep and she bled out in seconds. He shuddered at what he had just done and stood there hypnotized by the amount of blood and the speed that it had flowed from her body. His mind started to race with fear, a feeling he had known from an early age. ‘Years of torment have led me to this?’ he thought, ‘by the fates, now I have to continue or there’ll be no escape.’

Gathering his composure he slipped around to the other side of the bed. While standing over Jason with his sword clenched in both hands he called Jason’s name. As Jason clawed his way out of deep sleep his hand reached over to his wife and rested in her blood. The strange feeling of warm sticky goo caused him to sit up in surprise. With one mighty swing the sword severed Jason’s head. It was an interesting spectacle. The bed was almost completely stained with a bloody crimson. While Jason’s body was still sitting upright squirting blood like a fountain his head was sitting upright in Denise’s lap. Her eyes were glazed over with shock, and the absence of life, whereas Jason’s eyes were still blinking as if in disbelief of what had just happened.

Standing there looking at what had been accomplished he started to feel the tingle of pride seeping into his mind. Even though he knew the night had just begun and there were more entertaining thoughts to push into play, he decided it would be wise to relish the moment, to gather his thoughts before continuing. Searching the hut was pointless as there was only food and wine. Since free wine was always a little better than nothing, he decided to take both. “Leave the wine,” said the voice. “No,” he replied, “I can use it later.” “Leave the wine! It is better for you to stay sober minded. That way you can remember your mistakes,” said the voice in melodic yet forceful tone. Deciding that the voice is worth listening to he left the wine, sat in a chair and started to eat the food. A passionate thought flooded through his head urging him to continue with the night’s work. Figuring that this was his inner self, his subconscious voice, telling him that he was wasting time he put the food into his pouch and headed out the door.

Standing back out in the street he saw there had been no change. The moon looked to have held its position as if trapped in time. The eeriness was still thick as mud. In fact the only difference was with him. He was no longer shivering and the beads of sweat had evaporated from his forehead, but he was still burning internally for retribution. With a collection of the past’s hatred driving him, he slowly strolled towards the second hut. His mind was beginning to clear; pushing aside the thoughts of regret only helped a torrent of atrocious visions shroud his mind. He smiled with anticipation as he twisted the door knob, and then started shaking his head with the surprise of finding another door unlocked. He stood there for a moment wondering whether or not all the other people in the village were this stupid. ‘After all the troubles these people have given me,’ he thought, ‘why would they leave the doors unlocked? Do they fear nothing? Well, if that’s the case, then they deserve this!’

With appalling thoughts consuming every part of the conscious mind he entered the hut smoothly but not as silently as before, intending to slay the stupidity that dwelled within, otherwise known as Markus. This idiot was easy to find. He was sitting passed out in his chair with wine bottles scattered all around him. Markus had thrown up on himself sometime during his drunken stupor, which not only smelt bad, but had left a crusty multi coloured stain on his coat, pants and the leather arm chair. ‘Filthy animal,’ he thought, ‘you’re the reason why brothers and sisters shouldn’t breed.’ Devoid of any feelings of sympathy for the drunken incestuous bum, he drew his sword. He put the point of the blade to Markus’ chest and with all of his might he pushed the blade through into his heart. Markus jumped up out of the chair and, in his stupor, he ran about two steps before his foot crashed through an empty wine bottle which caused him to trip forward and fall on the sword. This was not only a little amusing but also a little annoying. Markus had to be turned on his side before the sword could be retrieved, with the handle grasped in both hands he had to push both feet against Markus’ chest. Once the sword was freed Markus rolled onto his back. The look on Markus’ face was not of shock but more like relief. As if he was pleased, maybe even thankful that his life of addiction was finally over.

“Quickly, go to the next hut,” said the voice. Now his mind was racing. The rush was incredible. His veins were bulging with the blood racing through them giving him a strength which was alien to him. As he exited back into the street, the exciting yet strange and frightening sensation he felt earlier returned keeping him viciously cool and calm at the same time. The feeling of moisture had returned to his head, although instead of beads of sweat it was beads of blood from his three victims. He noticed that the night air had become obnoxious, the moon had moved just a little, and his atrocious thoughts clearing his mind of any regret was only serving to enhance his enjoyment. An overwhelming feeling of power and control was gained through the extermination of his enemies who had ferociously assaulted him all those times which were beyond his ability to count. Being completely submerged in the forbidden enjoyment of revenge brought on a desire for more. It was invigorating and amazing the amount of peace he was feeling. ‘Is this what it’s like to live in the moment?’ he thought. As he wondered how long these feelings would last he made a b-line for the next hut.

Fabariel, the old man who seemed to keep his eye on everything owned this hut. The man even knew things before they happened. ‘He probably knows better than me how many times these people tortured me,’ he thought as he reached for the door knob. It was no surprise to find the door unlocked. Instead he was enraged at the thought of Fabariel being as stupid as the others. ‘The old sod’s too smart,’ he thought as he walked through the door, ‘what’s going through his head?’ Looking around the room dwelling on these thoughts, he noticed Fabariel sitting in his arm chair watching his every move. Surprise set in.

“I’ve been expecting you Semjaza,” said Fabariel in a calm voice. “I bet you’re wondering why the doors are unlocked. Well, that was me. You see, I’ve been watching out for you your whole life; waiting, hoping, and expecting this moment.” He sighed, “I remember the day you were born. Your mother, she was a beautiful woman. It really was a shame she died at your birth.” He chuckled, “We can’t blame you for that now, can we?” “You’re telling the story,” the words grated out of Semjaza’s throat making them sound like a dog growling. Fabariel’s lips curled into a little smile, his head bent slightly forward and his black eyes sparkled the way obsidian sparkles when polished, “Your father was an honest man, well, for the most part,” he said in a deep voice which sent a little shiver up Semjaza’s spine, “but the pain of losing your mother was too much for him. I believe he eventually killed himself. But that doesn’t matter now, because even if he had grown to be the best father in the world it wouldn’t change what you’re to become. That, my little swordling, is the reason why I’ve been looking out for you.” Semjaza attempted to choke down a laugh and failed while Fabariel’s lips curled further up his face as he continued “I must say though, I thought you would have done this last year.” He chuckled, “Every night, just before high moon for the last year I’ve walked through this pathetic village unlocking the doors of your enemies hoping tonight would be the night,” he moved his hands into a welcoming position, “and here we are.” “If you have, as you say, been watching out for me,” said Semjaza in a raspy dog like tone, “why didn’t you stop those animals from attacking me continuously?” Fabariel smiled, “Let’s face it,” he said, “you’re a wimp, but you have a great destiny ahead of you, and needed toughening up. You had to learn to expect trouble, how to control your aggression, and how to bide your time until the opportune moment arises,” he chuckled, “and that my boy, you’ve learnt like the best of them!” “You talk like a man who’s lost his mind,” growled Semjaza, “Prepare to die!” “Oh, I am well prepared,” said Fabariel with a chuckle, “but I wonder if you can at least do an old condemned man a favour?” Semjaza took a step towards the old man, stretched the sword towards his face, “what?” he said roughly. “Kill me quickly.” Semjaza started to draw the blade back. “But before you,” protested Fabariel, “have a look in the cupboard over there in the corner.” Semjaza slowly walked toward the cupboard keeping one eye on the old man, half expecting him to try something stupid like escaping, or attacking him. He cautiously opened the cabinet. The only thing in there was a coat of mail, or breastplate. He wasn’t completely sure what it was. It was solid plate with intricately entwined chain mail over the top. “Take it,” said Fabariel, “Your father would’ve wanted you to have it.” “This was my father’s?” said Semjaza a little astonished at hearing what the