THE BUTCHERS SON (Pulpsmith Book 1)

Of course, after I discovered Louis L'Amour's books and the authenticity he brought to the genre, I mostly read those. Interestingly enough, L'Amour was one of the big pulp writers too. Pulpsmith #1 The Butcher's Son . Alexander Gordon Smith Lockdown: Escape from Furnace · Rob Thurman Trick of the.
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I uttered a guttural cry, wiped my writing utensils from the desk and knocked down my stool. I hit the wall of my chamber with my bare fist, ignoring the burning pain that crawled up my arm. I wanted to banish the feeling inside me, somehow, so that I could get my old life back. But my resistance was in vain, and each second that passed amplified the panic that constricted my throat and drowned me like a remorseless flood.

Only when my breath was but a weak gasp, I sank down to the floor with my back against the wall, my face buried in my hands, exhausted. I felt the salt of my tears burning on my cheeks and began to sob like a child. By Malphas, what shall I do? My voice sounded shaky and miserable. This time, the voice did not aggravate my loneliness. No, for a moment I almost felt secure, and it was the moment I made my decision.

Yes … she was right. I knew what I had to do. I knew it and I had always known it, yet like a fledgling soldier who did not understand that the tales about glorious wars were only tales until he lost his leg I had to see my own death in order to understand. I had to begin searching for the buried truth.

Was the fire a symbol for the truth? The truth behind the feeling of emptiness and loneliness that I had learned to suppress and that could not be suppressed anymore? My memories of the hours right after my decision are only vague. It would be wrong to assume that the oppressive feeling in my stomach vanished after I had gained insight into its nature.

No, it was still there, and each time when I had doubts while I was packing my belongings, it grew stronger and more present, like a master who was determined to keep a weak-minded student on the right path by using reprimand and sharp words. Yet I felt a determination that I had never felt in my life before. Indeed I felt a spirit of … optimism, as absurd as it might sound after what had happened to me. After I had collected all my belongings, I left the temple, which had been my home for more than a decade. One last time I looked back into its awe-inspiring interior.

There it stood, Malphas' stone statue, clad in a massive steel harness, determinedly looking ahead. In his left hand the statue held a replica of broken chains, and the right hand pointed forward, showing the way, proudly and full of power. One last time I closed my eyes and smelled the omnipresent mixture of incense, lavender and roses, a scent that used to give me a feeling of comfort. I swallowed heavily and closed the door behind me. The contents of the package that hung on my shoulder was scarce: The book felt heavy, and its leather binding seemed rough and … well, sticky.

Nonetheless, my attachment to the lightborn whose holy word was the spiritual compass for any devout Endralean and who was the only companion in my lonesome life so far, except for Mater Pylea, was too deep. One thing was clear to me: Wherever my journey would lead me, I needed food and decent clothing. My priest's robes were too heavy and cumbersome, and they would be too warm in the summer. Also, they seemed like a burden to me, completely inappropriate for the task ahead.

Even though every traveler — except for brigands — would treat me with respect, the robes were a symbol for my old life as a priest. So I had to go to the marketplace and find a trader who would sell his wares despite the holy day. It felt strange to see the place that usually was full of people being so empty and quiet. Only a dog noticed my presence, and a few chickens which by their owner had been perched in a corral surrounded by an alcove of the weak town wall. Meanwhile, the sun had risen, but the many gray clouds did not allow much light to shine down on the city. It was going to rain.

Eventually, I reached my destination, a small and cozy store. The house walls were overgrown with ivy which framed even the milky windows beneath the crooked roof. A handcart full of barrels and crates stood before the entrance as if it had been abandoned by its owner during work, which was likely considering the smell of alcohol, gunpowder and fried meat in the air. Garlands which would have shined in all colors if enough sunlight had been present hung limply between the houses. Several times I heard a crunch when I walked over some broken jugs. I knocked, and I knocked again after a few moments that passed without any reaction.

After the third time I heard the sound of scuffling steps, and an aged Starling with clean-shaven face and a sharp nose opened the door. His tired look told me that he had intended to run off the unwanted customer before he recognized me. The dark circles under his eyes made me assume that he had vigorously been celebrating Star Summer Night as well.

For a moment the sight seemed bizarre to me, even familiar, as if I had experienced it may times before. However, the feeling was gone at the moment he started to speak. He looked nervously at the embroidered emblem on my robe which showed a stylized eye and a sword. For a moment the Starling named Carvai looked at me insecurely. Like all Starlings he was small and wiry, had frizzy hair and a pointy nose. Carvai was a path-abiding man. Every week he and his many children visited the three masses, which was also the reason why I had chosen his store to buy clothes for my ludicrous journey.

His respect for the clergy was great, so he would not ask questions. Carvai scratched his nose and gave me a sleepy and confused look. In his eyes I saw the question why by the righteous Path a village priest visited a store that early in the morning. But he nodded devotedly, stepped aside and asked me to enter. Other than the dire landscape around Fogville, his house had a rustic and cozy feel. The fireplace in the large room at the end of the hall was crackling, and for a moment I saw a young girl peeking through a door at the end of the stairs next to the entrance.

I envied the Starling child and her siblings. Their father had given them a home and a feeling of security that I never had with Gilmon. When Pylea had taken me under her wings, it had already been too late. The wooden walls looked solid yet old, and the large fur of a coast stalker hung at the left side.

Reluctantly I took a step forward and almost stumbled over one of the many shoes on the floor. I heard how the door behind me snapped shut and Carvai cleared his throat. It was an amazing sight. Behind the wooden counter, which separated the seller's realm from the customer's, numerous items, chests, boxes and pieces of furniture were piled up. Huge bookshelves along the walls were filled with dusty folios, scrolls, crystals and caskets.

The store looked insignificant from outside, but I could not fight the feeling that some precious antiquities could be found here. For a moment I could not answer. What did I actually need?

Blue Horizon (Courtney, #11) by Wilbur Smith

I wanted to embark on a journey to find the mysterious woman from my dream, and a feeling told me that it might not end in Enderal. The Starling furrowed his eyebrows. The later he would tell anyone about my getaway, the better. About half an hour later I was relieved of pennies. I had purchased a sturdy knapsack, a good pair of boots, a hooded traveler's cowl and an old iron dagger, which I did not know how to use. Carvai had also sold me a traveler's staff that he said was favored by pilgrims who visit the seven wayshrines. As a farewell, I had blessed him and left with a priestly smile.

I got food for my journey in the tavern. The Matris, defying his lack of sleep, was diligently cleaning up the remains of the festivities. He gave me a confused look, but after some explanation about my plans he sold me for a good price a loaf of tasty bread, dried fruit and a tub of pickled whisperweed, which was popular among travelers because of its durability.

He also asked for my priestly blessing, which I gave him with a strange feeling. The holy act felt so wrong like never before, and the ceremony seemed not like routine, but like a lie to me. The guardsman Yleas was the last person I met before I walked down the hill where Fogville was situated. He was too sleepy to ask for my destination. Obediently, he opened the wooden gate and wished me to walk blessed. As I left Fogville behind, I was flooded by a feeling of melancholy relief. Nobody would notice my absence until late in the day. The first days of my journey were an almost spiritual, yet not entirely pleasant experience.

I felt as if I had lived my whole life wearing a veil over my eyes. The greater the distance to the bare cliff became, the more surreal the thought seemed to me that I had lived there for twenty-eight years … as a priest. It almost seemed to me as if it had merely been a dream. I was unable to find a satisfying answer to that question. If I did not end my foolish journey and return immediately, in the eyes of the Holy Order I would be a heretic, a pathless one, someone who had strayed from his way.

The fact that I belonged to the cleric was only of minor concern. When I thought of Malphas and his verses, doubt and bitterness intersected my feeling of liberation like a mental sword. Yet it felt the same when I thought about returning. The dull feeling in my stomach lurked inside of me. When on the second day of my journey I tried to take a few steps back to Fogville, the very same terrible panic arose that had led to the breakdown in my chamber. No … The only way that I could take now was the one leading through my suppressed memories, away from my false life.

I had not the slightest idea where to start looking for the lost fragments of my childhood. I had only been two years old when Gilmon had found me. What could have had happened to shape my life to such an extent? I had only one clue to find answers: To trust these words was as foolish and irrational as trusting a Qyranian bone reader, but I had no choice.

I halted for a moment and wiped the sweat off my forhead. After I had descended from the Fogville cliff, I had taken a small path along the coast. Now I was at the border to the Heartland. Ark was about eleven days' march away, but I intended to use my last pennies to pay a Myrad flight to the capital. The overgrown streets leading through the Endralean forests were too dangerous. At the moment I wandered on a halfway paved path between colorful meadows. The sound of birds was in the air, and the sun was burning on the back of my neck. Indeed, what I did was contradicting everything the holy verses had taught me.

Only about seven turns of the moon ago I had accompanied a small group of boys and girls of appropriate age through their consecration. I remembered how a smart, red-haired Aeterna girl spoke to me during one of the preparation lessons. Her hair was fine and straight, as it was usual with the pointy-eared race. The determined look had not vanished from her eyes. Let me give you a small riddle. Or rather, let me give you all a small riddle. It is your holy mission, personally assigned to you by the holy leader of the Order, to discover new land far off the Skarrag isles … just as the first pioneers did in Enderal.

After only half the way, your galley is torn by a severe tempest. You are lucky as none of you is hurt, but you find yourselves on a wild, deserted island. There is nothing but thickets, cold sand and wreckage around you. For not only bitter cold and hunger could be your doom … You can hear a threatening growl from afar, a sound that only a wild Vatyr can bring forth. But soon you realize that some of you are better qualified for certain tasks than others.

You, Gilma, are a gifted markswoman, because your father allowed you to practice with the straw dolls in the guard house at an early age. Now — who should keep the first watch and who should go looking for firewood? But now something bothersome happens: Ralof feels exploited and does not want to collect any more firewood. By all means, he does not want to go looking for firewood anymore. He says he wants to keep watch with Gilma, even though all of you know that he would not be able to hit a blind, paralyzed Troll with his bow. Now my question to you is this: What would be best for all of you?

If Ralof came to reason or if he from now on kept watch and Gilma collected the wood instead? Only this way you will be able to defy Vatyrs, hunger and cold on the inhospitable island until a galley arrives and brings you back to Enderal. This is the essence of what the Holy Scripture teaches us: Unity and strength can only emerge in a community that serves the welfare of all and not only of an individual. Malphas himself chooses our divine tasks, for who else knows our strengths and weaknesses better than the one who gives our mothers the gift of fertility each moon?

With a satisfied smile my gaze wandered back to the one who initially had asked the question. Even if you have doubts about the path that Malphas is soon going to choose for you, defy them as you defy a disease, for only a people united in flesh and mind will be able to prevail eternally. The Path … Had I ever believed in it? I did not know. It was what Mother Pylea had told me.

It was what I was supposed to believe. If even I, an educated man with access to so much knowledge, was able to discover the decayed memories of childhood only after a vision … what about other people? Do they all live a … false life? But if, it shot through my head, the Path is indeed a lie … what … what then guides us?

This heretic thought kept me busy until the sun set. Not before the sun had disappeared almost entirely behind the horizon I recognized signs of human life on the trail again. Like the four days before, I had been wandering through pines and cypresses, encountering no human soul. But now a giant field of wheat lay before me, and in the middle of it stood a windmill high as a tower. Its wheel turned slowly in the evening wind and a mixture of dusty earth, moss and freshly cut grass was in the air.

For a moment the rustic beauty of the sight made me forget my aching legs and the dull feeling in my stomach. Despite my fatigue I accelerated my steps and soon came to a paved road that was winding between the hills which were overgrown with wheat. After a short while I found what I had been looking for: It was full night now, and the orange light that was streaming out of the windows of the old, ivy-covered farmhouse promised protection and rest. A smile lightened up my face and I sighed in relief without noticing it. During the last nights I had rested in small caverns which my back, which was used to my soft bed, did not approve of.

A warm meal … Suddenly, two horses in full gallop dashed past me. Refelxively, I jumped to the side, and the flank of one of the horses barely missed me. I uttered a scared cry and stumbled as I tried to regain my balance. I landed in the dust with a muffled thud. Indignantly I looked at the two riders who came to a halt in front of me. They both were very tall and wore solid leather garments, just like hunters.

Their horses were black, indicating an expensive breed. Angrily I watched them dismounting, throwing a penny to a slender boy who probably was the stable lad, and disappearing into the tavern. Even then, I hated complacent and crude people. Did these two apes even realize that they almost had run me down?

And if they did, they would not even look at you. My lips shrank to a thin line. But my mind was too exhausted to allow any more angry thoughts. So I shrugged resignedly, picked up my staff from the ground and went to the farmhouse. An overwhelming scent of freshly baked bread filled the air, and my anger was gone. One last time I looked at the tavern sign that was shaking in the wind. When I entered the tavern I could hear a pleasant mixture of voices, clanking goblets and crackling fire.

The cold left my limbs immediately and my mouth was watering. During my long march, I had only eaten some pieces of my bread and a few handful of whisperweed, so I was hungry. The tavern was well-frequented which explained the empty streets outside. I assumed that it served as some kind of meeting point for the local farmers.

There was space for about thirty souls in the room, and almost all of the chairs, stools and benches were occupied. Torches lit the room and cast dancing shadows of the guests at the walls. I mustered the people. Its saucy images looked as if they were not exclusively drawn for ethnologists. A bearded bard tuned his lute on a shamefully tiny pedestal. He was probably preparing to sing his next song which would be devoured by the noise around him. Just in front of me sat an enviable attractive, well-dressed man who talked to a woman whose countenance showed utter devotion.

I estimated him to be thirty-five winters old. His hair was jet-black, his face was masculine yet delicate, and he wore a three-day stubble. Unwittingly, I distorted my mouth. Certainly he is a one of the prigs from the upper city. One of those who shag around and waste their inheritance. When I had finished the thought, the beau noticed my staring. For a moment he looked at me with sparkling eyes and smiled, fetching and narcissistic at the same time.

Then he turned back to his admirer. The other guests were travelers and farmers of all sorts, man and woman, young and old, tall and short. I felt misplaced, like a northman on a Qyranian bazar, strange and uneasy among the rough people to which I did not belong. Hastily, I went to the counter which was placed underneath a lower part of the ceiling and behind which various barrels and liquors were lined up. I was just about to speak as I noticed the two clumsy figures who were sitting on the high stools. Now I had time to muster them. One of them wore a full beard and two strange earrings which gave him the appearance of a buccaneer.

His chum had no beard, but he also had a chin that could shatter walls made of Northwind stone. For a moment I felt the urge to grab the mug in front of me and pour beer into their faces. However, the idea vanished when the two noticed me. Unwittingly, I duck my head as they gave me an amused look and turned their attention back to their stew. They have not even recognized me. With a slight nod of my head I summoned the barmaid who was cleaning mugs behind the counter.

She came closer, sized me up and gave me an amused look. What may I get you? At least she has the decency to address me as an urban citizen. I tried not to show my inner turmoil. I was trying to sound masculine and confident, but my voice, coarse and untrained after four days of silence, was a pitiful croak.

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The reactions could not have been more intense had I asked for the crown jewels of the Golden Queen. While the barmaid only smiled and shook her head in sympathy, the two primitives next to me broke out laughing heavily. I probably could have avoided the further events of the evening if I had not responded. Even though numerous snappy answers wandered around in my head, the one I finally gave them, my arms crossed in front of my chest, was pathetic.

This time their laughter was so loud that even the bearded bard stopped playing the lute and, as many other guests, turned his insulted yet curious gaze toward the counter. After they had finished laughing and padding each other's shoulders affirmatively, the buccaneer spoke to me.

I felt fierce anger arise in me. Never since I had become a priest I was treated with such disrespect. The snappish response had come from my mouth faster than I was thinking, and I had the feeling that the cheerful atmosphere around the two churls faded away. From the corner of my eye I saw that almost half of the guests followed the events apprehensively.

You damn, miserable idiot. For a moment, the eyes of the buccaneer and his chum narrowed to a slit. Then the visible anger left their faces and was replaced by a livid feistiness. His grip was hard and firm and his fingers were crude and full of calluses. I felt cold sweat breaking out all over my body. I realized that the man was primitive but dangerous. Half-heartedly, I tried to escape his grip — a convulsion that the two men ignored completely. I had just finished my sentence when the gorilla pressed his hand on my mouth. He pointedly glanced at his chum, who sneered even more.

But you seem to be exhausted from your long journey. With his last word he removed his hand from my mouth, quickly grabbed the bowl and poured its content over my head. It was stew, and if the encounter had occurred a few minutes earlier, the broth would probably have scalded my skin.

George Mann

Nevertheless, I was covered in hot, sticky slime. I was shocked and I gasped for air so that some of the broth got into my windpipe. I broke down and panted, coughing out the liquid. The meaty brew dripped down my hair, and some of it found its way into my garment, running down my spine. I heard roaring laughter around me. I was certain that most of it came from the buccaneer and his chum, but some of those who had watched the events before were laughing now as well. I felt how my stomach cramped and shame rose up in me.

There I was, broken down, coughing stew, the laughing stock. I had an impulse to jump up and grab the buccaneer's throat, but my reason suppressed it instantly. I was deeply humiliated, but I had no death wish. So I tried to raise myself up in a controlled and dignified manner and removed pieces of meat from my clothes. Indeed, my indifference and serenity would be enough of a lesson for the two brutes. I gathered all my priestly courage and turned around. They looked at me, amused and challenging.

They want me to keep acting defiantly, I thought. The want me to keep provoking them. I did not stand the slightest chance against any of them in close combat, that was for sure. After all, I had as much knowledge about brawls as a troll about hair care. Leave and swallow down you damn pride. I peered at the crowd. Most of the guests had returned to their meals or conversations. Only a few of them still looked at me expectantly, among them the black-haired beau.

Nobody seemed to despise the impudence of the two men at all. Abruptly I realized what had protected me from events like this my entire life: It had been the only reason why the other boys had stopped mocking me after my consecration. And probably it was the only reason why everyone lowered their heads devoutly or at least had the decency not to pour stew on me when I entered a tavern! Without your priest's robe you are just another common man, neither big nor slim, neither old nor young, neither ugly nor handsome.

For a brief moment I felt the urge to draw the priest's brooch, which I had not had the heart to leave behind, from my bag. Oh, how they would look at me, the primitives. They would begin to recite the Prayer of the Path with eyes widened by fear, asking me for forgiveness. They would respect me what you represent, yes, they would bow their head in reverence because they fear the power of the Holy Order. Of course they would. To disregard a priest of the Path was a capital crime, and only a fool would risk such a punishment ….

To reveal myself as a priest would not only mean to rely on the authority of others, but also to return to my false life. I already felt my stomach contracting warningly. I had to comply. So I took a deep breath and swallowed my fervent shame. Ignoring the mocking glances of the buccaneers, I silently gave the barmaid a sign that I wanted a room for the night.

I had no desire for a meal anymore, even less in the presence of those who had witnessed my humiliation. The barmaid nodded pitifully and told an old man, who sat quietly at the counter and looked undefinably at me, to show me the way. In silence, I followed the old man up to the room. Only when I stood in front of the room's door, I felt how the malice of the brutes, which cut like a sword in my back, began to wane.

I gave the old man five pennies and he handed me the key, a burning candle and a cloth for cleaning, which was probably meant as a benevolent gesture, but only intensified my shame. I turned around silently, entered my chamber and locked the door behind me. Then my anger overcame me like a flood. Without taking notice of the bed, I went to the window and stared into the rain.


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I uttered a suppressed shout, closed my eyes and clawed both my hands into the window ledge. By the black Guardian, I was angry! Of course the rational part of me knew that I had got off cheaply. However, I was unwilling to accept the events and put them aside. Did these men have no respect? This kind of scum deserved to be hanged, flayed and skinned, like brigands and marauders, preferably in public. My jaw cramped and I noticed how the feeling in my stomach had started to change. The dull feeling of insecurity had transformed into a flaming rage, paired with an iron determination.

I will not begin my new life in disgrace. I opened my eyes again and looked at the candle that the innkeeper had given to me. The flame burned and crackled, and in a strange way its fire strengthened my determination. I wanted to teach the two apes a lesson, even if it was the last thing I did in my life. What can I do except for preaching, reading books and mixing herbs? Yes … Now I was almost grateful that the two disrespectful primitives had crossed my way, right here and right now.

A malicious grin bloomed on my lips, and I turned my gaze back to the window. For a short moment I marveled about the man who looked at me from the silent glass. His pale blue eyes looked like burning ice, a contradiction that seemed to be as natural to him as the fire of the sun in autumn twilight. He did not resemble the cringing priest anymore who had given the blessing to washwomen only a week ago. Yes, the man emitted something like … power. It must have been around two o'clock in the night when I put my plan into action. The voices from below had started to fade around midnight, but I did not want to take any unnecessary risks.

I carefully stepped outside my room and looked into the hallway leading to the stairs down to the taproom. However, I quickly drew back my head when I heard muffled, heavy steps rumbling up the stairs. I closed the door behind me and listened. A woman and a man, probably drunk, judging by the irregularity of their steps. Could it be one of the two brutes?

No … his voice sounded too bright, too soft and too tired. I waited until they had passed my door and until I heard their door closing. Then I swiftly stepped into the hallway again. Now it was empty. Quietly, I went towards the stairs and peeked down to the taphall. Even the maidservant and the host seemed to be sleeping, and only the typical smell of grease, alcohol and sweat told of the numerous guests who had indulged themselves a few hours ago. I nodded contentedly just as to confirm myself and returned to my room. An empty taproom indicated that even outside there was nobody except for a sentinel -maybe a beefy farmer's son who wanted to earn a few extra coins.

Carefully, I checked the utensils that I had concocted for my revenge, and I tied the leather pouch that contained them around my waist. Then I pulled the hood of my vagabond's gear deep into my face and congratulated myself for its purchase again. I opened the window without effort or noise and swung out the blinds that were supposed to protect the room from the cold of the night. Just a little creak. I looked down the wall. I was filled with a feeling of gratification.

Indeed, I was less muscular and strong than the brutes, but I was agile and flexible instead. My hands were long and slim, perfectly fit for my purpose. Slowly I climbed out of the window and was filled with a cozy, almost thumping warmness even though a cold wind was blowing.


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I felt as if I even drew power from the dull feeling inside me. I glanced down and surveyed the situation. I was lucky in two ways: As I descended, I was luck again: The tips of my boots were only a few finger's breadth away from the roof. I inhaled deeply and loosened my grip from the window ledge.

A muffled impact was audible, but it was not loud enough to raise suspicion. Now I had to be quick. Any second out here could be the moment that someone got aware of me. Quietly, I walked along the porch and descended from the edge. A gust of wind made my vagabond's garment flutter, just as if nature had decided to accentuate the scene. The stables where the brutes had put their horses were now in front of me.

The building was an unremarkable extension of the tavern, standing in the blue of the night in perfect silence. As I came closer, I heard the heavy breath of horses, the scraping of hooves and the crinkle of hey. Carefully, I pulled the heavy iron grip at the door. You might well ask why an open stable door did not arouse any suspicion in me. Yet I was too consumed by the blazing determination that my bold plan of revenge had created, so I sneaked inside. Only five horses were in the stable, two of them sleeping.

A gray nag in a compartment next to the door glanced at me with an expression that could have been called skepticism, but it soon continued chewing the hey. It was not difficult to find the steeds of my tormentors, pitch black and muscular as they were. They stood at the very end of the horse wing, in a chamber separated by a fragile wooden door. Now the moment had come. Cautiously, I kneeled down at the compartment of the first steed, near the manger.

I was unable to fight a feeling of envy as I inspected the animal from up close. Even an amateur like me could see that it was a Scarragian Rock Stallion.


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For a while, I quarreled with myself. Who were these men that could afford such noble horses? And what was going to expect me if they ever got scent of the fact that I was responsible for what was going to happen to them in the morning? Maybe all this is the first time in your life that you show courage! These two bastards have earned a lesson in humility! Of course … The voice was right! To recoil now would be an act of cowardice, a shame that I did not want to live with. Indeed … these two had earned a lesson in humility, and I was going to give it to them.

My fingers slid into the leather pouch at my side, felt out the small phial and pulled it out. The eponymous mushrooms usually grew in sparsely vegetated, stony landscapes, and the cliff that Fogville was situated on was exactly such an area. The application of these fungi was one of the first things that Mother Pylea had taught me when I was a novice in the village. Mixing the dry powder with Whispertree Resin resulted in a sticky pulp that considerably accelerated the healing rate if applied to an open wound. As Whispertrees grew in almost all areas of Enderal — except in the barren lands of Thalgard, the Frostcliff Mountains and the Pinnacle Desert — it was highly advisable to take along a phial of concentrated Sheer Cap Powder on extended journeys.

The small vessel provided protection from various ailments and afflictions, first of all inflammation, to those who knew the right mixture ratio. However, the Cap's powder had another effect that was unknown to the common people: Negative feelings such as grief, hate and anger were amplified many times over. An irascible man would lose his temper even faster than usual.

A gloomy, heartbroken woman would be suffering unbearably, leading to a full breakdown. The effect of concentrated Sheer Cap Powder mixed into a meal equaled the feelings that a trained psionic could evoke in his victims. The only difference was that the powder needed seven or eight hours to take effect. In this case, though, I welcomed the delay, as you can imagine. According to my plan, the two brutes, full of arrogance and pride, would be mounting their expensive stallions, only to be thrown to the ground by the befuddled horses in full gallop. The horses would probably be running away, leaving behind the primitives with considerable bruises or fractures — at that time I was shocked by the gratification, or rather lust, that the thought gave me.

A smile formed on my lips as I opened the phial and walked towards the sleeping horses. I did not have to search long for the trough. It contained a pap of hey, mashed apples and rancid water, most likely a meal that the splendid animals were not accustomed to, yet it was tasty enough to what their appetite. I crouched down in front of the bucket that stood at the end of the hallway between the two compartments, poured two small heaps of the powder on my hand and mixed them into the food. Then I carried the trough to the compartment, waved it around in front of the horses and murmured something I considered appropriate to smoothly wake up a warhorse.

I did not have to wait long. Sluggishly, the first horse opened an eye an gave me an undefinable glance. Sleepily, it shook its head as if the mental classification of my presence meant too much effort at this late hour, fluttered its lips and dipped its head into the trough. It is working … Damn it, it is working! The thrill of anticipation that had filled me when I entered the stable now mingled with a glowing feeling of triumph, and I felt more alive than ever. There I was, a young priest of about thirty winters, playing a prank on two brutes who had been bullying me. However, instead of feeling impish or cheeky I saw myself as an impersonation of justice, as an avenging angel who contributed to the betterment of humanity with his action.

Well, so the circumstances fit into each other … And the first butterfly flew, as the veiled women would say. I was so consumed in my satisfaction that I did not perceive my surroundings. Therefore I heard the heavy steps behind me only when it was too late.

I felt a heavy paw on my shoulder. Startled, I turned my head, which was my first mistake. Now the buccaneer was able to identify my face which before was hidden in the darkness. He seemed to instantly realize what I was doing. His breath, smelling of alcohol, was the last thing I heard before he clashed his right fist into my face without waiting for a response.

I heard a sharp snap and felt a burning pain shooting up my head. The force of the blow threw me back so that I fell on the sparsely distributed pieces of hey on the floor. My head reverberated as if the pillars of the Sun Temple had burst asunder on it. Instantly, I felt an exploding pain in my right side as the giant thrust his rigid leather boot in my side. What is your problem, you piece of crap? I heard them cracking noisily, and for a moment I was unable to breathe. As a result, his boot hit my head, and my face was dashed on the hard stone floor. I felt hot blood running down my forehead, my cheeks and my nose, and everything went black.

Using the last of my strength, I crouched like a child in its mother's womb in order to better endure the force of his attacks. You miserable fool, I thought. He is going to kill you, damn it, he is going to kill you! These thoughts crossed my mind over and over while I expected his next kick. But no kick came.

I was confused and, between the blood in my eyes, tried to recognize something in the dark. The giant had turned away from me and kneeled before his horse, worriedly caressing it. The soothing words he whispered to the animal made a stark contrast to the brutish crying that had accompanied his attack. He does not recognize me, I thought while in pain. He does not even recognize me as a threat. What happened next — and most importantly, what I felt — will be hard to put in words.

I remember how I suddenly felt the leather sheath of my iron dagger. I had considered it to be smart to keep it disguised, and I carried it with me simply because I had forgotten to leave it in my room in the tavern. Everything happened faster than I was able to think — instinctively, bestially. Anyone who had received a well-trained, hard blow on his nose knows how painful it was. However, my experience of pain vanished in an instant, and I felt how the dull feeling in my stomach, the feeling that at the beginning of my failed act of vengeance had become determination and anticipation, began to transform.

If a feeling had a form, it changed after my last thoughts were thought. Degenerate bastard, it shot through my mind. First you humiliate me without reason, in front of all the people, and now you dare to spoil my revenge? The anger in my stomach started to smolder, and in a matter of seconds my body was soaked in sweat.

He was going to pay for this, the subhuman, the worthless piece of filth that considered himself above the law only because of his bloated upper arms and his physique. Indeed … Some people did not deserve a place on this world. Quietly, bristling with rage, I drew my dagger. My arm was strangely twisted by the kicks, but I ignored the pain, it did not exist anymore.

There was only me and my enemy. And then I was there. With a force I did not think my slim arms were capable of I drove the dagger into the brute's back. Surprised and stunned, the gorilla gasped and turned around. Now there was no hint of malice and mocking in his eyes. Instead, I saw bewilderment, as if what was about to happen did not belong to the realm of possibility. Then it changed to plain, bestial rage. He grabbed my throat with both his hands and lifted me so that I dangled like a convict from the gallows.

Unconcernedly, the dagger stuck in his back as if it had been there from the day of his birth. I felt how he tried to choke me, but the instant I saw the man's eyes I knew that his time was numbered. It burned inside of me, an archaic, destructive force, and a mixture of rage, euphoria and a flush of victory ran through my veins, my mind and every part of my body.

With full force I kicked the tip of my boot between his legs. Instantly, the man uttered a terrified cry, unclamped the hands around my neck and sank down. I did not hesitate for a second. Quickly, I grabbed dagger in his back and pulled it out vigorously, only to stab him again in a different place. This time I felt resistance, so I changed the angle of the weapon and turned it jerkily.

The man roared, and now his voice did not sound human anymore. Weak and disoriented he tried to fall backwards and thus throw himself on me, but it was in vain. You dare to evade your punishment? After all you did to me you dare to resist me? One more time I hit him with my dagger, and this time I drove it into his thigh. Again he staggered, gasping unintelligible words. This time he did not try to fight back. Instead, he sank to his knees and started to whimper. He wants me to stop! This piece of crap seriously wants mercy! However, I did not grant him mercy.

Instead, I threw myself upon him and knocked him down to the floor. Now I kneeled over him, and for a short, quirky moment I realized that a stranger who at this very moment had watched our silhouettes must have considered us a couple in love play. A laugh left my throat, and another, louder one. The way he was laying there! The big, remorseless giant looked at me with delirious eyes full of fear like a boy who was about to receive a well-deserved spanking from his father.

His steed did not seem to be concerned at all. What happened then will be hard to put in words. First, I was overcome by a wave of demonic joy and broke out in manic laughter. I threw my head backwards and laughed loud and ringing. An ecstatic frenzy swept through my bones, my veins, my body. By the Black Guardian, I felt alive! I felt if I had lived with a veil over my eyes that was now torn away, as if I had considered a shadow on the wall for the thing that had cast it.

Like a priest who killed a sacrificial lamb, I grabbed the dagger with both my hands, held it above my head and drove it into the brute's chest. In the very instant when the poignant sound of steel penetrating flesh occurred, something happened that changed my life forever. For a short moment I became the man who I killed. Indeed, I became him and stayed myself at the same time, as paradoxical as it may sound to you. First, a wave of unknown memories swept across my mind.

I saw the brute, having the blood of a Scarragian man on his hands; I saw him In a dark room, holding a black piece of cloth, weeping; I saw him together with his chum — it was his brother — in a large stone hall, standing in a circle of people who held each other's hands. Each of the images appeared with the force of a striking hammer, and with every new image the tingle increased, the flaming delight in my body intensified and the obsession that controlled my actions grew and became more consuming.

Feed me, the dark part of my self cried, louder and stronger with each image that appeared to me. Feed me with his flames! With shaking hands and sweat all over my body I pulled the dagger out of the dead body of the giant, only to drive it into his chest one more time, three times stronger than before.

Again a wave of images filled my mind in the very moment the dagger hit him, revealing themselves to me with the rhythm of an adrenalin-fueled heartbeat. Every new image bestowed an rise of ecstasy upon me. I uttered a noise that was meant to be a sigh of pleasure, but it left my mouth as a manic, demonic croak.

By the righteous way, I experienced a feeling of rapture like never before. The blade dashed down again and pierced the lifeless flesh that lay below me. His red lifeblood was in my face, hot and sticky, but I did not care, no, I cared about nothing at all for I would judge, kill, punish! Even now, almost a year later, I feel my palms grow moist and my breath accelerate when I recall this memory; the ink becomes darker and the quill breaks.

But you will not be able to understand my feelings as a damned being from a non-rational point of view; there are numerous reasons for this. The first reason is that it is very likely you are disgusted by my account. You are right, for I describe a barbaric act in an almost celebratory manner. However, it is the only way to make you understand my thoughts to some extent at least.

The second reason however, which is attributable to the first, is the one that weighs most:. There are things you can only truly understand if you experience them yourself. Among them are sex, the ecstasy of pain during a deadly fight, and, not least, the end of life itself, death. How exquisitely we could reason upon the latter, creating explanatory models for its nature — emanating from the Path, the chants of the monks from Arazeal or a philosopher's mind —, yet in the end it will make no difference, we will truly comprehend it in the moment we face it ourselves.

The ecstasy that had got hold of my body like the Blue Death got hold of a wild magician's mind was all of the above and none of it. It was the fire. It filled me up and burned in every part of my body. All my limbs felt boiling hot, and my heart beat insanely within my chest. What I had done seemed to me morbidly wonderful, lofty … even stimulating and, in a perverted manner, sexual.

I did not believe for a second that I did anything wrong, no, there was no right or wrong, there was only me and the driving force inside of me, originating from somewhere apart from gods, demons and the laws of this world. I was judge, my will was my sword, and the man the convict. There was nothing more. All of my movements were instinctive, archaic, pure. What I did was nothing more than the consequences of intricate circumstances.

How late might it have been? The town is sixty miles south of Vienna in the Sopron region of northwest Hungary. His father, Mihaly "Michael" Binder, was born in in Harka. His mother, Marie Bayer, was born in His parents married in and their first four children were Terez "Theresa" born in , Yanos "John" born in , Earl Andras "Andrew" born in , and Mihaly "Michael" born in The father was a blacksmith.

The family language was German and they were Lutherans. In the father moved to the United States. He arrived in New York City on November 11 and traveled to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where he settled in the town of Bessemer and worked as a blacksmith.

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In the rest of his family came to join him. They traveled by train to Bessemer, Michigan, where the fifth child, Otto, was born one month later on August 26, The children attended public school in Michigan. As in most American families at that time, each child entered the work force after having completed the eighth grade. In the family moved to Randolph, Nebraska, where the father worked as a blacksmith with his three teenaged sons as assistants, John, Earl, and Michael.

John enjoyed working with his hands, but he wanted to be an artist. He saved the heavy brown wrapping paper from the butcher shop to use as drawing paper for sketching portraits of family members.

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The father worked as a blacksmith at a tool factory. Earl worked as a pattern maker in a machine shop. Michael became a salesmen for a grocery distributor, while Otto worked as a chemist at a Chemical Company. At the same time he produced freelance illustrations in his spare time for magazines, advertisements and the interior decoration industry. In he married Olga Marie Kouba. She was born May 11, in Chicago of German ancestry. The newlyweds moved to North Kedzie Avenue in Chicago. In his brother Michael married his wife's sister Harriet Kouba.

They moved to North Sawyer Avenue in Chicago. To support his growing family he took a job with a steady salary as a milkman at a local Dairy Company. In his brothers Earl and Otto began to write science fiction stories for pulp magazines under the combined pen name "Eando Binder" "E-and-O" Binder. In John and Olga's second child was born, Edward, and four years later their third child, Ronald, was born. On September 14, his father died at the age of sixty-seven, and was buried at Irving Park Cemetery in Chicago.

After the funeral John Binder moved to New York City, where he began to sell illustrations to pulp magazines. He signed his work with his preferred name "Jack" Binder. According to the artist,"the first thirty-five years of my life include the following occupations - lumberjack, miner, blacksmith, boxer and wrestler, scoutmaster, printer, milkman, engraver. Casting aside all these opportunities for a brilliant future, I studied art at the Art Institute of Chicago for three years, followed by two years of art research at the Field Museum of Natural History.

Since I've been in New York, my work has centered on moderns, oil marines, and magazine illustrating. Happily married and have three children. No particular hobby except resting.