End Of Heroes

By Sebastian H. Alive

“Do you believe in heroes? When I talk about heroes I mean someone who will stand up for what is right and against what is wrong, someone who protects those who are unable to protect themselves regardless of consequence. People who just do what has to be done and find the courage to stand up for what they believe in, even if that means they stand alone,”
“These days there aren’t many heroes left, not real ones anyway but I am so blessed to have known a few heroes in my life and recently I’ve found myself thinking of those four names. Britton, Orlandi, Pantilimon and Rankine. The names flow off my tongue like a breeze upon the skin. I like to think that there still are some real heroes out there somewhere, I am sure of it,”

In a land ruled by blood and terror by a barbaric race, four men must travel to rescue a kidnapped girl taken to be sold on the Ribillion slave markets. Their destiny would entwine them on a terrible journey that would change their lives forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sebastian H. Alive
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301933525

Sebastian H. Alive

Sebastian H. Alive is a Purchasing Manager by day, controlling and manipulating the world’s economy while brainwashing the gullible masses. By evening he is father to two demonic minions that the devil is too embarrassed to be associated with and by night he writes stories.

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End of Heroes

The Corshan Quadrilogy - Book 3

By Sebastian H. Alive

Published by Sebastian H. Alive

License Notes

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright 2015 Sebastian H. Alive

Prologue

Vaisala

In a battered wooden chair the old man slept, sprawled awkwardly with a thin blanket wrapped tightly around his tall frame, as the breeze from the window tugged at his wispy white hair. The yellow-orange flames from the fire in the alcove danced as the door opened quietly, and in stepped a young hooded man, cloaked in the darkness with a wickedly sharp sword held tightly in his hand.

The old man’s piercing blue eyes flicked open and never left the doorway as the stranger hefted the blade nervously in his sweaty palms, suddenly unsure what to do. For a long time he didn’t say anything, his eyes carefully appraising the profile of the armed man, then he brought a hand up and rubbed the drool from his stubbled chin.

Calm yourself, dear boy. Please, step into the light so I can see you,

The hooded man jumped a little and licked his dry lips before taking a few faltering steps into the darkened room.

You have come for me haven't you? said the old man, smiling with cracked, leathery lips. You are young, what are you seventeen – eighteen, surely no more?

The fire crackled and spat embers onto the cold stone floor and the soothing, tranquil sound of water crashing against the rocks far below on the shoreline drifted up through the open window.

My assignment is to find you and see if you are alive or not, said the young man, shifting from one foot to the other.

The old man’s warm blue eyes twinkled and he shook his head and chuckled.

Well, find me you did, but given your attire and timing of your visit I would suggest you have come to kill me. Who sent you? Not that it really matters anymore. I have many enemies you see. I have always said that enemies you get for nothing, it’s really friendship that costs you,

With a sigh he removed the blanket and struggled to his feet, nudging aside the cat that was asleep at the foot of the chair, and wandered over to the open window and looked out. The moon was still high in the sky and the sea below glistened invitingly in the darkness, reflecting a thousand stars in its blackness as its gray waves crashed against the rocks in quick succession.

Should have thought to look for me here first, the old man said. Everyone who knows me knows that I love the smell of the water,

After a moment's hesitation, he turned with an embarrassed smile on his face to the young man and pointed to the fire.

Apologies, your journey must have been long and tiresome. I have mulled wine if you care, and feel free to warm yourself by the fire,

The hooded man watched him in silence as he shuffled over to the fire, bent gingerly and warmed his hands over the flames and stared thoughtfully into the hearth with the heat on his wrinkled face.

I think the coming winter will be colder than normal, he said absently. There's a certain chill in the air. I don’t sleep much at all these days; I say it’s the cold,

He offered the hooded man a toothless grin, and rubbed his hands again and held them out, palms down, toward the fire.

You, I bet, still sleep the easy sleep of a child, he chuckled, standing straight and winching as his knees both clicked in unison.

He wandered back to the chair and sat back down, whilst the cat began rubbing against his legs purring loudly. After a moment the animal jumped lithely into his lap, curling into a furry ball before going to sleep with the old man’s skeletal fingers caressing her fur.

You have respect in your eyes, I like that, he said looking at the hooded man. Look at me now; I’m just another old man in a world that forgets about heroes. These old bones have done much in this world boy, and no man should see what these eyes have seen,

His blues eyes had taken on a far away distant look and for a moment he stopped stroking the cat as if remembering a time forgotten.

Do you believe in heroes, boy?

The question hung in the air unanswered, leaving a silence that needed to be filled so the old man continued speaking.

When I talk about heroes, I mean someone who will stand up for what is right and against what is wrong, someone who protects those who are unable to protect themselves regardless of consequence. People who just do what has to be done and find the courage to stand up for what they believe in, even if that means they stand alone,

The old man’s eyes twinkled in the firelight as he stared at the hooded young man before him.

These days there aren’t many heroes left, not real ones anyway, but I am so blessed to have known a few heroes in my life, and recently I’ve found myself thinking of those four names; Britton, Orlandi, Pantilimon and Rankine. The names flow off my tongue like a breeze upon the skin. I like to think that there still are some real heroes out there somewhere, I am sure of it,

The hooded man brandished the sword and swallowed hard, taking a step forward under the watchful eyes of the old man.

You do what needs to be done, boy, said the old man with a tired smile. My time is up and I give myself to you tonight,

I'm sorry, so sorry, said the hooded man wielding the sword and raising it.

The old man closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. The smell of the water was comforting and he wanted to taste the sweet salty moisture on his tongue one final last time.

Chapter One

Corshan - Forty years ago...

The man called Rankine sat in the corner, hidden in the shadows, nursing his goblet of cheap wine and watching the crowded revelers in the tavern with a cold expression on his face. Rain had been incessant, battering against the roof which was noticeably too weak to prevent the fat droplets of rainwater from dripping inside the packed tavern. The place smelled of damp straw, sweat and alcohol, and every breath he took drew in the stench.

His fingers curled around the battered goblet and he swirled the contents, switching his gaze to its murky depths with a sigh. He wasn’t sure why he was in such a foul mood, maybe it was the dank, oppressive atmosphere, poor wine and raucous laughing, or maybe it was the gloomy weather that was affecting his state of mind. He wasn’t certain. All he knew was that he was in an exceptionally foul mood, and one the weather seemed to agree with.

Grimacing, he took a sip of the wine then pushed the goblet far from his hands as possible on the wooden table.

There was a lull in the clamor of voices as a huge bear of a man on the edge of sleep, having consumed too much ale, toppled forward with a low grunt and fell heavily onto the rain soaked ground, causing a chorus of cheers and laughs. Hearing the commotion, the greasy-haired tavern keeper behind the splintered counter flicked his eyes quickly in the direction of the noise, sizing up the problem before a couple of men took hold of each arm of the unconscious man and dragged him to his feet.

More ale, he slurred in a drunken stupor, as he positioned himself against the bar.

No, said the tavern keeper icily. Perhaps it’s time for you to be leaving, Antal?

Clenching his jaw tightly, the man slammed his fist down angrily against the wooden counter and swept an empty goblet off the top, sending it clanging to the floor.

One more drink, Rapak. Just one more! he rasped, glaring at him.

No, said the tavern keeper, his words barely more than a hiss, delivered through clenched teeth.

The moment was delicately poised, and Rankine idly guessed that it was going to erupt in violence or that someone would back down, and judging by the man’s intoxication he settled on the former.

Come on, Antal! pleaded one of the men that had helped him unsteadily to his feet.

Antal shrugged the hand off his shoulder angrily, and then raised his hands in defeat to Rapak. The tavern keeper nodded his head silently and resumed serving his customers. The drunk gazed longingly at the bar one last time before being escorted outside the ‘Crowing Rooster Tavern’ and into the rainy night air.

Rankine looked up at the tavern keeper, and for the briefest of moments their eyes met over the hustle and bustle of the crowd. The look was cold and unforgiving, and he wondered what Rapak had been before he had taken up cleaning goblets and serving patrons, but in an instant the look was replaced by the warm, welcoming face of the tavern keeper.

Somewhere, lost in the tavern a minstrel began playing music in the background, the soft sound competing against the jeering of drunken young men and being completely drowned out. After a while the minstrel lost interest in performing, much to the merriment of the drinkers and Rankine chuckled under his breath.

The rain outside seemed to have temporarily slowed to a light drizzle, as the water droplets leaking through the roof had stopped, so he decided it was time to leave the tavern and find a room for the night. Just as he was about to leave, a tavern whore wandered through the throng and approached his table, flashing him a tired smile.

Do you care for some company, warrior? she asked, brushing a worn lock of brown hair from her face.

Rankine looked her up and down solemnly. She must have been no older than sixteen and was nothing more than a ragged, frail shell of a girl with hollow eyes devoid of emotion.

Go. Eat something, he said flipping a coin onto the table top.

The coin spun on the table and began to roll on its rim, wobbling faster and faster until her hand snaked out devouring it.

Her tired smile had vanished now, and he detected something akin to annoyance flashing in her eyes as she pocketed the money before vanishing back into the crowd searching for another suitor willing to meet her advances.

Rankine sighed once again as he ran a hand through his long jet black hair, before rubbing his tired eyes, and then suddenly a low voice broke his heavy thoughts.

She’s my best girl,

Your best girl is tired, hungry and has no spirit, said Rankine, looking up into the eyes of the tavern keeper, Rapak. He was a tall, lean man with narrow cheekbones and a strong jaw line, eyes as grey as storm winter clouds and carried a quiet air of authority, of someone used to being obeyed.

She is tired because she’s the best, but I'll bear that in mind, he said nodding in understanding as he glanced briefly behind him in her direction.

Rapak spotted a plain wooden stool on the next table and dragged it across. He sat down opposite him, stretching his back with a grunt before flicking his greasy hair over his shoulders and casting a disapproving look at the full goblet of wine at the end of the table.

How’s the wine? he asked, sniffing loudly and nodding his head in the direction of the drink.

I asked for wine and you poured me some goats piss, responded Rankine.

The tavern keeper chuckled lightly, seemingly amused by the statement as if he’d heard this a few times in the past.

It isn't the best wine in the world, by any measure, but it dulls the palate really good. If you drink enough of the stuff it really seduces you and helps forget the bad and renews the good, if you know what I mean. Seriously, if you want a drink, try a dram of Kilbeggan Red,

Thank you for your courtesy, but no, I will be leaving shortly,

You passing through? he asked.

Just passing through, was the reply.

Are you seeking any work whilst you’re in town?

Possibly, Rankine said, nodding his head slowly. If there is any, then I would consider it,

I know someone who is in need of someone with a strong arm,

And how do you know I would be suitable for such work? questioned Rankine suspiciously.

I trust my eyes, and I’ve spent a lifetime around warriors and you look like a man of the blade,

Looks can be deceiving, he said smoothly.

Ahhhhh...but you also position yourself in the corner, so no-one can approach you from behind and slide a dagger in your ribs, and I would wager my salary that your right hand under the table has a blade pointed at my balls,

I could say the same about you, said Rankine chuckling, as he sheathed his dagger swiftly.

The tavern keeper seemed genuinely shocked and sat back on the stool, his mouth open a little and eyes slightly narrowed.

What do you mean? he asked simply.

The drunk at the bar, just a few minutes ago. You sized up the problem in an instant and dealt with it,

Instincts,

Warriors instincts, corrected Rankine.

A long, long time ago, another lifetime, he admitted. It’s not a part of my life I talk about anymore,

Yet I saw it in your eyes for the briefest of moments when the drunk challenged you, the killer instinct. I bet you felt the adrenaline course through your veins, didn’t you?

I speak the truth when I say that part of me is no more, said Rapak firmly, yet uneasily. I have killed and I’ll not do it again. It doesn’t seem relevant to what I’m doing now and my hands have dealt more than enough bloodshed,

Then you are a better man for it. Now tell me, what work is it?

The tavern keeper reached over for the goblet of wine and looked across at Rankine hesitantly.

May I?

Of course,

He lifted the goblet to his lips and drained the wine in one long gulp, winching at the bitter aftertaste before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You are right of course, I forget just how rancid my wine tastes, he said grimacing. Now, there is a group of ten men leaving at first light to capture a monster hiding in the hills. They are offering a handsome sum of money for any persons willing to help, preferably they have a good sword arm and a belly full of courage,

A monster?

A monster in the form of a man, though he is a man like no other, a freak of nature,

It takes ten armed men to capture one man? asked Rankine incredulously.

He is not a man, believe me. The other day five men were sent out to bring him in and only two returned, and one of them had a crushed skull,

What are his crimes?

He is wanted for the murder of a young local boy and three village men,

A child-killer? whispered Rankine, his eyes hardening.

A child-killer, he agreed. And the wealthy, angry parents understandably want him brought in for justice for their son,

Rankine detected the lie as smoothly as it left the tavern keepers tongue, and mulled it over in his brain for a minute.

Are you in? asked Rapak licking his dry lips.

Give me a name and place and I’ll be there,

The man you should seek out is called Geraint, and the team is meeting here outside at first light. Geraint is a prickly old warrior and once served a battalion under the king so knows how to get the best from his men. The rains been coming down pretty strongly recently, so hopefully it might have eased off for you by the morn. Still, I think I'm going to enjoy watching you bring that bastard in. Who shall I say is joining the group?

I am Rankine,

A famous name around these parts? he said, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

His gray eyes radiated the merest flicker of fear for a split-second.

It is only a name,

I am Rapak, he said standing up and offering his hand across the table.

Rankine rose and shook his hand firmly.

Good to meet you Rapak,

Likewise,

The tavern keeper scooped up the empty goblet and spun on the balls of his feet, vanishing back into the revelers and emerging a second later back behind the bar, where he was subjected to a barrage of requests from thirsty patrons. He offered them an easy smile and calmed them down with a few choice words as Rankine made his way through the tavern towards the door.

When the tavern keeper looked back in the direction of the young man he had just been talking to, there was nothing but an empty table and chair.

*

With the light of early morning gradually getting brighter, accompanied by incessant sharp needles of rain, the men stood silently outside the ‘Crowing Rooster Tavern’ waiting for instructions from their leader, Geraint. One of the men, a freckled, buck-toothed youngster with curly red hair, yawned so hard his that his jaw cracked loudly over the patter of the rain as he rubbed his gritty tired eyes.

Wake up, Hannick! bellowed Geraint marching over and shaking his shoulders vigorously. Do you want me to fetch your momma to wake you with some warmed milk?

I am awake, the youth snapped in a surly tone, looking at the ground wishing the rain would make him sink further into the mud.

Geraint grunted and turned slowly, casting an eye over each of the men before him and shaking his head in disgust. The men shifted uneasily, and a couple stole a sly half-glance at the man next to them.

We might as well just turn back around and go back to our nice warm beds, you miserable whoresons! he shouted angrily, looking from one to the other.

They shrank before his gaze, with the exception of the dark haired young man at the end of the line.

One of the men, a balding overweight man with a quiver of arrows slung across his back, patted his bald head dry with a folded handkerchief, then immediately averted his gaze from the glaring foreman.

It’s only rain, Regis! he shouted, his voice cracking in disbelief. You won’t melt!

Sorry, he muttered, lifting his eyes momentarily.

I'm sorry? shouted Geraint, repeating the word louder. I'm sorry for confusing you bunch of milk maids for men. By the gods, that young boy who was murdered in cold blood will be shifting uneasily in his unmarked grave right now!

Just then someone’s stomach chose that moment to rumble in loud protest, and Geraint’s head snapped in the direction of a small guy with a bulbous nose and beady eyes, who was looking miserable and wet and standing next to the dark haired young man at the end of the line.

Geraint rubbed his pepper gray beard a little, his eyes taking on a crazed, maniacal look as he strode over to the man.

Well, you know Kinsella; I’ve had a pretty rotten time this morning already. Tell me, how are you feeling?

The words were spoken softly yet loaded with venom, and the small guy cleared his throat and selected his words carefully.

I’m a little hungry, he admitted nervously. But I am ready to take the bastard down!

Hungry? said Geraint rolling the word round on his tongue. Hungry? How about a sword in the gut to curb your hunger? Is that what you want? Huh?

Kinsella shivered as the rain came down a little harder as Geraint turned away from him to face the young man who had joined the party this morning, and had been waiting for them when they had started to arrive at the tavern.

His long black hair was tied back in a neat ponytail and his piercing blue eyes were focused and unwavering, with no sign of tiredness