The Rudra Chronicles: The Endless Knight: Book 2

By S.H.J Walton

Prepare to be thrust into the heart of darkness as the gripping saga of The Endless Knight unfolds. Building upon the notorious legacy of ‘the devil’s haven,’ our journey commences within the impenetrable walls of a clandestine maximum-security prison concealed deep in the desolate Nevada desert. Here, inmates undergo unspeakable transformations, their bodies turned into brutal cyborgs, vessels intended to be possessed by hordes of demonic entities. Unbeknownst to the world, the prison’s very warden is a powerful demon prince in disguise, an architect of sinister plans.

Fuelling the warden’s malevolent ambitions is the genius intellect of a deceased Nazi professor, his consciousness preserved within a bombproof capsule, his brain floating amidst an array of war machine robotic bodies. Accompanied by an army of robotic ghosts, former inmates driven to madness by Hellish augmentations and experimental mutations, the professor and the warden seek to orchestrate the ultimate sacrifice—the brutal annihilation of the prison population, unleashing Hell on Earth.

In this riveting sci-fi odyssey, the fate of humanity hangs in the balance. Can the enigmatic yogi holy man, the shadowy CIA super agents, or even the battle-hardened Team Alpha rise to the challenge and thwart the impending cataclysm? As religious and racial divisions are tested and divisive paradigms shattered, the Rudra himself imparts wisdom to his most unconventional disciples—the lost and forsaken souls of San Diablo.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035821655

S.H.J Walton

The author of the Rudra chronicles series S.H.J Walton is an accomplished author and abstract artist from Derbyshire in the UK, who first began writing as a form of therapy to help manage and contain his mental health situation, and soon became an incredible storyteller, with a unique and captivating method of imparting experience into imagination, and imagination into phenomenal works of science fiction. With explosive scenes set in beautiful detail, he translates the fruit of the ether into powerful stories of action, adventure, and wonder, as he guides us through the incredible fantasy world hiding behind his eyes.

Book preview

About the Author

The author of the Rudra chronicles series S.H.J Walton is an accomplished author and abstract artist from Derbyshire in the UK, who first began writing as a form of therapy to help manage and contain his mental health situation, and soon became an incredible storyteller, with a unique and captivating method of imparting experience into imagination, and imagination into phenomenal works of science fiction. With explosive scenes set in beautiful detail, he translates the fruit of the ether into powerful stories of action, adventure, and wonder, as he guides us through the incredible fantasy world hiding behind his eyes.

Copyright Information ©

S.H.J Walton 2024

The right of S.H.J Walton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035821648 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035821655 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Introduction

The second book of the Rudra Chronicles, the Endless Knight, continues the sci-fi adventure of book one, San Diablo the Devil’s Haven, and takes us to the top-secret super-max correctional facility, hidden from view in the baking hot Nevada desert. Our heroic and enigmatic Yogic monk has once again found himself in the company of the vile demon prince, Baal-zib-bub, the evil warden of San Diablo, and his partner in evil the former SS officer, Professor Von Leibstein himself.

Will the diligent efforts of the CIA super agents pay off in time to save the world from the dawning of Hell on Earth, or will the demonic warden achieve his dark ambition?

Our adventure is narrated by a no-nonsense warrior monk from the San Diablo facility itself, a former high-level shot caller for the infamous prison gang, the crips, now a devout holy warrior, an agent of karma, and the instrument of a righteous vengeance; existing only to serve the divine will of his master, the personality of nature in human form, the Rudra.

Our narrator, the notorious Pappa Smurf, takes us on a fast-paced action adventure that offers a different way of challenging human barriers of separation, such as religious and racial division through the perspectives of inmate gangsters, soldiers, holy men, and spies; as he unleashes his story to a young, but sincere journalist, in her never-ending, insatiable need to hear more and more from that most fascinating and mysterious of men, the awe-inspiring warrior monk Pappa Smurf.

Prologue

A multitude of car horns let loose its fury and beeped angrily behind her, thrashing and echoing through the downtown city block, like the barking of junkyard dogs after a feral alley cat.

Watch where you’re going, you fucking bitch! A sweaty and obese taxi driver spat after the attractive young journalist. The unkempt and dirty-looking middle-aged man, hung out of his window waving his large hairy fist at her, perhaps justified in his rage.

She sprinted past him without stopping or looking back; oh, how she wished she had more time to beat the crap out of him; she wished she had her God dammed car, and above all, how she wished that her scum bag boyfriend hadn’t gotten drunk for the thousandth time, and beat her for probably the same. She wished that he hadn’t taken her car when he stormed off drunk, again; today of all days!

And she wished so much for her aching feet to stop hurting like hell, but Gita knew only too well just how valueless wishing really was. She remembered what a wise old monk had once explained to her about wishing.

Bitch, you go and wish in one hand and shit in the other, mother fucker, then tell me which one gets filled the quickest! Gita laughed at the thought of him, the mysterious and notorious Pappa Smurf; her eyes widened in panic at a triggering memory.

Shit, I’m late for him; I’m late for Pappa Smurf! The Asian-American woman exclaimed as she doubled her pace through the pain barrier, knowing all the time how rare and valuable every second was for any one of the San Diablo inmate monks, especially a great one such as him.

Oh, shit, oh shit, gasped Gita sprinting faster and faster, and with far less regard for her safety than she thought humanly possible, as she dashed across a busy intersection in her war against tardiness.

The cacophony of car horns and shouting had intensified into a crescendo of anger and abuse the closer she came to the daily illumine downtown office tower. The subtle racket cut across the usual din of that tumultuous city, through the windows and doors and walls, to the heightened awareness of one angry-looking monk, in the centre of the high-rise press building itself, in the main interview room of the daily Illumine.

A floor manager sat trembling in a corner, with his hand covering his head in a ball.

Man, shut the fuck up! The densely muscular ex-crip shot caller Pappa Smurf growled, the elderly African-American monk held a finger to his lips.

The trembling manager summoned the courage from deep within and dared to glance up for the first time, since accidentally insulting the holy brother. His eyes crossed at his nose as he focused through waves of deep primal fear, at the monk’s long white dreadlocks draped over his wizened and terrifying face.

A long and deep jagged scar passed through a ghostly and milky white dead eye, on its journey from head to chin, which was a genuine horror to behold, but paled in comparison to the fire and vicious sharpness, of the San Diablo warrior monks remaining eye.

Time-faded black and blue tattoos adorned every part of him, the identification of the brutal underworld mapped out on his face and visible parts of his hard and athletic physical body.

You hear that? The massively muscular monk demanded, his pitch-black robes hung from his shoulder and twitched out, as though caught in a non-existent breeze.

Nigel…NIGEL…yo snap too, mother fucker, said the huge monk, much gentler than before, to bring the trembling man from his panic-induced uselessness.

Huh…yeah, yeah, gasped Nigel, the floor manager, as he shook his head and got to his feet.

You may escort me, Mr Nigel, to the door; we will meet Gita there, announced Pappa Smurf with a smile that could petrify a polar bear.

How? How do you know that without speaking to her? The perplexed, but respectful floor boss enquired.

Fuck me! Let’s haul ass, mother fucker! Pappa Smurf ordered, dodging the question. Only Gita had permission to question the enigmatic holy man, and only Gita would be permitted to ask the badass brethren anything.

Like a whipped pup, the corporate bully followed the monk down the main corridor, almost at a jog, down the building’s main stairwell and out through the building’s fancy new reception foyer.

Pappa Smurf placed one huge and powerful hand on the floor manager’s shoulder, stopping the man with a jolt, at the handle of the frosted glass double door; the coveted journalist entrance.

Three, two, one, announced the elder monk as though to the glass door itself, as the blurry outline silhouette of a tall and slender feminine form moved closer and closer to the inch-thick glass, separating the outside chaos from the quiet tranquillity of the inside.

The exhausted young woman placed her security access card onto the magnetic card reader mounted on the door’s external locking system. A smooth but loud click rang in her over-sensitive head like a bell, as the hi-tech magnetic lock disengaged; she took a deep breath in and began to push her hand against the long shiny door bar, which to Gita’s surprise seemed to flee, from her trembling and panicky touch.

You’re late, mother fucker! A deep, menacing but familiar voice came from the other side of the stylish frosted glass.

Gita, oh my God! Are you ok? You should get that looked at right now! The slouchy middle-aged Nigel exclaimed, shocked at the sight of Gita’s face. One of her eyes was now entirely closed from the dark purple swelling from the assault and was visibly distressing to the floor manager in his power suit, but not at all to the rag-covered inmate monk; he simply stood scowling at the puffing and panting out of breath journalist.

What, and waste the time of an accomplished one such as he? No, my face can wait but Pappa Smurf will not, replied Gita, a little shocked at the suggestion; she placed her hands together at her heart centre and bowed at the waist, to touch the warrior monk’s feet out of respect and voluntary submission.

The muscular African-American monk smiled broadly and with great warmth, and as he touched the respectful civilian on the crown of her head, Gita’s breath immediately returned to its usual calm nature, allowing the flustered journalist the internal room necessary to compose herself, and not waste this precious moment gifted to her.

Please forgive my tardiness, Father, I offer no excuses only my apologies, said Gita returning to the upright with poise and grace.

And that, my child, is the difference between apology and excuses. I will accept a million apologies, but not one single God damned excuse. Create a better environment around you and there will be no reason for any excuse; countermeasure today’s tardiness, young woman, and guard well the front door of your domain, which is in your heart! The intimidating holy man growled.

Gita, I must insist… began her corporate superior, Nigel, still insistent on her seeking medical assistance, much to the secret respect of the warrior monk, himself concerned for Gita’s choices too, but in a much, much different way.

Man, shut the fuck up and get me a coffee. Don’t make me whoop yo pampered black ass again playa! Pappa Smurf roared, asserting himself with a petrifying display of controlled masculine aggression. The shell-shocked floor manager nodded his head in silent agreement in the wake of the San Diablo elder’s command and began automatically walking towards the stairwell, as though under some kind of enchantment.

Oh, Nigel, said the ex-crip gang shot caller, after the now humble highflyer. Nigel stopped in his tracks and turned his slightly bruised face to a more softened Pappa Smurf.

You and I will get along much better, and with a lot less ass whooping, if you lower your head in my presence, and never, ever use that word with me again. I’m no one’s nigger no more, now git, mother fucker, continued Pappa Smurf, placing his right hand over his heart and his open left hand up in front of himself, a hand gesture of affection from monk to layman.

Father, what happened to the inmate experiments and the CIA men, did they really manage to arrest, him? Gita blurted excitedly. Their last meeting had left her with yet more burning questions than answers.

Oh, now you settle down now, baby, I’ll get there, said Pappa Smurf into Gita’s digital voice recorder.

Did you ever meet him in person I mean, the…the Rudra of course, Father? The talented young journalist enquired, eagerly pressing into the interview to gain as much time as she possibly could with that most enigmatic monk, that she had somehow become completely obsessed.

All will be revealed to one with patience, I’m gonna tell you about when I first met the supreme person, Shri Rudra, on day one at San Diablo I shit you not! Why that enigmatic mother fucker was on my own God damned chain gang, well almost, began the huge, dominating San Diablo warrior monk, laughing heartily as he began ascending the building stairwell, followed half a step respectfully behind by the confused yet awestruck Gita, hanging on the elder man’s every word and syllable.

Chapter One

The deep-penetrating darkness of the bleak and endless Nevada night did nothing to the brutal desert heat, nor the suffering of inmates or guards alike, from the hellish and acrid torment served daily at that hell hole in the centre of the desert itself, known only as San Diablo. All were in torment, all were in hell, all that is except for him. He felt neither heat nor cold, fear nor joy, but then of course, neither do the dead.

The enormous dead man cyborg cast his way this way and that, observing every inch of his flood-lit prison yard surroundings, with a mindless focus that eludes the living. Someone had gotten the drop on them only hours earlier, a costly error of his disappointing predecessor, Mr Black; a mistake that the augmented and mutated Mr White would not be permitted to repeat.

He despised Mr Black for his failure and his weakness, for his very human floors deep down into the pit of his soul, or rather what remained of it; he shook off such petty indulgences and returned to the service of his master’s will. Baal-zib-bub, the demonic warden of San Diablo, did not tolerate failure, even from the dead in that overlooked model of hell.

Mr White pressed hard against the winding arm on his watch and spoke gruffly into the fancy two-way timepiece.

Your master has use for you; meet me at the professor’s facility. Now! The massive Mr White grunted over the fancy two-way watch. He turned his huge head to face three-masked guards at the very rear flank of his line.

You three stay on him, do not talk to him, and under no circumstances at all, open that box! The gruff cyborg ordered, pointing to three-masked officers standing closest to the tiny cell. All three guards snapped into a smart salute and silently took up century-duty positions around the crate and the Aghori.

The rest of you come with me, ordered Mr White to the rest of the squad, all standing in a salute.

Move out, he ordered and headed back into the maze.

Ten tall figures in long red robes came to life in the darkness of the professor’s holding unit. They rose from their kneeling position and silently began walking in perfect step with one another towards an illuminated door, encased in complete darkness.

The team had been tested and found not wanting, in the eyes of the pyramid or Commander Rico. They walked through the doorway into a familiar old room. It was exactly the same as when they had left it so abruptly, except that placed neatly in front of the statues of them, were ancient weapons and supplies for their mission.

Your reward, team Alpha. The ancients have provided you with all you will need, said Alfred, to the confused-looking team Alpha.

Ok, how did we end up back in here? Agent O’Hara asked the drone, rubbing her chin as she digested the information with a large and muscular hand.

This place has many surprises, dear agent, I advise just going with it, ma’am, replied Alfred.

The drones rotated at the request of Alfred, their artificially intelligent leader, then hovered over the piles of offerings set in front of the statues of them.

Let’s see what we have then, declared the stoic commander to his team as he strode towards the ancient weapons cache. The ringing of his metal foot on the stone floor made echoes sing at his every step, reverberated and amplified by the silence itself. Rico bent forward in front of his own statue and picked up a large obsidian vambrace.

He bravely put on the piece of ancient armour, by sliding it over his own protective gear and made a tightly gripped fist. In a flash of light, the vambrace shrank, clamping itself firmly around Rico’s armoured fist. He looked over his shoulder, to his illustrious team of assets, waiting patiently for his nod of approval.

It hurts like hell for a moment but it’s nothing you can’t handle. Arm yourselves, team Alpha, ordered Rico, through a grimace.

Agent Sharky picked up a long narrow tube, made from what looked like pure Jayde stone, smoothed out by devoted craftsmen eons ago. She felt a searing pain in her hand and dropped the artifact in shock. The gemstone tube hovered for a moment in the air, as if held by an invisible and irresistible force.

Detailed patterns lit up along its crystal-like shaft, revealing a deeper level of artistry than could be humanly possible. Sharky outstretched her hand instinctively and the ancient device flew smoothly back into the agent’s hand, the pain had gone. She stood staring at the artifact for a moment in amazement and amusement.

O’Hara went next, picking up two very ornate, and very large, rainbow-coloured crystal bracelets. She became mesmerized by how flat and smooth they were. She weighed them in her hand for a moment, before sliding the crystal wrist armour over her huge, muscular hands. They immediately snapped onto her wrists, and she smiled broadly as she felt the pain flicker up her spine.

She noted how good it felt when the pain washed over her into the ground, and with a deep sigh of masochistic ecstasy, she looked over at Sophia, who was holding four cone-shaped crystals, tapered to a fine sharp point, with a smooth domed end at the bottom of each one.

Agent Sophia winked at O’Hara, and with a look of painful anticipation, she shrugged her shoulders with a sigh.

Nothing ventured, she said, looking longingly over at Commander Rico. Nothing gained…I guess, continued Agent Sophia, nervously.

She instinctively, tossed them gently into the air and dropped her trembling arms to her sides, and braced herself for the pain that was destined to be hers. The four crystal domes flew around her three times before slamming into her side. They stabbed into her body armour and penetrated through her flesh; burrowing deep into her nervous system, through nerve bundles at the penetration sites. Two on each side, one below the armpit, and one, into each shoulder.

Sophia stumbled but did not fall, as the unimaginable agony thrashed through her entire system, until finally, the intensity dissipated and the pain subsided. She stood motionless for a moment; she felt different and was puzzled by how she felt so very different until she shook her head and regained her titanium resolve.

Alfred, what are these things? Commander Rico asked.

These are your weapons, Commander, said Alfred, flatly. Sharky twiddled the crystal tube around her long spider-like fingers.

How? she asked puzzlement in her tone.

These are energy weapons. You are connected to them and they in turn adapt to your own personality, explained Alfred, to the team of elite agents gathered around him.

Was that what all the pain was about? The crystal interfacing with us at the psych-molecular level? Sophia asked.

Yes, Agent Sophia, that is correct. The crystal immediately replicated itself along your nervous system, fusing itself with you and your own unique needs, answered the drone, helpfully.

Only to what end? It sure hurt a whole bunch but nothing has happened at all, as yet, continued Sophia, perplexed.

Well, you need to activate your psychic energy fields, an intense emotional trigger will suffice, answered Alfred.

A whattity what, what? Rico asked, getting annoyed at himself for not keeping up with the conversation.

Think about the one single concept or person the dearest to you. The thing that you would gladly give your life to protect and defend, think deeply on that, answered Alfred, as warmly as he could. Agent Sophia thought about the smile that Rico gave her every time they spoke.

Suddenly, four arms appeared on Agent Sophia, starting at the crystal domes embedded in her sides and back. Sophia watched on in amazement as she began moving the extra limbs with unbelievable ease as if they had always been part of her. She clapped all her hands in utter astonishment and glanced over to Commander Rico next to her.

Rico closed his eyes to think about Sophia, the one person he loved more than the rest of the world combined. The emotional psychic energy lit up from him like a bonfire as his crystal vambrace glowed flame yellow, exposing ornate symbols and patterns that shone brightly as if lit from behind like a lamp. Rico’s hand became instantly illuminated as the psychic energy rushed through his arm and hand. He extended his index and forefinger, and while keeping them touching, he began making a small circle of hard light in the air.

The light from Rico’s fingers formed a hard, and incredibly sharp, chakra discus, spinning faster and faster on Rico’s hand. He released the discus and sent it flying down the room, and to his surprise, he was able to control the flight path of the weapon with accuracy and ease. He turned it one way and then the other until he brought it back to him, by the power of thought and intention.

Swiftly, the spinning chakra returned to Rico’s fingers, and the glowing energy returned to the obsidian vambrace, all at the psychic command of Commander Rico.

This is incredible, exclaimed Rico in an excited and curious tone, like a child at Christmas. He looked at Sophia practicing with her four extra hands, each one holding a bladed energy weapon with prowess and proficiency. She reminded him of a Goddess of far antiquity, fierce and beautiful, and he was her devotee.

He stared on for a moment before returning his attention to Agent Sharky and O’Hara, who appeared lost in each other’s visages. The commander could guess what their trigger thought would be and smiled warmly to himself. He returned his attention to the eight-limbed Goddess of combat, the secret light of his life, Agent Sophia.

Sharky and O’Hara smiled lovingly at one another as they stood only a few places away; they closed their eyes and allowed their secret thought, the freedom it needed to swim through them unabated. Both agents’ weapons sprang to life and the elegant crystal tube self-illuminated, as it sent out a long and slightly curved blade, from each end of the incredible artifact.

The blades shone brightly with an intense violet light as if made from midnight and lightning. The large ornate wrist armour adorned by Agent O’Hara hummed slightly as the powerful energy became manifest.

A deep orange energy formed around her fists, like wrecking balls on the end of the Hulk’s huge, muscular arms. She banged her hands together hard and the balls of energy banged against each other, making the weapon ring like a Buddhist singing bowl, sending a shock wave of sound across the room. The four drones bounced a little in the turbulence of the unsettled air, left in the slipstream of her attack.

Oh, hell yeah! The hulking O’Hara said, over excitedly.

Discipline, sister, ordered Rico, returning calmness to his team.

The endless knight.

Chapter Two

The enormous cyborg, Mr White, sped through the maze of checkpoints and razor wire out of the prison yard, and back into the main block with the remainder of his elite squad of enhanced dead men, and those well on their way. All were slaves though, alive or dead, they would always belong to him.

A1

The Rudra sat meditating in the cross-legged lotus pose padmasana, in total silence. His breath became shallow and infrequent; he became a living stillness itself. He reached outwards with his senses and connected with the element of space within him, merging himself with the space without him, making the two the same. He filled the area with his own presence and energy.

You’re all clear, chaps, whispered the Rudra, to the three guards assigned to watchman duties. The three men removed their mask respirators and dropped to their knees in front of Rudra’s prison hutch; one of the three men moved forward and put his face to the small opening, at the front of the tiny cubed cell.

So, what’s next then? The guard asked, into the dark