Warrior of the Way

Rhychard Bartlett fell against the coarse stucco of the church column, the rough texture ripping into his back through his shirt as he oozed to the ground. Smoke floated through the morning air, carrying with it the scent of sulfur leftover from the burst of demonic power Vargas used against him, red flames of energy that exploded from the demon's fingers. Rhychard suddenly wished he had kept his duster on as the pain screamed in his mind and explosions of white dots burst behind his eyes like fireworks. He barely managed to maintain his grip on the Guardian Sword with the attack. The blade pulsed a violent blue as heat emanated from the bronze weapon. He could feel the power from the sword, but faintly, the voices of past Warriors a low murmur in his head, instead of their consistent howl. His arm hung limp at his side, blood trickling down as his chest suffered from three long claw marks that left his flesh layered open, revealing torn muscle and tissue beneath. His chest heaved with

Rhychard splashed cold water over his whisker-stubbled face, the chill shocking some life back into his mind. His arm and chest throbbed with pain even though Kree had successfully healed the gouges Vargas left. The skin was still pink, and even the elven hound couldn't take away the scars left behind.Rhychard glanced up into the bathroom mirror, water dripping from his face into the dirty sink below. A hollowness seemed to surround his pine bark-colored eyes, giving him a ghostly appearance. His high cheeks had a thinness to them he hadn't noticed before. He knew he hadn't been eating properly but didn't realize his lack of appetite had taken such a toll on him in so short an amount of time. He reached around and pulled his long, dark hair into a ponytail, tying it with a leather thong. He noticed how his biceps bulged and his chest rippled as he did, more than they had before and a contrast to the gauntness of his face. While he had never been buff, he had carried a few extra pounds

It took about an hour to load the truck. The problem with monotonous manual labor is that, while it keeps your body busy, it abandons the mind to venture into dark corners you wish to ignore. Rhychard's mind took him to what Tryna said about the sword's power being hesitant because of his bitterness. The Guardian had drafted him into the god's war, given Rhychard a magical weapon to do battle with, and then punished him because he wasn't all chuckling happy about fighting. Perhaps the races of the Seelie Court felt proud the Guardian chose them as a Warrior, but Rhychard wanted nothing to do with it. Unfortunately, however, he couldn't get out of it. It was a cruel twist of logic thrust upon him, and eventually, it would cost him his life. Of course, without Renny, life was not worth living.By the time they loaded the last box onto the truck, Rhychard's arm was throbbing, and he just wanted the job over. Trace made a couple of cracks about Rhychard getting old and feeble, and by the t

The giant bats he witnessed flying overhead were attacking some man who appeared to be an actor for the downtown theater. The man had even brought one of the swords that seemed to match his Lord of the Rings attire. This, however, was not a show. The blond man knelt on one knee, trying to hold himself steady with a hand on the brick wall. His other hand held the sword he used to keep the creatures at bay. The ground and buildings were splattered with blood. The man's costume hung on him like tattered rags, and bloody gashes covered his flesh. The creatures, whatever they were, determined to make hamburger meat out of their victim. Off to the side, lay the remains of a wolf the size of a bear with a silver coat of fur drenched in its own blood. There was no doubt the animal was dead, chunks of its body ripped out and dripping from the yellow fangs of the beasts clutching the sides of buildings.With the sword, the man sliced at one of the talons of the leathery beasts. As he did, anoth

As the memory faded, Rhychard pulled into a remote spot in the condo parking lot. The evening was coming on, the mighty oaks casting their long shadows over everything, and all Rhychard wanted was a shower, a beer, and a cigar. The day had been a whole lot of nothing, and he was over it.He knew he had upset Trace, but he couldn't help it. He was through sticking his nose where it didn't belong. He wanted his life back even though he knew that would never happen. Yet, while others may guide his destiny in some areas, he vowed not to make it worse in any other. His life was in enough turmoil.Kree wasn't there when Rhychard walked through the door nor was Tryna, and for that Rhychard was glad. He had dealt with enough people for one day. The silence was a soothing balm over his frazzled nerves.He grabbed the last Amber Bock out of the fridge and peeled off his shirt on his way to the bathroom. Using his sweat-soaked top as protection for his hand, he twisted the cap off his beer and to