Theocracy:
Book 1.
A Novel of The Deep Dark Well Universe
by
Doug Dandridge
The rifle came up and pointed at Patrick’s middle. He slashed his sword in and hit the mechanism of the rifle, just as the trigger was pulled. The blade slid through the metal and plastic of the rifle, taking off the left hand and forearm of the man and a finger on his right hand. The round being accelerated out hit the blade in passage and came out the side of the gun to strike the wall and plow through.
Patrick kicked the bleeding man away and jumped over the falling body. Something hit the shield on his back several times, and he cringed internally that a round might come plowing into his buttocks or legs. Instead, he heard a howl from the cat and a grunt, followed by a scream and then silence.
The second man to his front tried to get his weapon around. He continued his spin sans his head, which went spinning off to the side as the ancient blade swept through his neck.
Patrick spun in place, pulling his shield from his back and onto his left arm in a smooth motion. He noted that one of the enemy was on his back, his mouth foaming as he coughed out his life. Shadow was making ready to spring at the next man, who was bringing his rifle to bear on the cat. Patrick yelled out, getting the man’s attention for a moment, which allowed the cat to make its leap.
Patrick was in Fae state, so everything around him seemed to move in slow motion, including himself. The man screamed out as he caught sight of the cat and tried to bring his rifle up to aim at the leaping animal. The rifle chattered on full auto, sending bullets into the air, some bouncing from the shield the monk brought up to cover himself with. The animal sailed over the rifle and landed on the man’s shoulder. With a quick motion the hind claws came up and raked the face of the enemy soldier, while the front claws pulled the cat along and into a leap off of the man.
The soldier’s eyes bulged as soon as the claws dug in. He reached for his throat, dropping the rifle to the floor. Reaching didn’t help, and his breath rattled in his throat, his legs gave out, and he fell to the floor to choke out his life.
Shadow jumped over the man and strode quickly over to Patrick, where he rubbed the Monk’s legs in a circular path. Patrick looked at the cat with new respect, realizing what a deadly beast he was. He reached down and petted the cat, hoping to stay on its good side.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” yelled Alyssa as soon as she came through the doorway and saw him.
“Getting us into the building without wasting undue time,” said the Monk with a smile.
“With primitive weapons?” said the woman, concern and anger warring on her face.
“They seemed to do a good enough job,” said Patrick with a shrug, noting that his shoulder no longer twinged with pain, apparently healed of whatever injury it had sustained. Nanotech package? he thought.
“They aren’t so primitive,” said Derrick, coming into the hall behind her and moving a bit down the left side, rifle ready. “Did you see the way that shield absorbed those laser beams. Unbelievable.”
“If he had missed one he would be scorched meat out there in the courtyard,” said Alyssa in a hiss, rounding on her subordinate. “And that would have done neither of us any good.”
Dedication
This novel is dedicated to all of the brave men and women; armed forces, police and civilians, who have chosen to take a stand against the barbarism that threatens to engulf civilization. Fight the good fight, future generations are depending on you.
Contact me at [email protected]
Follow my Blog at http://dougdandridge.com
Follow me at @BrotherofCats
Copyright © 2016 Doug Dandridge
All rights reserved.
Please respect the hard work of this author. If you found this book for free on a pirate site, please visit Amazon and buy a copy of your own. I feel that I charge a reasonable price for this work.
For more information on my work, including the Deep Dark Well and the Exodus Universe, visit http://dougdandridge.net for maps, sketches and other details.
Acknowledgements: I would like to thank all of my fans. Your kind words gave me the impetus to continue through the not so kind words left in some reviews.
Books by Doug Dandridge
Doug Dandridge’s Author Page at Amazon
Science Fiction
The Exodus Series
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 1
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 2
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 3: The Rising Storm.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 4: the Long Fall.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 5: Ranger
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 6: The Day of Battle
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 7: Counter Strike:
Exodus: Empires at War Book 8: Soldiers
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 9: Second Front.
Exodus: Tales of the Empire: Exploration Command:
Exodus: Machine Wars: Book 1: Supernova.
Exodus: Machine Wars: Book 2: Bolthole.
The Deep Dark Well Series
The Deep Dark Well
To Well and Back
Deeper and Darker
Others
The Shadows of the Multiverse
Diamonds in the Sand
The Scorpion
Afterlife
We Are Death, Come for You
Five By Five 3: Target Zone:
Fantasy
The Refuge Series
Refuge: The Arrival: Book 1
Refuge: The Arrival: Book 2
Refuge: Book 3: The Legions
Refuge: Book 4: Kurt’s Quest:
Doppelganger: A Novel of Refuge
Others
The Hunger
Daemon
Aura
Marathon
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Chapter One
The stench of the battlefield was like all such. The smell of blood, of bowels loosed by death, of smoke and burnt flesh. The moans of the wounded, the screams of the dying, grated on the ears of the living, such as there were. Man and beast lay at unnatural angles, rents in armor, slashes on limbs, spears or arrows sticking into the air. As in all modern battles there were many whose only wound was a hole in head, chest or abdomen. On this battlefield there were many more of those holes, most made by weapons more advanced than those employed by the armies who had fought this day.
Patrick O’Hara lay at the edge of that field. He grimaced in pain as he attempted to keep his intestines from pushing out of his body. One of the demon dogs, as he thought of them, had ripped him open, after he had sent three of them back to whatever hellish master they served. One had connected with the swipe of a monstrous claw that had snapped through chain links and flesh alike with equal ease. He thought for sure one of the remaining pair would take out his throat, until the small furry beast had come to his rescue. That hadn’t prevented more of the creatures from taking his brother prisoner, to whatever fate awaited him.
What in the hell were those things? he thought as he gritted his teeth against the unmanning pain. He had never seen anything like them, or heard anything from legend. They ran on all fours, like large slender hounds. When they stopped and went to upright posture the paws unfolded into five fingered hands tipped with terrible claws. Some were totally black, one red, and several striped. The flying chariots they had come from, now those had been talked about in the legends. He had seen pictures of their like in books preserved from the time of the ancients.
Something made a noise near to his ear. Grunting in pain Patrick turned his head, to find himself look
ing into the large green eyes of the furry beast who had rescued him from the demons. He knew it from the legends, had seen pictures of such beasts in ancient texts. Cats, he thought. The silky black fur rippled in the breeze as a comforting rumbling came from the small creature.
“I wish you hadn’t have saved me,” he whispered to the creature, grimacing as pain spasmed through his guts. “It would have been a much quicker death if you hadn’t.”
The creature made a mewing sound and moved toward him. It raised a paw and one sharp claw extended. He had seen one of those claws kill a demon dog in an instant. He welcomed the death that it promised. He was not afraid of death. He knew he would return to this world, reborn. But for the pain to cease would be a blessing.
The claw was a slight prick as it entered his neck. And almost immediately the world faded to darkness as Patrick faded into deep sleep, his mind replaying the events of the last day as it had been trained to do, making the memories a permanent record for his future use.
* * *
Brahma was full in the sky in all its ringed spender. Two of the other inner moons were in three quarter phases on either side of the giant, while the sun set on this part of Vasus in the hills to the west. Patrick stood on a rise admiring those other worlds. He had watched them before through the telescopes of the scientists, and thrilled at the expanses of blue and green, the wisps of clouds in the sky, which showed they were living worlds much like his own. Just as the legends had said.
“One day I will go to you,” said Patrick, looking up at the closest of the two worlds.
“Daydreaming again, little brother?” asked a familiar voice.
Patrick felt a smile stretch his face as he looked down the rise at his older brother walking toward him. Sean was taller and broader than Patrick. He had a face that reminded Patrick of his mother, what little he could remember of her. He had only been three when the raiders had killed their parents, and then eleven year old Sean had smuggled three year old Patrick out of danger and to the Monastery that became their home.
“Have some ale,” said Sean, holding out a mug from which spilled amber liquid.
“You know I don’t drink before a battle,” said Patrick, waving the mug away.
“You monks,” said his brother with a laugh, then swigging the last of his mug down and taking a sip off the one he had offered Patrick. “I’m happy I’m just a warrior.”
“A Captain in the Duke’s guard is not just a warrior,” said Patrick with a grin. He was proud of his brother, who had become a great warrior, and risen quickly through the ranks of leaders. Unless Patrick was much mistaken he would soon be ennobled,.
“Still have to bow down to the monks,” said Sean under his breath.
Patrick frowned as he heard his brother’s whisper with his sharp hearing. He knew Sean still resented not being trained in the ways of the Fae, like his little brother. Sean had been too old to start the training, whilst Patrick had been the perfect age. Sean has been trained in the ways of war, and had excelled. But he couldn’t learn the spiritual and mind control techniques that could be taught the toddler.
“You will never have to bow down to me,” said Patrick, putting his hand on his brother’s broad shoulder. “Never, do you hear. And when I am the prelate of the monastery, no one else will either.”
“And when will that be, little brother?” asked Sean with a smile, his eyes glinting in the light from above. “Will it be after you visit those worlds up there?”
“You heard?”
“Of course,” said Sean with a laugh. “My body and senses may not be trained like yours, but they are still sharp. I would join you on your voyage. How do you intend to proceed?”
“I have no idea, big brother,” said Patrick, clapping Sean on the arm and leading him down the rise back to their camp. “But the legends say it is possible, so maybe we can do it.”
The appetizing smell of cooking food wafted up from the camp as the brothers approached. Fires stretched into the distance, the hoots of war mounts sounded from the other side of the camp. It was the largest force that Patrick had ever seen. He had heard the estimates of twenty thousand men. Maybe more. They passed one fire where a score of men were drinking and eating. Several cleaned weapons, one a deadly looking flintlock rifle. The men watched them with wary eyes as they passed.
Several more fires and they arrived at a broad blaze in front of a splendid silk tent. A regal looking man stood up as they walked into the circle. Sean stopped and gave a bow to his lord, while Patrick gave the abbreviated head drop one of his station gave to any noble. The church was subservient to no man, only to God. The monks might fight for the kingdom, but they only served God.
“My Duke,” said Sean, rising from his bow.
“Are the brothers ready for battle,” said the Duke with a smile. “The Good God knows we would be doomed were you not.”
“We are ready, Duke Seamus,” said Patrick with a smile. “I know my brother will lead your men to victory.”
“And how goes my contingent goes the King’s army,” said the Duke, looking over the young monk. “I am happy to know that the church feels I am valuable enough for a body guard such as a stalwart war monk.”
“You are valuable, my lord,” said Sean, grabbing a mug of ale and raising it to the sky. “How would the king win without your command of his right wing?” He brought the mug to his lips and took a deep gulp.
“All the more reason for the enemy to kill me,” said the Duke with a laugh. “Unless your younger brother can keep them from me.”
“I will give my life to protect yours, Duke Seamus,” said Patrick, nodding his head.
A large glowering man stood up as soon as the words left Patrick’s mouth. By his red face he had been drinking. From the look in his eye it had not improved his disposition.
“How many battles have you fought, Monk,” said the man, pointing a large finger at Patrick. “How do we know you will not run at the first smell of blood.”
“I have fought before,” said Patrick, feeling a rush of blood to his head, the sign of anger. He quickly said a silent mantra to calm himself. “I have killed before.”
“In a battle?” said the man, his voice showing his disbelief. “A battle is different than a fight. Total chaos. And no time to calm yourself, so you show the emotion of a stone wall.”
“Easy, Lord Rory,” said the Duke, putting a hand on the man’s arm.
Rory shrugged the hand off and continued to stare at Patrick. Patrick looked calmly back, wondering at the loutish behavior of the man. Not that such was unknown in Eire. This was a land of free men. Even a farmer could look the king in the eye and speak his mind, as long as he observed the decorum. Unlike the folk of the people they fought, who wanted to take that freedom away and subjugate them to darker Gods.
“I believe in my brother,” said Sean, moving toward the loutish lord. “I will hear no words spoken against him.”
“Shouldn’t he defend himself,” said Rory, pulling his blade from its sheath with a swish of leather.
With a quick move Patrick pulled his long curved sword from its sheath. The firelight gleamed off its permanently polished perfection. Men gasp at the beauty of the deadly weapon, like no other they had ever seen. Brought by Patrick’s own hand from the vault of the elders, through the door that only his touch had been able to open.
“There will be no blood around my fire,” roared the Duke, throwing his mug to the ground.
“I will not battle against that witch weapon,” yelled Rory over the Duke.
Patrick flashed a wolfish grin that would have made most men think twice about challenging him. Rory was of course too much in his cups to notice. The Duke did notice, and turned to his vassal.
“Rory, you must not fight him. I need you on the field on the morrow.”
“And there I will be, my Duke,” said the man, glaring at Patrick. “He may not be.”
The Duke seemed to think about it a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.
“You are a free man, Rory. You will do as you must. But this fight is to be till first blood only. Not to the death.”
Patrick nodded as he looked at his opponent and a space was cleared around the fire. He was sure that Rory would go for a killing blow on the first, no matter the orders of the Duke. So first blood would be him bleeding out on the ground. He wondered what he had done to offend the man, so that the warrior wanted his blood.
“Put away that witch weapon, boy,” yelled Rory, gesturing at the katana in Patrick’s hand. “I will not face that unmanly weapon.”
“Will you watch my sword, brother,” said Patrick, sheathing the blade in its special sheath.
“As always, my brother,” said Sean, grasping the offered sheath. “I wish you wouldn’t fight this man, but if you must, take my sword.”
“I need no weapon,” said Patrick, turning toward Rory and walking forward. “I spill no blood this night,” he yelled, locking eyes with the man.
“Grab a sword, boy,” said Rory, moving toward Patrick. “Grab a sword.”
“I need none,” said Patrick, watching the man as he stalked forward. Gone was all sign of the drunk. The man moved on the balls of his feet, in perfect balance, sword tip questing ahead. Obviously the man was not as drunk as he had wanted to appear. Once again Patrick wondered what the man’s objective was. To humble a monk, a member of an order that the man saw as arrogant or condescending? Or something else?
“To first blood only,” yelled the Duke from the circle that surrounded the men.
“There will be no blood, my Duke,” said Patrick, projecting his voice through his Fae as he had been taught, so it was heard over all the talking and murmuring. “No blood at all.”
“Except yours,” yelled Rory, stomping forward and thrusting with his sword.
Patrick dodged to the side at the same time as he engaged the Fae.
The Fae was the term for the training of mind and body that the monks of the Ariuds order underwent from early childhood. Many people thought it was magic, and the monks were not inclined to disabuse them. It looked like magic, for all that it was a natural method of training passed down from the ancients, from which it was rumored to have been given by the Good God.
Theocracy: Book 1. Page 1
