This is the first part of a very long story I have been working on for years. I keep messing with it. If it's any good and you all would like to see more of it, let me know and I'll post the rest. Probably in parts, because in MS Word it is 52 pages long and about 20,000 words. Not exactly "short" fiction. Oh...and Fist...I named my main character LONG before I read Earthsea, but maybe I should change his name now...hmmmm.
Okay...here we go...
The Creed
Krele Kest moved shadowlike down the reeking back alleyway toward the lump of gray stone at its end. The city now enshrouded by the dead moonless night. The dull stars offering no light, yet his eyes were focused. He drew up to it, whispered around to its back side and tapped lightly on the ice-cold, dirty glass of a small window. It being curtained only by a thin veil of material, he could easily see the glow of a lone candle dancing closer towards him. Abruptly, a bony hand pulled the curtain aside, and her face, worn and weary, appeared before him. Her tired eyes instantly filled with a mixture of dread and gratitude, and she raised her bony shaking hand to cover her thin mouth. Then she disappeared. Krele moved silently over to the heavy wooden door, tested the latch and slipped inside.
She stood before him in a dingy night dress way too big for her painfully thin body. "You come." She said in a trembling voice. "In defiance of God Himself, you come."
Krele took down the hood of his black cloak, and raked his blue-black hair away from his eyes. "Where is the child?" He breathed more than spoke.
"In there." She told him, pointing a shaky finger at a curtained doorway to Krele's left.
He moved toward it.
She placed a hand on his arm, her eyes to the floor. "My Lord Kest, will the magic….", she paused, lifting her gaze to his face, "will the magic hurt her?"
"No." He told her, forcing himself to smile. "The pain of the magic will be cast upon me. She will feel nothing."
"This, this frightens me." She whispered.
"Me as well." He said as he parted the curtain.
The child lay like sacrifice on the pile of dirty, sweat-soaked quilts that served as her bed. She writhed and trembled. Her pale, tiny face bathed in perspiration. "Tell me Lord Kest." The child's mother sobbed. "What sort of God does this? What could be more evil?"
Krele's hard gaze locked on the child. "Our God spun himself from hate. He relishes in such things. But, this one small pleasure I take from Him. And, if He so chooses, He can shower me with his wrath." He told her mother, his voice seething with contempt. She nodded then. Sorrow dripping from her eyes. He put a reassuring hand on her small shoulder. “I will do what I can.”
Krele then removed his cloak and the sheathed sword from around his waist. Kneeling before the deathly ill child, he placed his cold hands on her burning cheeks. She started, whether from his frigid touch or some inner turmoil, he couldn't be sure. Her eyes snapped open and they shifted wildly about, showing absolutely no hint of awareness. "Whatever happens," he said over his shoulder, "do not touch me, or her."
He then closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and cleared his mind of everything save only the image of the child. He continued to breathe, gathering his resolve, this was not going to be easy. With painstaking slowness, he made his way into her, let her illness seep into his consciousness. It was devastating. It invaded him in a rage and fury not unlike that of wild fire let loose in a forest of dead trees, ready to feed ravenously on anything in its path. He quailed for an instant, wanting to scream in horror, wanting to recoil from her agony. But then he felt her tiny heartbeat, a thin whisper barely heard within the cacophony of her illness. He reached for it, seeking a constant to hold on to, not wanting to lose himself to the madness of her sickness. Yet, it grew more and more feeble. She was dying. And his own blood boiled with her fever, his body engulfed in her pain.
Then, in a frenzy to seize a new mind, the mad riot of her delirium assaulted him. Nightmare crashed into him like a fist. Fiendish, hideous images reached for him, threatening to drag him down to the depths of utter insanity. He shrank from them, almost losing himself in absolute despair. Yet, he didn't. He struggled with them, forced them aside, forced them to relent, and they shrieked at him in rage. Then, finally, he overwhelmed their hold. And, managing somehow to gain control over her illness, he called wearily to the magic.
And it answered.
Suddenly, a force hammered him. Piercing power stabbed him. With wild ferocity, it attacked him, pulsing through his veins like raw poison. Every beat of his laboring heart increased the agony. He fought to maintain control; to keep the child's image in his mind. When the pain became so excruciating that he felt it in every nerve, muscle, and extremity, and could feel death reaching for him, he released the magic. He poured it into the child's image, and felt his hands, still placed on her cheeks, burning as though they were afire. His body screamed at him, but he ignored it and concentrated on channeling the intense power that swelled within him. The magic engulfed her illness, inhaled it, as though it were food the magic’s malice preyed on. It then tried to rebound on him, but he was strong and forced it to do his bidding. There was a moment when sheer panic threatened to overwhelm him, but then, as the magic drained out of him, her image faded and the pain lessened somewhat. Yet, he knew that it had been too much this time, his heart limping with exhaustion, he sank into darkness.
He woke to a warm touch rubbing his smooth, shaved face. He opened his eyes, forcing his vision to focus on the blurred image that hovered above him. He soon realized that he was staring directly into the pale, smiling face of the child, her small hand still on his cheek.
In that instant, he thought of his father, and what he would have done to her had he found her. He winced as it stung him. But, his father was dead, killed by the very knife that he had used on so many others. Krele forced the thought from his mind, and with the help of the child's mother, he sat up.
He found himself on the cold dirt floor of the child's bedroom. He held his hands to his face, breathed in and out thickly. Whispered to himself, “too much, for mercy’s sake, too much. Yet, I did it.”
"Thank you. Lord Kest." The child said then.
"Praise to the Creed." Her mother whispered.
Krele dropped his hands from his face and looked the child in the eye. "What we did on this night is against church law, forbidden. You must never tell anyone. If you do, I will die, your mother will die, and you will die. Do you understand?"
"Don't worry. Lord Kest." She said seriously, her forehead wrinkled in a frown. "I will never say anything to anyone."
"Good girl." He said, forcing a smile. She wrapped her small, thin arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.
"I wish you were God." She said.
His smile was genuine this time, as he gently unclasped her arms from his neck and stood painfully up. He looked at her mother. "How long?"
"Well over an hour." She replied, unmasked hero-worship in her eyes.
"Damn! I must go; I have been here far too long." He strapped on his sword and threw on his cloak. He pulled the hood over his dark hair and, without another word, left the small house and its two grateful occupants.
hungry for much much more!! 
