The Blood Warriors of Ice Mountain

By Sterling Paxton

He learns how to use a gem studded bracelet, which controlled a number of fantastical devises to fight against a cult of Satanist who were scheming to take over the world. They had already infiltrated and taken over the the Middle-East country of Zurkistan and a terrorist organization which controlled large areas of Syria and Iraq.

The Blood Warriors develop a plan to lure their enemy into a trap, in and attempt to destroy them. The Supreme Leader of Zurkistan agrees to meet the Blood Warriors in a televised death-match. This date and place is set and the two enemies come together at the Colosseum in Rome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sterling Paxton
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223871163

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The glaring, yellow sun was blasting down with an unmerciful vengeance on the Syrian landscape.  This was driving the temperatures up to well over a 100 degrees.  The nearby town of Raqqua was as close to hell on earth, as any other place on the entire planet.  This was not only because of the average 102 temperature that fried the landscape, but also because it had been selected by Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS,) as the capitol for its evil caliphate.  During the first two years of its existence, over 3,000 victims were beheaded by these religious fanatics.  They claimed that they were doing this in the name of God; however, the cruelty embraced by these lunatics was more akin to what could be expected from a cult of devil worshipers.  There was a good reason for this.  ISIS had been subverted and taken over by a group of fanatics who worshiped the Devil-God—‘Gozer the Destructor.’

In the very center of town was a two story brick building painted black with large, white Arabic lettering on the exterior.  This structure served both as a headquarters, and a torture chamber for the detainment of the foreign hostages they captured.  These poor unfortunates were going to be beheaded, as a means of spreading an evil and grizzly doctrine to the rest of the world.  Standing in one of the rooms on the second floor was a man known and feared by millions of television viewers.  Although, he hid his face while on camera, like the coward he was, Mohammad Baghdadi's dark eyes gleamed and sparkled with religious fervor, as he held up the bloody, severed head of his newest victim.

This evil fanatic was the perfect ISIS soldier.  He was a bloodthirsty, homicidal maniac completely devoid of any human compassion, or respect for human life.  As a child growing up in his father's butcher shop, he had learned the skills that he was now putting to use in the service of the Devil-God he served.  The thirty-four year old had cut the throats of countless sheep and goats in his homeland of Syria.  This was before Mohammad and his family had immigrated to the United States when he was twelve years old.  His fluency in English and skill with a knife made him the ideal executioner for an organization wanting to direct its violent messages towards the western nations.

Today Mohammad was sitting watching the Internet when his second in command, Abraham Ishtar, came in carrying an AK-47.  The terrorist leader glanced up and after recognizing the one-eyed man, asked, Did you give the prisoner and extra beating, as I ordered?

Yes, but there's something strange about that insolent American dog, he still doesn't seem to be intimidated like the others, in fact, he even had the gall to cuss and spit at me. 

"Well, the infidel has probably knows we’re going to cut his head off—-no matter what he does."

How much longer are you going wait? inquired the underling, while displaying a touch of eagerness in his voice.

Well, it's been almost a month since the last one, replied Mohammad, I think tomorrow morning would be good.  We better do it inside here.  It's too dangerous to do it outside because of all the bombs.  Tell Ahmed to make sure the batteries are charged in the video camera.

Yes, those damn bombs, grimaced Ishtar, as he unconsciously rubbed his left cheek just below his damaged eyeball socket. 

He had lost most of his sight in that eye two months earlier when he had been a little too slow in reaching cover during an aerial assault.  Now he had a painful souvenir that reminded him of every hour of every day, just how much he despised and hated the Americans and Europeans.  In fact, he hated pretty much everybody that didn't belong to ISIS.

*****

Captain John Erickson had always considered himself somewhat more intelligent than the average person, but events of the last few months had caused him to question that assumption.  In fact, the American military advisor mentally kicked himself in the ass for the millionth time, appalled at his own foolishness.  Now here he sat chained in a hell hole with a black bag over his head.  He was locked in a filthy, dark cell that reeked with the overpowering smell of his own excrement. 

The only time he ever got to see the light of day, was when his captors would take him outside and perform a mock execution.  This generally happen once or twice a week.  John knew that he was a man without hope, traveling down a one way path that would soon lead him to an early grave.  He was captive of ISIS, a bloodthirsty group of religious fanatics, who were never know to show mercy to any prisoners they took.  John knew that it was only a matter of time before the mock executions turned into the real thing.  Then the razor-sharp knife blade held to his throat, would sever his head from his body.

Captain John Erickson had been embedded with some Iraqi troops doing a recon mission outside Kubaysah.  After making sure the area was clear, the young American decided to go have a drink in a local cafe.  As he was sitting there sipping his beverage, he felt a tug on his sleeve.  When he turned, he saw a young woman standing there. 

She glanced around nervously, then bent down close to his ear, and whispered in broken English, You want woman?

Woman? asked John, not understanding what she meant.

Yes, she replied, You want me?

Captain Erickson examined the young woman.  She was wearing a blue hijab which was a headscarf worn by Muslim women.  She was also wearing a long black outer garment called a chador.  It covered her all the from her neck to her ankles.  She had a very beautiful face, but her body was completely hidden inside the chador.  The young American would have liked to see if it was as nice as her face, but that wasn’t possible in this part of the world.

How much? he asked.

One hundred American dollars, they young Iraqi replied.

No, that’s too much, insisted John, I’ll give you fifty.

"Seventy-five—then me be very good to you."

Okay, seventy-five then, he agreed.

Come, I have place, she replied, while leading him by the hand.

When they got outside the cafe, she said, My name Aaliyah.  You follow but not close.

Captain Erickson did as she asked.  He understood that she was doing something dangerous, that other Iraqi’s would condemn her for, perhaps even kill her.  It was a difficult time in the Middle-East, and many Muslin women were willing to sell themselves to keep them, and their families from starving.  These females had to be very careful because the penalty for getting caught were so severe.

John followed about fifty foot behind, until he saw the young woman go into a side door of a nondescript old, brick building.  He then waited a couple of minutes, before he knocked on the worn, green door. 

Aaliyah opened the door a crack, and asked, Can anyone see?

John glanced around, and then replied, No, I don’t see anyone.

The young girl then let him inside.  The room was small and didn’t smell very inviting, but he didn’t care.  The young soldier was just going inside for a few minutes, and then be on his way.  He looked around and saw that the place was barely furnished.  There was a bed against one of the walls, and a table with two chairs over by a wall.

Aaliyah took a bottle and poured some reddish looking wine into a glass, before offering it to him, saying, "You drink—Yes."

No, thanks, he replied, Perhaps later.

Aaliyah seemed upset for a brief instant, but then quickly smiled, and said, Okay, later.

John then watched as they young Arab girl got undressed.  She first remove the blue hijab then the long black chador.  The young girl was wearing some white garments underneath that he couldn’t recognize.  John was pleased with what he saw.  She had creamy brown skin with a trim, but attractive figure.  Her bosom were a little smaller than he liked, but they would do.

Aaliyah then went to lie on the bed while waiting for John to join her.  The young soldier could feel his excitement beginning to build, as he looked at the young brown-skinned woman.  Over the last several months, he had enjoyed the intimate favors of of many young Arab women, and it was something he never got tired of.  A few moments later, he finished and climbed off of the bed.  As John began dressing, she did too.  He had to admit that she had certainly made his visit worth while.

Now, sit with me drink wine, she said, with a smile.

The soldier didn’t want to make the young Arab girl mad by rejecting her hospitality.  She was much prettier than the other women offering their services in that area.  He decided that he might like to come back, and see her again in a few days. 

Aren’t you going to have any? he asked, after she handed him the glass.

No, she replied, My religion no allow it.  But, I like to give customers one glass, per visit.

John took a small sip.  It tasted much better than he expected, so he took a bigger drink, and soon finished the entire glass.  Shorty thereafter, he realized something was wrong, when he began to feel dizzy.  He then tried to climb to his feet, but this only caused him to go crashing to the floor—a few seconds later he passed into unconsciousness.

ISIS was paying top dollar to get its hands on Americans, and this proved to be a great temptation for the young strumpet.

Two days later, the U.S. military adviser was locked away in a cell in Raqqa, Syria.  This was the location where ISIS had set up its headquarters.

The chances of rescue from this highly fortified area was practically nil, even if the American military had know of his exact location.  As might be expected, the ordeal was especially nerve racking for him.  Everyday he would set for hours lost in his own thoughts, while waiting for his captives to take him outside for another mock execution—if that was what it was.  The food tasted awful and what little they gave him was almost inedible.  It was an unappetizing brownish soup and he had no idea what was in it, just that it tasted marginally better than, if he had been forced to eat his own excrement. 

Over the passed several months, Captain Erickson had be come so depressed by his desperate situation, that he had found it difficult to keep his spirits up.  In fact, he became so despondent, that each time they came and took him outside his filthy cell, he would feel great disappointment when they failed to execute him.  He longed and wished for death to end his horrible incarceration.  Each day the ugly one-eyed guard would come into his cell and beat him mercilessly.  He was in a living hell and the sooner the suffering ended, the better. 

Today John felt a cold shiver run down his spine when he heard the footsteps in the hallway and knew that they were coming for him again.  As the sound in the hallway grew ever louder, the military advisor realized that he would be forced to suffer through another horrible torture session.  When the cell door opened, he grimaced and exhaled a breath of despair, and tried to steel himself for the ordeal yet to come.

American infidel, it is time for you to die today, came the familiar words that he had heard so many times before, when he was taken out for the mock executions.

John heard the chains being unlocked and then he was quickly pulled to his feet, where someone tied his hands behind his back.  He was then punched and dragged out into the hallway.  The dark-haired American realized that there was something wrong, because instead of taking him outside, they took him down the hallway in the opposite direction from where he had always been taken before.  A few moments later, he heard another door open and felt himself being dragged into another room.  There John was forced down on his knees so hard that he felt pain shooting through his body.  Then someone jerked the black bag from his head and he struggled to adjust his eyes to the blinding lights illuminating the room.

After a moment, the American's eyes cleared enough that he could tell that he was in a very large room.  There was a figure holding a video camera, standing several feet in front of him.  The man was dressed in the black military uniform so favored by the evil minions of ISIG.  He was looking through the viewfinder and aiming the electronic devise at the captive.  John noticed that there about a dozen similarly dressed individuals standing several feet behind the cameraman, taking a great interest in what was happening.

The kneeling man suddenly caught a moment in the corner of his eye and turned his head to see another darkly dressed figure walking up beside him.  In addition to his black uniform, his face was also covered revealing only a pair of dark heartless eyes.  The terrorist wore a black leather belt around his waist which held a knife sheath on his left hip, and a holster containing a black 45 caliber pistol on the right.  The man was carrying a paper in hand and when he took a position beside the helpless prisoner, he nodded towards the cameraman, and then a moment later began to read the statement he was holding.

All of this came as no surprise to John Erickson, he had undergone this same thing dozens of times over the last several months.  The prisoner had become so conditioned to this process that he made no reaction when the terrorist finished reading his statement, and then pulled his razor-sharp knife blade to hold it against his throat.  This was standard practice by the terrorists, who wanted their victim to remain calm and sedate until they suddenly became aware that this time, it was not a mock execution—but the real thing.

When cameraman saw that the blade had been placed against the victim's throat, he slowly worked his way forward towards the condemned prisoner, so as to capture a clear, closeup video of the infidel's beheading.  Mohammad Al-Bazedo watched, his eyes aflame with bloodthirsty fervor, as the cameraman moved into position a few feet in front of him, and the prisoner—he lived for these moments.  The lifeblood in his veins was beating with excitement and expectation, and his whole body seemed to come alive with joy and happiness, which only a homicidal maniac could experience.

The prisoner had expected that the knife would now be removed from his throat, and that he would be taken back to his cell, but suddenly he felt the shiny, steel blade make contact with his tender skin and began sawing across the vulnerable flesh.  He knew then that this was not another mock execution—it was the real thing.  In a matter of seconds, he knew that he would be dead, and the ISIG executioner would be holding his severed head up for display in front of the video camera.

As the blade sawed into his flesh, he felt not only shock and terror, but a sense of relief that his ordeal would finally be over.  He didn't want to die, but he didn't want to suffer any more tortures at the hands of these religious fanatics either—better dead now, than live another second like this.  As the terrorist held John's head, the American could feel the warm blood as it leaked down the back of his throat.  He tried to take a breath and it caused him to choke and cough up some blood. 

As the prisoner knelled there breathing his last few seconds of life with red blood dripping from his lips, there suddenly came a loud crashing sound which exploded forcefully through the large room.  Al-Bazedo felt himself knocked off his feet, and the knife flying from his hand, as he was thrown onto the hard flooring.  As the executioner climbed half-dazed to his feet, he could feel the pain in his forehead from where it had struck the floor, when he had been knocked off his feet.  When Al-Bazedo reached up and touched his brow, he noticed wet blood on his fingers. 

As the dust began clearing, the executioner saw that the American was lying on the floor at his feet and didn't seem to be moving.  A few feet further away, he observed Jubic Kaba slowly regaining his legs, while still managing to hold on to his camera.  Beyond that was a horrible scene of death and destruction.  The area where the ISIG soldiers had gathered to watch the execution was littered with their dead and broken bodies now.  Arms and legs, and other body parts were scattered all around and the walls were splatters and running red with large splotches of blood, tissue, and bits of brain matter.

It the midst of this scene of terrible carnage, Mohammad Al-Bazedo saw a long tubular object embedded in the ground.  It took a moment for the horrible realization to register in his dazed mind, and then a cold shiver ran down his spine.  For a second he dared hardly breathe, as he gazed in fright at the Tomahawk cruise missile with sweat began dripping down his face.  The terrorist leader was very familiar with the damage that could be inflicted by one of these god-awful devices of massive death and destruction.

The 2,900 lb monster carried a (TLAM-C) class warhead was filled with 1,000 pounds of high explosives that could easily take out the building they were now standing in.  The 18 feet 3 inch missile was half-buried in the earth and it was only because of the great mercy of Gozer that it hadn't exploded and killed them all immediately.  But, Al-Bazedo knew that just because the bomb had not gone off yet, that didn't mean it couldn't explode at any second. 

Jubic, take your camera and run for your life, yelled Mohammad, as he pointed at the deadly device, It's an American bomb and it might blowup at any second.

The cameraman glanced behind him for a second and then ran for the exit door with wide horror-filled eyes and heart beating like a drum.  After Jubic had departed, Al-Bazedo glanced quickly around the room looking for his knife, but it was nowhere to be seen.  He remembered his pistol and took it out with the intention of shooting the prisoner, when suddenly a better idea occurred to him, why not leave the American here and let him die from the bomb, if it exploded?  It would serve the infidel right to die from a weapon launched by his own military.  If the devise failed to detonate, then the American could be easily recaptured because he was tied up and injured.  They could then film his beheading for a second time.

Al-Bazedo pulled the prisoner to his knees while raising the sidearm above his head.  He then brought the weapon down forcefully with the intention of striking the American across his skull and further incapacitating him.  However, the terrorist in his haste to leave, miscalculated the strike.  When Al-Bazedo's hand came crashing down, most of force landed the fingers he had wrapped around the gun-butt, and the weapon went flying from his grasp.

Owh, gasped the terrorist, as he rubbed his aching hand.

The pain seemed to clear Al-Bazedo's head, and he quickly came to the realization that he