KNIFE'S EDGE
By Wendy Hislop

CHARACTERS: Peter Caine, Kwai Chang Caine,
Kermit Griffin, Donnie Double D.

GUEST STARS: Quinn and ???? Well that would be
letting the cat out of the bag, now wouldn't it?

SYNOPSIS: Well, did I mention that Peter may have
stepped in it again.....Hope you enjoy.

WARNING: Violence and very bad words My mum
doesn't like 'em, if that helps.

Please note that all NON-KFTLC characters are mine.
Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is a roll of
the dice and purely unintentional. Hey, if you have met,
know anyone remotely like my characters, I have some
words for you 'GET SOME NEW FRIENDS'

Thank you goes to Tas, Denise, Judy and others ....who
have over the years have whipped and prodded this woman
to the end. Also to my friends, sick lot that they are (LOL)
who just won't let me quit, even when the muse goes on
holidays, long, long holidays.

Thanks to my beta babe, Val
And a big thank you to this list for being here....

Copyright (c) 2001 by Wendy Hislop

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'Not pure of progeny, but pure of heart, Shambaq will be as any child when born. A trial by fire will leave him alone to wander the earth for a time. A son of two fathers, he will be a man who struggles to find balance in two worlds.

In one world, he will carry a shield of protection. In the other, he will be forced to face his fears. Many times, he will come face to face with death. Each time, casting the shadow of fate aside to live.

At the last, alone and lost in an endless maze of questions and fears, he will lose his way as evil casts its sweeping shadow of darkness. The candle of light will fade. Destiny's son will have a choice, light or dark, life or death. If he chooses the path of light and lives, he will be the one. He will be the chosen one. He will be Shambaq'


Knife's Edge
~Prologue~

The exhausted man awoke to the usual reek of dampness and mold. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around his bare chest in the futile attempt to garner some warmth to his trembling body, a ritual now done without conscious thought. As always, it was an impossible task in the dankness of his four-by-seven foot cell, the small vent and lack of windows leaving no room for even the barest ray of light to seep in.

A painful intake of breath was released as his fingers, in their search for any semblance of warmth, brushed the myriad-colored welts that festered in bizarre patterns of pain and anger on his back and chest. Moving painfully, the old cot he had been forced to use as a bed, creaked and moaned under him.

Slowly rising, it took only a few short steps for him to reach the toilet and for this one small luxury, he found himself begrudgingly grateful. He had spent the first few days of his captivity with his body arched over the stained and cracked bowl as he lost the contents of his stomach. He was sure the amenity was not done out of favor, or dignity, but more for the benefit of his captors, so they wouldn't be forced to clean up after him.

Like a zoo animal, he was sure he was being kept to amuse.

Once he had relieved himself, he began his usual exercise program
of pacing. The small space gave him little chance of fluid movement, but he knew he had to do something -- even if pacing the tiny cell was all he could do.

The usual thoughts floated through his head as he tried to stretch and walk off the pain of his incarceration. But he was always left with the one most important question. With no answer forthcoming, he continued to pace, his bare feet seemingly keeping time with his unanswered questions.

The one thing he did know for certain was that it wasn't mealtime; he would have awakened to find his food sitting on the floor on a plastic plate. His meals were always served after gas was piped through the vent to put him to sleep.

Once he had realized what they were doing, he'd tried to stop the fumes by stuffing the vent with his shirt. It hadn't worked, and when he woke, his shirt and jeans, socks and shoes were gone. He was left clad only in his boxers, and he had been left that way ever since.

The solitude itself was hard enough to endure, but not knowing why this was all happening to him was the worst of it. As the beatings had blurred the line between endless hours and then days, he had lost count of the times he'd asked, "Why?" Only to have the questions answered with repeated blows to his stomach, a backhand to the face, or the stick to his back.

The familiar smell of gas wafted through the vent. He had given up
days (or was that weeks?) ago trying to hold his breath; he surrendered to the inevitable and collapsed into darkness.

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The sensation of pain brought him reluctantly back to awareness. The tunnel of oblivion opened to the bright light that always welcomed his return to consciousness. Squinting against the brilliant illumination that was in such a contrast to the darkness of his room, he tasted the copper flavor of blood as his tongue ventured to the broken skin of his lip. He wondered if the mouth would ever get the time to heal.

"Good morning. We trust you are well rested?" A disembodied voice asked.

"Well, given the five-star accommodations you have supplied me with, what do you think?" He snapped back as he stood on trembling legs, spitting blood from his mouth as he did so.

"I think, sometimes, you get what you deserve," the voice countered.

Shivering against the cold caused by his near nakedness, the embittered man glared into the light. "And I'm sure you'll get what you 'deserve', just hope I'm still alive to see it."

"Well, your pulse, or lack of, is entirely in your hands."

"I told you, I can't change what I don't know." He defiantly shot back, making a feeble attempt to break free from the two men that held him.

There was a faint chuckle. "What you don't know, or what you want us to believe that you don't know? Playing stupid doesn't become the man I know you are."

"Then I guess, you're one up on me, because I don't know who the Hell I am," the exhausted man replied.

"Of course you don't, but you will. Now tell me what I want to know."

"How can I tell you," he choked as his strength started to ebb and he sagged in his captor's hands. "...When I don't even know who this Peter Caine is?"

[end of prologue]