The Kakos Realm Collection

by Christopher D Schmitz

  Rashnir gripped two pistol crossbows and sighted down them quickly; they were finely crafted weapons designed to use shorter bolts and fire with great force. With custom, shortened lathe arms, they took very little space and could be concealed, though they were really only good for one shot each before the element of surprise was gone and they had lost their worth. Rashnir latched them in place; each fit securely on either hip in a special holster.

  Kelsa embraced each of them in turn before they left the armory. Dane had already led Nikko to the front of the house and stood holding the reins. Rashnir mounted his horse and Dane handed him the long handle-end of a halberd. Rashnir stowed it in an angled sheathe where it would stay secure during hard riding. It was easily accessible if Rashnir needed it.

  Reaching up, Kelsa squeezed Rashnir’s hand and slipped a thin metal chain into his palm. “Remember this,” she said. Two tiny rings were attached, the traditional gold hoop earrings that he’d given her as a sign of betrothal. “Let them remind you of what you are fighting for. I love you.”

  “And I love you,” he touched her face and then fastened the chain around his neck. He tucked the rings inside of his tunic.

  The two Rangers departed, slowing to look back just before they slipped beyond view. Kelsa waved her heroes onward.

  They raced their horses forward with a pace only matched by their outrage. King Harmarty’s castle had barely come in view when they saw the first group of opponents in the distance. Four well-bred horses approached, each bearing a formidable warrior; they looked vaguely familiar from the previous visit to Harmarty’s court. The decorative piercings and tattoos were an indication that these were hired thugs: mercenaries from the northwestern countries who fought with no scruples and had no need for polite associations such as guildhouses.

  One of the riders slowed and halted as the other three continued their intersection with Rashnir and Rogis. The two Rangers slowed their horses to a less urgent pace. The rider in the distance readied his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver.

  The three mercenaries rode up hard on Rashnir and Rogis. The group of five men merged to speak on the grassy slope with the castle looming clearly in the distance.

  Easing their horses into a location that would block the archer’s shot, the Rangers positioned the ruffians between them and the sniper. The King’s men sneered and shrugged, knowing they’d been positioned, but their overconfidence didn’t leave room for them to care.

  “Hail Ranger,” the lead thug said as he leaned forward on his horse.

  Rogis matched the friendly posture, also leaning forward. Rashnir hung back slightly, letting the two point men have a conversation that would likely precurse a fight.

  “Just what is the meaning of this?” Rogis demanded. “Are we not privy to visiting Capitol City like everyone else?”

  “Harmarty thought that you might come. He said that you two were not men of reason.”

  “Your employer is insane, you realize.”

  The warrior gave a smirk and a nod, “Quite. But he is also very wealthy and you are quite old.” The warrior reached for his sword and drew it with blazing speed, intending to cut Rogis down in one smooth motion. Rogis was not as slow as he appeared; his sword firmly met his opponent’s.

  Rashnir yanked out his crossbows and loosed an arrow from his left hand at close range; it pierced the neck of the mercenary closest to Rogis. He spurred Nikko to strafe along the group’s flank. Then, he loosed another bolt from his steadier hand, directed at the archer in the distance. It was a practiced move. The bolt struck the archer in the shoulder, where his armor did not cover, sending the bowman’s shot wide; the arrow flew harmlessly into the distance. Rashnir urged Nikko towards the archer who, now ineffective with a bow, had turned to Capitol City in order to rally reinforcements.

  Rogis traded blows with the point man as he kept moving. His maneuvers kept the other mercenary beyond striking distance.

  Rashnir readied another bolt as he closed the distance. He pulled back on the reins, stopping his horse. From a stalled position he took careful aim and pulled the trigger; the shaft of the loosed bolt streaked directly to its target, implanting the projectile in the base of the rider’s skull. Rashnir turned Nikko back even as the dead rider fell in the distance; he slid from his horse like a collapsing sack. Rashnir readied another bolt and galloped back towards the fray.

  He didn’t find a clear shot at either of the remaining two enemies; he wouldn’t risk hitting Rogis. Instead, Rashnir took a clear shot at a mercenary’s horse; the bolt buried itself completely in the animal’s gut, lodging in its midsection. The horse reared and buckled, dropping its rider to the turf, freeing Rogis to concentrate on the single enemy he crossed blades with. They traded strikes until Rogis found a gap and thrust his sword into the bandit’s vitals.

  Riding up, halberd in hand, Rashnir decapitated the final warrior whose left leg had been trapped below his mount. The brigand’s head rolled to a halt beside his crippled horse.

  Rashnir and Rogis continued their approach to the castle. They kept a keen eye open for other attackers, scanning any possible hiding points on the way to the castle. They knew of the king’s love for subterfuge.

  Meeting no further resistance, they found their way safely through the courtyard and up to King’s Hall. Many guards and mercenaries flanked them as they strode through the gates, but none of them made any moves that might provoke a fight. Apparently, Harmarty was willing to speak with them after all.

  The king’s silent majordomo met them at the door; a fresh scar raked its way across his face indicating Rutheir must not have finished the deed, but perhaps wanted to cut away only a piece of the man at a time. The mute led them to the Harmarty’s chamber. It was filled with the same sort of characters as on the last visit: a menagerie of excess.

  Harmarty sat, slumped in his chair; the rest of his court carried on with their routine revelry. The King hooked his right leg over the armrest of his throne; his left hand clutched his father’s crown. He studied it as if it contained some secret knowledge one required in order to be a good king.

  “Leave us,” Harmarty said, quietly, like a man defeated.

  The court fell silent, as if on cue. The more deviant of the bunch looked disappointed. They would miss whatever Harmarty had planned, but they complied anyway. Only Harmarty, Rogis, Rashnir, and one plain-looking man remained in the chamber. The plain man wore a simple brown tunic and matching pants. An elegant looking rapier hung sheathed at his left hip; a look of sorrow spread across his face.

  The party shared a moment of awkward silence.

  Rashnir stepped forward; he was confident that the day was his. “Harmarty! Kelsa and I will marry—even if I must defy you.”

  Harmarty leaned forward in sadness; his head nearly drooped between his knees. He held his father’s crown between his hands now. He studied it—reflecting on his father and on life. “I know,” he whimpered.

  “I have been thinking a lot lately, mostly about what you said, Rogis. I even dispatched several bounty hunters and mercenaries to get my way, but still I’ve failed. I’d have no chance if I faced you in combat. Apparently you, Rashnir, got more out of Rogis’ training than I did.” He smirked, “We are almost brothers like that, two students of the same master.”

  Rashnir scowled at the comparison. He didn’t like any grouping that put him and Harmarty together.

  “I will respect whatever the Demons of the Gathering and the Great Lucifer desire, no matter the pain to me. His will should be made clear. But my thoughts, as I mentioned, have been on family. You see, one of the bounty hunters that you killed was a warrior named Shimza the Lesser; his brother, Shimza the Greater, stands here in this very room demanding retribution. We will let fate decide. May Lucifer himself play the role of judge and decide the outcome of this contest.

  “Life or death. You will fight Shimza the Greater to the death; you may use any means necessary with whatever weapon
s you have on your person. Should Shimza lose, it must be fate that you and Kelsa marry. If Shimza wins, then Lucifer favors me, as must Kelsa.”

  Harmarty stood and approached. A gleam of desperation glinted in his eyes. He looked up and down the ill-clad warrior standing opposite Rashnir.

  Rashnir stood in the center of the room, Rogis just off to his side. His opponent drew the rapier; light shimmered on the blade as he ran it in a series of fanciful swipes through the air, showing off his prowess and precision. Finished, he made a grunting sound and assumed a ready position with his weapon in mid-guard.

  Unimpressed, Rashnir studied his challenger and stood up straight. Dropping his hands to his side, he made a declaration, “I would kill a thousand Shimzas, both Greater and Lesser for my love.” Rashnir quickly drew his pistol crossbows and fired bolts at his prey; both struck home and crisscrossed in the man’s neck. The shafts of the bolts made an X, centered in the back of his esophagus. Clutching his throat, the surprised swordsman groaned with a blood-choked gurgle and collapsed to his knees, spat a cascade of crimson from his mouth, and then fell dead on his face.

  Rogis rushed to Harmarty, whose face had gone pale with melancholy. “You see, fate has chosen. You must relent. Kelsa will marry Rashnir.”

  The distinct “thwang” sound of a bowstring echoed from the rear of the room as Rogis spoke. Rashnir cried in surprise and pain; he dropped to a knee with an arrow protruded from his lower back lodged just above his kidneys. Rogis spun around to find the assassin clad in black as he threw aside the lengthy tapestry which concealed his position.

  The archer gripped the bow and scowled at his prey. Rashnir locked eyes with him and sucked in his breath with pain and recognition. He recognized Shimza the Greater; his features closely matched those of the assassin in Rashnir’s stable.

  Rogis also cried out in sudden anguish; Harmarty crept up to whisper into the ear of his one-time instructor who trembled in pain, “I may not have learned many combat skills from you, teacher,” he hissed like a venomous snake. “But I did learn where the chinks in your armor are.” Harmarty twisted the blade that he’d plunged into Rogis’ back.

  Rogis screamed with an agonized wheeze of betrayal; blood drooled down his chin as it bubbled up his throat. The wound was clearly fatal, and Rogis knew it. He turned around to make his final acts count: to make his wicked student pay.

  Shimza leveled another arrow as Rashnir stumbled to his feet, driven by pure rage. Shimza’s next arrow streaked into the base of Rogis’ spine, just as he’d cornered the sniveling King. Rogis stood straight and froze; the arrow severed his spinal cord. Rogis fell over, paralyzed and impotent, bleeding out the last of his life.

  Rashnir screamed and drew his swords. Charging at Shimza he turned his rage and grief into energy. He beat Shimza back against the wall, thrusting, parrying, slashing and blocking; he was a whirlwind of blades, a furious storm of razor-edged attacks.

  Shimza ran out of space, with no room to block; Rashnir’s short sword easily found a home in the soft of Shimza’s belly. He struck so hard that it pinned the assassin to the wall, lodging the blade into the stone.

  Dropping his sword, Shimza reached around and grabbed the arrow that stuck from Rashnir’s back. He pulled on it before his enemy could strike the final blow and Rashnir screamed and dropped his longsword.

  “Help me!” the trapped Shimza howled to Harmarty. At his beckon, a trio of guards rushed through the doors and mobbed Rashnir, pinning his back to the ground. It bent the arrow so that it lay flat against the floor, ripping up Rashnir’s insides and spitting black kidney blood out of the wound.

  Harmarty stood over Rashnir’s fallen body; his eyes twinkled with a sadistic glee. A metallic glimmer near Rashnir’s collar caught his eye.

  “What is this?” Harmarty wondered aloud as he bent over Rashnir. He reached down and grabbed the chain around his opponent’s neck. Seeing the betrothal rings, his face lit with childish joy.

  “I have my proof now!” He tugged and tried to rip the chain from Rashnir to no avail. A guard helped Harmarty and tore the chain from Rashnir’s neck, breaking the woven links of precious metal. “I see now that Kelsa has rejected your betrothal offer! You still carry these around your neck because you have been denied!

  “This is my sign, she desires me and you have kept her from her master! I will go to her now! I have defeated you, and I must now set her free.” He looked at Shimza, still pinned to the wall. “Guards! Throw Rashnir in the dungeon; we will torture him as a wedding prize for my beloved Kelsa. Someone tend to Shimza the Greater. He is to be honored and well paid for his help in this matter. Pay him for his brother, too.”

  Harmarty bobbed out of the room like a child running to play. The intense pain of both the wound and the betrayal blinded Rashnir; his mind emptied itself as he stared into the dead face of his mentor and his vision faded until he saw only black.

  ***

  Rashnir regained consciousness in a dusty prison cell. He’d been stripped and tossed like a tainted carcass at the butcher’s market. He groaned and tried to roll over on the stone floor, but he couldn’t. There was still an arrow lodged in his back. He grabbed it near the fletching and pushed the shaft through. Clenching his teeth, he rapidly sucked air through them trying to cope with the extreme pain.

  Once he’d pulled the feathers through, he fell to his back with a loud cry, trembling. He held the bloody arrow in his hand and shuddered as shock settled in.

  The air in his cell didn’t move: dead and cloy, as if it had been inhaled and exhaled by a thousand men on their deathbeds. Three of his prison walls were mason-laid stone and a third one of wrought iron locked him in. The hinged metal door was locked, barring any escape. From the pattern of the stonework and crypt-like air quality, Rashnir guessed the dungeon was below Harmarty’s castle.

  Barely lucid, he felt a warm caress on his forehead. Rashnir opened his eyes to see an emaciated, yet joyful looking man sitting over him. He was speaking to a third, unseen person, petitioning him on the Ranger’s behalf. The man beseeched some invisible party with a foreign tongue.

  “What are you doing?” Rashnir groaned.

  He smiled. “I am praying for you.”

  “Praying?” he wheezed. “I thought that members of the Luciferian Order were sent to the church’s dungeons and judged by a private tribunal for any crimes they committed.” This man’s prayer was unlike the typical ritualistic prayers he was familiar with.

  The man chuckled. “I am Nhoj. A heretic, says them. I am not Luciferian. They call me a prophet of the Dark One, but they are wrong. I am a follower of Yahweh. While Lucifer may seem bright, there exists a greater light that makes Lucifer appear black as midnight by comparison. This light is Yahweh.”

  Rashnir let his eyes roll back in his head. He was dying and his crazy cellmate had obviously been isolated in this cell for so long that he’d lost his mind and invented a new religion.

  “I’ve been waiting here for a long time; my calling is finally complete. I pray for your healing and I have faith that you will be made new.”

  The warrior winced as Nhoj gingerly placed his hands on Rashnir’s belly. “My God, I pray that you would heal this one whom you have chosen; I know that you will, by your grace and your love. You have shown me it is your will.”

  As Rashnir looked down at his stomach, Nhoj rolled over, chuckling to himself. To Rashnir’s amazement, only a star-shaped scar remained where the arrow had punctured his body; he touched his back to find another lump of scar tissue. Astonished, he turned his face to Nhoj.

  He shook the old heretic, but couldn’t get any reaction. Nhoj had rolled over and immediately stopped breathing. Apparently, with his mission in this life completed, he had slipped beyond life.

  Rashnir rolled to his knees with the blood soaked arrow still in his hand; a black clot of blood dangled from the feathers. The arrow’s shaft was made of kiln-dried wood which kept it from warping, but it al
so made it brittle enough to fracture into long, hard splinters.

  His mind fixed on Kelsa, he didn’t waste any time; he examined the lock and snapped the arrow. It broke at a narrow angle and Rashnir whittled the broken end further using the arrowhead, forming a long, narrow point. He methodically worked the lock’s mechanism with his wooden tool. The lock’s internals clicked and the door released.

  Stalking through the shadows of the dungeon hallway, Rashnir found a well-lit room where two guards rummaged through his armor and weapons; they attempted to divvy them up. Grasping the sharpened ends of the arrow that once pierced him, Rashnir waited for his moment, as he hid just beyond the door jamb. The closest guard turned his back to the doorway and the other guard bent down, his attention upon the pile of loot near his feet.

  Striking from the shadows, Rashnir drove the jagged end of one wooden dagger into, and almost through, the neck of the closer guard. The second guard reached for his weapon as Rashnir dove for him. A simple sharpened piece of wood was little match for a sword in a duel; Rashnir bowled the guard over and pinned him to the ground. Mounted on top of his opponent, he bought himself a few seconds of time. Rashnir drove the remaining shank into his adversary’s jugular. The conflict ended seconds later after a choked spluttering cough when the guard relaxed his body forever.

  Time was of the essence and Rashnir had become a focused machine; his only goal was to get home: to reach Kelsa as soon as possible. He’d form a plan as he went along.

  Gathering his equipment, he quickly armed himself. Rashnir tossed aside his chest plate; he was not able to cinch it up himself. He picked up the chain shirt he’d worn and examined it, noticing the damaged links where he’d been struck in the back; his light armor was no match for a direct hit. He put it on anyway.

  Rashnir shod his feet and arms and girded his waist with the pouch of crossbow ammunition. He stealthily crept from the room.

  As quickly as possible, he slipped through the corridors and staircases like a wraith. Listening carefully for footfalls, he avoided any further encounters. Knowing that the entrance would house guards at all times, Rashnir moved up a staircase to the second story, looking for a window to escape through. The day grew old and the sun had nearly waned, falling behind the horizon.