The Kakos Realm Collection

by Christopher D Schmitz

  The only safety on the creep was in patches of light where the leaves were knit thick enough to fully shade the ground. Bright light temporarily “blinded” those spots on the creep, rendering them insensitive so long as a person didn’t stay for too long.

  Rashnir stood in a patch of illuminated creep, debating which way to go next. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw one of the female warriors nock another arrow. Ly’Orra pushed the woman’s bow down. Apparently, she wanted the honor and glory of this kill.

  The ladies followed Rashnir, leaping into the sparse patches of sunlight to pursue their prey. Overhead, the vines hanging from the gnarled wood began to quiver and twitch. Sensing prey around them they trembled in anticipation of a meal. The Ziphan warriors observed the restless liana and noticed a bird flit through the shade and pierce a fruit cluster with its needle-like beak; a vine shot out and engulfed the creature before trailing to the ground.

  Ly’Orra glared spitefully at Rashnir as she tried to navigate a safe path towards him. Her quarry jumped to another space keeping a tree trunk between them. Other than her cursing and the grunts and groans of physical exertion, the wooded coppice remained silent as a tomb.

  “Stand and fight me, if there is any honor left in you!”

  Rashnir turned to size up Ly’Orra. The spaces available dwindled significantly. He feared he might be forced to do exactly as she demanded and fight her. Her accomplices attempted to flank him on both sides. If they got around him, they could close in and trap him.

  One of the ladies tried to jump across a large patch of shady creep. She stumbled, barely clearing the darkest part of the creep and landed in a shady zone. A green tendril reached for her ankle. The warrior woman pulled her leg away at the last moment and the vine slapped at the undergrowth in vain.

  Rashnir broke a sweat. He would run out of options quickly. No more safe places remained where he could move without leading into an intercept course with one of Ly’Orra’s friends. He turned back to find Ly’Orra moving to block his only escape lane. He grimaced and altered course, heading towards a larger illuminated area. He would be forced to fight her.

  The women tightened their formation around him, leaving no doubt that the battle would happen. Ly’Orra leapt to the lit zone nearest where Rashnir stood. The illuminated glen created a perfect arena in the center of the small woods.

  Rashnir readied himself as the amazon flipped over the patch of sensory undergrowth that separated them. The remaining two women readied their bows to ensure the appropriate outcome. Rashnir backpedaled, trying to persuade the woman one last time.

  “Come on, Ly’Orra. Isn’t there any alternative?”

  She drew another rapier from the sheath strapped to her thigh and advanced on him. She moved lithe, like a cat, and steered him back towards the creep.

  “Of course there’s an alternative. You could kill me and my friends will sing songs of my glorious, honorable life and untimely demise. But,” she sneered, “I hardly think that you will emerge victorious, not now.”

  Rashnir held his hand in a grasping position. The Logos slowly materialized in his ready grip, blazing with its cool azure.

  “Ly’Orra,” he sighed, “I had truly hoped we could be sensible. Haven’t you learned anything since our last encounter?”

  “Of course I’ve learned,” she snapped at him while bringing her blades down to bear. They met with a sizzling flash of red heat and an eldritch crackle.

  The edges of her blades did not yield to his holy sword. They clashed and locked as the friction between supernatural forces caused the bound weapons to spit sparks and hiss menacingly. She pressed him backward, trying to knock him onto the creep. Rashnir spotted the flask peeking out from her open hip-pouch; the glass had been etched with a Luciferian stamp.

  “So you have learned something,” he quipped.

  The ‘ãbêdâh greased weapons began to heat up as the cerulean flames licked around them. The weapon protection serum could not stand up to the holy power of the Logos indefinitely. The magic serum had been devised by the dread demon beh’-tsah. His Luciferian worshippers used it, as well as anyone who would pay for the stuff. The weapon worked in the short term. Many of Rashnir’s friends had fallen to them in Grinden when the magically imbued blades were first brought to bear.

  He scowled at the red sheen upon her weapons. Ultimately, however, the dark power would fail, just like its designer’s evil ambitions.

  Sensing the give in her weapon, Rashnir tensed under the woman’s increasing pressure to debase him, hoping her blades would snap. Just before the weapons’ heat became unbearable, Ly’Orra exerted a final thrust and pushed him towards the creep. Rashnir twisted under the expected push and somersaulted sidelong over her thigh, using the flat of his hand to slap the bottom of her purse. Her vial of ‘ãbêdâh solution sailed through the air just as he rolled to his feet.

  Ly’Orra whirled around to see her opponent retrieving the glass container. She roared in frustration, pointing her blade point in his direction.

  Rashnir fingered the jar’s Luciferian emblem thoughtfully. The reddish serum glinted in the light beams as he uncorked the stuff and swirled the viscous ooze around within; a cloying scent wafted out from the flask.

  “Where did you get this,” he demanded. “How did you know about it?”

  “Word travels fast,” she retorted. “Nobody thought the stories were true. You wield a dangerous power, cultist, but I will take you down before you can destroy the realm with the taint of your flames.” She lunged and traded blows with Rashnir, parrying and maneuvering him through the lit sections of creep.

  Rashnir riposted her blows and sidestepped her advance whenever she overextended herself. He still had no desire to strike a killing blow. Ly’Orra’s rage felt more misled than hateful.

  She looked up from her exposed flank. Regret traced her face—reproach and anger with herself for allowing her form to break in such a way that her enemy could have killed her. She locked eyes with Rashnir and knew that he could’ve killed her had he chosen to.

  Rather than strike, Rashnir threw the wicked ampoule into a shady section of creep. Vines snapped outward like hungry snakes, the fastest of them engulfed the bottle whole before retracting into the tree limbs.

  A stern look set Ly’Orra’s face like flint. She charged for Rashnir again. Her thrusts and cuts were calculated and well planned. Rashnir kept up with defensive maneuvers, staying away from the deadly, edged fury.

  His ears buzzed with distraction. The corner of his eyes picked up subtle movements rustling in the trees.

  With lightning speed, the rustling turned to a full offensive action as mouthed vines struck and entangled one of Ly’Orra’s accomplices. The woman howled as the tendrils’ ends bit into her flesh.

  Ly’Orra dropped her guard and screamed for her friend, “Ri’Aqua!” she screamed her name. The woman had remained in the same spot for too long and her own shadow had finally awoken the creep beneath her feet.

  Rashnir’s heroic tendencies kicked in and he jumped into action. The fallen ranger delivered a sweeping maneuver to Ly’Orra’s feet, knocking her to the ground where she could neither harm him or become ensnared herself—at least not immediately. He snatched Ly’Orra’s blades and threw one at the green, tangled knot as it struggled to hoist the amazonian woman off of the verdant floor. The twirling brand severed the carnivorous vines and they recoiled as more lashed out to seize the meal. The second blade cleaved the new vines that just begun to reach for her, buying her a few seconds of reprieve.

  Swinging his own sword high above his head, and spinning as he went, Rashnir sprinted across the active creep towards the injured woman. Insatiate vines snapped at him like a scourge, but each was met with the incomparably sharp edge of the Logos as it shredded them like a mill.

  Under the umbrella of his graceful cuts, Rashnir shielded Ri’Aqua. With his free hand, he scooped her up and held her fast to his side before conti
nuing to move to another sun-laden section of undergrowth.

  Depositing her there in momentary safety, the warrior leaped to another safe zone, and then quickly ran away. Without enemies blocking his path, he found an easy exit route through the deadly copse of ravenous timber.

  Not allowing the Amazonians a chance to regroup and try again, he withdrew as fast as he could and slipped back into the village, leaving his pursuers far behind.

  ***

  Werthen looked back. Behind him rumbled a small cart laden with children. They laughed as it bumped and jostled along. The donkey-drawn wagon shook as it crossed the harsh and rocky terrain. The fiercest swings made the children laugh and smile as if it were a game; the ferreter worried, though. They were far from anywhere to find replacement parts if a carriage broke.

  He thanked God for the animals that his missionary team rode upon—they’d come by them quite miraculously, in fact. As they traveled west across the harsh lands of Lol, their feet had become sore and their backs weary. As they pressed on, they spotted the first mining village in their path. Oddly, however, the entire village proved deserted.

  Werthen sent his friend and bodyguard, Vil-yay, to scout the town for danger before moving in. Vil-yay had been appointed to Werthen by his leader Zeh-Ahbe’, the leader of Vil-yay’s lycan tribe. The werewolf proved quite adept and Werthen knew Vil-yay’s loyalty was unquestionable.

  Upon returning from his survey, Vil-yay reported that the place was eerily deserted. The food and stock of the place hadn’t even expired. The entire place felt off... as if all the residents of the village had suddenly vanished. Mines and shops had been left neat and tidy, as though the owners might return to use them at any moment. Fortunately for Werthen and his group, they’d noticed the large ranch at one edge of the abandoned community. Perhaps the livestock had been the luckiest. All fences and animals still remained, although the animals were in desperate need of tending.

  Feeling safe enough, the Christians took over the community for a few days, enjoying the slight sense of normalcy that came with operating a non-hostile settlement. With no clues as to the previous residents’ whereabouts, they finally took the animals, resupplied themselves, and continued their journey.

  Still, the cause for the vacant village remained a mystery. It niggled at the back of Werthen’s mind as they crossed the plains of Lol, even if the collective beasts of burden eased their struggles and generally improved morale.

  With the traveling made easier, they traversed the parched turf and rock-strewn soil with much better speed. According to a hand-sketched map supplied by Dri’Bu, they would draw near another mining community shortly.

  A few hours passed and the deep grooves of the rutted earth leveled significantly; the carts no longer threw the children like ragdolls. Without the complaining of the stressed wagon tack, the arid landscape took on a peaceable quiet.

  Werthen noticed that the roads widen; the ground felt harder, better packed and well used. A solid dust-cake had formed. It sloughed most of the gravel off to the side making a more comfortable trail for the feet unshoed creatures.

  Consulting his map again, Werthen located the town of Granik. He flipped the reverse side and read the elf’s brief notes about it. The walled town boasted two primary industries: mining and metalwork. Granik’s metal bricks were often sold to tradesmen across the region and ingots bearing their stamp often passed through Grinden.

  Long ago, the lure of easy riches drew many people to Granik when someone discovered precious jewels in the mines below the rocky, hillside city. As always, the riches petered out. Many of those folk, once made wealthy from initial discoveries, eventually found themselves poor and digging ore in the company mines for menial wages or smelting metals in the allied smithies.

  In the distance, dark fumes belched from the hillside. Werthen and his companions assumed the foundries were in full production. They hoped to arrive within a soon, given their current pace.

  On the approach, the travelers passed several run-down offshoots of the town—outlier communities made up of run down shanties and dilapidated outbuildings. Burned out granaries populated the landscape. Vil-yay sniffed the air, catching familiar human scents. They looked abandoned, but some kind of premonition hung onto the lycan’s senses. Something didn’t seem right.

  Werthen slowed the company to a halt so he could examine a snarled dome of metal jutting up from the wreckage near the side of the road. It wasn’t the twisted network of metal that caught his eye but the human hand that protruded from the structure. A palm lay upward in defeat.

  He dismounted and approached the tangle of fused steel. Vil-yay joined Werthen as he approached the crude containment cell.

  “What do you think,” the lycan asked, “maybe criminals?”

  “It’s impossible to tell,” Werthen replied. “Cultures vary so much, even across such short distances. Whatever their story, someone put this prisoner in there intentionally and doesn’t want them ever released.”

  Werthen’s mind turned briefly to Rashnir as he looked at the prisoner’s limp hand. The famous ranger’s fate had been similar, though without bars, and his redemption proved a rallying point for those drawn out of Grinden.

  Through the odd shaped openings of the heavy metal cage, they noticed there were two men within. Nearly incapacitated, both appeared battered and bruised, staring at their visitors with sunken, fatigued eyes. One looked old with willowy hair and skinny limbs, the other man seemed younger and stronger—even through the emptiness in his eyes the spark of an internal fire glinted from the dark. A pile of gear, apparently belonging to these prisoners, lay stacked just beyond their reach on the far side of the enclosure.

  The old man, his wrist hanging out of the enclosure, twitched and groaned as the Christians’ shadows fell across him. The afternoon heat felt almost unbearable as it made the air shimmer. It distorted the appearance of the city on the horizon as it reflected off the white tinted gravel scattered across the landscape.

  Meeting Werthen’s gaze the younger man spoke. “Welcome to Low-Town. I hope, for your sake, that you don’t intend to stay.”

  Chapter Six

  Jibbin scanned the audience. The child stood on his tiptoes, searching for his friend and guardian, Rashnir. The drama was about to continue, culminating in the revelation that the story was true and that all of human history in hay-lale’s lands had been based on lies.

  Zeh-Ahbe’ affectionately messed the boy’s hair up. “He’ll be ok. I’m sure of it.”

  “I know. He will be ok.” Jibbin convinced himself as he sank back the flats of his feet, but his eyes continued hunting for Rashnir.

  An audience had arrived and the stage was assembled. Zeh-Ahbe’ went to the middle of the stage, like a ringmaster, and announced his players. At the furthest reaches of the modest crowd, Rashnir popped in to view and Zeh-Ahbe’ waved to Jibbin.

  The little boy hopped up and down so he could see over the crowd. He waved to Rashnir who flashed a smile in return before slipping out of sight again. Jibbin settled down, his mind finally set at ease. It would have been hard for him to perform with any uncertainty for his friend’s fate. Jibbin had already lost his entire family, murdered before his very eyes; Rashnir had been the one who saved him from the same fate and the boy might not prove capable of another loss.

  Using his best theatrical voice, the sometimes werewolf addressed the crowd. “When last we performed, you saw the first installment of our drama: the nearly tragic story of Isaac and his parents Abraham and Sarah. That is only the beginning of the saga, and much takes place between our story today and yesterday’s tale.

  “In those years in between, we find that God did indeed keep his promise to his faithful servant Abraham. Abraham’s children multiplied and became a nation in their own right. Some of them were loyal and followed the God of their ancestors; others spurned him and were left to their devices and paths which led to their enslavement and destruction.” />
  Zeh-Ahbe’s gaze swept over the audience. They had quieted so all could hear. Many of them looked familiar from the previous performance. Zeh-Ahbe’ thought the men and women in the audience had a kind of yearning hollowness fixed deep in their eyes as they looked at him—something he felt achingly familiar with. He could sense their souls crying out for hope, but there was only blackness as they tried to reconcile their Luciferian beliefs with their past experiences and faulty theology.

  “If I had weeks to stand before you,” Zeh-Ahbe’ said, “I would tell you about the things God did to display his love to… the people he made a covenant with.” He had wanted to say “his creation,” but that would have been too clear of a signal to his audience. As it was used commonly, God could have meant any sort of supernatural deity or creature of great power; it might have been merely a figurative device or could have indicated an unknown a demonic power.

  There were many stories involving alternate deities commonly told as entertainment or even accounts told as a matter of the historical record whereby the god in question was a demon; supernatural creatures had been known to make pacts with men and their offspring and use their powers to condemn or bless. All of mankind, though, knew that Yahweh was the Creator and that Lucifer was the crafter of ekthro.

  Zeh-Ahbe’ made sure to choose his words carefully. He didn’t want to alienate the audience before he’d given a chance for revelation. The God he referenced would be made clear in the course of the presentation.

  With a smile, Zeh-Ahbe’ continued. He gave more background information as the actors assumed their places behind him and prepared for the story to truly begin.

  ***

  Rashnir stood before the arched door of the lavish, little building. Immaculately furnished, even the door seemed to radiate an opulent glow giving it an aura of wealth and success. Someone had propped open the ebony stained hardwood door to allow the gentle breeze to circulate. The Luciferian building was tiny compared to the temples in larger communities but was one of the larger buildings in the farming community. Still, its appointments made it impressive. Rashnir stepped through the door and into the foyer.