Pheros nodded pensively. “Godspeed, brother.”
Through the darkness, Nhoj called over his shoulder, “Watch for men from the east, and do not mourn me long.”
Chapter One
“Tonight I will murder the King of Jand in his own bedchamber.” The vehemence of those spittle-flecked words convinced the nearby trio of Rashnir’s sincerity.
Kevin locked eyes with Rashnir. His proclamation of hate lingered like a foul odor. Rashnir stood as Kevin wondered aloud, thoughtfully tapping his chin. “Is this hatred,” he asked, “Or is it justice?”
“I don’t know that justice truly exists,” Rashnir said. “I’ll leave that for you to decide, Holy Man. I am a man of action and a man of the sword; I go to do what must be done. I will return and thank you nonetheless. You have fulfilled your end of our bargain.”
Rashnir bowed as he threw on the cloak Kevin recently provided him with and strapped a short sword to his hip. “You have given me the things required to purchase my vengeance; moreso by giving me your ear and restoring my confidence than the use of your sword. I could not continue living without my honor; believe the tale I told you or not. You have helped restore a small piece of my honor.”
“You do care about justice,” Kevin mused as he looked at the warrior’s hands. Those strong hands were covered in thick, ugly scars where the vile leaders of the monarchy had intentionally burned him with hot irons.
“I will be back within two days, or else I am dead.” His demeanor struck a solemn tone. Rashnir had nothing to lose. The only thing Rashnir truly valued any longer was his honor. In that moment, his fervor and reckless abandon made him the most dangerous person in the country. Only two potential outcomes remained. He would regain his honor or he would die. Either option was acceptable to the warrior.
Rashnir looked at Kevin and the holy man’s two companions. A hesitant trust had formed between them.
“We will wait for you here in the city. We’ll stay at the Green Serpent Inn.” Kevin nodded, “Two days.”
The two bodyguards looked at each other, as if they disagreed with what had just transpired. They stood a full head taller than their ward, and Kevin wasn’t short in stature for a human. Agree or not, the two followed Kevin as he departed in the direction of the Green Serpent.
Rashnir watched them depart and silently reflected on how he’d arrived here. He was penniless. But a few years ago he’d been rich and affluent. A year prior to that, he had been equally destitute. Beginning his journey of vengeance, his thoughts wandered back to the beginning—before King Harmarty… even before her.
***
In the dark, young Rashnir sat on his bunk and rubbed away the gunk crusted near his eyes. He didn’t bother to light a candle; the sun would be up soon anyway and he would need to depart for the fields where the heat would soon beat down on him. Darkness suited him perfectly fine for now.
He did not look forward to the chores of the estate, laboring all day. Rashnir aspired to much more than a slave’s life. He loathed the plow animals and hated the whole farm. Having learned about political jockeying from the farm’s owner, Mallow, he disliked only statecraft with greater passion. In the country of Ninda, politics and farming were tied closer than bedfellows.
Rashnir had to muster all of his strength to rise from the sagging, second-hand cot that had been his bed for so many years. He still felt yesterday’s tiredness in his bones; his master worked him harder now, ever since his last term as an indentured servant expired.
Dressing himself in a worn-thin tunic and torn pants, he covered the strange, sepia colored birthmark that resembled a matched set of towers with his shirt. Rashnir walked to the paneless window and pulled the rough, leather hides away. Sunlight ripped through the cool darkness, providing him with a clear view of the morning. The rays would only bring him another day of toil mingled with salty sweat.
Barely a person, Rashnir possessed such little status. In fact, he had no real home or traceable origins. He was a citizen of nowhere; he worked his master’s fields, hoping to scratch out enough money to someday leave the drudgery of this farm life behind him.
Soon, he would have to pull on his boots and trudge out to the fields. For Rashnir, every moment of rest was cherished. He had a few moments left; the sun had not yet crested the hilltop.
Rashnir sat and leaned upon his wooden stool. The wooden wall, made of old orchard branches, creaked under the strain. He gnawed a hunk of dried meat and drank. Reflecting, he thumbed through a tightly bound journal. The book wasn’t his; he could not even read. It once belonged to a man he barely remembered—a man who was the closest thing to family that Rashnir had ever known. A fellow slave who had once bunked with him, and had a knack for storytelling, sometimes read to him from the journal and recounted the man’s life.
Despite the current situation, Rashnir’s nineteen years of life seemed charmed. Without uncanny luck, the ekthro should have devoured him long ago. Sometimes, though, he felt that might’ve been preferable over enslavement.
Born to a slave, a dismal destiny awaited him: doomed at birth. His slave camp belonged to a group of trolls. The poor captives had all been either kidnapped from nearby lands or raided from some other slave camp by the hideous brutes. The latter being the case, he would likely have ended his life in a large pot of erfwin, a trollish stew made from human flesh. Rashnir’s mother gave birth enroute to a new slaving colony. Along with several hundred other miserable slaves in that cluster, his origins could likely be traced to Zipha, a country known for slavery and troll infestation.
Wanting a better life for her son, Rashnir’s mother convinced a few trusted men to form an escape plan. They risked their lives for a chance at freedom; death was inevitable as a slave—especially if trolls were involved. They were all destined for the erfwin pots, in the end. The bold group waited until daylight, when the trolls were forced to take shelter from the sun, or else turn to stone. The travel between colonies gave them their best chance to flee.
With the infant harnessed securely, the group waited until their dayside guardians, the trolls’ hellhounds, seemed the most inattentive. When the signal went up, the group fled as quickly and as silently as possible.
The three-headed hounds could smell the fear on the escapees. They hunted them down and tore their prey to shreds. Only one slave escaped, with the help of a woodsman who dispatched the pursuing beasts. In no condition to care for an infant, the slave entrusted Rashnir to the hunter.
Until he was young, the hunter who brought the child home cared for him. Rashnir was still a child when the hunter’s home mysteriously caught fire; only Rashnir survived.
He thumbed through the pages, upset by fate and plagued by regret. He couldn’t even remember the hunter’s name. Although another of Mallow’s servants sometimes read him passages from the hunter’s diary, nowhere did it ever mention the journalist’s name.
The hunter, a bachelor, had taken Rashnir as a legal heir. When the house burned and the hunter perished, Rashnir inherited debts as well as assets—the former far outweighed the latter. He had no choice but to pay off the debt as an indentured servant; he wasn’t quite eight years old when that happened. He could not survive debtors’ prison at that age. Ever since the fire, he’d been indentured to the Nindan Lord Mallow.
Although Rashnir’s servanthood contract had recently ended he had very little money and so he remained voluntarily in Mallow’s employ. Rashnir’s years of hard work greatly increased production on Mallow’s farm; his determination to succeed gave way to increased profits for his master.
Mallow flaunted his position as an heir and Lord of Ninda. Besides making him a powerful and wealthy man, his title provided him those political connections and resources needed to further his own personal agendas. Politics in Ninda were tricky, but they were a way of life for the Lords and Sectional Rulers in the agrarian country.
As soon as possible, Rashnir planned to leave and join the Mercen
aries’ Guild in the west. He had a passion for battle—a love of the thought that determination and training could bring personal victory; he would live or he would die but it would be through his own efforts and to his own gain. In the guild he would have the freedom he craved, the opportunity to carve his own destiny. The only problem was that recruits were required to provide their own equipment and front the money for dues and training—too many previous, foolhardy adventurers had lost their lives because of arrogance and ignorance and so the guild required their dues up front. Nonetheless, the guild was a chance for glory, profit, and an opportunity to slake the wanderlust of youth.
Rashnir wondered if he would ever make enough money to leave. When his status shifted to paid employee, Mallow began charging rent for his hovel; he charged a stipend for food; none of the prices were reasonable. Mallow clearly hoped to leverage Rashnir into signing on for another term of service. Mallow’s fees rose every time Rashnir resisted the farmer’s pressure for a new contract.
The Nil-Ma farm, Mallow’s birthright, was a very profitable district, regularly producing an over-abundance of sheep. Every part of the sheep could be used in some sort of regional product made by subsidiaries owned by Mallow’s corrupt family. The success of the Nil-Ma lands was rumored to come from a magic artifact, a supernatural item that caused the sheep to reproduce far more often than normal. Farmers who stayed in Mallow’s good graces bred sheep that frequently gave birth to twins or triplets and far exceeded the live birthrate of any other farm district in the country.
Lamb was the most widely consumed food source in their region. Breeding stock was also milked and sold along with the meat for kaboshalged recipes. The popular delicacy, young sheep boiled in its own mother’s milk, was a favorite of many. The original recipe called for goat, actually, but they weren’t nearly as populous as sheep in the region.
Rashnir had no desire for it. Its stench offended him and he nearly vomited the only time he ever tried the traditional kaboshalged.
Rashnir shook the memory away as the phantom taste of bile crept up his throat. He ran a straight razor over his chin. Then, taking one more draught from his water bladder, Rashnir stepped outside into the morning air. He stretched in the burgeoning sunlight and cracked his joints.
A gentle breeze accompanied the sun’s virgin rays. The draft gently blew through Rashnir’s thick, black hair. He was of medium build and with taught, farm-forged muscles; more than muscle, an inner drive like a fire that fueled him onwards was what made him strong.
He put a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun. There were no clouds today. Rashnir squinted, looking towards Mallow’s estate. He expected a list of daily tasks to come from the main house servant.
Rashnir hoped that Mallow might be called to some political function this morning. He just didn’t have the stomach today for him; time passed more quickly when Mallow wasn’t around trying to micro-manage the farm with a reckless ignorance that overrode the experience of the seasoned farmhands regardless of the practicality of their methods.
An approaching silhouette glinted in the shimmering light. It swaggered indicatively. Unfortunately for Rashnir, Mallow had come out today to oversee his operations.
Mallow owned a sadistic streak: a trait too common in those blessed enough to inherit wealth. He once laughed himself into a stupor after tipping some nearby raiders off to an escaped slave’s direction.
The red-faced farmer waddled up to Rashnir and put a fat hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Any attempt at fatherly affection was certainly wasted on the orphan. There was too much history between them for that now. He tried lacing false sweetness into his tone. “So, how about we discuss renewing your contract, and then you can take the day off?”
“You already know my answer, Mallow. There will be no new contract. All I want is to get out of here.” Rashnir looked past him, gazing at the horizon, avoiding Mallow’s practiced, salesman stare. Nothing could make Rashnir stay and the continued asking only insulted the former slave.
Mallow groaned a disgruntled sigh, and started rambling on about how he much needed the young man. None of the other workers were as productive, he claimed. Rashnir refused eye contact. He refused to give him an opening or even feign interest and he eventually turned his back on the rancher.
Rashnir jumped in surprise when he heard the sound of a hard object impacting on flesh. He whirled around finding Mallow doubled over with an arrow lodged solidly in his sternum.
Toppling, the farmer put a hand on the sod and gently lowered himself to sitting position. Bright blood seeped from the wound; it bubbled pink, indicating a lung wound. He was careful not to bump the arrow as he crumpled to the ground.
Frozen, Rashnir watched in disbelief. Someone in a nearby thicket ululated with a battle cry; another one echoed it from behind a haystack. More than a dozen men approached, dressed and ready for battle.
Mallow lay on the ground gasping for air; the red stain on his gaudy tunic slowly expanded. His face wore a strange collogue of emotion: shock, fear, humor, appreciation, dread, anger, despair—the entire gamut.
Rashnir took a step towards him, unsure of what to do. He was torn between his conscience and a burning sense of righteous indignation. Deep down, he wanted to watch the man squirm in agony, but he also felt pity for him
Mallow bowed his head, peered over the fat rolls on his neck and chest, and examined the wound. Demise was likely. In a fit of morbid insanity, Mallow burst out laughing; he struggled to keep his eyes open and permitted them to roll back into his head. Still chuckling, he gasped, “I think I’m dead.” The group of barbarians surrounded Mallow and Rashnir, oblivious to the rancher’s labored, gurgling gasps. He writhed on the ground like an agitated worm.
“Mallow, Son of Nil-Ma, we are here to destroy you and your farm,” one man declared. He procured a piece of parchment from his satchel as another man bent down to hold Mallow’s eyes open; he forced him to look at the parchment. “We have been hired to terminate all that you own and to kill you, Mallow. This is the contract before you, drawn up between the combined farms of Teed and Rivalf, who have agreed to finance your assassination, and the Narsh Barbarian sect of the Mercenary’s Guild in Grinden. This is a legal deal, sealed and ratified by the Lords and Sectional Rulers on the Parliamentary Council. Bad for you but good for us: the local government also hates you and has legalized your murder.” The death herald smiled as if he took some small glee in his job. “In fact, a few other farms even kicked in a little extra commission.”
Each of the barbarians stood muscular and tall, though not all were fit and trim; success in plunder had led to abundance in the waistlines of many. Each one carried some type of wicked looking weapon, mostly battle-axes and swords. The one who did all of the speaking carried a large war hammer and slung a longbow across his back, making it likely that he launched the condemning arrow lodged so deeply within Mallow’s chest.
Another mercenary bent over and stuffed herbs in Mallow’s mouth. The remedial spices roused him from his death-slumber. Mallow’s eyes refocused. A fourth warrior put a dagger to Rashnir’s throat from behind. “Sorry, kid. Slaves are technically possessions, in Ninda. Everything that lives must die.”
The leader addressed his contract, “If you wish to plead for mercy, Mallow, I would be happy to hear it. We get an added bonus if you scream and beg. By that, I simply mean that it amuses us.” He chuckled.
Summoning every last iota of spite within him, Mallow bellowed out, “You can take that contract and—”
The mercenary grabbed the shaft of the arrow that pierced him and wiggled it; the Nindan Lord cried like a child. The barbarians laughed as if this were a game. Rashnir had never seen such a look on Mallow’s face. Only the herbal drugs kept him conscious for the barbarians to toy with. The mercenary turned to face Rashnir.
“No hard feelings. A contract is a contract,” he said, loosening his sword at the hilt.
“Wait!” cried
Rashnir, holding up his hands to ward off any aggressors, acutely aware of the blade at his throat.
The man holding him from behind positioned his strong grip in a different hold to make for an easy, clean kill.
“I am not a slave!”
“Sure you’re not. Don’t worry; it’ll be over in a second.”
Mallow’s eyes widened, the irony of the situation amusing him. “Ha, ha! Die, slave boy!” he managed to choke through the blood and foam dripping from his mouth. He splattered flecks of bloody spittle as he laughed.
“Mallow is such a well-known liar,” shot Rashnir, “that surely, by his own admission, he’s just told you that I am a free man. In fact, just this morning he attempted to renew my indenturing contract for another term of service. I’ve refused to be a slave to anything or anyone since my debt was paid. I am a Nindan freeman, not an indentured servant, nor a slave.”
“Liar!” Mallow screeched through the pain; he was hell-bent on taking Rashnir with him as his life expired. “He is my slave, my possession! I have owned him and his family for two generations; he’s worked these lands since he was a boy.”
The mercenary who held him checked the usual places for any sort of brand or identifying slave mark, finding none. “You have proof that your contract has expired?” asked the warrior who held the dagger, paying no attention to the nobleman dying at their feet.
“Yes, in my hut.”
“You had better gather it and leave then. This place will be picked clean by mid-afternoon.” The mercenaries relinquished him and returned to their work: the slow execution of Mallow.
“No, no, no. He re-signed it last week!” Mallow argued, admitting that Rashnir was not a multi-generational slave, hoping that indentured servants were also slated for destruction, even though they were not technically legal property.
“Oh really,” he heard the leader say, as Rashnir fled. “Why then do you argue for his death? If you hated him so much, I would not think you would have re-hired him.”
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 2
