Rashnir hurriedly gathered his meager belongings and departed the only home he could remember. No, not a home: it had been a place to lay his head for these last fourteen years.
Rashnir speedily saddled Nikko, the finest horse that Mallow owned. He looked over his shoulders to see if any of the mercenaries saw him steal the horse; it might have been a part of their plunder and he hoped that he could get away undiscovered. Nikko’s ears twitched; Mallow shrieked somewhere in the near distance.
Mounting the beast, Rashnir guided it through the barn doors. He raced beyond the stables on his horse and headed west, towards the Homeland village of the Nil-Ma district. A few days hard riding would bring him to a place of neutrality, Grinden—a place neither sanctioned nor owned by either of the two neighboring countries on whose borders it sat. In a few days he could arrive in the free city, home of the mercenary guild, where he knew a world of opportunity would await him.
***
Rashnir shook and cleared his head of the memory. He needed to focus on the task at hand as he rode north with a heart full of cold fury. He had a monarch to murder, and this time he would succeed in the task.
Chapter Two
Rashnir crept from his hermitage back into the city of Grinden by a relatively untraveled path. He kept his identity concealed and took no chances with his discovery. His resolve had hardened like baked clay; nothing would stop him from consummating the murderous plan that consumed his mind.
Near Grinden’s northern edge, he meandered near a busy tavern. Weaving in and out of the horses hitched nearby, Rashnir found one that made little fuss when handled by a stranger and he quickly untethered it.
He patted the horse down and made friends with the beast, reassured the animal. Then, taking the reins, he climbed into the saddle. After making sure no one cast a suspicious eye in his direction, Rashnir ambled out of sight and then galloped towards the capital of Jand.
Murder was not the only thing on his mind, however. The trip was long, and his mind reverted back to his story, the same tale he’d just related to Kevin, the stranger from a strange land. Rashnir’s was no campfire tale; this was the truth.
***
Rashnir’s hang-over warmed his ears and beat him in the brain. In the ranks of the new recruits at the mercenaries’ guild, he’d made friends quickly. At the guildhouse, raw men were subjected to grueling, punishing training meant to sift out the weak and uncommitted and strengthen the remainder, forming an elite fighting force. Later, based on individual talents they would be drafted into the various houses of the guild which made up the teams available for hire. Solid recruits were always needed because of the constant skirmishes along the trade routes; mercenaries were often hired as guards for shipping caravans as well. There was no better place through which to ship along the trade routes than Grinden, home of the guild, and the mercenary house had grown out of necessity and had logically sprung up at the hub of the trade routes.
The former slave had survived his first two weeks at the guild after escaping from Ninda with a purse-full of gold lifted from one of Mallow’s hidden stashes. He and his newfound comrades, all mercenary recruits, enjoyed the wild nightlife available in the city. The nearby hostelry district had a reputation for strong ale and friendly women, and they catered mainly to guild members.
Usually, the group of initiates hung out at the local tavern near the edge of Grinden, The Doused Phoenix. The Phoenix was not far from the barracks; their location enhanced the amount of business done with the guild—chiefly, it lessened the distance required to carry inebriated friends who’d drunk themselves into a stupor. The pub gave them the privilege of hearing war stories from some of the more seasoned, and pickled, warriors.
But last night saw more than stories. Last night had been different.
Rashnir’s thoughts churned in his head. His mind seemed to grind painfully against the back of his eyeballs; his brain didn’t want to recall the previous night’s events. The haze, resulting from a binge of various liquids, clouded his memory like the poison fog that sometimes crept over Ruht Lake.
Lying there, his thoughts grew more lucid and he began remembering. Last night, one of his new friends had died and he’d killed another man in vengeance. Ironically, Rashnir had also gone from rags to riches and escalated his mercenary rank. He grimaced in his bed when he recalled the announcement: he’d been promoted to the upper levels of a guild house.
Rashnir’s friend, Nilmun, had gotten up to use the privy. He had to skirt a raucous arm-wrestling match going on at one of the tables nearby; betting men had lined up around the contest to make wagers on the outcome. As Nilmun headed towards the exit, foot traffic got the better of his booze-addled feet and knocked Rashnir’s drunken friend into one of the match’s participants.
The large man Nilmun crashed into lost his concentration; his struggling opponent quickly seized the opportunity and stole a victory. Cheers erupted from some moneychangers, groans echoed from others. Nilmun had caused an upset, in more ways than one.
Furious, the loser kicked his chair out from under him and knocked Rashnir’s friend to the ground. Shaking a sore wrist, he whirled around with an alcohol-induced bellow.
“Who did that? Who cost Mind his victory?” He demanded an answer. Standing to his feet, he towered over the horrified, and much smaller, recruit. “You broke my winning streak! Do you know who I am, whelp? Do you know what I do to people who make me mad?”
Mind was unquestionably the largest warrior in the mercenary guild. He stood a head taller than any other mercenary; usually those were recruited to the Narsh Barbarians Guild. His arms were larger around than most men’s’ waists. He flung his dark hair, overdue for a cutting, over his should and sneered with his upturned, pointy nose. Mind’s eyes narrowed to slits; already close together, they gave him a beady-eyed look of focused determination. Scars and other minor badges of courage awarded by combat visibly crisscrossed his forearms, decorating the successful warrior.
“I am so sorry…” Nilmun interrupted the raging drunk.
“NAME!” Mind demanded.
“Nilmun. But, it wasn’t my fault, I was pushed by…”
“I am second in command of Rogis’ Rangers. As such I have the rank and power to find you guilty of assaulting a superior. I will now exact your punishment.” Mind grabbed Nilmun around the scruff of his collar and dragged him through the doors with considerable ease. He began abusing every square unit of his body with his massive fists and feet. A crowd gathered, drunkenly cheering him on in the torch light.
What started as a wild spectacle grew increasingly grim as Mind pounded on him with his mammoth knuckles. Nilmun tried to block the blows to his head; Mind beat his kidneys and midsection. Nilmun moved his hands; Mind unleashed bone-cracking blows to the face.
After a few minutes, the multitude grew as solemn as Nilmun’s friends. Rashnir and the others watched from the crowd’s edge in complete silence, disgusted. Mind did not stop; he was like a machine, arms moving without thought to administer blows. He’d fallen into a zealous, drunken fury and no one dared speak against the injustice he actively committed, too afraid that they also might incur his wrath.
Shortly, Nilmun’s choked pleas subsided and he stopped trying to protect himself from any blows. He no longer cried out, but the beating continued; he’d long ago crumpled in complete submission. The only sound was the grunting and cursing of Mind as he laid strike after strike upon Nilmun’s failing body; not a sound whispered in the audience.
Nilmun was unrecognizable, except maybe as carrion. Mind gradually slowed. In an effort to end his show with a big finale, he summoned all of his anger, brought up his right leg, and dropped his heavy boot like a hammer on the young man’s head, crushing Nilmun’s skull with a powerful heel-kick.
The crowd remained eerily quiet as the awkward silence seized them; they corporately disapproved of the severity of his actions. In his stupor, the massive warrior had fully unleashed hi
mself on the smaller, green trainee; the night’s fun had been tainted by recklessness and loss. Mind didn’t likely remember what he was even doing outside; he only knew that he was beating on someone and he enjoyed it. In the drunken revelry and pursuit of self-gratification, he did not notice the silence; drooling with glee, he glowed with self-appreciation, mumbling words of affirmation to himself.
Rashnir’s companions passed a bottle of potent liquor between themselves, mourning their recently made, and quickly lost, friend. As Rashnir accepted the bottle, a blindingly pure fury boiled up inside of him. His eyes burned dark and hollow as a maniac, red rage took him over and sent him into a frenzy. In a moment of surreality, Rashnir seemed to step outside of himself and watch as his rage translated into action.
Mind threw his sweaty, lank and disheveled hair behind his shoulders. He took a step towards his comrades and turned briefly to spit on the motionless form of the man he’d just broken. He laughed and accepted a tinted flask of distilled fluid.
Rashnir watched in a tunnel vision induced by fury as Mind raised the flask and drenched his face in victory. The brute aimed for his mouth, but liquor spilled inches above his lips; sloshing the drink all over his head; it soaked through the collar of his tunic. Rashnir’s ears buzzed as he snapped and flew into action; he could no longer hear Mind cackling in celebration—only the buzzing of the white-hot rage in his ears. Rashnir grabbed a nearby torch and walked up behind Mind. Grim faced, Rashnir thumped him on the back, his intentions very clear: Rashnir was picking a fight.
The behemoth turned to face him. Rashnir definitely had his attention; he flashed him an obscene gesture to ensure that Mind understood Rashnir’s insult.
“I don’t know you little man, so you’d best have a good reason for bothering me, unless you want to end up like our friend, Nimrod, over there,” Mind muttered.
“Nilmun was a friend of mine you arrogant piece of trash! Not yours! Maybe this will prepare you for the fires of the eternal pits!” The only reaction that Mind’s distilled wits could muster was a look of total surprise.
His harsh words flung into the void, Rashnir inhaled a mouthful of potent drink from the flask his friends passed him. He spewed the liquid forth, through the torch, and shot a fireball out. The inferno hit on target and doused Mind with liquid flames.
The fireball ignited Mind’s head and chest; a lick of flame picked up a trail where Mind’s clothes had soaked with booze. It shot down his arms and into his own flask. The celebratory bottle exploded in flames and glassine shrapnel, blasting the meat off Mind’s fingers and leaving only stubby, mangled digits behind in a charred mess. The serrated flak ripped up the forearm of his sword hand before lodging jagged shards in his side.
Mind shrieked and tried in vain to run from the pyre that he had become. The crowd stood and stared in disbelief as the screaming human torch flailed around within the enclosed semi-circle. Even Rashnir stood shocked at the extremity of his own actions, though rage and adrenaline still fueled his trembling limbs. He did not feel any compassion for the burning man; he would give no mercy to Nilmun’s murderer. This monster had just crushed a man’s skull for his own amusement.
The fire calmed as it ran out of distilled fuel. Mind’s screams turned into hoarse groaning and gasps for air. Trembling, the man fell to his hands and knees; smoking, his shirt had mostly burned away. His hair and eyebrows were incinerated, as were his facial and body hair. Patchy blisters mottled his skin like a shoddy quilt. Flames melted the cartilage of his nose and ears. The stench of burning flesh filled the crisp evening air with sickened taint.
Wheezing, the behemoth stood slowly, defying his condition, “I… will… kill… you… … You… filthy…”
“Shut your face,” Rashnir commanded with a confident authority that his anger empowered him with, “or I will stuff a dead rat into that lipless hole you call a mouth. Do everyone here a favor and never speak again.”
With his pride insulted, Mind snarled and charged at Rashnir. The smaller man grabbed his attacker’s good wrist and swung a hip into the aggressor’s gut. Using the forward momentum, he launched the ogre-sized man over his back and onto the ground. Mind landed flat on his back; he hit so hard that his lungs popped with an audible burst, He’d been winded, hard.
Rashnir quickly spun around upon his heels, still holding Mind’s wrist in a firm grasp. As he wheeled around, he broke the pinky finger and the thumb of Mind’s good hand; Rashnir came to a guarded position sitting on his opponent’s chest. His knees straddled Mind’s ribcage. The man tried to rise, but Rashnir jabbed his tensed fingers into the jowly bulge of Mind’s neck, almost collapsing the windpipe. In one smooth, fluid motion he brought the palm of his hand back like a slingshot and then brought it crashing down like a dwarven hammer. The blow destroyed the remaining, twisted remnants of Mind’s deteriorated nose flinging a mess of bloody goo, bone, and cartilage flecks across the men’s faces.
Mind terror-shrieked through the viscous ooze as it slid its way down the back of his throat. Spray flew out from the hole in his face and slicked back Rashnir’s hair; chitinous bone chips stuck to his face, pasted there by the bloody ichor.
Rashnir reached around the back of Mind’s cranium, grabbing the little tuft of remaining hair by the base of Mind’s skull; Rashnir twisted and simultaneously wrenched on Mind’s chin. Grunting, Rashnir poured all of his malice into the effort; a loud snap and crunching noise erupted from the crippled mercenary’s spine. An unseasoned trainee had just broken the neck of one of the area’s greatest warriors.
His frenzy ebbed. Rashnir stood up on shaky legs. In an adrenaline drunk daze, he silently staggered through the bewildered crowd; he was barely able to walk straight. He felt as if he’d just drained five large pints and been spun around in circles. Rashnir could feel the gazes of the crowd on his back as he walked back into the tavern. He’d no sooner dropped his weary body into the same empty seat Mind once occupied when a noise arose: only one noise in the entire tavern, the applause of one man.
Rashnir felt suddenly weary; the endorphins and bloodlust drained from his system and he could barely see beyond the somnolent haze that crowded his vision. It came with very little reaction when he recognized the figure as Rogis, the head of the most prestigious fighting clan in the guild: Rogis’ Rangers. This was the man that helped form the mercenary’s guild over thirty-five years ago as an effort to supplement his friend, the Jandan King, with an adept fighting force. The guild eventually evolved into the current, independent organization.
He knew he should have been horrified; Rashnir had just killed Rogis’ second in command. The mental shock, combined with the sudden after-thought that his revenge could cost him his life, did not leave much room for emotion. The anticipated death actually allowed him a measure of arrogance; hubris would allow him to die nobly, in complete defiance of any enemies he’d just created by killing the ranking officer and renowned warrior.
Rogis casually took the seat facing him, maintaining direct eye contact; the visual probing unnerved Rashnir, who had trouble keeping the mutual gaze through his tunnel vision. Rogis just stared at him until Rashnir shuddered, shaking off the fugue of the ebbing battle-endorphins; he slowly became more lucid as blood-stimulant levels normalized.
The ranger spoke with authority. “You realize that you just killed my right hand guy? In doing so, you assaulted your superior, and wasted two perfectly good flasks of liquor.” He quipped almost mirthfully.
Defiant, Rashnir answered, “You forgot to include: avenged the dead for murder and humiliated a cocky fool.”
“Nonetheless, serious charges could be brought upon you by Mind’s friends. I guarantee that they will come. What would you say to answer them, in your defense?”
“That Mind was a piece of gutter trash and deserved nothing less than he got.” Rashnir sank back, still reaching for a noble death. The fact that he’d just sealed his fate began to sink in and settle in the pit of his stomach. He d
id not want to die, but he felt it better to die with pride today than beg for his life only to be executed tomorrow.
They shared a brief pause, just long enough to make Rashnir squirm, and then Rogis burst out in a booming fit of laughter. The routine sounds of the cabaret resumed: the babbling of barmaids, the clinking of steins, and the empty banter of patrons. As a whole, the cantina resumed regular operations as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened; all assumed Rogis had everything well in hand.
“That he was… that he was indeed,” Rogis agreed through short bursts of chortled laughter, “I never liked him either.” An immodestly dressed waitress came forward with a couple fresh mugs filled to the brim with the house ale; she set them before the two patrons and smiled lasciviously at Rogis. She bowed away and returned to her duties, keeping a favorable eye on the most gracious tippers, of which Rogis was surely one.
Rogis hefted the glass mug and took a deep draught, as if it were fresh water from a flowing brook. Setting the mug down, he turned his attention back to Rashnir. “There still are, however, the potentially serious repercussions of this event, though not from me,” Rogis quickly assured him. “I agree that the man was slime, but the men stayed in step under his command, mostly for fear of his back-hand.
“But, we try to uphold a more noble set of principles within the Rangers, you see. I always had to rein Mind back, and that can be quite taxing; he always took things to the extreme. If it weren’t for his skill and massive presence, I would have let him return to the Narsh Barbarians house a long time ago. But, fewer men die when you have the talent, experience, and brute strength like Mind’s; it helped everyone prosper. I suppose I’m actually quite pleased to see him dead. I even had thoughts t’ward doin’ the deed myself, if my efforts to persuade him back in line didn’t work.”
“What do you mean?”
Rogis leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, you see, he treated his family like swine; if there’s one thing we’ve got in this forsaken realm, it’s our family—they’re the real treasure. Mind never was a family man; when he smacked his boys around a while back for losing a good longbow, I knew that he had to die. We’re not talking ‘bout a little beating, here. T’was more like an attempt to cripple them poor kids.”
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 3
