The Kakos Realm Collection

by Christopher D Schmitz

  Rashnir raised an eyebrow.

  “I know.. yer thinking, ‘You care because?’ well half’ve his kids are probably mine!” Rogis laughed, taking another sip of ale. “At least three of ‘em are mine for sure, from his first wife.”

  Rashnir nodded, listening to the sordid tales a slightly drunk Rogis recounted. He took a courtesy sip of his ale and immediately wished that he hadn’t. It was warm and bitter, leaving him with a sour, bile aftertaste in his mouth; as he swallowed dizziness hit him and then quickly passed. He had no idea what he was drinking, but it tasted more expensive than what he’d been drinking with his buddies, earlier. He drank again; there was no sense not to. When a man of Rogis’ stature shared an incriminating story, one couldn’t be sure of surviving the night.

  “So,” led in Rashnir, “how do you propose, keeping this whole story in mind, that I avoid these life-threatening consequences?”

  “Simple, and not one bit painful neither. You killed my second in command. I will verify that it was an honor-duel fought for possession of his estate and the deal will be complete; it will not be a man killed out of rage, but it will be more like a simple transaction. You merely challenged him to a duel. I will make you my new second in command as well; you’ll keep his properties, and I will take care of his family. A mutually beneficial agreement if I ever heard one. I’ll act as the witness to the duel and have the legal papers drawn, so there is nothing anyone can say or do.”

  Rashnir’s jaw dropped, slack. He’d just murdered his superior and instead of punishment, he was offered an immediate promotion to one of the highest ranks possible. He’d receive properties, respect, and wealth, too? He could hardly believe it. Shock trumped his apprehension.

  Rogis laughed through a frothy mouthful of ale, “You’re probably the only sod within a ten-day travel that had the testicular fortitude to even challenge Mind, much less win. The men will respect you because of this, if you accept this position, that is. Especially those whom he mistreated will love you, and there were a great many of them.”

  Something flashed briefly through Rogis’ posture, perhaps a brief chord of worry that Rashnir might not accept the offer. It convinced Rashnir that Rogis was sincere. But then again, a man as seasoned as Rogis could be manipulating him; Rashnir chose to believe that the old bear was sincere.

  “You’ve got to be the second best man in the Mercenaries Guild in order to lead the Rangers, and I want you as my second. You may not have all of the skill or strength just yet, but I can tell by lookin in yer eyes that you’ve got heart.”

  Rashnir looked sheepish, “You know, sir…”

  “All my men call me Rogis; you had better, too.”

  “Ok, uh, Rogis, I’ve never actually even been in a real fight before. I grew up slaving in a Nindan field. That was the first real fight of my life.”

  Rogis leaned back in his chair as if sizing him up; he looked somewhat awed. “Wow, a natural then. If I personally train you, will you accept my offer?”

  Training directly under Rogis was worth more than all of Mind’s property. Rogis only taught royalty, the extremely rich, or his rare, personal preferences. Regionally, Rogis was one of the most sought after instructors in swordcraft.

  “Yes!” spat Rashnir. He’d grown up hearing the tales of Rogis’ Rangers told around campfires by the other slaves and servants. “Of course, I accept.” Rogis was, without a doubt, the most skilled man of the sword in all the near lands. It was a proven fact that he was the most skilled in all the kingdom of Jand; a hall full of awards and competition banners testified to that.

  “Good, then.” Rogis stood, holding his arms up in a request for silence. Immediately, all movement and sound stopped. It was like Rogis had cast a spell upon the audience, but he needed no magic for this; this was the power that respect brought you. All was quiet, and even the barmaids stopped mid-step. Rogis whispered back to Rashnir, “I overheard your first name, but what is your full name?”

  “Just Rashnir. I have no lineage, no history… I have no family name.”

  “Smart, deadly, a shady past, and nothing to lose; you’re going to make one of the finest warriors in all of Jand.”

  Rogis turned back to the crowd, silent and receptive. “Announcement!” he boomed in his loud baritone. He scanned the room; all eyes were on him. Good, as it should be. “Rashnir here is my new second in command.” He motioned for him to stand; Rashnir complied. “Anyone owing Mind property or good will of any kind, no matter how significant or trivial and regardless of circumstance, now owes them to my new second. The altercation that you all undoubtedly just witnessed was a legally binding duel and qualifies Rashnir to receive all of Mind’s credit. I, Rogis, was witness to the verbal agreement. Anyone who has a problem with this or wishes to dispute my credibility in this matter should see me directly.” Rogis gave all possible dissenters a stern look that implied another duel would be on the way if they caused trouble. Even though he was much older, Rogis was nowhere near drunk enough to be trifled with by any ordinary person—even in a barroom brawl.

  The announcement was not at all what the crowd expected. They were anticipating an execution. Some people looked stunned, perhaps a little angry, but not necessarily because they supported Mind; it was more likely they were upset that their debts were not erased with the warrior’s death, but merely transferred.

  “Remember this; Rashnir is now my favored warrior, undergoing training only from me. So, plot well if you are planning any type of subterfuge.” Rogis took a seat next to Rashnir and took another swig of ale.

  A hubbub of whispering ensued, then the normal tavern life erupted once again and overtook the moment. The only indicator that anything out of the ordinary occurred that night was an odor of charred hair lingering around the tavern’s entryway.

  The bartender passed out free, celebratory drinks as a way to curry favor with the two highest-ranking mercenaries. Demand proved greater than supply and so the promo was short lived—the Phoenix’s patrons seemed capable of ingesting more drink than air.

  Rashnir eventually slipped beyond consciousness, passing out among empty bottles, flasks, glasses, and steins. Someone else must have dragged him back to the guild barracks and dumped him in his cot.

  A knock on the too-thin door startled him from slumber. The first thing that he noticed was that, for being on top of the world, he sure felt like a hill-troll’s beat-up ragdoll. A second rapping snapped him to attention and he rolled off his bed. Rashnir remained fully clothed, boots and all, in last night’s garb.

  He opened the door. A messenger stood there with an armload of garments and items.

  “Sir, Rogis told me to bring these and inform you that he will be arriving in one half-hour to meet with you.” The messenger dropped his own name, which Rashnir immediately forgot once he’d departed.

  Rashnir sorted through the bundle. Did he call Rogis “Sir,” or had he said that to Rashnir? A mercenary would have omitted the title if speaking of Rogis—the old ranger had been clear about that much.

  The bundle contained a new set of light-duty armor with his rank and title freshly engraved on it. It included a mellow breakfast that promised to ease his agitated stomach. He’d also sent a flask that contained, to Rashnir’s relief, cool water. Rashnir nibbled on breakfast as he sorted through the armor. It helped settle his uneasy stomach and made him feel less nauseated.

  The first thing that all new recruits learned in the mercenary’s guild was the chain of command; the second thing that they learned was their equipment. They had to purchase their own armor and weapon before they signed on. This gifted set was a much nicer one than the battered one he’d purchased from a crippled glory-seeker who could no longer use it.

  Rashnir knew how to strap all of his basic armaments on and cinch them so that they were comfortable, yet tight. This was really the only thing that he’d learned so far. Instructions on combat techniques weren’t yet scheduled, though he’d now train only u
nder Rogis.

  The armor was finely crafted. It had a light, chain mesh that rested between his tunic and breastpiece: just enough of a defense to turn a dagger being thrust into his belly or keep a glancing arrow from fully penetrating. It was a casual kind of armor, more like a warrior’s clothing than true battle gear.

  Rashnir finished his dress by strapping on gauntlets and belt, then pulling on his new boots. Everything fit perfectly. They must have measured me while I was unconscious, Rashnir thought. Only one thing did not seem right when Rashnir looked down at his outfit. It was too shiny; a seasoned warrior’s gear would be more weathered.

  Precisely as announced, Rogis arrived at Rashnir’s door.

  “Are ya’ ready?” he asked.

  “For what? Training?” Rashnir guessed.

  “Perhaps a little, yes. But first we go to your new estate where you will sign documents releasing legal custody of Mind’s family to me. Then, we will see. There might not be enough daylight left for you to worry about training after you’re done taking it all in. Mind, after all, did like to acquire things, and it will probably take you all day just to glance at the lands and treasures you now own.”

  ***

  His conscience bothered him. Rashnir struggled with his inner thoughts. Murder was generally frowned upon—but that was only among the lower castes of the land! If it was justifiable, then all was well, provided one could weather the repercussions. Something deep down in the pit of his gut gave him pause for thought; this was a new sensation for him. Why do we have morals? Where do they come from? Is not my cause just?

  Rashnir had too much time to think. He shook away those thoughts burdening his mind as the stolen animal trotted along the lonely hillside. His cause was just! He had been a possession, a pawn, a thing, for all of his life. Rarely had he ever been a person: not until he met her… and then the wicked king, a vile lover of things, took her away from him.

  “What are possessions compared with love!” Rashnir screamed into the rushing air. No trinkets or trifles ever mattered. Nothing could ever compare to the value he placed on his love—a love that was stolen.

  “You took her from me!” he yelled into the sky, spurring the animal to a quicker pace. “And now, I am your death, and I am coming for you!”

  Chapter Three

  Rashnir faded in and out of his bittersweet memories as another man’s horse bore him across the land. It ran too slowly. The underwhelming mare hadn’t been selectively bred for speed or strength; it was just an ordinary horse and probably belonged to an equally unimpressive commoner.

  No horse would ever rival his beloved Nikko, the beast which saw him safely beyond Mallow’s employ. Rashnir kept Nikko in his stables as the best of his horses.

  He shook his head with disgust. Those days were over. They would only live on in his memory. The memories were painful. He didn’t want to give them new life, relive them, but he couldn’t keep them from washing over his thoughts on the solitary journey.

  ***

  The two Rangers exited the Guild building’s main structure and went to the stables. They had spent half the day acquainting Rashnir with Rogis’ chain of command. Within the Guild, he introduced him to the important people that he’d need to know.

  Their horses had already been saddled and made ready for travel. Rashnir pulled himself up onto Nikko, a dappled gelding. Rogis hauled his larger frame on top of his dark gelding. The horse’s name was Nightshade, Rogis explained to him. Nightshade was bred by one of his sons who’d given it to him as a gift; Nightshade’s mother was a semi-famed racehorse named Nightmare which had been bred by a prized stud named Shadow.

  Rogis had many children. Most of them lived around or near their father’s estate making a small villa. Many of them were older than Rashnir and had businesses and families of their own. Only a few of Rogis’ children lived much distance from the Rogis estate, but nearly all of them were extremely successful in whatever they did; they’d been privy to the best training available in their fields.

  The horses trotted along the path; it would take about sixty minutes at their current gait. Supper would be prepared, and they didn’t want to arrive too early, so they didn’t ride quickly.

  Their trail followed a worn path through a bracken-laced wood. The trees, which nearly blocked the sun overhead, resembled tiny arms reaching towards the sky; a myriad canopy of fingertips intermeshed into the tattered, verdant awning that shielded them from the sun.

  Rogis told Rashnir many personal things about himself: the sort of things that only people who knew him well would have knowledge of. Rogis spoke with freedom. The Ranger did have a reputation for being reserved and so this lapse momentarily concerned Rashnir.

  “Are you always this intimate with your conversations?” Rashnir asked.

  “Well, we are going to be working closely, Rashnir. And besides, I know that if you ever fall out of confidence, it will be easy enough to kill you.” The comment didn’t come off as a threat, and it was nonetheless true.

  The trail forked and led the riders down a less-beaten path. Further down, a distinct landmark broke through the undergrowth. Rogis pointed out two stone emplacements on either side of the trail before them.

  “That is the beginning of your property line,” he said.

  Each emplacement stood twice as thick as a man and about chest high. It was finely crafted with smooth stonework and nearly invisible mortar joints. A ceramic tile held a knob, fixing a wire in place. The wire stretched through the trees and beyond view.

  “Don’t touch that wire,” Rogis said. “Only a couple people know about it. There’s some kind of energy in it,” he said, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Rogis laughed as they passed through the gate. Of course, he told him the story anyway, a tale about a local madcap inventor who could harness the power of lightning.

  A few moments later the woods opened; before him stood a stone house at least as big as Mallow’s had been. The polished stonework shone in the sun; four turrets rose above the mansion giving it a castle-like feel. Rashnir’s eyebrows rose in awe. He’d never even been inside Mallow’s house when he’d been a slave, and now he owned one that was even larger.

  Brickwork walls were laid perfectly. Ivy and vinework crept up the sides of the outbuildings. The lawn and yard was perfectly groomed. Many of the windows had ornate glass panes set in them.

  The two men guided their horses to a hitching post near the front entrance; trodden ground led to a trail that wrapped behind the house, probably indicating a path to the stables. They lashed their reins to the post.

  Rogis put a large hand on the heavy wooden door and pushed it open.

  “My house does not have all of the frivolous novelties that this house has: things like this door. It was specially crafted so it could open when pushed from either side—reverse hinges: this way you never have to pull it open. This seems like a simple and noble idea, but Mind had it made because he didn’t like any inconvenience, and also because he was paranoid. He wanted to always be able to get where he was going by the easiest route possible. See, when you’re a man of Mind’s size, the quick and easy route is often directly through everyone else—there’s no honor in that, no politeness.

  “Mind’s house has all sorts of treasures in its rooms, but as you can see, they don’t do him a bit of good right now. My estate is comfortable enough; it don’t need to be plush.

  “I have my treasure stored up in a different sort of way. I have respect, authority, and friendships. Who needs gold when you have the respect and friendship of the whole land? I could die destitute and paralyzed, but bards would still sing my deeds; people would still tell my stories. I also have my family surrounding me; these are the only treasures worth having.”

  “Quite true, but you do have more gold and wealth than Mind did, do you not?”

  Rogis grinned, “My family costs much more to maintain than his. Mind had six children. I have at least seventy-and stil
l counting.” Rogis’ laughter drew the attention of a small crowd in a nearby room.

  Nine people joined the two Rangers. Two middle-aged women looked at Rogis with bright and shining eyes. They ran to embrace him, burying their faces in his chest.

  Blonde and brunette, the women looked up at him with admiration on their faces. Rashnir couldn’t help from saying, “Truly, you are rich, Rogis.”

  “Thank the powers that be that he is finally dead,” the blonde breathed. Then she turned to Rashnir and embraced him as if he was family. “Let me introduce you to everyone. I am Missa.”

  She turned to an elderly man who hovered in the doorway, “This is Dane; he is the personal servant to the house’s master, whomever that might be.” Dane was a spindly old man with wispy white hair and an age lined face to complement it. Scrawny, but tall, he wore a grey tunic with matching pants. Dane bowed to Rashnir as best as he was able.

  Missa moved on before Rashnir could object about keeping a servant; next she introduced Jenn, the brunette woman. Missa held up a hand to tick off their children as she introduced them. Moving youngest to oldest, she introduced two young boys, less than six years old, as Jed and Brandyn; Brillon, an eight-year-old boy; a thirteen-year-old girl named Tristessa; then a muscular young man named Bomarr and a beautiful girl named Kelsa, both seventeen.

  Bomarr looked burly and strong; he had hard eyes, like black agates. He resembled Mind in every way but also seemed relieved to learn of his father’s death. His arms were crisscrossed with long scars, likely from his father’s punishments or drunken rages.

  After a meal punctuated by traded smiles and small talk, Rogis took Rashnir to the late estate owner’s private office and sat at a desk. He pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill and inkwell.