“Jorge and Rashnir, may I defer to your expertise in these areas?”
They nodded their heads, agreeing to train their brothers and sisters in self-defense.
“Good, then it is decided.” Kevin waved his hands in an upward motion, indicating that they should stand with him. “Gather your groups and inform them of our move. Let’s try and be moving by mid-day, or we might further anger the city officials. I don’t really care, but at this point it might hurt our reputation with any of those remaining people in Grinden whose spirits remain at an impasse.”
The group quickly dispersed to begin the process of relocating the entire settlement.
***
As mid-day approached, the settlement resembled a hive of activity, buzzing with motion; people bound up their belongings and helped their friends and family do likewise. The activity seemed to quicken further as guards and mercenaries approached from Grinden. They stood on the northern banks of the creek, fed by the rushing Rashet, and loomed as a menacing barrier. They made no indication that they would attack, merely standing as sentinels barring any access to the city. They did, however, hurl insults at the Christians, laughing and mocking them as the people went about their tasks, cajoling them as if they’d won some great victory.
When everybody had assembled, the large caravan moved out. Kevin led the way as the entourage, now in excess of eleven hundred souls, followed him, singing upbeat songs as they traveled. The hostile onlookers responded with thorough confusion, not able to fathom why these people could appear joyful under the discriminatory circumstances.
Kevin’s steps faltered for a moment as he approached the banks of the churning Rashet. The great river was the largest river in the nearby lands; both wide and deep, it rushed with a steady and strong current. Though some of the people could probably swim across it, they could not bring their belongings or supplies and the entire group would wind up scattered wide across the far side of the riverbanks. Several bridges crossed the river nearby, but they were all upstream and very close to the city.
Their spiteful opposition would undoubtedly block their access to the bridges. Even now, they followed at a distance and waited for any excuse to instigate violence.
It seemed to Kevin that the Dyule and the forces of Jand tried to push the Christians completely out of their country by trapping them against the river. Herding them east a short ways and into the neighboring country of Ninda had perhaps been the plan all along.
After a brief pause, Kevin put his faith into action. He climbed back onto the shore, dropped to his knees, and prayed for direction. Kevin stood and waited for a second, as if he were listening for the voice of God. He nodded, hearing a word in his heart, and then he walked into the river.
Before he was waist deep, the flow of the river completely stopped; there was no longer any current or movement of the water. As Kevin continued, the waters peeled back and he walked upon the riverbed. The ground dried and firmed before his next few steps. He finished the walk across as a loud shout of praises to God rose from his people.
Kevin beckoned them and the crowd immediately followed him across. Once every man, woman, beast, and cart had completed its passage, the waters rushed back again, slamming the watery barriers together with a spume of whitecaps as the river resumed the normal flow.
Several bewildered onlookers stood on the far riverbank, watching as the Christians continued their relocation, walking out of sight of their opposition. Dyule’s scouts remained stuck on the far edges of the river, themselves not wanting to risk the wrathful current of the rushing Rashet.
***
The camp resettled a considerable distance away from Grinden, well on the other side of the river between two tree laden groves. They kept well out of sight from the city, but they were not so far as to be inconvenient to get to; Kevin kept that in mind for his future plans to connect with Grinden’s citizens one final time. To the south lay a long-abandoned quarry where stones had once been mined. Ill-kept roads from the old operation still existed nearby and made traveling to and from the encampment less burdensome. The Quey forests were not far to the west and several grassy plains spread nearby.
Undoubtedly, one of these plains would make a good place to set up their final evangelistic outreach. Plans to prepare the area were quickly drawn up; the work would begin while Kevin was away with Havara. Plans to invite folks to their event were also underway; it was an important task in Kevin’s absence. Self-defense classes had formed under Jorge and word of them spread quickly.
Two days after the settlement had pounded fresh tent stakes Kevin assembled the team that would accompany him and Havara. Desiring to travel in secrecy for everyone’s sake, all of the travelers donned long hooded cloaks which blended into the dusky cover afforded by the darkness of night—they planned to take no chances.
They numbered twelve riders, and twelve horses. Rashnir’s horse carried both he and Jibbin, his mute, orphaned ward he’d cared for since his parents died in the first Luciferian riots. He had done his best to care for the child since rescuing him that day, and the boy had clung to him fiercely ever since. Jibbin squirmed with excitement over his inclusion on a mission. Truly, there was no way he could have been left behind. Jibbin had been ready to travel, packed and seated on the horse long before his guardian was ready to mount up. The twelfth horse carried extra provisions.
Rashnir smiled; he knew that after half a day of hard riding Jibbin would be ready to quit. He did notice, with pleasure, that the child made some noise, at least. He did not speak words, but at least some sounds often accompanied his squirms and wiggles. Jibbin was coming out of his shell, but he just wasn’t quite ready to speak again.
Kevin embraced each of the leaders he was about to leave behind and encouraged them. Jorge saw them off with a curt nod; he knew that both parties would have a tough couple of days ahead of them. The angel watched with a twinge of anxiety in his gut as the group of riders trotted well beyond his vision, and Jorge could see very, very far.
Chapter 3
Leethan doubled over in pain. His scream pierced the veil of silence hanging above the woods and his companion, Minstra let the bundle of sticks clatter to the ground as he dashed towards his friend and fellow dissenter.
The monk stiffened as he stood and arched his back. An ancient, scaly viper hung from Leethan’s hand where it had latched on. The thin, writhing beast flailed its tiny arms and legs in the air futilely. With poison taking hold, Leethan began convulsing and fell to his side where he entered the throes of a venom-induced grand mal seizure. His spastic feet kicked the leaves and underbrush away in wide swaths, exposing the pungent, peat-smelling dirt.
Minstra grabbed at the odd serpent and recognized it as an old-world devil-snake. His heart plunged into despair as he tried to yank it off his friend, but the flesh tore as Minstra pulled at it. The adder only buried its rows of fangs deeper into the meat of Leethan’s hand, pumping more venom into its victim.
A bite from a devil-snake was surely fatal in mere moments if it remained attached. It would have once seemed an auspicious sign that a devil-snake had chosen to kill his friend and bury its eggs in the corpse—that is, if the monks not come to doubt the veracity of everything related to Luciferian principles and traditions.
Minstra yanked on the thing again to no avail. Fury rose up within his heart: the kind of terror-stricken panic which grips men’s’ hearts when all hope has fled. Fury faded to loathing, then despair, and bargaining. As the horror swelled in Minstra’s chest and Leethan’s face turned purple under the pain-wracked spasms, Minstra reached the end of himself. A second longer and he would prepare to offer any payment to whatever deities ever had or would ever exist if they would only intervene on behalf of his friend.
His heart demanded answers of whatever spirits could hear his words. Why are you taking him! Will you not intercede and save the life of this one? Minstra roared in pain, but could only utter the one word, bellowing at the
top of his voice, “Why?”
A second later, an old woman dropped her own bundle of sticks next to the monk as he held onto his dying friend. She sank to her knees and shook Minstra to attention. “Do you have a camp nearby?” She asked as if repeating herself, only heard for the first time, now.
The old woman pulled a dagger from her belt and chopped the body of the snake from its head. The decapitated reptile body squirmed and writhed, balling itself and falling over and over as the severed nerve impulses went haywire in the creature. She slid the knife inside the devil-snake’s jaws and then twisted the blade, prying the mouth open; she flung the thing into the grass a safe distance away.
“A camp!” she demanded again.
“Yes,” Minstra replied. “It’s not far away.”
“Quickly, then. Boil some water! It may not be too late to save him.” She dug through a pouch at her belt and sighed with relief once she verified that she had the necessary leaves and spices.
“But it was a devil-snake,” Minstra argued, even as he ran to do as directed.
“I know that,” she replied. “I used to be an herbalist. And I’ve seen a number of bites cured before, as long as you get the medicine in time, so be quick about it.”
The old woman tied a make-shift tourniquet around Leethan’s arm and propped it above the elevation of the monk’s heart. She laid her cloak over him for warmth and then followed Minstra.
Minstra bent low and blew on the glowing coals of the depleted fire, making them flare with intensity. The metal cup resting on the coals quickly heated as his lungs worked.
“My name is Shinna,” she introduced herself as the small container of water finally began to roil.
“You used to be an herbalist?” he asked with trepidation.
Shinna smiled and crumbled the mixture of seed pods and dried leaves into the hot stew. “Yes,” she ignored his oversight on his end of the introduction.
“And what are you now,” he asked with desperate hesitation.
She smiled at him. In that exact moment Minstra recognized her, understood that she was one of Kevin’s believers.
“Now,” she said politely, “I am so much more.”
She finished the concoction, quite certain that Leethan would recover. Minstra asked her confusedly, “You do know what we are, don’t you?”
Shinna merely smiled, intentionally looking into his eyes instead of at his garb mandated by the Luciferian Order. “Of course, dear. You two are a couple boys just in need of some kindness.” Looking across their campsite she spotted a cloth with a few specially braided pastries and knew that Phent had been there and more than her from their camp had shown them recent kindness.
She winked at the monk.
Minstra’s cheeks flushed. He knew that she knew his allegiance.
***
Patches of parched dirt cracked underfoot as the black cloaked figure walked across the desolate landscape of Domn. Looking back at the wyvern from below the hood he’d pulled low against the relentless sun, Prock pressed a tiny whistle to his lips and blew a note.
The wyvern beat his wings and sprang into the sky, climbing high until he was out of sight. Prock thought it cruel to leave such a loyal beast to suffer upon the dried tarmac that was the destroyed country of Domn. Its patience should be rewarded and the beast would come again when he called. For now it could hover in the cooler upper atmosphere until it was needed again.
Prock walked with the grace of a cat: speedily, but wary. His intelligence gained from both spies and mystic scrying had revealed that the area held great potential threats, even though the ruins appeared to be nothing more than a ghost town. Regardless, Prock wanted to undertake this mission alone—his pride still hurt from the failure near Grinden and a solo mission both proved his worth and provided the cathartic release a wounded ego demanded.
The distance shrunk as the acolyte crept ever closer to the ruined edges of the city. Patches of loose silica sand mounded at random along the path he’d chosen. Prock’s senses tingled with a buzzing as he neared the rubble; there was certainly foul magic afoot—a necromancer, if his research proved accurate.
Not all magic users were aligned with the Luciferian Order, which drew power from the leylines constructed by hay-lale’. Some stole the power from that system, some siphoned it from the life of others—like Lilth and her brood, and some used other means entirely. Prock spat with disgust and the parched earth immediately devoured the spittle. Which kind of sorcery is this, he wondered.
As if in response to his interrogative thoughts, a pair of bleached skeletons leapt from the dunes on either side. Brandishing rusted blades, their dried bones shone under the bright overhead light. Their slouching clothes hung in ragged strips and they hissed as they lunged forward to attack.
With amazing speed, the acolyte’s kamas appeared in hand; he blocked both blows with the curved weapons. The Wyvern Rider slashed with his right hand and split the joint at the knee of an enemy. The skeleton toppled even as Prock whirled like a tornado and hacked through the corpse’s spine. It crumbled into a pile. He finished the spin with a kick to the other shambler’s chest. The thing staggered backwards and fell to the ground.
Prock pressed the offensive and slashed his kamas in an X-like pattern, severing the hands of the chattering monstrosity. Stepping on its chest to hold it down, he spotted the sigil engraved upon the skull. Its silver inlay glinted brilliantly under the hot sun, like precious metal filigree.
“Nawchash,” he spat at the trapped, hissing enemy, “I should’ve guessed.” Prock brought up a heavy boot and stomped the brittle, chitinous skull. The bone snapped with a dusty, clean break and the animated body ceased its clattering and fell still.
Prock turned on his heel in time to see the first skeleton reform into its original self and clamber back to its feet, pulling a weather checked scimitar into hand. Prock flicked his wrist and a jagged, iron throwing star streaked towards his target and lodged into the skull, piercing the magic symbol. The corptic body suddenly disjointed and fell into a pile of individual pieces.
Retrieving his projectile, Prock snagged an aged, leather belt from the pile of dried bones and hissed again, “Nawchash,” as he tightened the belt at an odd angle around his head in a makeshift eyepatch. Nawchash, the only universal source of magic besides demonic boon, came from the blood of moglobs, rare creatures native to the western continent. If one of the beasts locked eyes with him, he could become an unwitting prisoner, frozen on his feet until the creature looked away.
Prock grinned and jogged towards the wrecked town. He relished the challenge of battle and the fulfillment of a mission accomplished victoriously. He angled directly for the location of the underground facility which the cartographers of Briganik had so diligently marked.
Three more skeletons shambled from the wreckage. Prock’s sickle blades made short work of them, crippling the hellish fiends before he crushed their brittle skulls against the rubble of building foundations laid waste thousands of years ago by some forgotten event only hinted at by the ancient histories.
The thick, steel double doors before him were hot to the touch and burned his hands as he laid a hold of the handles. He pulled them open with an ominous, metallic creaking. A stair case yawned open before him, descending into the dark which starkly contrasted the brilliant daylight.
Striding into the blackness, Prock switched the leather strap to cover the other eye, letting his rested eye open in the shadows. He was glad to have one eye accustomed to the dark; a small horde of skeletons charged towards him as Prock descended the last of the steps. He deftly cut them down with his jagged sickles and fancy footwork; they were beguilingly fast, but inside and on a staircase they bunched up and couldn’t surround their prey without obstructing each other.
Stepping over the dismembered bones, the acolyte stalked through the darkness. The undead could certainly smell the blood coursing through his veins, but stealth would still serve h
im well; this necromancer was supposed to be alive, after all.
He crept through the rigid, buried corridors. They were plate steel on all sides and gave Prock an otherworldly feel. The makeup of the place changed the nature of echoes and sounds within the structure; the burnished floor even felt wrong to him—so smooth, it felt almost frictionless underfoot. Gone was the organic texture of stone construction he was so familiar with.
Prock rounded a corner. A long hallway murmured with the squirming chatter of caged moglobs. Their absent-minded gibbering bordered on obnoxious. Small moglobs skittered around the cages, cute and furry. The larger, mature moglobs had turned ugly as was their nature; they hissed and shrieked, biting their cute, younger peers with sharp, adult teeth which grew in abnormal rows.
One particularly large animal stared at Prock. The moglob’s hair had fallen out in patches and it bore scars from bite marks upon its mangy face. It hissed like an angry toad, trying to freeze the acolyte who smiled smugly, but refused to look it in the eye.
Instead, he focused on the collapsed area nearest the enclosure. The metal floor had been cut away and something had tunneled inside—likely to harvest the valuable moglob blood and make their own nawchash. The tunnel had been backfilled and recently.
Moglobs absorbed the darkness from the hearts of men; that wicked power manifested in the blood of the creature like a sin-sponge and created nawchash. Prock could feel the magical aura radiating off of the bank of caged creatures lining the wall. It was ripe with mystic energy.
The acolyte strode through the hallway and spotted a steel door slid partly ajar. He pushed it and it groaned on rusty wheels, gliding aside begrudgingly on a dirty roller track.
Prock stepped inside. The room throbbed with a kind of ancient energy. The ceiling flickered and pulsed with a sterile luminescence and steel panels at the walls and desk did likewise. The foreign magic unnerved the acolyte at first; it caused a fury to rise up in him. These kinds of heretical magics were exactly why the Order focused so heavily on combat training. Anything not centered on the glorification of the Gathering was opposed to it! Or worse, they stole from it, siphoning power from the leylines which were foundational to upholding nature and reality, or like the moglobs, they transmuted energies outside of the purview of the demon masters.
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 34
