He stroked his temples firmly and wished he could somehow call out and ask for guidance from his teacher, the long-dead Rogis, or maybe seek advice from some other higher power—though he couldn’t bring himself to believe in such a thing. Jaker groaned loudly with frustration.
The Rangers had been an institution in Grinden ever since Jaker had been a boy. He hated the thought that it might disband under his watch—it had been his mentor’s legacy.
Jaker tossed his quill-pen aside and turned his thoughts to Kelsa. She’d been the best friend he’d ever had, and she’d been fiercely in love with Rashnir, the former Nindan slave. Maybe I should ask what she would want me to do, rather than what Rogis would do?
Biting his lip he glared one more time at Rutheir’s call to arms. He nodded and bit his lip while he redipped the quill in ink. He could do this one thing… for Kelsa.
Jaker penned one word on the paper. His flourished, large letters would send an unmistakable message to King Rutheir. He’d simply written, “NO.”
***
“I just don’t understand how it’s possible,” Jhonnic admitted. “I mean, I’ve seen the power of the blades.”
Rondhale nodded as his brother spoke. Together they’d gone through Phent’s belongings in order to give away whatever items might be useful to others in the community. He sighed as he sorted. Most of the items were more sentimental than they were utilitarian. Phent had always been generous and rarely clung to possessions much beyond the essentials.
The brothers had known the baker for several years now—since before Phent’s wife had died. His little bakery was just down the block from their smithy and they’d often stopped in to frequent the shop both as customers and as friends.
Rondhale held up a small, silver pendant that he knew his brother would recognize. He tossed it to Jhonnic.
“Do you remember this? He ordered it special for his wife,” Jhonnic ran the fine chain through his fingers. He’d been the one to make it as the brother who dabbled in jewelry making.
Rondhale nodded. “It was for his wife—something to comfort her when they discovered she was barren.”
Jhonnic nodded as he and his brother traded a nod. He draped the chain around his neck and clasped it.
They continued the work for a few more minutes in silence. “Do you think it’s some kind of special metal, maybe?” Rondhale returned to the conversation.
Jhonnic shrugged. “That’s not really consistent with what we’ve seen, though, is it?”
Rondhale hedged with a gesture of disbelief.
His brother could read the man better than anyone and knew there was more that he knew. “What? What have you heard?”
“Just rumors, really. I overheard something about an oil or grease of some kind the Order made that could stop the blades.”
Jhonnic glanced sidelong at him. “An oil?”
Rondhale nodded. “Stranger things have happened—especially when magic is involved.”
“Well, it’s an interesting theory,” Jhonnic said, “but it doesn’t seem as likely as a special kind of metal—or maybe Miklaw and Phent allowed themselves to be sacrificed because of certain circumstances that we’ll never know.”
Rondhale caught a distinct tone in his brother’s voice and cocked his head, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But?”
“But we’ll never find out by speculating,” he said, exiting the tent. His brother followed him.
A few minutes later the two blacksmiths were walking towards Grinden.
“Where did you hear the rumor, anyway?” Jhonnic asked.
“I was fishing this morning,” Rondhale said. “Down in the reeds by the confluence… I overheard a couple kids talking about it. Something they called ‘ãbêdâh. One teen told the other that he’d seen it—some kind of special assassin whose weapons blocked the swords. Said that the magic serum he’d rubbed on it was for sale in town.”
Jhonnic shook his pockets and the coins within jingled. “Well, let’s get some of this stuff and test it out.”
As they closed the distance and neared Grinden, Rondhale asked, “You’re sure this is a good idea? Dyule, the Steward, specifically prohibited Christians from entering the city under penalty of death.”
Jhonnic flashed him a lopsided grin. “What could go wrong? It’s not like we’re easily recognized, especially on this side of town.”
The southwest edge of the city was perhaps the more sparse part, especially in mid-day and morning. Most of the structures serviced the entertainment or catered to the debauchery typically reserved for late nights. Neither of the brothers, even at their worst in their pre-Christian lives, had been too keen towards the wild party scene.
Rondhale shrugged as they walked past the first building on the city edge. The odds were miniscule, he understood—he barely even recognized the part of town they’d entered.
“We’ll get in, buy this magic potion, and get out before anyone ever knows.” Jhonnic flashed another grin to assure his brother of the simplicity of the plan.
They walked five more confident steps and then stopped when their eyes locked with a mammoth of a man leaving a brothel. Grirrg.
The barbarian stopped, too, chuckling at his good fortune. Seconds later, Pinchôt walked out behind him.
“What have we here?” the mouthy one spat. “This day is getting better by the minute.” Grirrg and Pinchôt stepped far enough away from each other to give each other room to operate. Their posture and movements indicated that an attack was imminent.
“Do you remember the last time we saw these two?” Pinchôt called to his partner.
Grirrg grunted in response. The embarrassment they’d suffered remained fresh in both of their minds. Grirrg and Pinchôt drew their weapons which glistened with a ruddy tint from the ‘ãbêdâh oil the blacksmiths had come to investigate.
“I believe you will find us far more dangerous than the last time we met,” Pinchôt stated with confidence.
Grirrg nodded and tapped the head of his heavy warhammer in the palm of his massive hands. He glowered at Jhonnic with murderous intent.
The smaller barbarian whirled his sword through the air skillfully. “You know the law prohibits your presence within Grinden. It’s a krist-chin free zone, and the penalty is pretty stiff.”
“Law’s the law,” Grirrg agreed with a sneer.
Rondhale and Jhonnic narrowed their eyes to slits and called their flaming blades into existence. They could’ve run, but neither brother wanted to back down.
Pinchôt’s lip curled and he lashed forward at the enemy. Rondhale batted the strike aside with a brilliant flare and sizzle of ozone, but Pinchôt was all over him with a flurry of blows. Grirrg charged Jhonnic as he whirled the long-hafted sledge spinning the blacksmith away from the mallet but catching him with in the gut with the handle and sending him reeling back.
Block. Sidestep. Dodge. Strike. Rondhale and Johnnic tried everything to flank either one of the barbarians, but Grirrg’s impressive reach kept them at bay and Pinchôt’s speed and maneuverability made him formidable
Neither blacksmith was a slouch when it came to skill with a blade—but within seconds they realized that they might be overmatched by the skill of the professional warriors.
Pinchôt stepped in to guard Grirrg’s backside as Rondhale sidestepped towards the barbarian’s blind spot. Ducking under wide-arced roundhouse that Grirrg would’ve crushed any man with, Pinchôt blocked the sneaky move and stomped on the blacksmith’s foot, pinning him for a fraction of a second, gaining just enough of an advantage to open a hole for a killing blow.
Pausing just long enough to offer a twisted sneer and let his opponent he’d been beaten, Pinchôt thrust his blade towards Rondhale’s midsection. A flashing pop sizzled as a second blue blade knocked the strike aside from the bottom with a sweeping maneuver.
Pinchôt’s blade flung wide and the tip caught the rear of Grirrg’s forearm while he battled aga
inst Jhonnic on the other side. The behemoth yelped as his partner cut him.
Rashnir yanked Rondhale backwards to safety. Jhonnic noticed him and stepped towards the venerable warrior, forming up on him.
Grirrg scoffed at the newcomer. He’d been familiar with the ranger for a long time—since even before the passing of the man’s mentor, Rogis. The arrogant man chuckled, confident that he and Pinchôt could overpower even the three of them.
Stepping backwards towards the edge of the city Rashnir commented to his friends, “They saw you guys heading towards the city. I thought I might come and check on you two.”
Rondhale and Jhonnic followed suit as they backpedaled slowly alongside their rescuer. “Sorry,” Jhonnic admitted. “Thought we’d get away with one. We were just curious about this ‘ãbêdâh stuff we heard about.”
Grirrg and Pinchôt continued walking towards them as they reversed course, keeping the distance a constant. “Well now you know,” Pinchôt spat.
“Sorry,” Rashnir stated to his peers. “We were about to tell you all about it. I’ll fill you in as soon as we get back to the group.”
Pinchôt glared at the ranger and worked his mouth, about argue that possibility when he stopped. All five men clearly heard the hoofs in the distance.
Galloping towards them at top speed, Thim and Gans angled towards them hotly.
Grirrg stood straight and set his jaw, recognizing the stalemate. Pinchôt shook with rage, but didn’t continue pressing forward. Both men stared murderously at the blacksmiths.
“Sorry for the intrusion,” Rashnir bowed. “We’ll be out of your hair momentarily; give Dyule my regards if you feel the need to report the indiscretion.”
The trespassers turned and promptly departed.
Chapter 8
The Christians near Grinden worked quickly to rebuild the area where Kevin had planned to deliver his final message. Under Jorge’s instruction in the days previous, charred refuse had been cleared away and the Christians worked diligently to rebuild the area and prepare it for a crowd’s arrival.
Security remained at high alert, despite the seeming calm that had swelled in the area since Kevin’s return. Jorge and Rashnir posted the best of their students near the edges of the area as perimeter guards. Following the last attack, guards had become a necessity for their safety. Even though the opposition in Grinden continually escalated, optimism was high in Kevin’s camp and they felt the Spirit instill in them a great sense of expectation.
The Say-awr’ aided Jorge’s security detail. As soon as Zeh-Ahbe’ returned to the Christian encampment, he’d called his tribemates together and shared his revelation with them. By the end of the day, each in kind felt the touch of the Lord and was granted the same shapeshifting power as Zeh-Ahbe’.
Rashnir prepared to open the service for Kevin. He would introduce his mentor after relating a bit of his own personal story. He had experienced great highs and incredible lows and the only thing he’d found that could satisfy his soul was serving God. His testimony was one of incredible redemption, the complete expiation of a man who’d been a slave, a warrior, a murderer, a thief, and a prideful idolater. Moreso, Rashnir was just a typical human being in need of a savior.
By afternoon, a few inquisitive onlookers straggled warily towards the area—and then it turned into a steady stream of curious individuals and families.
The Christians made it a point to greet and speak with every person who came, showing them the utmost respect and compassion. Kevin and Rashnir mingled with the visitors; both had gained a kind of celebrity status with the locals. Some people hated them, many loved them, and those who hadn’t decided were excited to meet them.
Clouds remained high and a gentle breeze kept the folk comfortable. By all indications, conditions would remain perfect for the event.
The cresting sun tipped past the midday point and ushered in afternoon as the crowd settled. About eight hundred people had arrived. Ushers organized them so that they sat in a large semi-circle, enclosing the stage area.
When the time came, Rashnir climbed upon the rebuilt stage so that all could see him. A hush fell upon the people who had come to hear men speak forbidden words.
Immediately, the former Ranger launched into a prepared story. The people were intrigued by his history. This message of hope and salvation found him when nothing else satisfied. He used his springboard as an introduction for Kevin.
“I have told you how I was found, rescued from the pits by a message of hope. Kevin will share this same message with you.”
A noticeable stir rippled through the crowd as Kevin took the stage. He gave a sermon very similar to the one that he gave in the central park of Grinden.
Kevin preached with a passion and vigor only possible with a conviction of truth; people were unaccustomed to that type of fervor in their fellow man. The crowd began reacting even before Kevin asked for responses. People moved forward of their own accord; three hidden figures walked out of the nearby forests where they’d listened beyond prying eyes.
One of the figures came from his lonely post in the trees; the other two had been accomplices listening from a few hundred feet away. The tall, solitary figure stopped and spoke with the nearest guard who brought him into the group. His fair skin and pointy ears made his heritage easy to identify.
Perimeter guards retained the other two and Rashnir went to check it out. He recognized the two Luciferian monks who he had seen previously. The ranger spoke with the guards, allowing them to pass. They had apparently listened in secret from the trees.
One monk, Leethan, was fully convinced to become a Christian. His friend, Minstra, was not quite so sure. Minstra was a pessimist and still harbored his doubts. He could not let go of all of the lies that had been so engrained within his worldview; truth lay just beyond his grasp.
Waves of attendees came forward asking to place their faith in the Lord despite the perils and risks of such actions. They knew that they were choosing Truth and expected to experience persecution.
The new Christians couldn’t wait to move closer to their new brothers and sisters of faith. Some had family members present and sent them to return home and quickly gather any belongings that they would need.
As their new numbers settled into the encampment Kevin assembled his team. Ersha and Thim had been appointed as replacements for Nipanka who led the flock in Driscul, and Miklaw who they presumed murdered by the Luciferians. Gans was present as well and was being groomed for future leadership. They could only expect more growth after optimistic days like this one.
Kevin brought in the elf who’d come in during the outreach. Kevin wanted to discuss the situation with others in order to help him work through his thoughts.
“My friends,” the preacher said, “Let me introduce you to Dri’Bu.”
The elf bowed elegantly.
“Dri’Bu, tell them your story,” Kevin requested.
“Greetings, friends,” the elf welcomed warmly. “Many of you know my kind, but let me assure you, I am not the typical elf. I have worked long and hard to rid myself of the personal trappings so common in my race: arrogance, narcissism, lust.
“My name is Dri’Bu, and I am six thousand years old. I really have to guess at my age, I stopped counting over a thousand years ago. There are not many of the first generation left; I was one of the First Elves, the original ones created by Lucifer at the beginning. We were created to inhabit this land.” The elf spoke with animated movements and still looked quite young; had he covered his pointy ears he could pass for a thirty-year old man. Dri’Bu explained that the original elves, the first ones created by Lucifer, did not age at all, unlike their elven offspring who aged from babe to adult, though at a much slower rate than man as they enter adulthood.
“I do not normally share my heritage with others and this takes great trust on my part. There is an eons-old rumor—a myth that any man who kills one of the ageless elves and steals a lock of his or
her hair will gain immortality for themselves. This myth has caused the deaths of so many of my generation.”
***
Shinna sat near the fire and faced the two monks who’d defected. Her cheeks glowed slightly as she tried to shake the feeling that these two boys were her own flesh and blood. She chuckled at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” Minstra asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she batted the question away. Her boys had both died many years ago, one by a foolish errand the former King Harmarty insisted upon and the other from plague. “How has your bite healed?”
Leethan waved the bandage for her to see that he’d been treating it with the herbal concoction she’d left a recipe for. “Nearly as good as new.” The monk beamed with a positive light and an inner joy that seemed to well up.
Shinna nodded slowly—knowingly. Minstra, however, seemed edgy and aloof to her. She grinned again. Just like my two boys.
She asked, “What was it that made you want to respond?”
Leethan exhaled and pushed all the tension out from his lungs. He practically shuddered as he felt the release of it. “I have decided that I want to follow. Everything about this Christ must be true.” He glanced nervously from wrist to wrist; each lower arm bore tattoo marks pledging devotion to the Order.
Missa took him by the hands and met his gaze sympathetically. Leethan nodded, recognizing her acceptance; he leaned into her embrace.
Minstra’s arms remained crossed. He watched them, tight-lipped and resilient.
She looked at the sterner of the turncoat monks. “And you, Minstra?” Her eyes sparkled with hopefulness.
“I… I am not ready,” he tried to pass the decision off as if it were a trivial thing. “I will pledge allegiance and mean you no ill will—you’ve already shown us so much grace and mercy,” he glanced at Leethan’s wound. “I’m just reluctant to jump in and believe without seeing, first.”
Shinna’s face softened and she nodded. “You two must stay with us.”
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 45
