Empty liquor crates and empty flagons cluttered the landscaped garden floors. The drunken, disheveled men didn’t care about their surroundings. Aesthetics meant nothing to them at this point.
Krimko approached the inebriated throng, looking for some kind of entertainment. One man stood and leaned heavily on a mossy retaining wall, urinating. After a long drunken groan, he turned back to the players. Jandul rolled his eyes when he saw that it was Pinchôt. The warrior was drunk and it was barely past mid-day.
With little to entertain the mercenaries who had accompanied the Luciferians they naturally passed their time by drinking and gambling. The intoxicated warrior fell back into his empty seat at the table and resumed the game with his men. The contest was unfamiliar to Krimko, who had spent most of his young adult life on monastery grounds with the Order.
Pinchôt dealt three thin wooden tiles from the pile to everyone at the table. Working in teams, they shouted over each other, trying to agree on how much to bet and whether or not to play or fold. The table talk nearly resulted in a scrum.
The players finally placed bets and each player tossed one wooden chit to the table, face up, along with his wager. The object was to have the highest score without breaking the number on the table; each time a bet was made that number changed by a player adding a new tile to the pot. Players could only play two tiles at the end, and they could drop their third tile face down if they paid a double ante. Point values of the pieces varied and a few of them had negative values. The two-person teams added their scores together and winners split the pot.
Jandul stood by patiently as Krimko watched the game unfold. Pinchôt and his partner lost several hands in a row. The warrior cursed relentlessly and guzzled another drink. More hands passed, but Krimko didn’t see Pinchôt win a single one.
Frustrated, Pinchôt jumped to his feet in a flurry of expletives. Pointing an accusatory finger and cussing out his partner, he pocketed his diminished stack of coins and stumbled away hotheadedly. As he staggering drunkenly away, the rest of the players mocked and derided Pinchôt’s luckless partner.
Pinchôt meandered past Krimko and Jandul. He muttered something about not being able to find another good partner.
Krimko watched him pass by. Finally, he decided to follow. Jandul stayed back. He was not fond of Krimko and now that he had found some form of entertainment, that being his intentions on Pinchôt, Jandul felt that his babysitting duties had ended.
The diminutive Luciferian professor caught up with the irascible drunkard. Pinchôt still rambled aloud to nobody in particular. He ranted on about his best partner who was now dead.
“Tell me,” pestered Krimko, who trailed on Pinchôt’s heels, “what do you mean?”
The drunk looked over his shoulder and engaged Krimko in conversation as he wandered. “Th’ only good teammate I ever had,” he griped, “got kilt by them krist-chins.” Pinchôt spat a curse, and then took a deep draught from the flagon in his fist.
“Grirrg was the onliest one I ever worked good with. If’n it weren’t for Rashnir and his liddle friends, we could’ve taken em all on—an we woulda won, too!”
“Tell me what happened at Grinden,” said Krimko. “Jandul doesn’t talk much and there are few who survived the ordeal. Those who fled won’t admit it by talking about it.”
“Yeah, fer sure,” he said. Pinchôt was so drunk, he would have told a mortal enemy intimate details.
He started with his hatred for the traitor, Rashnir, and briefly described his own rise within the ranks of the Rangers under Jaker’s command. With many slurred adjectives, he recounted how King Rutheir appointed him to the Narsh Barbarians and how he and Grirrg, his second in command, worked exceedingly well together in combat situations.
“I hadta drag myself out of that quarry on my own. Ferryman picked me up by the Rashet’s landing, charged me extra fer bleedin on his boat.” Pinchôt traced his scars with a forefinger. “Mauled by a werewolf. I practically bled to death in tha’ pit. I woulda, too, but my hate made me strong nuff to inch my way back ta Grinden.”
Pinchôt raised the bottle to his mouth again, drowning the memory of pain. He spat words so spiteful that his voice twisted with malice, “My hate made me strong. One day I will kill Rashnir and his friends.”
Hate was a strong motivator. But whether sober or not, it was hard to discern Pinchôt’s true reasons. The once-barbarian swirled his drink and sniffed it. The hate may have been a mask for Pinchôt’s disappointment. He had seen King Rutheir’s plans: a violent campaign of forcible expansion. The mercenary king planned to take over Zipha under the guise of revenge for years of the abduction and enslavement of his people. Ninda and Gleend could be easily conquered through the same political mouth flapping that currently strangled its people. Screep would fall if they skirted the edge of Briganik without tipping their hand too early—and the Screepans were already accustomed to living under the governance of the ruling castes of anakim. Lol would join his ranks willingly rather than fight. Domn was mostly a wasteland and the few diehard settlements remaining would easily fall. Beej and Mankra were tough, but an extended campaign could prevail—especially with the rest of the countries already under his rule. But they could never take Briganik unless the Order let them. Absinthium would certainly give it to a strong king with his commitment to institutionalize Luciferianism and enforce its rule upon the land… effectively unifying them all.
Pinchôt spat as he felt the resentment turn his stomach sour. Rutheir’s plans were good—and all for naught. He’d lost more than his partner that day, he lost hope.
Krimko stood nearby, taking in Pinchôt’s tale. “Hate made me strong,” he repeated, tracing a scar with his finger and taking another swig of toxic brew. The warrior lurched and stumbled towards the wall where they had paused. Pinchôt wretched all over it, gagging and spitting vomit against the partition.
“He should have been like a brother to me,” Pinchôt declared, his voice full of confused emotion.
Krimko gave him a quizzical look. He had no basis for understanding the drunkard’s statements about the traitorous ranger.
“He was my hero,” he whispered hoarsely. A tear mingled with the slobber that had soused the side of his face. “Why’d he hafta do that… back when we were rangers…” Pinchôt trailed off. He paused for a second, deep in thought, then fell to his knees and heaved the remaining contents of his guts into the basin holding a potted plant.
When he stood, Krimko asked, “Feeling better, now?”
Pinchôt took another swig off of his bottle. He swished the booze around in his mouth and spat the fluid onto the potted shrubbery washing the taste of bile away. He took one more gulp, this one to settle his stomach, and replied, “Yes. Much.”
They wandered deeper into their guest house.
“You know,” said Krimko as Pinchôt slumped against the hallway wall, “in the Luciferian Order, we catalog very many mystic devices, enchanted artifacts and such. There is one that I know of, in particular, one that you might be interested in.”
The hung-over warrior raised an eyebrow. He wiped the drool from his chin, “I'm listenin. I'm always lookin fer new toys.”
“The Khay-hee is no mere toy. It is a priceless device that can give you back your most trusted partner, Grirrg. Would that be valuable to you?”
“Abs-lootley,” he slurred. “Whadda I gotta pay for it, or do I hafta devote myself to the Order or sumthin?”
Pinchôt practically nodded off; he would probably pass out soon and the conversation would end. In this stage, as he drifted off amid the spinning, reeling fog in his mind, a sense of bonding connected the two with mutual understanding.
“No cost. I will give it to you. It is mine to do with as I please. I gave it away once, already,” Krimko smirked, “But… the owner has outgrown it. He has no real benefit from it any longer.”
“Great,” Pinchôt smiled wryly in his drunken stupor, prying his eyes open with
great effort. He drowsily gave the Luciferian a thumbs-up. His head bobbed, tilted back down, and his chest slumped. Pinchôt was no longer conscious.
***
Absinthium sent the mental query across the aether streams, making psychic contact. He found his mark and forced his words into his target’s mind.
A shrieking noise screeched deep within Krimko’s brain, filling it utterly. He finally fell to his knees and clutched his skull as the pain in his head intensified; words echoed in the lobe behind his eyeballs. His hands trembled with a migraine and he laid on the ground to keep from blacking out entirely.
“Y-yes, my master,” Krimko sub-vocalized, recognizing he’d been summoned by a powerful entity.
“Contact me via your secure qâsam,” Absinthium contacted him. “I await your call.”
The mage broke the link so that Krimko would be released from the intense pain that accompanied this form of communication. Most untrained monks could not tolerate psychic conversation for long. Too much of that type of exposure could destroy an untrained mind, literally fusing parts of the cerebrum while liquefying others.
Krimko shook off the agony and stumbled to his feet again, feeling as if someone had just struck his head with a log. The blinding light behind his eyes receded. He wiped away the thin stream of blood that leaked from his nostrils and scampered back to his room in order to use his seeing stone.
***
Absinthium commanded his minion through the magic seeing stone. Only minutes had passed before his secure qâsam called to him. His subordinate probably still suffered the minor effects of psychic shock but had managed the call anyway. Krimko continued to impress the arch-mage: he had placed his superior’s desires above his own immediate needs.
“Plans are being set in motion, Krimko. You are a critical piece of my plans and I require action now.”
“Command me, Highest Arch-Mage.” Krimko pressed a finger against his nostril to stop the trickle of blood.
“You must meet with the Nindan Parliament. Do it immediately. I require troops from the Lords. Their response will show their true support of the Luciferian cause.”
“Yes, Arch-Mage.”
“Send these troops to the Adumarr district. My agent will meet them at the Adumarr Homestead.”
“Do you require our presence there as well?” Krimko asked, wondering about his entire company.
“No,” Absinthium said. “After this foray, your presence in Ninda will no longer be required. You may return to Jand. I know that Dyule is nervous whenever his favorite bodyguard is absent.
“I will be sending Zilke to you. He should arrive in a few days’ time to take over the Church’s work in Ninda. The Order’s presence in that country has fallen decrepit these last few decades… I can see that now. Just bear in mind that I may call on you again at any moment; I am in constant need of those whom I can count upon.”
The mage’s image faded from view leaving Krimko alone and holding a darkened, empty jewel.
Krimko placed the gem on a dedicated stand in the corner of his room. He analyzed what he knew of recent events and compared them with the request for military support.
He could only guess that a strike against the krist-chins was about to take place. Reports had said they may have gone into Gleend and the northern Adumarr district was a good launch point for any kind of attack.
The decision to replace him with Zilke made sense from any perspective. Krimko thoughtfully tapped his chin. Zilke was a member of the Devotion discipline; his training would make him a prove the best choice for bolstering the religion. Krimko and Absinthium both belonged to the Scholastic discipline and were generally better administrators and usually more comfortable within the monastery than the community.
In any event, Krimko would be freed up to revitalize Pinchôt’s friend before the carcass became overly desiccated. A wicked grin spread across his face. More than the idea of helping a friend, Krimko enjoyed the idea of reclaiming the Khay-hee from its current proprietor.
***
Light pulsed from the crystal. Normally only a dull glow, it shone brightly in the subterranean caverns, illuminating the goblin that it quested for.
grr’Shaalg sat in his stone chair, brooding. He’d begun to feel sour about his dealings with the Luciferians. He knew that it would be a costly alliance, but never would he have risen so quickly to power if it were not for the information that he pilfered from the Order or their assistance in dethroning the under-realm's ruling predecessor. He had plenty of warriors, but he did not want to give up more goblin troops so readily for another creature's ambitions, it went against his selfish and prideful nature.
The qâsam continued to pulsate. Finally, the agitated goblin rose and responded to his communication stone. The arch-mage would not be happy if he delayed answering.
Absinthium's dark eyes seemed to pierce the goblin's mind. “I require troops.” He commanded without hesitation, “Send a battalion as far north under Ninda as possible. More forces wait in the Adumarr district. Show me where the nearest access point is to your network; I will be sending you one of my Acolytes.”
Placing the crystal on a parchment map of his main underground passageways, he gave the mage the coordinates for the best access point. Goblin tunnels and caverns were often rerouted or collapsed, but many main reinforced thoroughfares existed that could be counted on to be reliable routes.
The mage’s image faded and grr’Shaalg’s quarters fell black with the sudden lack of light. Absinthium’s demands were absolute and the goblin had no choice but to obey them.
Despite his disdain for the situation, grr’Shaalg knew he needed to stay compliant… at least for now. He had brokered this deal with the devious arch-mage from the beginning, and now he was called upon yet again to supply the Order with a resource that he owned: cheap military support.
Soon, very soon, the goblins minions would be limitless, but for the meanwhile, casualties would likely come from his own ranks. grr’Shaalg was ever a realist; he realized that his only value to the Luciferians had been for foot-soldiers and shock troops.
Like a bubbling cauldron of tasty erfwin, the underhanded goblin’s plans simmered on the fires of subterfuge. When the moment was right he would spring his plans for ascension. He slouched on his secret throne. One day he would dominate the land and lord over Absinthium… even the demonic Gathering! But, that day was not today, and for now grr’Shaalg acquiesced to the Luciferian mage’s demands, drew up the order, and sent it to his military commanders.
Chapter Five
Zeh-Ahbe’ opened the drama with an announcement to the crowd that had gathered around. Entertainment always proved a welcome respite from the toil of local agriculture. The lycan had never been a man of social importance and so there was little chance that he might be recognized by anyone in the crowd, and even then, not likely associated with the supposedly dangerous cult element.
Jibbin leaned up against Rashnir who sat on the edge of the area nearest to the acting troupe. He tried to stay obscure enough that he wouldn’t be noticed. Despite his recent female troubles he wanted to stay on hand in case any kind of problem with Luciferians—he might otherwise keep his distance for the sake of the mission. Behind the main body of the crowd, he spotted Ly’Orra slip past like an animal stalking her prey. She gave Rashnir a glaring stare as she meandered out of sight.
Rashnir sighed. She definitely knew his location.
“What you are about to witness,” Zeh-Ahbe’ said in his best theatrical voice, “is the first half of our story. It is a true account, occurring long ago and in a land far away, even further than the land of Nod.”
Zeh-Ahbe’ bowed and stepped to the side as two of the players came on stage. Yavim and Yarrow took their places. They two were an actual married couple, and both quite old.
Yavim played the part of Abram/Abraham and Yarrow played Sarai/Sarah. They sat and talked idly about their lives, how they had followed the wi
ll of their God in all things. Behind them was an open tent, set up as a prop.
“My dear Sarai, who will inherit all of our possessions when we die? Our God has told me that I will have as many descendants as there are stars in the sky.”
“Oh, Abram,” she said, “You are ninety years old, and I am far too old to conceive. Perhaps you misheard what God told you.”
Haisauce, another actor, spoke from offstage. He bellowed through a large horn to make his booming voice sound even louder. “I am your God and I have not misspoken.” His deep, bass voice thundered enough to yank the crowd’s attention into focus. “Your name shall now be Sarah, and yours shall be Abraham, which means ‘father of many.’ Your own wife will bear you an heir and through your line will I create my people. They will be my people and I will be their God. This is my promise to you.”
When he was done speaking, Yavim and Yarrow got to their feet and went to the far side of the stage making a break from the previous scene. They spoke once again, mentioning that ten years had passed since their names had been changed. Yarrow went into the tent, out of sight and three men came into the scene.
Shardrim, Wiik, and Finartion were the actors’ names. They wandered closer to Abraham hurried to greet them. “Please, do not pass by your servant.” He invited them to sit and promised them that he would feed them and make them comfortable.
“Thank you,” said Shardrim. “And, where is your wife, Sarah?”
“Sarah? She is in the tent,” he replied. Yarrow could be seen leaning out through the tent flaps, clearly eavesdropping.
“You have recognized your Lord,” said Finartion. “We bring a message from your God. About one year from now, Sarah will conceive and bear you a child.”
Sarah began to laugh, then quickly covered her mouth with her hands and slipped back into hiding.
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 67
