The Kakos Realm Collection

by Christopher D Schmitz

“Eventually, yes. That is our ultimate goal. But this team will hunt down these dissidents wherever they are uncovered until they can find and bring him to justice.”

  “I like this idea,” Dyule pondered aloud, tapping his fingertips against each other.

  “I knew you would. In fact, I’ve already started putting together such a team to anticipate you. But,” Krimko gave Pinchôt a sidelong glance, “You would need to free your servants present to this endeavor.”

  The king hesitated and glanced at his two favorite escorts. Reluctance scrawled across his forehead as he thought it over.

  “You have Zilke. He can take over as your primary Luciferian advisor. He’s quite agreeable, for a goblin—very humanized due to his upbringing. And you have plenty of military support to pick a new bodyguard from.”

  Pinchôt interjected his own thoughts. “You cannot cage an eagle and expect him to remain a good a hunter. I am a hunter; release me to extract your vengeance.”

  Dyule finally nodded. “So be it. Burn my enemies alive; my resources are yours for the efforts. Bring me the skins of krist-chins and send the word. I will hang curtains in the royal palace made from my enemies.”

  The king stood and shook the dust off his feet. “Form your krist-chin death-squad; just bring me Rashnir,” he stated flatly as he left the garrison.

  Pinchôt stood there, flabbergasted. He couldn’t figure out how Krimko had gotten Dyule to release him from his service. Obviously, the king’s hatred of Rashnir was stronger than his insane attachment to the hunter.

  “Come,” Krimko slapped him on the back, shaking him from his bewilderment. “Welcome to the Death-Squad. I have something to show you.”

  ***

  Rashnir leaned closer to the fire as it popped and hissed near his feet. “You’re still missing the point, Sim-khaw’.” He squinted and rubbed his eyes when the smoke singed away what little moisture remained in them. Rashnir hadn’t slept much, haunted by something he couldn’t seem to identify.

  “Why do you say this?” the werewolf argued from his human form. He nodded to Zeh-Ahbe’ who sat next to him. “He can change into this greater form. He has evolved, somehow. Obviously, I believe in whatever power or god that can cause this. I wholeheartedly accept that! But whenever I transform, I am still just Sim-khaw', leader of the Zaw-nawb'.”

  “My friend,” Zeh-Ahbe’ spoke honestly, “It is only the power that you are seeking. Yahweh does not release blessings to you because you do not truly commit to Him. It is an issue of the heart, not mind.”

  “My heart is true! I will take the scald and endure the trials of any deity that can empower me as he does you. I will pay any price!”

  “But there is no price... You are not seeking Him,” Rashnir stressed. “You are merely seeking the power. God is a person, and He is jealous for hearts; He does not care about payment or duty.”

  Sim-khaw’ screwed up his face in confusion. “Explain.”

  “Let’s say that you developed a friendship with a kinsman who did not have much, but you had plenty to spare. This kinsman asks to borrow an item from you and so you give it to him. He later asks for another and another. You comply because this is your friend. You later ask him to mind your fire while you go hunt, but he refuses. What do you say?”

  “He is no friend; he is a parasite and the worst of kinsmen. I want my items back because he was untrue!”

  “And that is exactly what is happening here. You are asking for something from God, and yet you an untrue friend. You are merely asking to receive His things.”

  “This is futile.” Sim-khaw’ stood to his feet and paced a few steps in either direction. “How does this help the Kil-yaw’?”

  “It’s not about the Kil-yaw’,” Zeh-Ahbe’ stated. “This is about you. This is about a personal god wanting to know you. He did not come for the Kil-yaw’, He came for you. Just you. The man you are and were before taking the scald and joining the clan.”

  Sim-khaw’ fidgeted. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but then closed his mouth and shifted topics. Separating his identity from the community he’d been raised within was difficult and uncomfortable. “Where will you take your group next?”

  Rashnir had been talking about moving their people soon. The longer they lingered in any particular area, the greater the chance that Luciferians would come against them… or of wearing out their welcome.

  “I’m not really sure, just yet.”

  “Well,” Sim-khaw’ growled, “You certainly tend to garner a lot of interest.” His joints began to pop and groan as he let his lycan form expand his humanoid body. Sinew and muscle stretched until he transformed into a bulging hulk, shaggy with coarse wolf hair that hung lank and oily.

  Zeh-Ahbe’ and Rashnir both stood to scan the horizon.

  “I see them,” Rashnir sighed.

  “Them?” Zeh-Ahbe’ asked.

  Rashnir pointed in the opposite direction that the werewolves were looking. Camouflaged in a grove of scrub brush the three female assassins monitored Rashnir’s activities.

  Zeh-Ahbe’ turned his friend’s head and pointed in the opposite direction. In the far distance, barely discernable, one lone, cloaked figure stood in the open—the tall, cloaked figure looked like Jorge of Kyrius but made both lycans’ hair bristle. Something deep within Rashnir knotted his guts with an ill omen. That feeling of dread that had kept him from sleep deep into the previous night reawakened in the pit of his stomach.

  ***

  Nothing moved on the landscape except for smoky bursts of sand that blasted across the wastes surrounding High Town. Werthen and Vil-yay crept through the rocky goat paths that Shimza and Fixxer led them along.

  “How much further?” Vil-yay asked, skirting a skeletal copse of dead bracken.

  “Not much. This trail meanders up to the rear walls. Looks like there used to be some pasture land back there before the grass burned up and the town shut down. The only goats left around here now are fertilizer.” Fixxer kicked a desiccated heap to emphasize his point. Flies abandoned the remains and buzzed in a swarming flurry for a second before dissipating.

  “And you’re sure it’s unguarded?”

  “Why would any part be guarded?” Shimza gave them a wry look. “It’s the most boring part of the town, and the least glamorous.”

  Werthen asked in confusion, “But isn’t that a reason to guard it?” He scanned the walls again, as he had all day while following. They had hoped to avoid detection in the confusion of their people’s withdrawal. Of course, if they were being watched, that would further improve the Christians chances of leaving unmolested and it would make sure their certain deaths meant something.

  Fixxer muttered solemnly, “One would think so, but you have to understand vampires. Lilth and her kind are all about status: they thrive on adoration and addiction. My guess is that anyone left in town besides the mining proles will have been turned… become a ghoul by now. They are slaves to the feeding… being chosen to donate blood to their lords. It’s an honor to serve the elder Adamic or wendigo masters. Ghouls desperately crave a master’s acceptance; they need to become a Wendigo. Their blood feels like it boils at the thought that they won’t be chosen. It’s emotional anguish for them.

  “Still, menial tasks and posts abhor them. Ghouls want to stay as close to the prestige as possible as they look for ways to draw their master’s accolades. And yet, in the end, they become the foot soldiers of their lords, doing exactly what they hate in hopes to gain what they love.”

  Ahead, a wall had crumbled and broken. What had once been the livestock gate lay decimated; a tall pile of broken stones barred their path. It rose almost as tall as the city walls.

  “I think your door is broken,” Werthen said.

  “Nope, it’s just how we left it,” Shimza said.

  “Exactly how we left it.” Fixxer turned a dismembered figure over with his foot and noted the face. “He’s got skin still, the Wendigo haven�
�t been out here. Likely they got ghouls scavenging for em too. They haven’t been out this way since the earlier revolt.”

  Shimza whispered, indicating to keep as quiet as possible as they got closer. “We’re going over the pile. I don’t think we’ll be seen… and it’s stealthier than knocking on the front door.”

  The four climbed swiftly and quietly over the rubble heap and inside the walls. Most of the stones were hand-hewn: debris pulled from the mines. Within, more piles of fragmented dross filled the grounds.

  “Sure are a whole lot more of these.” Shimza caught Vil-yay’s look. “The mines have run out of room to dump the waste with such hurried excavation… This way.”

  Shimza led them through the maze of rubbish and then through a labyrinth of derelict shanties. Soon they walked in shadows that had grown long.

  The hunters scowled as they glanced at the skyline. Moving silently took too long and the journey up the slope to High-Town had stretched out into the afternoon. The sun crept towards the horizon more quickly than any of them cared for.

  They quickened their pace through Granik’s ghetto. Distant clanging sounds echoed across the town as the foundries rolled out new tools.

  “What are we looking for?” Werthen dared a whisper.

  “I marked the shack where they held us and stowed our gear when we were captured during an earlier uprising. We have to find it.” Shimza scanned the nearby buildings, mostly livestock shacks.

  Vil-yay looked up at the sky. “But it’s getting dark. Won’t that increase our chances of encountering enemies?”

  Mangled bodies of slaves lay in random locations as they drove deeper into High-Town. Flesh had been ripped from them, leaving only skeletal remains wearing tattered tissue and, occasionally, shackles.

  “We were likely to find em no matter what. But yeah, we better hurry. They keep their slaves nearby and we don’t wanna meet a Wendigo unarmed. They like fresh meat much better.”

  “And an elder… an Adamic vampire?” Vil-yay gave Shimza a skeptical look.

  Shimza looked at the smaller man as if he might stand a chance. “You’re Say-awr, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then never.” Shimza pointed to a crumbling shack. “There it is.” A long chalk scribbling painted the corner of one nearby building. “I doubt any Say-awr could stand long against an elder. Maybe you could take an unsuspecting wendigo… if you were lucky.”

  They crept up to the wall and peered through the casements. Wrought iron bars crisscrossed the windows. The small building appeared unoccupied.

  Like wraiths, the four stole inside silently. Shimza immediately began rifling through a pile of gear that lay in the middle of the room. He and Fixxer started reclaiming all the things they’d lost.

  Suddenly the door burst open.

  A gray, hairless man stepped inside. He carried a gnawed-on human arm and blood dripped from his distended mouth. Hissing a shrill scream, the monster brandished his knife-like claws. The ashen undead charged forward.

  “Wendigo!” Shimza snapped. He dove under the monster’s lightning quick slash and frantically searched for any ready weapon around the room.

  The wendigo leaped for the bounty hunter, but slammed to the floor in a cloud of splinters—snatched midair by a nine-foot, hulking mass of fur and muscle. Tiny sigils shined like silver sheen as the lycan’s muscles rippled.

  Before it could react, Vil-yay seized the surprised vampire with both hands and smashed him down upon his up-thrust knee, breaking the fiend in two. Sick mud splattered from two writhing halves of their attacker and Vil-yay dropped them to the floor before the filth leaked the stuff everywhere.

  Crawling frantically, the cadaveresque entity tried to scramble away as Shimza found a wooden stake within the pile. “Got it! Don’t let that thing get away.”

  Vil-yay snatched the torso section as it tried scrambling for the door, clearly outmatched. He dug his razor-sharp claws into the chest cavity and yanked his grip wide; muddy gore flung everywhere. With a distinct thump, a glass orb clattered against the wooden sub-flooring.

  “Say-awr, huh?” Shimza gave Vil-yay a surprised but approving nod.

  “Don’t judge us by what you think you know. We broke from the Kil-yaw’ and pursued a greater calling. Now, we serve a higher power.”

  The bounty hunters merely nodded.

  “Quick, let me show you this.” Fixxer showed them that the shredded body pieces of the Wendigo still twitched. Evil magics within them called out to each other, trying to reform. “This is a new Wendigo. His human body is still dying, so he wasn’t very powerful… at least not yet. These things normally look like normal people instead of revenants, animated corpses: those are the vampire’s foot soldiers. When the turning process is completed, the vamp’s guts turn to dust. Stinkin things bleed sand.”

  “And what’s this?” Werthen asked, tapping the orb. It seemed to glow with an internal, electric mist. It shimmered in tandem with the scattered body parts pulsing.

  “The captured soul of a dead man. Gotta break it to really kill a wendigo, otherwise, they’ll just get back up in a few hours.” Fixxer stomped on the orb as hard as he could. Nothing happened. He bent down and stabbed the thing with a dagger he’d retrieved from the pile. The orb seemed impervious. “Now watch.”

  Shimza took his stake and easily pierced the orb. The wooden tip popped it like a knife through a soap bubble. The rattling stopped. “Only certain kinds of trees work. The bright ones: trees from good forests. Ancient lore says the trees from the earth realm alone can pierce their souls. These orbs reside where the man’s heart once was.”

  Vil-yay looked at Werthen. “Kevin spoke of trees and animals that came over here from Earth. If Yahweh created them, perhaps they have greater power here in this realm?”

  Shimza nodded. “Perhaps. It might be a good theory… if I believed in your god.”

  Fixxer prattled about excitedly as he rummaged in the pile. Shimza continued explaining the situation. “If there are new wendigo here, then there are definitely elder vampires here. Only the Adamic line can make new wendigo… although wendigo can create ghouls and revenants.”

  The old inventor procured a large metal and wood contraption. “I think we’re almost ready to set out.” He swung the large, metal barrel of the device around as if pointing it at imaginary foes.

  “What is that thing?”

  Fixxer grinned ear to ear maniacally. “Alchemical boom-stick. I call it The Arbalist!”

  ***

  Something reached through the darkness and tagged his head, jarring it against a jagged stone and opening a fresh cut. Blood seeped through the preacher’s bindings and down onto the body of the writhing skolax.

  Kevin didn’t know how long he’d been traveling. He couldn’t see anything except the dull, silver shine of his captors’ eyes.

  Wracked by pain, the aches in his body were nothing compared to the turmoil rooted in his gut. Cuts and bruises couldn’t compare to the uncertainty of what might happen to him next.

  He spat out the dirt and grime from his bloody mouth. His tongue, raw from biting it while his transport jostled him, had swollen between his cheeks.

  You never said it was going to be like this, Lord!

  Kevin’s angry mind sunk with a moment of self-pity. Sorrow took his heart for a moment before he seized it and brought it back from the brink. I knew this could happen. Torture and death doesn’t change the nature of God.

  He sighed and closed his eyes against the painful dark, remembering happier times. After so much time in hay-lale’s fallen realm, his previous life seemed abstract as he conjured up memories of his life before. Family, friends, and life, in general, had seemed so normal before, but now it felt so foreign.

  Kevin’s mind couldn’t seem to make sense of it. It argued that one of those two lives had been a dream. His flesh lied to him, Kevin knew. They were both very real. He just wished that he could see a glim
mer of light to give him hope.

  The musty air tasted foul and fetid and the chattering of his kidnappers sounded like an orcish dialect. Kevin needed something to relieve his restless mind.

  Time stretched forever long in the violent darkness. Then, a faint light glowed nearby. A hot, red sickle shone as a Luciferian acolyte's kama neared the preacher's face. The sparse illumination revealed little about the assassin except for his displeasure at the captive's consciousness.

  Tied where he was, Kevin could not resist as the acolyte unstopped a flask and poured the vile, thick fluid into his mouth. Squeezing Kevin’s lips so that he couldn’t spew it out, he punched the preacher in the stomach. Kevin gagged as he reflexively swallowed.

  It only took seconds for the elixir to numb Kevin’s mind. Moments later, his mind reeled in the blackness and he fell unconscious.

  ***

  Pinchôt stood slack-jawed before the mountain of a man who had once been his partner. Grirrg stood motionless and breathless while Pinchôt circled him, noting the paled flesh and stitched skin where he’d been sliced open in battle by Rashnir’s friends, Werthen and Rondhale.

  The barbarian stood straight and tall. He was naked except for a crude loincloth and a few pieces of odd armor that appeared either bolted on or grafted into his flesh. An odd contraption clung to his chest, encasing the breastbone of his torso with dark machinations. It looked like legs of a golden crab caging his heart.

  Despite the modifications, there was no mistaking the identity of this celebrated warrior.

  “Is it really you?” Pinchôt stared in wonder.

  “It is I,” Grirrg replied with automaton disinterest.

  “We’ve done our best to preserve his flesh,” Krimko noted, fingering a section of the barbarian’s back where some other man’s skin had been stretched across and pinned over the wound. “Parts of the decay were irreversible but we’ve done our best to restore him to a fully functional state.”

  “Functional?”

  “Well yes. Grirrg is dead, but he’s not gone.” Krimko glanced upwards at the behemoth’s empty eyes. “He’s lost his emotions, parts of his ‘personality.’ But his memories, skills, and talents are all still there… inside. You will find him as reliable a partner as you ever had. But perhaps more of a tool than a friend.” The Luciferian retrieved a wooden crate from nearby and opened it to Pinchôt. “His soul might be gone, but most of him… the important parts still remain.”