The Kakos Realm Collection

by Christopher D Schmitz

  “I suppose you probably can’t recognize me,” Dri’Bu chuckled waving the tatters of his once-fine robes. “Got news for you. You don’t look so good either.”

  Water dribbled down his chin and Havara finally caught his breath. He looked up at the elf in surprise.

  Purple and gray bruises swelled and marred his fair features. A large patch of Dri’Bu’s light hair had been burnt away. “How long’ve I been out?”

  “We found you a couple days ago in the ravine with a dead elven tracker.”

  “Did we stop em?” he asked weakly. “Sprazik? My people—are they…”

  Dri’Bu only grimaced.

  Havara shared a moment of silence with him. “Who else survived? Surely it’s more than just you and I.”

  “Define ‘survive.’” Jorge stepped near. The angel stooped over another bundle of bedding, changing the bandages of his patient.

  Havara hadn’t noticed Kyrius lying there until now. Again, he wondered aloud, “Kevin?”

  Jorge shook his head negative. A grimace spoke volumes to the angel’s pain. “Absinthium has taken him.”

  “And Kyrius?”

  “Still unconscious,” replied Dri’Bu. “But I think he will survive.”

  Havara struggled to his feet again. He tested the weight on his damaged leg and wished he hadn’t, but he just couldn’t stay seated. “There’re still four of us. What are we going to do about Kevin?”

  “Correction,” Dri’Bu said, handing him another flask of water. “There’s maybe two and a half of us at best.”

  “But what will they do to him?”

  Jorge stood gazing into the horizon. Arms crossed, he set his jaw.

  “They will likely torture him,” Dri’Bu answered flatly. “There is no value in forcing him to recant, as if that could happen. Kevin has wounded the pride of Gathering, so there will be few options. Perhaps torture to gain their revenge? But eventually, they will kill him.” The elf caught Jorge’s rigid posture at the words and tried to soften the blow. “But for now he’s likely in the dungeons of the Babel Keep: the largest fortress at the center of the land above the clouds. The demon will want to flaunt his kill… use Kevin’s capture to demoralize his opponents.”

  Havara reached for a long stick near the firewood pile. He leaned on the staff and limped a few steps. “How do I get there?” he asked.

  Dri’Bu laughed. “Go west, past the hills and into the Briganik Mountains. Enter the Luciferian Temple of Light and pay the toll to ascend the Grand Staircase which will bring you to a land they call ‘Paradise.’ Follow the signs like any other Luciferian Pilgrim would and you’ll eventually find the Babel Keep. It’s the main castle where they claim the mighty hay-lale’ once held court.”

  Havara nodded and grit his teeth. Taking two more steps he paused for breath. “West it is, then.”

  “Dri’Bu,” Jorge stepped over. “Stay with these two until they are well enough to travel, then find Rashnir’s group; they are south in Ninda.” The angel put a heavy hand on the old elf’s shoulder. “You are a most excellent person. I see no reason why the Most High One would not grant your request for a soul. No created being can fathom the mind of God, but had I the ability, I would certainly meet your desire. You are certainly more than any ekthro.”

  The elf looked up into the angel’s eyes. “You’re coming back. You’ll make it back—I’m sure of it.”

  Jorge helped the pained Havara back to his bed. “Tell Kyrius to remain strong in my absence. Don’t let him follow me after he eventually wakes... one of us must go to uphold our duty and I’m glad to be the one to do it.” Jorge bent over the other angel and kissed him. “Goodbye, brother.”

  “Wait,” Dri’Bu called. He tossed Jorge a wad of rags from his own bedding pile. “Tell anyone you meet on you travels that you are a wandering anakim on pilgrimage. If anyone asks, tell them you are mendicant worshipper from the house of Horpah. They are the poorest of the anakim; outcasts and beggars, nobody pays them any mind. Above all else, don't show anyone your hands or feet. All children of Anak have six digits on hand and foot.”

  The elf pulled a few metal coins from his pocket. “Give the warden this. It should more than pay the toll at the Grand Stair. And keep your cover if you want to find Kevin alive.”

  Jorge gripped Dri’Bu in a half-hug and accepted the money.

  “If God truly hears my prayers, they are all for your safety,” the elf said emotionally.

  “God hears them, my friend,” Jorge said as he departed. “I pray that He answers them.”

  ***

  With boots kicked up on the table of the mead house, Jaker tipped his head back and quaffed the dark, house ale. Smoke wreathed the empty table he operated from. Empty chairs were turned out, inviting potential clients to pull up and contract with him.

  He’d set up a small mercenary trade on the furthest east parts of Briganik. Mostly, he and the remnant of Rogis’ Rangers figured they would work rescue operations on behalf of family members whose loved ones had been abducted and whisked away into Zipha by orcs and trolls.

  Five of his most trusted comrades remained with him since he broke with his friends after the debacle in Grinden. Each of them had set up an operation in different saloons across the town, networking together to find more contracts and employment. So far, only a handful of jobs had come their way.

  Something inside of him compelled Jaker to stay with his former comrade Rashnir after the battle at Grinden Quarry, but Jaker couldn’t quite commit to his level of belief.

  No, that wasn’t it. Deep down, Jaker saw religious commitment as a threat to his personal freedom.

  With business slow, the portly, bald bartender ambled over to Jaker’s table. His sweaty jowls shook as he walked. “Ya know,” he leaned against the sturdy table, “I heard that the Temple’s looking for mercenary work.”

  “I never took you for a church man, Puget,” Jaker took another gulp of ale.

  “I never had much sense for it,” Puget remarked, “but business has been slow. I figure it’s not beyond me to sacrifice a few coins in shik-kore’s coffer and say a prayer if it puts more gold in mine.”

  Jaker raised his glass in mock worship, “Well, if religion is a business, no better place to pay homage than at the priest’s house.”

  “Well said. But go see the edict for yourself. There is some serious coin to be had if you can hunt for bounty.”

  “I’ll do that.” Jaker tossed a coin onto the table and departed.

  Across town, he found the modest, local Luciferian temple. He ducked inside and scowled skeptically at the carved depictions of the various deities of the Gathering.

  Jaker found the public address board and located a large, written notice. The poster claimed large bounties for proof of execution of any known, “religious dissidents of the dangerous krist-chin cult.” Even larger bounties were offered for live delivery.

  He peeled back the carefully pinned, mass-produced leaflets which plastered the board. Some were for specific persons such as “Rashnir the Ranger” or “Kevin of Earth.” Underneath the flyers, old bills remained which promised bounties and provided information on recent vampiric activity.

  Apparently, the Order has given my friend's a higher precedent than even those lifeless blood suckers.

  “It’s just over here,” a priest interrupted Jaker’s thoughts. The Luciferian escorted a gang of young, wild-eyed ruffians. “Here it is,” the priest budged in front of Jaker.

  “This is the poster. It outlines the terms and conditions of bounties. Now, you should know that krist-chin hunting can be very dangerous, albeit very profitable. You are aware of their flaming, magic swords, correct? Might I suggest that you purchase some ‘ãbêdâh serum from the temple before you depart? It’s the only thing that can shield you from their weapons.”

  Jaker stepped back as the priest explained the best way to equip for and kill a krist-chin. The former ranger shook his hea
d incredulously; Kevin’s influence had spread across the continent. Jaker anticipated that he’d probably not seen the last of his friends from Grinden.

  ***

  Bwar’s stubby legs ached. He’d run as fast as he could to make the appointment at the council advisors’ library. He walked through the corridors until he found the appropriate place.

  The dwarven advisor passed two meandering Luciferian priests who discussed politics: a man and a goblin initiate who walked with an authority that seemed to surpass his low rank within the Order. The goblin excused himself and peeled away as the human priest continued towards the exit.

  Crumpling up the papyrus scrap with his instructions, Bwar arrived on time. He scanned the racks of political annuls and spotted Elo’misce. His elvish counterpart stood waiting, holding her own scrap of paper.

  Bwar ambled over to her as she slipped the note into her pocket. “Waiting for someone?”

  Elo’misce scowled at Bwar and ignored him.

  “What does your note say?” he accused.

  “What note,” she denied.

  “I’m guessing it only says the words ‘Shadow King’ and a time.”

  She eyed him suspiciously.

  “And I bet the time is now.”

  Elo’misce turned. She seemed about to start a nasty exchange when the goblin priest Bwar had earlier passed snuck into their midst. The goblin clacked his jaws to get their attention.

  “I have your orders,” the goblin hissed. They start with an explicit demand that you both cooperate to unify Gleend against the humans.”

  The dwarf and elf both rolled their eyes. They acquiesced to the command, but neither seemed happy to do it.

  “The machine has been started. It is your duty to keep it rolling. You will both be rewarded with your own kingdoms once the Shadow King has revealed himself.”

  “What do you mean,” Bwar growled.

  “See for yourself,” the goblin pointed to the window.

  Bwar and Elo’misce stepped to the portal that overlooked the courtyard below. A raucous crowd of dwarves and elves had gathered along with a few other, rarer ekthroic brothers. At the head of the throng stumbled Lemant, their human counterpart to the Gleendish advisory council. His wrists were tied behind his back and a rag bound his mouth.

  An elf shouted above the crowd, condemning the human for imagined atrocities including preferential, racial treatment, racial oppression, thievery, and even the assassination of King Losonom in order to succeed him on the throne.

  “Kill him!” the crowd howled. A dwarf procured a heavy miner’s rope. A noose already tied the far end. An elf tossed it over a tree limb.

  Lemant tried to run from the crowd but was rebuffed at every turn. The horde pressed forward.

  “There! In the window!” one voice shouted. The crowd quieted to a dull roar as they turned their attention to the advisors in the windows.

  A glint of hope dared to enter Lemant’s panicked face as he recognized the advisors above. He pleaded for them to intervene with his eyes.

  Elo’misce turned to the goblin. He nodded his assent.

  Staring into Lemant’s eyes, Bwar turned his thumb downward. The crowd cheered. Elo’misce turned her wrist and did likewise. The crowd lost all sense of itself and forced his head in the noose.

  The human priest Bwar had passed earlier in the hall stumbled through the open arch which led into the buzzing courtyard. Himself a human, the fear of an all-out race war plastered across his face. “This is madness! Give this man due process!” he shouted them down.

  “Kill the humans!” a gruff dwarven voice bellowed. A hundred mixed voices agreed as they seized the priest and tore his limbs from his body before jerking Lemant from the ground and strangling him with his own weight.

  Lemant kicked and struggled as if it could save his life. A nearby dwarf tore a branch from the tree and clubbed the advisor until he stilled and the blows split his softer parts open, spilling the human’s insides onto the ground.

  The mob reached fever pitch and spilled beyond the courtyard, screaming demands that all humans die. Voices of terror rang out across Xorst—human voices.

  Like a murderous smoke, the crowd dispersed. Elo’misce turned back to the library, but the goblin was gone.

  “It has begun,” Bwar said with a giddy tone. “At long last, my people will rise again, and it all starts with the fall of humanity.”

  Chapter Ten

  Across from the hunters, the man with a weasel-face fidgeted excitedly. He strutted into the Temple of Light’s central commons area and approached the canopied bounty claims kiosk. Krimko grinned as he displayed the dismembered forearms of his victims.

  Krimko dropped the bundle of limbs onto the tally officer’s table with a sickening thud. The former ranger, Pinchôt, brought up the flank of the elite bounty hunting cadre tailed by a scarred behemoth of a man. Grirrg’s expression remained blank while he followed. Jandul, the combat monk, reluctantly kept pace with them.

  The Luciferian diplomatically hid his surprise at the sight of an elf working the station. Krimko nodded as the ekthro counted the body parts

  “Wonderful! So glad to see the fruits of your labor have paid off, my friends.” Herang, the elf made small talk, asking about their exploits as he checked the authenticity of the cross-shaped, sword-like markings upon each arm to verify they were not forgeries. Krimko became keenly aware, mid-discussion, that Herang spoke more for the audience of the crowd surrounding them.

  “I can see that you adequately prepared for taking your bounties by coating your weapons and shields in ‘ãbêdâh serum. Did you know that members of our registered bounty-hunting roster get a discount on that potion which is an absolute necessity for hunting krist-chins? You also get the earliest alerts and first opportunity on exclusive contracts, including suspected krist-chin movements.” Herang pitched them like a snake-oil salesman and he’d certainly gained the ear of those meandering around the group in the market square.

  Krimko shot a questioning look to his comrades. Jandul only grimaced. He’d not been sorry to see their assignments keep the team beyond the immediate reach of the Order’s central hub; he resented the insincere commercialism so prevalent at the Temple of Light. The church was a business—one that mankind had embraced over the last couple centuries.

  Herang practically cajoled Jandul. “I can see you’re skeptical. And I can understand since there is a small registration fee.” He intentionally dropped a tray of coins slightly higher than necessary so that they clinked dramatically for full effect. “Here are your earnings for just these bounties. We can just take the fee out of here.” He slid the flat of his hand into the pile and pushed just a few coins away from the primary pile. Krimko, no stranger to chicanery, noticed they were a heavier denomination and equaled almost half their earnings.

  About to decline the offer, Krimko stopped short when the elf continued. “And if you agree today, I will give you a free qâsam!”

  Krimko blinked. Qâsam seeing gems were well known to be extremely scarce and highly valuable. The ears of others seemed bent to the conversation as well. “What is it linked to?”

  “To The Order’s department of intelligence,” Herang replied. “It’s how we send out any new bounties and pertinent information about the krist-chin threat.”

  “But qâsamai are so expensive,” Krimko countered. “And rare.”

  “It just goes to show you how committed The Order is to stomping out this threat.” His words hung in the air, tantalizing them with opportunity.

  Krimko shot Pinchôt a glance. Pinchôt shrugged indifferently, perhaps with mild curiosity. “Show us more about this ‘intelligence department.’”

  A broad grin spread across Herang’s face. “Certainly. Sheech! Come and man the table; I’m giving a tour.”

  Sheech, a lumbering son of Anak ducked through the door of the nearby building and handed Herang a qâsam before he turned to mind the boo
th. He stood taller than even the massive Grirrg by at least a full head.

  Herang led them away from the shade of the pergola and towards an exterior wall; it had been plastered with flyers and leaflets. Bounty sheets promised payouts for krist-chins. Some of the bills were generic; some of them bore illustrated prints of key members in the Grinden cult.

  Krimko squinted maliciously at a mass-produced rendering of Kevin. Bitter to his core, he spat at the likeness.

  Opening the entry and motioning for them to follow, Herang led them through a few stony, rust colored corridors and into a room buzzing with activity. Luciferian monks hovered about, performing various tasks such as scrying, communicating with others via qâsam, and marking movements and suspected incursions upon a large map. Most of them appeared to be Adherents of the Order which meant they held at least nine ranks, although none of them wore any visible indicators of a chosen discipline. The distinct lack of such emblems seemed to indicate the possibility that the Order had developed a new one.

  Darkened slate walls listed bulletin points. Large headings were scrawled in chalk at the top of the giant boards. Some boards recorded information pertinent to the tracking of krist-chins, some itemized information regarding Lilth’s brood, and others yet listed generic anti-Luciferian occurrences that needed dealing with.

  A curtain parted across the room and a stumpy man who could have been Krimko’s brother stepped in. He stopped short and locked eyes with the short Luciferian from Grinden. They recognized the kindred, cruel spirits within each other. Holding a few leaves of loose papyrus, the man stepped back the way he had come, seeing that the room wasn’t currently secure.

  “What’s in there?” Pinchôt pointed at the curtain.

  “This room is for lower-sensitivity assignments and information. The other one is more highly confidential,” Herang replied.

  The elf walked them through the chamber, using it as a selling tool to solidify the deal. At the far side of the room, a large rack rested. It boasted many numbered cubbies built into it.