To those who would know, yet would not want to know. To see what one does not want to see. Hear what they don’t want to hear. During the future or in the past? What is true desire? When does difference become the same? When does it repeat? When did it first draw breath? Creation is always forgotten. Wondrous during its infancy. Adored and then finally forgotten. Time dilutes. Now and then become the same. And yet human beings will never respect what was then in order to better understand what is now.

-Anonymous

 

“Run!” The voice was muffled or maybe just too far away.

 

It had come from outside and could have been right next to an open window or echoing from down the street. Kaszbein couldn’t tell. There were only two things his mind could extrapolate from the voice; its owner was female and in distress. The homeless man lazily lifted his head from the wooden floorboards of a previously abandoned home and stared out in the direction of the voice. A long yawn escaped him and he managed a quick brush through his short brown hair before rising to his feet. His eyes took in the tail end of the unfolding events. A brief glimpse of a woman with long red hair darting through the crowded town bazaar with three guards in close pursuit was all he could manage before the events moved to another street. Another yawn flowed from Kaszbein’s chest as he scratched the back of his head. Thoughts of his plans for the day quickly began overtaking the brief events he witnessed moments after waking.

 

Outside, along the busy streets of Nandule, two thieves attempted to make their escape from the pursuing authorities.

“You don’t have to make it so obvious that you’re gonna leave me to the wolves!” Tristina complained.

“Not my fault you choose to sleep in when I go running in the morning.” Miqeul replied nonchalantly.

“You ever thought about running in the afternoon?”

“I thought that’s what we were doing now.”

They turned another corner, one of them barely managing to zig her way past a horse carriage full of hay.

“Go to hell!” Tristina yelled back over her shoulder at the carriage driver in response to his less than polite outburst.

The streets were of cracked and lopsided cobblestone. Parked carriages full of wares lined each side of the road. Dense crowds of customers, traders, and hustlers bustled about their daily routines. Those who read about thieves and bandits like to imagine large crowds and obstacles as advantageous. Though needless to say, the truth always finds its way in the company of obviousness.

“We’re never going to make it with all of this shit in the way.” Tristina growled after bumping off a small time peddler of gold necklaces. “And these goddamned streets…Miqeul they’re so loose I feel like I’m going to fall through!”

“Calm down, love.” Miqeul said. “We’re almost there.”

“Do you even know how to use it?”

“Trust me. A child could do it.”

Another left turn brought the two within a straight shot towards their objective. The run down stone house didn’t stand out amongst the hundreds of run down stone houses that lined the slums. Yet Miqeul knew the house was unique if only because of the contents beneath its floorboards. Once inside Miqeul was quick. Like a child ripping through his birthday presents, Miqeul lifted the loose floorboard near the back wall of the front room and flung it to the side.

“Hurry up!” Tristina shouted through labored breaths.

Moments before the town guards burst through the flimsy wooden door, Miqeul made a triumphant shout. “I got it!”

The ranking officer amongst the three guards barged into the house first, his brownish yellow colored uniform standing out against the light greys and dark browns of the house interior. His green eyes instantly spotted the red haired thief jumping out of the window. “There! Back outside!”

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Tristina whispered as loudly as she dared,

Miqeul’s eyes rose at the sound of the guards rounding the corner. “We’ll soon find out.”

The ranking officer led his men down the alleyway towards the two thieves with a look of anger and frustration covering his face. “All right, hand over the jewelry. You’re coming with us.”

“Now would be a good time, Miqeul.” Tristina pleaded.

Miqeul fumbled slightly with the device in his hands with an intense look of concentration plastered over his face. He ignored the approaching guards. After two more seconds of reassembling, a sharp click from the object in his hands brought the slightest of smirks to his face.

“Got it.” After rising to his feet he turned in the opposite direction of the guards. “Let’s go.”

The pair of thieves found themselves back within the bustling atmosphere of the bazaar with hundreds of citizens crowding the streets. They ignored another shouted order from the guards to halt their escape and continued down the street.

“Time to see if any of this was worth it.” Miqeul said before stopping near the center of the road and turning to face the guards.

The ranking officer came to a halt with about ten feet and twenty civilians separating him and his men from the fugitive thieves. “Drop whatever it is you’re carrying and get down on the ground!”

All three guards drew thin bladed swords with fanciful hilts ready to defend themselves. Every time the ranking officer, Rorbel Stigmantun drew his blade the thought of how little protection town guards were given always crossed his mind. All royal guards were issued a basic leather vest of armor to wear beneath the coverall like uniforms they were issued. But this could barely be referred to as adequate protection. A straight thrust from almost any decent blade could easily penetrate the vest. Not to mention the fact arrows and crossbow bolts cut through the armor like paper. Bronze and steel armor were reserved for soldiers on the borders of the kingdom and palace guards.

“No. Don’t think that’s on my to-do list today.” Miqeul responded with no real traces of sarcasm in his voice.

“Men, advance!” Rorbel commanded.

A crowd began forming around the two thieves and three guards. Miqeul took a step back and then held up the device he retrieved from the house. The object was black and appeared foreign to everyone who laid eyes upon it, including the guards. Miqeul’s hand tightly gripped the rear end of the device, which fit snuggly into his palm. The front end of the black gadget extended about an inch or two outwards with a hole decorating the center of the snout. Miqeul’s finger slid onto a small thin appendage that curved upwards.

Miqeul lifted his hand, aiming the front end of the device towards the sky. “I don’t think you wanna do that.”

An ear-piercing bang erupted from the black foreign object causing everyone on the street to jump and scream with shock, including Rorbel’s men. The lead guard himself took a reflexive step back with a wide eyed look of bewilderment.

“Is that a…he…” Rorbel almost stumbled as fear began to trickle its way down his spine.

It couldn’t be possible. Only the elite guard and the royal family were permitted to be in possession of firearms within the city. Hell, they were the only ones with the means to reproduce ammunition for the deadly devices. How could these thieves, these peasants own one of the most dangerous weapons known to man?

“He has a gun! Fall back!” Rorbel shouted.

The bazaar erupted in a frenzy of panic. Screams of fear echoed throughout the crowded streets. The massive mobs scattered in a sea of multicolored clothes and skin tones. The two thieves used the hysteria to vanish amongst the people. Above the unfolding events within the city a massive wooden ship with two gigantic propellers extending up from its decks like towers sailed over the city casting its shadow over the fleeing citizens. Two more propellers constructed into the back end of the vessel launched it forward towards the center of the circular city that extended twelve miles out in every direction.

“Amazing, the chaos these things can cause.” Miqeul commented while shoving his way through the agitated masses.

“Especially considering we only had one bullet for it.” Tristina added in agreement.

As the sun crept closer towards the center of the sky signifying its coming descent past midday, Kaszbein wandered out of the rundown house that served as his home the previous day. Remnants of a loud blast and the following pandemonium of screams and panic dissipated along the cool breeze. As his grey eyes took in the sun that was now beginning to descend on Nandule, the city of his birth, Kaszbein began his journey towards the outskirts. There he would compete in one of the few illegal fighting rings sponsored by a moderately powerful crime syndicate known as the Lutanics. Money was hard to come by these days. Work was scarce and the ruling body of the kingdom known as Vandaria were short on solutions to the problem. However, unlike most of the peasants and beggars scattered throughout the city, Kaszbein didn’t blame the rulers. It was the fault of the people for letting themselves be ruled. He would never live his life according to the rules and laws of others. He would forge his own path in life. Even if that meant death would be more likely to claim him.

2: The Inquiry

 

Rorbel emerged from the wooden carriage and immediately stood tall, revealing no signs of fatigue, frustration, or fear. Even though what lay in front of him had unconsciously widened the eyes and lowered the jaws of many a solider; this was Rorbel’s fourth visit to the royal palace grounds. Still, no matter how many times his eyes had taken in the awe-inspiring sight of Vandria’s capitol, hiding his amazement was always difficult. Or it would have been had his mind not been distracted by the reason he was there. This was no award ceremony or parade for a special event. Today, Rorbel knew, would be a day of inquiry. The final words of his guard captain still echoed inside of his mind; it is out of my hands. The moment Rorbel had returned to his guard station after losing sight of the thieves amongst the frenzied crowds of the bazaar, Captain Hanzsack had been waiting for him in the company of two guards from the palace. After what seemed like days of questioning and with a reserved expression of pity on his face, Hanzsack had given Rorbel strict instructions: report to Major Greenwalt at the palace headquarters for debriefing.

Neither of Rorbel’s chaperones seemed to be tense or giving him the extra attention guards reserve for detainees so whatever trouble he was in, Rorbel could at least breathe easy with the knowledge that it wasn’t dungeon worthy. That is, unless the men escorting him were too low in the ranks to be informed of the fate of their charge.  Rorbel shook the thought away and started forward, following his escort towards the palace guard headquarters.

The palace gates were the largest structures the humble city guardsman had seen made completely of steel, towering over him so high he had to arch his head back just to glimpse the top. The wide opening seemed to swallow him and his escorts as they crossed the threshold which separated the royal grounds from the city. Almost all of the buildings, homes, and other structures lining the palace grounds were made mostly of stone and concrete with steel and other metals laced throughout for structural integrity. Deep burgundies, bright golds, and glimmering emeralds were splashed across the walls and roofs.

Rorbel always felt out of place in his beige uniform when surrounded by the breathtaking beauty of the palace grounds. The dominant colors were that of his nation, Vandaria and the city guardsman always wondered why his country’s national colors were only displayed on the uniforms of its front line soldiers and palace guards. Every time he laid eyes upon the royal guards, Rorbel couldn’t help thinking how the dark red uniforms would be a welcome change from the depressing beige that covered him.

To Rorbel’s surprise, the guard headquarters was not his final destination. Nearly two hundred feet from the main gate, the rectangular building that housed a single battalion charged with the defense and security of the palace bustled with activity. It seemed as if counter-siege training was the focal point for the day’s exercises. Although it only stood about a quarter in relation to the height of the palace, the headquarters was a fortress in its own right with an iron gate serving as its main point of entry. A sturdier, more decorative carriage met Rorbel and his escort twenty feet or so from the guard base. Only one of the royal guards boarded the carriage with Rorbel.

“We’re not meeting the Major at the headquarters?” Rorbel couldn’t help voicing his curiosity after settling in to the new carriage.

“No,” the royal guard answered plainly. “Major Greenwalt has been inside the palace since this morning.”

Rorbel knew very little about the inner workings of palace politics and even less concerning military routines on the royal grounds. But the thought of a military commander below that of a general spending half a day inside of the royal palace didn’t sit well with the city guardsman. Perhaps one became a dignitary or politician once one rose high enough in the ranks? Maybe the job focus would shift from organizing training exercises and battle plans to other matters. What those matters could have possibly been eluded Rorbel’s mind but he hoped that his allowing those thieves to escape hadn’t been what kept the Major held up in front of some royal assembly all day. He read the name stitched into the uniform of the palace guard.

“That must be one long report, Degorin,” Rorbel said, making one more attempt at gathering information.

“Don’t count on it,” Degorin chuckled. “Greenwalt spends more time in the palace than his own home. He’s from one of the wealthiest families in the city and it’s obvious he wants to be appointed to a governmental position but his father wanted him to be a well-rounded aristocrat. So after daddy pulled a few strings, Greenwalt was recruited into the royal guard as a Captain, straight out of school.”

“How did he land the promotion?” Rorbel wondered, a bit relieved that every unusual thing going on that day wasn’t about his failure.

“Beats me,” Degorin shrugged. “I’m not saying the guy’s incompetent or anything but he damn sure hasn’t earned any of the respect his rank demands. Especially since all he does is kiss the ass of every dignitary inside the palace from sunrise to sunset.”

Rorbel couldn’t help laughing at Degorin’s candid decorum but at the same time a new worry crept into the back of his mind. It was hard to believe that the escape of two jewel thieves could bring about this level of inquiry. Escaped criminals and unsolved crimes were common, especially in lower class neighborhoods. Usually a quick debriefing to the guard Captain would be enough but now Rorbel found himself in a royal carriage on his way to the palace to be debriefed by a Major. What if the jewels stolen belonged to one of the Major’s aristocratic friends and to boost his standing, Greenwalt was willing to overtly punish the incompetent guard responsible for the escape of the thieves? Rorbel despised commanders who chose to single out lower ranking soldiers as examples for whatever point they were trying to make.

“We’re here,” Degorin announced after the carriage came to a halt.

Rorbel found his head craned back once again, this time taking in the sight of the grandest building in all of Vandaria. It was difficult to count the number of towers. They were all massive bulks of various metals and concrete. Not only were the towers adorned with the official colors of the nation but various tints of blue were sprinkled throughout the walls and spires of each tower. The entire square shaped structure extended nearly a mile out in each direction with various watchtowers connected by concrete walkways. It was a miniature city in its own right, surrounded by the small city that was the palace grounds, surrounded by Nandule.

“Corporal Stigmantun!” The male voice boomed from one of the guards posted at the palace gate, snapping Rorbel out of his trance.

“Good luck,” Degorin said giving Rorbel a sympathetic smirk and pat on the shoulder.

 

After twenty minutes of travel through the luxurious inner corridors of the palace and another forty of waiting outside of the war and strategies chamber, Rorbel rose from his seat at the sight of a large and extravagant entourage making its way down the hall. Most of the group consisted of officers; staff members assigned to assist their commander dressed in fancy uniforms decorated with medals and unit insignias. The garbs were designed for parties and coronations rather than a battlefield. A few governmental attendants filled out the remainder of the group.

Major Matheous Greenwalt led the assembly and the moment Rorbel set eyes on the young upstart, he knew his long day was going to be a lot longer. Rorbel didn’t mind meeting officers nearly half his age. It came with the territory of not being interested in rising through the ranks. What Rorbel did mind were people who felt they were better than others. The Corporal noticed that the military rarely created those types of people but the power a high rank gave to those born from an elite family who were taught that the blood coursing through their veins made them superior was dangerous. Watching Greenwalt as he strode down the hall told Rorbel everything he needed to know. His long, black, and slightly curled hair bounced just above the silver shoulder guards connected to his pitch-black jacket. Rorbel couldn’t tell what fabric the uniform was made of, most likely something worth more than a year of his salary. Three gold buttons lined the jacket from the top of The Major’s heart to just below his rib cage. The top button was left undone, causing the fabric to flip down putting its blood red underbelly on display. Black pants tucked into black boots that clicked along the marble tile floors of the hallway covered the lower half of the Major. If anything about the young officer’s clothing confirmed Rorbel’s suspicions about the man’s character it was the flowing black cape stitched into his shoulder guards. Like his jacket, the underside of the long cloth was a bright red that clashed with the ebony uniform.

Rorbel carried a silver iron helmet that he usually never wore in his right hand. The headgear was tucked under his left arm as the Corporal snapped to attention, giving the Major a crisp salute. As he stood there, keeping his eyes fixed on the Major’s eyes, his tense nerves began to loosen. Maybe things wouldn’t go as bad as he previously believed.

“Corporal Stigmantun reporting as ordered, sir,” Rorbel said with a raised yet respectful tone.

“In the briefing room,” Greenwalt waved away the salute. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we?”

Then again, Rorbel thought while suppressing a curse, his gut was usually more sensible than his mind. Everyone spread out into the briefing room and took a seat at the long rectangular table in the center. Greenwalt sat at the head of the table and motioned with his gloved hand for Rorbel, who stood near the entrance waiting to be instructed on what to do.

“Sit down, Corporal,” The Major ordered.

Rorbel sat at the only empty seat at the rear end of the table, placing his helmet on the maple wood in front of him. He straightened himself and kept his hands folded on his lap. His curiosity at what the Major was discussing with the two officers seated to the left and right of him was plastered over his face.

“You’ve had a busy day, Corporal,” Greenwalt said suddenly, turning his pompous gaze to the city guardsman only after he finished his sentence.

“Yes sir,” Rorbel said after taking in a breath.

“I’m assuming you do not realize the value of the item that has been lost due to your failure to apprehend those two thieves?” The Major’s question was more of an accusation.

“A report came down that two thieves had stolen jewelry from one of the inner city estates. We were not informed of the value or the owner of the item,” Rorbel responded.

“Nor should you have needed to be,” Greenwalt spat. “However, it would benefit you to know that Governor Venzwurlo would very much like it if his personal property were returned to him.”

Rorbel’s eyes shifted slightly as his mind processed the situation. “The item belonged to the Governor?”

“I am not in the business of repeating myself,” Greenwalt said with a snide grin. “I realize speech and reading comprehension is lacking amongst you outliers that is why I am using such small words.”

If the insult or the accompanying chuckles from the surrounding officers upset him, Rorbel’s expression and demeanor did not show it. “Yes sir.”

“Fifteen years with the city guard,” Greenwalt said while glancing over a file set in front of him by one of his aides. “Rarely a mishap throughout your…luxurious career. I’ve met your type, Stigmantun. You keep your head down, avoid making waves, and may…retire with that twenty year pension.”

“Yes sir,” Rorbel figured being the good soldier and letting the little brat get his muscle flexing out of the way would get him home faster.

“However, sometimes there is one mistake that runs the risk of taking all of that away,” Greenwalt said with a bit of malice seeping into his tone.

An eerie silence engulfed the room for a few moments. Rorbel figured the Major wanted some sort of response or plea but what Greenwalt failed to realize is that the Corporal had met types like him and knew exactly how to handle them. Of course that didn’t mean Rorbel wasn’t fearful for his job security. Challenging the Major would be futile. If he turned out to be the type that relished in the groveling of those he felt were beneath him then Corporal Stigmantun may in fact become citizen Stigmantun by the end of the day. If there was one thing Rorbel would not do, is grovel at the proverbial feet of anyone. Not even the king.

“Reports indicate that you ordered your men to retreat,” Greenwalt said with a sort of refined disgust.

“Yes sir,” Rorbel replied.

“Why?” The Major’s question hung in the air for a few seconds.

“They were in possession of a firearm. The weapon is far superior to the standard issue swords that—” Rorbel started.

“I’m well aware of what a gun is, Corporal,” Greenwalt interrupted. “You outnumbered the fugitives whom according to the reports had only one firearm. They could have been overtaken.”

“At the risk of one of my men,” Rorbel countered.

“It is my understanding that soldiers swear an oath to uphold the safety and order of this kingdom at the expense of their lives,” The Major stated coldly.

“We do,” Rorbel said calmly. “But I won’t send one of my men to their death over some rocks.” Though almost unnoticeable, Rorbel managed to spot a few glints of respect within the eyes of Greenwalt’s entourage.

“Which is why you may find the decision will no longer be yours to make,” Greenwalt threatened.

So a demotion was as far as this was going to be taken? Rorbel let out a subtle sigh of relief. Rank meant little amongst soldiers who lived in the outer city districts. Promotions were gained on the battlefield and city guards were almost guaranteed a permanent station within their respective cities. Captain was the highest achievable rank within any given district. A sergeant was put in charge of each platoon of guards and a corporal assigned to lead each squad within those platoons. There was really only one high ranking position within each district and the pay raise wasn’t worth the headache. The city guard was one of the highest paying jobs for lowborn citizens and Rorbel made more than enough to give his family a comfortable life.

“If the Major feels that I am unfit to lead a squadron of soldiers within the city guard then so be it,” Rorbel stated, breaking the half-minute long silence.

“The Major…” Greenwalt’s expression darkened, “feels that you should be stricken from the ranks entirely.”

Another elongated period of silence swept over the room as Rorbel could no longer maintain his calm and collected demeanor. Greenwalt’s threat had managed to slice through the Corporal’s disciplined posture forcing shock into his expression. The loss of income would surely see Rorbel and his family on the streets within a few months. A disgraced soldier forcibly discharged from the military would have no hope of finding any high wage work within the city. With a word and the stroke of a pen, Greenwalt could have ended Rorbel’s life as he knew it. That such a man could destroy someone so effortlessly disgusted Rorbel to a point of fury which had taken all of his strength to contain.

“I do not believe that now would be the best time to reduce the number of combat soldiers within the ranks, Major,” a new voice to the room cut through the tension building between each end of the table.

Rorbel did not recognize the voice, which was no surprise to the Corporal since he wasn’t familiar with anyone residing within the palace. All eyes turned to the origin of the new arrival. The man was covered in dark brown leather with chainmail armor peeking out from beneath the seams. Leather greaves and armguards covered with steel plating protected his legs and arms.

Rorbel found himself rising to his feet at the booming shout of attention from one of Greenwalt’s staff. Who could this man be that his presence demanded a Major be called to attention? While studying the young stranger’s facial features a distant memory began to resurface in his mind. In the end it was the long stringy blonde hair which resembled his own that brought the name crashing back into the front of his mind.

“General Thorneson,” Greenwalt greeted the new arrival with a hint of annoyance.

“Major,” Thorneson returned the favor. “At ease gentlemen.”

The soldiers and secretaries began retaking their seats until the General held his hand up, halting one soldier who was halfway seated. “Corporal…” Thorneson could not make out Rorbel’s name on his uniform.

“Stigmantun, sir,” Rorbel said, rising back to attention.

“A word if you would,” Thorneson motioned for Rorbel to follow and turned to exit the room.

“General…sir,” Greenwalt fumed. “I have not finished debriefing the Corporal.”

“Yes,” Thorneson shot back coolly without turning to face the Major. “You indeed have.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Rorbel obediently followed the General out of the strategy room. Being pulled from yet another debriefing only to endure a third was not something the Corporal wanted. However, being pulled from the near kangaroo court Major Greenwalt intended to use as a stepping stone to further his favor with the Governor was a welcomed turn of events even if it meant having to explain the day’s exploits for a third time. The journey to where the General intended to speak with the Corporal was a bit shorter than his trek through the lower levels of the palace interior. Now Rorbel found himself climbing the upper levels of the structure. Over the ledge of an open walkway, Rorbel could see the half mile-wide circular courtyard constructed into the center of the Palace that boasted a lush garden. He was led into a capsule like device constructed into the wall that he had never laid eyes upon before. At the push of a button from the General, the capsule seemed to dislodge itself from the current level of the palace and began to rise to the higher floors of the building.

“What sort of contraption is this?” Rorbel wondered aloud.

A slight chuckle escaped the General. “It has been a while since I have seen someone’s reaction to their first elevator ride.”

“I take great pride in being nothing more than a simple man,” Rorbel said, too distracted by the view through the elevator’s glass doors to stand at attention. The guard had heard of such electrical powered devices but had never experienced a ride within one.

“Why is that?” Thorneson asked.

“Because complicated men hold the lives and wellbeing of entire cities within their hands,” Rorbel replied. “My concern only lies with my family and at the unlikely chance of some outside attack, the safety of my district.”

The General grunted in understanding as the elevator came to a halt. Another five minutes of travel brought the pair into what many called the most wondrous display the palace had to offer.

“Welcome to the Nandule palace air dock,” General Thorneson said with smirk a while holding up the view of the dock and the airship docked within it with his right hand.

Rorbel was nearly floored from his amazement of the sheer size of the new world around him. The Corporal knew that the airship in front of him was the same one he had seen earlier but his mind had trouble processing the fact that the entire massive structure of wood and metal could fit inside of one section of the palace. Outside amongst the clouds the ship seemed to be ten times larger than the building he inhabited but now as Rorbel’s head turned, letting his gaze take in the entire dock, he figured at least four more of the massive ships could be fit into the domelike portion of the palace. His theory was supported by the indented sections of the floor and enormous clamp stations spread throughout the dock.

“The roof is made of a rare metal called titanium,” Thorneson explained while directing Rorbel’s gaze upward. “The thick metal framing you see lacing the ceiling like a spider web is actually where the titanium sheets that make up the dome retract in to let our airships dock.”

“Incredible,” Rorbel managed.

“Over here,” Thorneson smirked.

The General led Rorbel to one of the walls of the dock then motioned towards one of the hundreds of engineers bustling about the area. Within seconds the titanium wall pulled back, leaving the two with a ballistic glass view of southwest Nandule. Rorbel resisted the urge of stating that he could indeed see his home from atop the palace.

“What do you know of the item taken by the two thieves that escaped earlier today?” Thorneson’s question was abrupt and broke the atmosphere of wonder that had clouded Rorbel’s senses.

“N-nothing, sir.” Rorbel regained his military composure and snapped to attention.

“It’s all right, Corporal,” Thorneson waved away the renewed tension. “Consider yourself permanently at ease with me.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Rorbel let himself relax as much as his fifteen years of service would allow. “A report came down the pipeline that two thieves; one male and one female whom had just stolen jewelry from a wealthy resident within the inner Northern district had been last spotted northeast of my sector. I spread my squad out in threes, in coordination with third squad. My patrol happened to be the one they crossed paths with first.”

“I see,” Thorneson nodded. “What can you tell me of their character?”

“Um,” Rorbel struggled for an answer. “Well they were young and either carefree or highly skilled. Perhaps both.”

“What gave you that impression?” Thorneson wondered.

“Well…they were arguing,” Rorbel said showing only a fragment of his embarrassment. “As I have said I consider myself a simple man but I take my job very seriously and I ensure that those under my command do the same. We are all highly trained and yet these two thugs seemed to be more concerned with their banter than us. But, as I am sure you already know it was the weapon they were in possession of that was the key to their escape more than anything else.”

“Yes,” Thorneson nodded. “A nine-millimeter handgun.”

“They did not have it before we cornered them inside one of the abandoned homes near the bazaar,” Rorbel explained. “I still cannot piece together where that weapon came from. Perhaps it was stashed there by an accomplice or the thieves themselves,” Rorbel shook his head. “But I doubt they planned on being chased into the southern district bazaar so they must have just known that it was there…but how? And how did it end up there in the first place?”

“These are all questions I expect you to be able to answer after you apprehend these thieves,” Thorneson said, interrupting Rorbel’s train of thought.

“What?” Rorbel’s wide eyes wordlessly shouted his level of shock.

“I can understand and respect your desire to remain out of the more grandiose levels of the military,” Thorneson replied. “Unfortunately for you, one of my modest talents is the ability to recognize a born leader when I see one.”

“But…” Rorbel pleaded.

“That being said,” Thorneson continued. “I am promoting you to the rank of Colonel and placing the entire city guard under your command.

“But,” it took a moment for Rorbel to find his voice. “I hardly see how a failure constitutes a reward such as this.”

“Ah but it is not a reward,” the General countered. “You said yourself that you wish to remain out of the limelight.”

“I fail to understand why you want me in charge of the city guard, sir,” Rorbel said flatly.

“It is rather simple,” Thorneson said. His hands clasped behind his back as he turned to stare out at the city. “The best way to capture these two thieves is for those who know this city to hunt them down. And they will need a commander who is one of them. One they can trust. Not some pompous aristocrat like Greenwalt. I am sure you only know the current commander of the city guard by name because your Captain requires it of you so your unit is not embarrassed should ever they meet him. But I have a fleeting suspicion that most if not all of the city guard would know more than your name. They would know your personality, your quirks, and your pet peeves because you would strive to ensure your men can rely on you.” He turned to the Corporal. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” was Rorbel’s only reply.

“Then it is settled,” Thorneson said with a light slap on Rorbel’s shoulder.

“Sir,” Rorbel began slowly. “The main reason I chose to keep my career path a simple one is because I have a family to look after. No…not just look after but enjoy. I love coming home to my wife and children every day and I know that as commander of the city guard I would not be effective without neglecting them.”

General Thorneson considered the man in front of him for nearly a minute before speaking. “I made myself promise two things when I began my rise through the ranks: I would respect those under command and I would never issue an order that I myself would be incapable of following. I will not force this upon you, Corporal but consider the reasoning behind my proposal before making your decision. I would also ask that you realize the importance of keeping what I am about to tell you confidential.”

The request was as unexpected to Rorbel as it was welcome. “You have my word.”

“The theft of a precious jewel from the Governor is known only to a handful of high ranking officials. What even fewer know is that is only a cover story for what was actually taken. While it was indeed a jewel its value ranges far beyond that of monetary worth. The diamond is in actuality a focusing gem used in tandem with a one of a kind map. When the two are combined the location of an ancient weapon cache will be revealed. Whichever kingdom controls that cache will have the balance of power tipped in its favor.”

Again Rorbel was stunned and almost unable to speak. “Weapons so powerful that one kingdom would be able to stand against seven?”

“Yes,” Thorneson’s tone lost its youthful vitality. “Until one month ago I was confident that no other nation even knew of the cache’s existence. Now my opinion has changed. I had just returned aboard the airship currently docked here from a secret mission deep into the wild lands where I retrieved the map only to discover the map key had been stolen. There is little doubt in my mind that those thieves knew exactly what it was they were taking and now my greatest concern is that they are of a different nation sent here to gather intelligence and if possible disrupt our plans to locate the cache.”

“And if I were to capture these thieves and retrieve the key?” Rorbel was blunt. “What would be the goal of the king if Vandaria were to possess such weapons?”

“I knew you were the right man for this assignment the moment I heard you speaking with Greenwalt,” Thorneson said as the Corporal’s words brought another smirk to his face. “The king and his military commanders are in unanimous agreement. The plan would be to simply monitor the cache site and ensure the weapons are never unearthed. The eight kingdoms have held a steady and prosperous truce for over a millennium but as time passes and populations grow, territorial disputes will become inevitable. We must ensure that no one kingdom can annihilate the other. That is my sole motivation for seeing the map key returned to our hands.”

“And a trump card should war break out would be better in the hands of our people than foreigners,” Rorbel added.

“Honorable and practical,” Thorneson chuckled. “A true soldier fit for command. You must believe me when I tell you that it is not my intention to disrupt your life in such a matter. However, you must also realize that if those weapons were to fall into the hands of a kingdom that holds weaker reservations with using them—”

“Then time with my loved ones would be the least of my worries,” Rorbel said grimly.

“Take this position,” Thorneson said after placing his hand on Rorbel’s shoulder. “I swear to you that after the key is returned and the cache location a is a highly guarded secret you will need only ask and I will demote you as far down the chain of command as you wish.”

“For the safety of Vandaria and more importantly, my family,” Rorbel said with a new sense of determination. “I will not fail in this endeavor.”

“We will work together on this,” Thorneson said with a smile. “I will leave decisions within the city guard to you. Now let us see about obtaining some better gear for you. Equipment fit for a Colonel.”

About fifteen minutes later, after Rorbel and Thorneson exited the air dock elevator, the two spotted Major Greenwalt strutting towards them with a scowl covering his face.

“I was informed that the General had taken my subordinate to the air dock for a bit of sight-seeing,” Greenwalt sneered. “While I am not one to question the motives of a superior officer I must admit that even us lowly Majors have important matters to attend and do not appreciate having their meetings interrupted. Now, if you would kindly return the Corporal to me I would like to finish—”

“The Colonel is actually quite busy at the moment,” General Thorneson interrupted. “I am sure you can obtain whatever further information you require from future reports.”

The shock almost knocked the Major off of his feet “C-Colonel?” His voice nearly cracked with anger and disbelief.

 “Yes, Major,” Rorbel could not help allowing his lips to form the childish smile of someone that had just outwitted a bully. “I am sure the reports will be more than enough. Lots of big words to help inner district folk like you feel all smart and superior.”

Greenwalt could barely control the rage boiling inside of his chest. How could this outer district scum possibly be promoted over him? It was unjust; a travesty. The king would hear of this.

“Oh, and Major,” Rorbel started, unable to resist one last taunt. “Don’t forget to salute the next time you see me. Military tradition and all of that.” With a wink and a sly smirk, Rorbel continued down the hall with a chuckling General Thorneson beside him.

Major Greenwalt remained standing in the middle of the hall as crowds of officers, diplomats, and dignitaries passed by him as if he were invisible. His hand tightened so hard in fury that the leather glove covering it cringed beneath the pressure.

 

Nearly two hours later, Colonel Rorbel Stigmantun finally found himself home and in the arms of his loving wife. His children ran up and wrapped their arms around his waist.

“Where have you been?” Tesena asked. “I was beginning to get worried.”

“Tesena,” Rorbel began with a sigh. “Let’s sit down. I have something important to discuss with you.”

 

3: The Pit

During his first visit through the so called underbelly of society, Kaszbein found it difficult to hold back the gagging his body demanded. Mixtures of blood and sweat combined with an assortment of animal and human feces; a retched concoction born from basic human vices. Yet now Kaszbein’s senses were fully acclimated to the atmosphere of lust and brutality.

A different world pulsed with activity near the southern outskirts of the city beneath the streets. Mining caverns long since abandoned by early Vandarian settlers were retrofitted into revolutionary sewage tunnels that provided a better quality of life for the citizens of Nandule. These tunnels often served a second purpose which brought hundreds of Nadule’s criminal element together in what law abiding citizens commonly referred to as a cesspool of corruption and debauchery.

One particular fight in progress caught Kaszbein’s attention. Inside one of the twelve foot iron cages surrounded by about fifty spectating gamblers, two massive fighters squared off against one another in a battle that may have ended in death. Kaszbein held a vivid recollection of the rules for the pit. Though death was not always a condition for victory it was never a disqualifier.

One of the fighters; an impressive two hundred pounds of muscle with black curly hair covering his head and chest seemed to be the obvious victor. His skin was only of a slightly darker complexion than that of Kaszbein and he kept a distance of at least four feet from his opponent. His right fist shot out in reaction to the advance of his adversary and smashed across the other man’s jaw. Blood shot from the blond haired fighter’s mouth and an unnerving crunch echoed above the carnal shouts of the spectating crowd. He stumbled back, favoring his broken jaw for nearly five seconds before his opponent closed in. Moments later Kaszbein watched the blond fighter fall to the wooden floorboards of the cage and knew the man would not be returning to his feet without aid from the arena cleaners. 

The signup kiosks were always strategically placed in front of the slave auctioning lines. New young fighters eager to become famed and wealthy were easily lured in by the prospect of owning one of the attractive female or male servants displayed in cages. As were bored highborn women with little to do all day other than watching men beat each other to a pulp and later fulfilling their own lustful desires. For those not looking to invest in the life of another human being over a quick thrill, several prostitutes walked up and down the line of fighting and slave cages.

“Eight silver vailings for a single match.” The kiosk attendant said flatly. “Or if you’re feeling adventurous, twelve vailings to enter the tournament.”

Kaszbein placed twelve circular pieces of silver onto the kiosk.

“Normally I don’t bother askin’ but are you sure you want to enter into this event, kid?” The attendant asked.

Kaszbein remained silent, which prompted a shrug from the attendant before rising to his feet.

“Suit yourself.” He said while wrapping a black cloth around Kaszbein’s left arm that signified him as a tournament participant. “I’ve seen many a man step into the ring long before these underground fights were introduced into the underworld.”

Although the man was bald, Kaszbein could make out his old age through the slightly sagging skin of his face.

“Out of all the men who have stepped out alive,” the attendant continued, “not one of them was as scrawny as you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Kaszbein let the attendant’s observations roll off the back of his mind.

“You’ve gotta be more than just physically fit.” The attendant said, motioning towards the ring and the fight that had briefly caught Kaszbein’s attention. “You have to be a mountain of muscle in order to survive in the ring.”

Kaszbein faced the ring, turning his back to the attendant and watched while the blond man was dragged from the ring, his face leaving a streak of blood across the floor while the victor proudly shouted at the crowd, flexing his impressive physique.

The attendant grunted nonchalantly as Kaszbein walked off towards the many fighting rings scattered throughout the arena. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya when you’re being carried off in a body bag.”

It was true; Kaszbein had never fought in the pit but he had witnessed hundreds of fights since the inception of the event. The cliché was not lost on the young man. But Kaszbein knew there was more to fighting than the bulk of the fighter. He was no mountainous powerhouse but he was fast and cunning. Winning wouldn’t be easy, but it wouldn’t be impossible either.

Half an hour passed before the first match of the tournament was officially announced. Kaszbein didn’t expect to be in the first match of the event but he figured the pit organizers wanted to get the least likely contenders out of the way first. Barely anyone would bet on him, Kaszbein knew. He also knew few bets meant small profits so the fact that his opponent was the towering black haired wall of muscle from the previous singles match did little to surprise the first time tournament fighter.

“What’s this?” The black haired fighter glowered. “Kid, are you lost?”

Kaszbein answered by letting his right foot slide forward and raising his hands into defensive positions. He ignored the sneers and snickers from the crowd of bloodthirsty men and women. The same people who would be identified as lords and nobles on any other day. Highborn aristocrats who looked down on the common man now stood side by side with elements of the working class in the company of criminals and slavers.

“Is that how it is then?” The wall of muscle spat. “Promise I won’t break all of your bones.”

To Kaszbein’s surprise the huge size of the man did not prevent him from displaying an impressive burst of speed, clearing the eight foot distance between them in less than two seconds. Of course this only aided Kaszbein in executing his strategy. His muscular opponent threw a massive fist forward with enough force behind it to break almost every bone in Kaszbein’s face. Fortunately for the young challenger his speed was more than that of his opponent. Kaszbein sunk beneath his adversary, hooking his arm around the large man’s arm. In less than a second, Kaszbein spun himself around his opponent and planted his foot firmly into the back of the larger man’s knee.

The wall of muscle nearly smashed a few planks of the floorboards in half with his knees as they hit the old wood with a loud thud. Normally after performing such a maneuver, Kaszbein would hold an opponent down by the outstretched arm. Struggling against such a hold would result in said arm being broken. However, the size and strength of this particular rival placed another plan from Kaszbein into motion. Instead of holding the man down, Kaszbein quickly grabbed the sides of his adversary’s head then rammed his knee into the back of the man’s skull.

Silence engulfed the crowd as the once towering display of muscle slammed into the floorboards face first and unconscious. Kaszbein exhaled a breath of adrenaline induced exhilaration and stepped over to the locked door of the cage, waiting to be released. A brief moment of surprise overtook him as the crowd suddenly burst into a frenzy of loud cheers. Kaszbein could not understand why the mob in front of him was cheering. He knew that most likely every one of their bets went towards his defeated opponent yet they still cheered even though they lost money.

Kaszbein stepped through the cheering mob, ignoring the pats and caresses on his shoulders. The crowd loved him; a slim muscular wildcard thrown into a mix of large to nearly gargantuan fighters. Bets in Kaszbein’s favor were being thrown down before his next opponent was named. Several prostitutes attempted to secure a session with the young contender before his next match.

One woman whose attire did not resemble the many working girls or highborn aristocracy caught Kaszbein’s attention. She was young, no older than twenty and her dark red hair made her stand out amongst the brown and black cloaks concealing the identities of the surrounding nobles. Brown, dirt stained leather covered her from the neck down and the hilt of a dagger nestled against her waist glinted under the torchlights. A look of intrigue covered her face.

“The fuck you looking at?” Kaszbein challenged.

“Not sure yet.” Tristina smirked after approaching the young fighter and gently sliding her finger across his chest. “But time will make all things clear.”

Kaszbein watched with slight bewilderment as the red haired woman disappeared into the crowds of thieves and whores. He figured she most likely was a thief herself and instinctively patted himself down making sure none of his belongings had been taken. 

“You there!” A deep male voice called out in the young fighter’s direction.

Kaszbein turned his attention towards the voice and was greeted by a well-built man who looked to be nearing his fifties. Long grey hair extended down below his chin, which was covered with a bushy beard and mustache. Dressed only in black shoes and grey trousers with a studded sheath holding a large broadsword and round iron shield on his back, the old muscular man stepped towards the young fighter.

“Mistress Gablen would like an audience with you.” The old man said after stopping five feet from his target.

Kaszbein knew the name Gablen. Its owner was a high ranking member within the Lutanic crime syndicate. It was most likely her who was in charge of this particular pit event. In order to stay ahead of the authorities, pit fights changed location with every event. In the eight years since Kaszbein had discovered the secret to learning the location of where the next event would take place, he had come to recognize the names of all the Lutanic members put in charge of organizing the spectacle. But why did this one want to see him?

“Now.” The old man demanded.

“I have this thing about people telling me what to do.” Kaszbein shot back.

“And I have this thing about people not doing what I tell them to do.” The old man snarled while unsheathing the large sword on his back.

A few eyes from the crowds took in the unfolding events by the kiosks and a small group began to gather around the two warriors.

“Perhaps a more polite approach would yield better results, Marson.” The voice was mature, yet cool, almost playful.

Kaszbein studied the new arrival carefully, noting the forward curving sword resting in a black sheath clipped to a brown belt. He was physically fit, slightly bulkier than Kaszbein. Brown trousers and shoes covered his lower half while a white long sleeve shirt and a dark green vest covered his torso. Kaszbein guessed the man was nearly twice his age although his handsome and cleanly shaven features could hide this fact from an untrained eye.

“Fuck off.” Kaszbein warned.

“Unfortunately, we cannot.” Miquel shrugged away the tension surrounding the situation. “You see, refusal is not something Lady Gablen is accustomed to.”

“She’s about to be.” Kaszbein said while turning his back on the two henchmen.

“Arrogant little shit!” Marson roared as he raised his sword, ready to slice open Kaszbein’s back.

“Now, now Marson.” Miquel said just before resting his hand on the older man’s wrists, gently pushing the thug’s arms down, lowering the sword. “The lady would like to speak with the young man, not be the indirect cause of his funeral.”

“Do not presume that simply because you happen to be on business terms with Mistress Gablen that we are equals, thief.” Abael Marson said with a nobility that betrayed his current appearance. “Or that you could ever give orders to me.”

“My apologies.” Miquel said with a tone that almost sounded genuine. “I was simply pointing out the wisdom in ensuring our guest is breathing for our meeting.”

Once Kaszbein was out of earshot of the two old men he let out a sigh of annoyance. Why did everyone suddenly want to bother him?

“Halt!” A voice boomed from within the crowds.

Five men covered in studded leather armor stepped out in front of Kaszbein, blocking his path.

“As I said.” Marson’s voice flowed from behind Kaszbein. “Mistress Gablen would like an audience with you.” 

The young fighter's gaze shifted from front to rear before he responded. “No one tells me what to do.”

“Everyone is told what to do.” Marson countered. “Those who refuse to listen rarely live long. Now follow us and you may continue living beyond this day.”

“You’ll have to kill me.” Kaszbein said coldly.

“Or,” a familiar female voice entered Kaszbein’s ears next, “maybe if someone asked you nicely, we can avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”

Kaszbein was once again greeted with the sight of the red haired woman covered in leather. The dagger was still sheathed against her waist.

“Talena Gablen only wishes to speak with the man responsible for knocking out one of her prized fighters in the first round.” Tristina explained with the most sensual voice she could fake.

Kaszbein eyed the woman carefully as she circled him while she spoke, gently caressing his shoulder with an extended finger. “Sounds like an invitation to an unpleasant retaliation.” He concluded.

“Oh, far from it.” Tristina assured the young fighter. “If that were the case I’m sure you can see it would be no trouble at all for Talena to have these guards murder you.”

“Might be more trouble than any of you are prepared for.” Kaszbein’s tone never lost its intimidating menace.

“Perhaps.” Miquel chimed in. “But why endure such a hassle when all you need do is have a simple conversation?”

“So would you please accompany me to the upper level of the pit?” Tristina asked with a playful smile.

“I came here to fight and make money.” Kaszbein said with barely a second of consideration towards Tristina’s request. “Not waste my time talking with old shit stains.” He let his glare land on Marson at the end of his sentence.

“Insolent little bastard!” Marson barked while raising his sword a second time.

“Calm down old man.” Miquel said coolly. “As I said, Talena wants to speak with him, not kill him.”

“For now.” Marson grunted.

Kaszbein stepped away from the group towards the fighting cage designated for his next match. Now he would most likely be distracted during the bout, which put him at a severe disadvantage, especially if his next opponent was anywhere near the physique of his last vanquished foe. Even with the knowledge of knowing his mind must remain clear he couldn’t help but wonder what offers from the pit boss he may have declined. A life under the employ of a high ranking crime syndicate member could at times be as luxurious as the life of a noble if not more so. But a life of taking orders was not a life Kaszbein wanted. No, he would carve out his own path with his own two hands, starting with his next opponent.