Narratives of Kaos: Book One: Mystique: Chapt One: Chris Lasiter

Narratives of Kaos
Book 1:  Mystique  
 
Chapter One:
Chris Lasiter
   
 
Chris Lasiter always knew his superiorities were curses. Curses that just added to his already tortured soul. He waited, practically yearned for death. Unfortunately, Chris was an... immortal of sorts. Living more than his fair share of years, he had seen things that would provoke insanity within a mortal mind.
There wasn’t much that conveyed his age, the actual number he couldn’t remember. He had an educated guess, but after centuries, perhaps millennia of existence, he had forgotten most of it. Since he could remember his hair had depicted the color gray, that of which matched his granite-like eyes.
He was a little more than two meters tall, with the physique that could have matched that of a Greek god, and the mind that compared to any and all mathematicians. Again, something he felt was more of a problem. His only security, ironically, was war. It was his specialty.
 
These thoughts returned to him as he walked through the forests of Kaos; on his way to meet an old friend.
It had been close to twenty-seven years since Chris first arrived in Kaos. How he got there, nobody asked. To the people of this new world, he was a god. Worshiped into the royal position of King of Kaos. A title once held by an evil man Chris had overcome but twenty years earlier.
 
On this day, Chris Lasiter wore what he did normally: pirate garb. A grey vest that really illustrated his physical form (unintentionally), a pair of long, smokey trousers, and pewter boots. His accessories included a belt, which he used to sheath his two custom forged cutlass swords, a bundle of obsidian chains around his neck, and a few silver rings.
His swords, however, were forged by his own hand. They were the only cutlass blades in existence in the world. While cutlass swords in his old world were typically shorter, these were as long as the average broadsword, perhaps even longer. Not to mention that they was a bit stronger than most close combat weaponry. The hilts had entwining interiors of faded obsidian marble and cloth.
However, Chris wasn’t one to concern himself with his appearance; he was more interested in his surroundings.
The late summer wind was a gentle caresser of the vegetation that was still damp from the morning precipitation. The sun was just setting over the horizon, that of which consisted of the jagged peaks of mountains to the west; while, to the east, stars were sprinkled across the darkening sky.   
As he walked, he took notice of a rather large river sitting a bit ahead of him. The gurgling of rushing water was the only sound that could be heard throughout the sea of trees. As he advanced nearer to it, he noticed that the river bank had been recently polished with mud. A crescent moon reflected perfectly over the glassy surface; while twigs that came down from the mighty oaks sailed across through the jet streams that were created by miniature mesas.
A small, rusted, wooden bridge stood as an overpass for the waterway. Although it was old, it could still bear a fair amount of weight; although the railings were quite frail. At seven meters long and two meters wide it barely crossed the river, but it was the only bridge that did so.
Chris had crossed this bridge many times, but on this occasion, he felt something tug at his soul, or whatever was left of it. Normally this meant a decaying specimen was nearby, but the feeling was stronger than that. It almost seemed that the event hadn’t come to pass. He ignored the feeling.
After a few hours of travel, the lunar luminescence was suddenly blockaded by the interweaving branches the forest canopy above.
 
Dawn arrived when Chris did at the miniature open plain that was his destination. The sod in the area was now completely dry. Some loose shrubs swayed in the wind that had stayed at a stagnant strength.
“You’re late,” Chris said to the seemingly empty area. But a figure emerged from the other side of vegetation.
This figure was a man, roughly in his mid-forties. His short, brown hair was neatly trimmed, and his face was completely shaven. He wore a tan, leather doublet with carob trousers and boots. His broadsword was sheathed to his side as if he were still a knight. Those days were far gone, however.   
“Apologies, Mr. Lasiter,” the man walked up to Chris and bowed slightly.
Chris abhorred when people bowed. It was a sign of his level of power. Something he felt he didn’t deserve. He was especially agitated when the one bowing was this man; John
Mullen.
       John Mullen was a man that embodied the utmost loyalty  He had accompanied Chris through many battles; battles that had tested his sanity, during which he had lost many things, none more impactful than his beloved wife.
They began to walk, side by side, back to where Mullen had emerged.
“I received King Pod’s parchment earlier this week,” Chris said. “Any idea of what he wishes of me?”
King Ligier Pod was Mullen’s former employer, and the monarch ruler of Cegord, one of the three minor kingdoms of Kaos. Cegord was arguably better than the other two, Stock and Greal, since it had financial and population superiority. It had been the first to invoke the three field system, even though Greal, under the control of Queen Jayde Vavilla, was known for its agriculture. Stock, however, ruled by King Aaron Joseph, was utterly shamed upon. It would be barren, if not for its tenement houses and the Castle of Stock itself.  
“Advice is what I’m told,” Mullen said.
“A congression, no doubt.”   
“He fears war with Joseph. The rivalry between Cegord and Stock is increasing tremendously.”
Chris closed his eyes, slight pain coursing through his brain. “I suppose if Pod has intentions to terminate the rivalry, it would be best for me to indulge. Civil war is not what we need with Florch on the loose.”
Mullen had a hitch in his step when Florch’s name was spoken. “Florch, sir? But he hasn’t been seen in nearly twenty years.”
“There is an abundance of things that one cannot see, yet that in no way means they are not present.”
Mullen wanted to remain silent. Florch was not a subject he, or anyone in Kaos, wanted to discuss. Nonetheless, he knew the conversation was inevitable. “Perhaps he truly is gone. It has been over two decades.”
“Be that as it may, I mustn’t hypothesize without evidence. I cannot risk giving him such an advantage.”
“Chris Lasiter; ever the strategist.”
“John Mullen; ever the procrastinator.”
“What do you mean by that?” Mullen asked with a frown.
“How long has it been since you’ve retired?”
“A few years.”
“Exactly, and how long has it been since you’ve desired to regain your position in the Cegord ranks?”
Mullen kept his eyes on the path ahead. “A few years,” he repeated.
“Have you asked King Pod for your return?”
“Not particularly...”
“The evidence is suffice.”  
Mullen didn’t extend a further comment. He knew that Chris would defeat anyone in a battle of words. Outwitting the man was improbable.
The two continued as the forest opened to a grassy plain; a sign that their journey was coming to an end. Instead of trees and foliage, there was an open area of sod. The path before them branched into three; the left leading to Greal, the middle to Cegord, and the right to Stock. The villages themselves could be faintly seen with the rising sun.
However, before the path could divide, a tavern sat before it. Jokingly named the Crossroads Tavern, it was a place that merchant traders rested when traveling. Even though the villages were relatively close in terms of distance, the land in between said villages was hardly traveled upon, especially the land between Cegord and Stock. Due to this, people, when traveling, would take a longer route, going east and journeying around the land, bringing them to the Crossroads Tavern.
The exterior took the appearance, not of a tavern, but more of a royal cottage, with a humongous wooden structure and a fixture of glass windows with window boxes on the upper level, and above them, the thatched roof. Lanterns were hung on the pillars in front, and were now being extinguished by an older man due to the arriving sun.
Sulric Giddish, the owner of the tavern, was no stranger to Chris, and, like Mullen, was a former member of the Cegord ranks. This was apparent from his marred face. Cuts and burns aligned his light complexion from a few bad experiences with fire on the battlefield.  
The man turned to the two and gave them a hearty nod as they made their way over.
“Morning, gents,” Sulric said as he doused the last lantern. “What set of circumstances brings upon this pleasure of mine?”
“I’m on my way to Cegord,” Chris offered simply, taking in the sight of the residents within the tavern indulging in an early breakfast.
Sulric nodded. “Ah. This wouldn’t happen to have some connection with the return of… Florch.”
“I am unaware at the moment, but according to what I’ve heard the past very weeks, I wouldn’t be surprised.”      
           “He’s bound to return at some point, Chris. I hope you're prepared.”
          Mullen let out a loud, fruitful laugh. “When is Chris Lasiter not prepared?”
           “A good question indeed. I pray that day never comes.” Without another word, Sulric walked back into his tavern, only to be bombarded with orders from his customers.”
           Mullen began to follow. “Do stop by on your journey back, won’t you?”
“You’re not joining me?” Chris asked, not surprised in the slightest.
“Well, it’s been a long night, and I’m somewhat in the mood for something warm to consume. Food, beverage, what have you.”
“This wouldn’t have to do with meeting Pod, would it?”
“No.”
“Of course,” Chris’s voice was drenched in sarcasm. “You best ask for your return soon.”
Mullen didn’t offer a rebuttal as he entered the tavern.      
 
Upon reaching the gigantic cobblestone wall that surrounded Cegord, Chris thought about how ridiculous King Pod’s reasoning was for the barrier.
           Two guards stood atop the structure, watching Chris like hawks perched upon a tree branch. Their large frames blocked the sun ever so faintly. Between them, although Chris couldn’t see it, was a winch, used to raise the portcullis the barricaded the only opening of the wall. They were covered in armor from top to bottom, so it was difficult to identify them, especially when they appeared stagnated, as if stunned.
It was then that Chris figured who the men, or rather, the man was. “Bernard!” he called.
The two suits of armor jumped in surprise, then examined the man standing before the portcullis. “Ah, Mr. Lasiter,” the suits said simultaneously. “I was told you would arrive here this day.”
“I take it that is why you’re on the night watch... considering your predicament.”
“One could come to that conclusion.” The two figures began to crank the levers between them, raising the portcullis. They (or he) waited for the loud groans of the grating to subside before speaking again. “I assume you’re here to speak with King Pod regarding the young thief.”
“Thief, you say?” Chris asked as he walled through the open gateway. “One would think Pod could handle such a minor inconvenience himself, no?”
Bernard made his way to the other side of the wall. “It’s only hearsay, but that is what I’ve been told. However, there are small murmurings of… another reason. One that entails much more to worry about than a thief.”
“Florch?”
           Both heads nodded.
           “If that’s the situation, then I best be on my way.”
   
The houses that aligned the cobblestone streets of Cegord consisted of the same material, along with wood from the timber of the nearby forest, and in the case of the less wealthy homes, hay, sedge, and reeds on thatched roofs.
People began exiting their homes, not yet fully awake, greeting each other as they passed. Peddlers and merchants appeared at the sides of the road, offering up bargains for items of desire rather than necessity. A few horse-drawn carriages passed by, some carrying precious material, others goods from the harbor.
The fresh smell of bread from the nearby bakery, summer’s comforting warmth, autumn’s crisp breezes, and the heavenly sight of the sun peeking over the shoulder of Cegord Castle, eliminating the diluted darkness that had come before it to reveal a welcoming blue, was nothing short of familiar to the people of Cegord. They had conferred this wonderful package so much that most had taken it for granted.
           Everything appeared customary, like any other day in Cegord, until someone was awake enough to recognize Chris, saying, “Is that Chris Lasiter?” That’s when things became hectic.
       An onrush of human bodies advanced directly toward the King of Kaos, offering niceties and plans to spend time with him, and laws they wanted passed. Chris was too fond of human life to be any sort of strict, though he was known to be, so he attempted (unfruitful in his results) to excuse himself past the large crowed that now blocked the road.
Just when he was about to start raising his voice, a short elderly man limped his way to the front of the crowd, turned to them, his arm spread, his other firmly gripping his cane, and said in a loud, booming voice, “HOLD YOURSELVES!!!”
The crowed surprisingly became silent.
The old man continued, this time with a firm tone. “The King has much to worry about right now, it would be most benevolent of you to rid yourself from his path. I understand you all have something you wish to tell him but it will have to wait for another time.”
The crowd murmured, looked at Chris, and when he nodded, groaned in unison and dispersed, continuing their day.
“Much appreciation, Mr. Bradshawe.” Chris said after the crowd had fully parted.
“Uh huh,” Bradshawe said disparagingly as he adjusted the spectacles sitting on the bridge his nose, then running his long, bony fingers through his cloud-like hair. “I told you you need some guards when you travel, elsewise you’ll be overrun with hands trying to shake yours.”
“They don’t pose a threat.”
“Not for safety purposes,” Mr. Bradshawe said. “If you don’t stick up for yourself, you’ll never be able to go anywhere. You’re an authoritarian, Chris. You’ve been giving me that same glare that can cut through steel for years, yet you can’t focus it on people whom you encounter? I guarantee you they will stay away.”
“The charge doesn’t fit the crime.”
They began to walk, Chris moved steadily so that he kept pace with Mr. Bradshawe as he limped along. He could feel the eyes of passers by on him as they continued on. Mr. Bradshawe would say something, and Chris would have to pick up what he said a few moments after the fact. Every so often a man or young woman would come up and attempt to shake Chris’s hand or give him a hug. However, Mr. Bradshawe was very good at keeping them at bay, using his cane to jab at their feet telling them to keep moving.
“So,” he said after a while, “what brings you to Cegord?”
“Pod sent me a letter. Apparently he is in necessity of my advisement.”
“What about?”
“I have a few hypotheses regarding it.” Chris, desperate to not hear another word regarding Florch, changed the subject. “How is Percival coming?”
Percival was Mr. Bradshawe's son, named after an old friend of the two, Percival Reign, who had lost his life decades ago.
“Fine,” Mr. Bradshawe said, his face illuminating with a smile.
“I suppose you’re housekeeper is watching him now, no?”
“Seeing as how he isn’t in my care as of the moment, I think you’ve finally outdone yourself in terms of intelligence, Chris.” He began to sarcastically clap. “Well done.”
They continued on, until they passed Mr. Bradshawe's house. It was an old house, freshly refurbished and repainted from its old silver-blue color to more of a lilac look.
Chris didn’t dare ask why the change had occurred. He already knew.
“Do write me when you get back,” Mr. Bradshawe limped up to his home. “One grows fearful when his mentor doesn’t stay in contact for seven months.”
“It’s been two months,” Chris reminded him. “You came to visit.”
Mr. Bradshawe waved his hand dismissively as he reached the door. “Just don’t anger Pod to the point where you can’t return. I hear he’s already in a foul mood.” With that, he entered his house, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Good to know.”
 
 
Cegord Castle, sitting on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Eastern Sea, was a structural masterpiece of cobble and limestone with hints of blue outlining nearly every crevice. It wasn’t the best look for a fortress, but it fit Pod’s signature perfectly. Three cobalt spires reached up to the sky that was now perfectly coordinated with them. On the towers, turrets of three overlooked the world around, ready for siege warfare.
As Chris neared the castle, despite making the journey many times before, couldn’t help but notice how close the people of Cegord lived to King Pod. Chris’s own castle was heavily secluded among the forest trees, whereas Cegord castle’s portcullis was the end result of a strait and narrow path that had been the main road. The nearest houses to the castle were so close that the people residing within it could be described as neighbors.
Standing in the entrance way, behind him; the front foyer was King Pod. Blue robes of every shade consumed him. The only thing that wasn’t related, was his thick, brown hair that flowed down his neck in smooth waves. At his side, he held his royal scepter, which made Chris start to wonder since Pod normally didn’t carry it; it was much too valuable.  
They exchanged pleasantries, made their way through the blue onslaught that was the corridors of Pod’s home, and together they swept down the stairwell, their shadows dancing on the stone walls due to the mounted torches that hung just above. The sounds of their footsteps rang out through the passage, making it so that a few mice could scurry into diminutive holes settled in crooks between certain steps and the enclosure. Cobwebs hung loosely on the sloping ceiling as if some servants had deplorably attempted to sweep them away.  When they reached the bottom, two guards, equipped with chainmail armor that gleamed in the torchlight, stood before a wooden door. The latch upon it was nearly broken off, hanging solely on one hinge.
Without a word, the left guard opened the door, which creaked open in such a subducted motion that Pod had to push it open the rest of the way.
The dungeon, if one could call it a dungeon, was a large corridor with an array of barred cavities, closed and locked with no sign of weakness like the heavy door that came before.  Around the room, pillars, chiseled from stone, stood erect, holding the ceiling overhead. One solitary torch lit the room in such a way that the back half of the cells couldn’t be seen.             
Pod motioned to one of them. “He’s in there.”
An adolescent boy sat in the corner, in a catatonic-like state, his arms wrapped around his knees, holding them to his chest. His face was caked in filth, his clothes in tatters, and his greasy hair cascaded down his forehead in uneven, oily strands.
“Francis Cobham,” Chris mused. Now everything made sense.
“I sent my letter as soon as he was caught,” Pod said.
“What did he do, pray tell, to end up in such a locus.”
Pod eyed Francis, who was glaring with a bit of hope delineated in his countenance. “This scoundrel broke into my private quarters, and tried to make off with this.” He held up his scepter.
Chris nodded. “Is it…?”
Pod twisted the azure topaz atop his scepter and pulled, revealing a blade that had been hidden by the shaft. He quickly hid it again.
Chris looked back at the prisoner. “He couldn’t possibly know what it really is.”
“Then why would he try and steal it?”
“To sell it,” Francis said suddenly. “Oh, by the way, I can hear.”
“I am aware,” Chris said, “but I’m more interested in what you have to say. What is it you know about this scepter?”
“Other than the fact that it’s valuable, and, from what I’ve just seen, it is also a sword of some kind.”       
Chris sighed. Of course, the young man wouldn’t tell anything, even if he knew. He decided to put all that aside. “Then tell me, Mr. Cobham, why, after the abundance of things I’ve done to save you from punishment,” he paused at Francis’s roll of his eyes, “do you continue to take part in contraventions.”
“How many times must I tell you, old man, I don’t want your help.”
“Yes, you have been quite eminent about that. However, it appears that my assistance is the only thing keeping you from spending the rest of your life in a confined space.” He looked around the cell and nodded. “I see you have excellent taste in judgment. Well, you can send me a letter when you wish for a life on the outside. Good day, Mr. Cobham.” With that, Chris turned at began walking back to the door.
“Wait,” Francis muttered, barely above a whisper. “What are you proposing?”
Chris continued walking. “Stay out of trouble and your release will be swift.” He then left the dungeon, Pod closely behind.
 
“You want me to release him?”
“I’m glad we can see eye to on this,” Chris said, making like he was exiting the castle.
Pod rushed to catch him. “You can’t be seriously considering letting him loose. He’s a criminal.”
“A criminal with minor charges against him.”
“Attempting to steal my royal scepter is not a minor charge.”
Chris halted, turning to the King of Cegord. “All right, if you had not sent me a letter, how long would he be sentenced?”
“Under Cegord law; thirty years.”
“Thirty?” That’s a bit excessive for a scepter, no?”
“A scepter and one of the Swords of Power,” Pod reminded him.
Chris stroked his beard, going into deep thought. “What will it take for you to set him free?”
“I fail to understand why you insist on this.” Pod was unmistakably dismayed
“I don’t desire to see this young man forced into a life of crime because he had a lapse of judgment. What will it take?” he repeated.
Pod sighed. “I have a congression in the spring with Chathral Ronan. He’s representing Joseph in some sort of deal between us. I would like you to be there, just so the man doesn’t ploy me into something.”
“Chathral isn’t going to attempt anything of the sort. And Joseph isn’t an evil spawn of Inprodus as you so believe.”
“Nonetheless, those are my terms.”
“Very well. Release the boy tomorrow, make sure he is well fed and his thirst quenched.” The two shook hands and parted ways. Before Chris could exit the castle, however, he turned and called, “Ligier.”
Pod turned.
“Mullen.”
“What about him?”
Chris thought for a moment. “He’ll be there as well.”
Pod nodded, then disappeared into the next room.
Chris smiled for the first time in months as he went to tell John the news. Maybe he could finally find the guts to ask for his return.