Karg's Folly

Dakross arrived in Karg’s throne chamber flanked by a trio of silent guards. These guards wore black hoods over their heads with matching black cloaks draped over the entirety of their bodies. Dakross strode into the chamber with the swagger to be expected from a victorious conqueror. He found Kassok sitting idly on the iron throne, wiping the greasy crimson blood off his blade with a gray rag.

At the foot of the throne was Karg’s decapitated body. Its four hands were still wrapped tightly around the handles of their weapons, grips only strengthened by the onset of rigor mortis. There was a long, arching trail of blood leading from the headless neck to the spot where Karg’s severed head rolled off to. Before saying a word to Kassok Dakross walked to Karg’s head to inspect it.

The tongue was hanging out of the mouth and the glazed over yellow eyes were wide with surprise and shock. Dakross laughed then lifted up his boot and punted the head across the throne chamber. The head flew like a macabre soccer ball until it hit the hard stone wall with a ‘splat’. Dakross then scanned the room for other objects of interest, finding Serge Pascal’s corpse in the far corner.

“Who is that?” Dakross asked Kassok, at last breaking the silence. Kassok glanced up from his blade at Dakross then glanced at Serge before grunting.

“Serge Pascal,” Kassok replied, “A smug lowlife who loved to hear himself talk. You and he would have gotten along just fine.”

“I’m sure,” Dakross replied with a slight scoff, “I suppose I should feel some pity for Karg,” he began, “After all he was just a dumb man-child who fell ass-backward into a position of power. It’s not his fault he wasn’t nearly as powerful and invincible as he thought he was. I guess that was just Karg’s folly,” At that Dakross started to cackle uncontrollably as his silent guards stood by idly. Kassok scowled from across the throne chamber and drew his second chokutō, locking his sights on Dakross. Kassok lunged, intending to cut the smug warlord down but was intercepted by one of the hooded guards who knocked Kassok off course with a powerful kick to his side.

Kassok felt a rib snap on contact with the offending foot and then received further injuries when he bounced off the marble floor and tumbled over onto his back. He dropped his two swords which clattered on the floor away from where his body landed, “Your folly as well,” Dakross said with a smirk after he reined in the laughter, “You think you’re special, unbeatable, one of a kind,” he stroked the tip of his spade beard, “Maybe that was the case at one point,” Kassok pushed himself up off the ground and tried to block out the pain in his side while Dakross grabbed the black hood of one of his guards, “But not anymore,” Dakross pulled off the hood and revealed an eerily familiar face.

For Kassok staring at the guard’s face was like looking into a mirror, a mirror from several decades in the past. Everything about the man’s face was like Kassok’s only without the wrinkles, without the graying hair, and with even less emotion.

“A clone?” Kassok stammered.

“Clones,” Dakross unveiled the other two guards and revealed they too were spitting images of the assassin in his younger days, “I’d love to take credit for these masterpieces but in truth the credit goes to Drexxis who in his infinite wisdom saw fit to replicate your genetic code to create an army of unstoppable shock-troopers. Long story short the Big Guy’s disappearance and the subsequent civil war buried this glorious plan. The secret to replicating your tricky Rukenian DNA was lost, as was the data needed to instruct the clones in the finer points of your marvelous fighting skills. However these three prototypes survived,” he clapped two of the clones on their backs proudly, as if they were his sons, “And oh what fine soldiers they make. They’re like you, except better. They’re enhanced to superhuman physical levels and were born with a mastery of over sixty martial arts…as well as comfortable knowledge in a thousand more. Best of all they don’t have your attitude problem: they’re good, loyal soldiers. Now then, enough talk,” Dakross lifted a hand to the ceiling just as Kassok climbed back on his feet, “Kill him.”

Kassok saw the center clone bolting toward him at obscene speeds while in his peripherals he spotted the two other clones executing a pincer maneuver. They were fast, maybe even faster than he was on his best day with his power-suit fully juiced. The middle clone went for a simple low kick which Kassok was able to evade while the other two both attempted straightforward jabs which Kassok blocked with his two elbows. The force behind their punches was incredible and absorbing the damage taxed his suit’s shield, draining the power reserves to critically low levels.

For a few moments Kassok was able to keep pace with the three clones and their furious barrage of kicks and punches but each time he blocked or dodged his power suit came closer to failing. The shield’s ability to cushion blows was failing and Kassok’s bones were starting to splinter and his flesh was starting to bruise. The kind of blows these clones were dealing could have easily split a normal human in half and even Kassok’s superior Rukenian physiology couldn’t stand up to such punishment for long. Finally Kassok felt the strength draining from his body as the power-suit failed. His movements became sluggish and his limbs felt heavy.

The passive field that blocked out pain signals was gone and he could feel the agonizing burn that came from having several broken ribs. Now relying on his own natural strength and speed Kassok persevered in spite of the odds and ducked when two of the clones simultaneously attempted roundhouse kicks. Their legs connected with one another at the heels, generating the same amount of force as a major car crash yet neither clone sustained any damage. With his body crouched close to the marble floor Kassok spun around 360 degrees with his right leg extended, successfully leg sweeping the two clones.

This little triumph was short lived for just a second later Kassok was slammed in the gut by a low jab thrown by the third clone. The assassin soared over the other clones and just barely managed to escape breaking his back by absorbing the impact with the chamber’s stone wall with his left hand.

Finger bones snapped like twigs and Kassok’s ulna and radius bones snapped in more places than he would care to count. The fearsome assassin slid down the wall pathetically and lay on his hip with one hand twitching out of sheer agony and the other resting on his damaged midsection. The last blow had turned Kassok’s digestive organs into goop and had splintered some of his already damaged ribs further. Now tiny chunks of bone were embedded in the outer walls of his punctured lungs and just drawing breath was an increasingly uphill struggle. A deep gash in Kassok’s forehead gave birth to three small rivers of blood that trickled down Kassok’s haggard face which now expressed a mixture of despair and exhaustion.

‘I can’t…I can’t die here.’

The clones closed in on the brutalized assassin but were halted when Dakross blew on a tiny whistle he wore around his neck.

“Easy does it boys,” Dakross said in a self-satisfied manner, “I want to savor this moment,” the warlord rung his hands and smiled broadly. He watched Kassok’s face with a sick fascination, like a cruel child might watch an ant burn in the light of a magnifying glass, “I’m glad you made it this far Kassok, I was really concerned I’d never get a chance to see your death and that you’d perish fighting one of Karg’s minions. But now that you’re here I really just want to see those blue eyes of yours close…for good.”

Kassok managed to give Dakross one final glare before his eyes lost the battle with their heavy lids. Kassok’s arm went limp, his eyes closed, and Dakross laughed: for all of three seconds. Soon after his “death” Kassok became engulfed with a pale jade green flame and his eyes shot wide open and blazed with the intensity of a pair of green suns. The assassin jumped back on his feet and as if by magic the cuts, gashes, and bruises vanished along with the wrinkles and gray hair. Dakross’s expression slackened and the tips of his toes became icy cold just as a shiver ran up his spine.

Shocked as he was Dakross still managed to press the tiny whistle to his quavering lips and blow to signal the clones. The first clone came at its template with a flying kick but was much too slow and soon found itself at the assassin’s mercy. Kassok caught the clone’s foot and swung the replica by the ankle like a club, smashing the second charging clone aside and forcing the third clone to take a step back to avoid a similar fate. With the clone’s foot still in his hands Kassok twisted the appendage until bone snapped and flesh tore away. The clone kicked at Kassok with its other leg and managed to connect with Kassok’s ribcage, in exactly the area that he had been injured.

Not only was Kassok’s ribcage no longer injured but it now seemed impervious to the clone’s attack. Kassok brought down his left elbow onto the clone’s expressionless face, successfully caving it in and smashing the simulacrum’s skull. Kassok’s ears sensed the faintest of sounds and the hairs on his neck sensed the smallest of pressure changes, alerting the assassin to a surprise attack. Kassok spun 240 degrees and thwarted an attempted palm-strike by pushing in a small nerve cluster in the clone’s palm with his index finger. The clone’s arm spasmed and immediately afterward its spine was broken in two by a crippling roundhouse kick. Before the clone could even fall over Kassok put it out of its misery (if it had any misery) with a follow up palm-thrust to the nose that drove the nasal bone into the prefrontal cortex.

The third clone came at the blazing assassin with a left hook but Kassok seized the mockery by its wrist and snapped the offending appendage with a hard push. Kassok’s bandaged, flame-kissed fingers closed around the clone’s neck and with one mighty effort tore the head directly from its neck. Blood splattered everywhere and Kassok held the head up to the ceiling for a moment as if to inspect it. Soon the assassin tossed it aside, a look of disgust and contempt written on his face.

Dakross tried to run when the last clone fell, as if running would do any good. He never landed his forth step. Kassok’s blazing right arm sawed through Dakross’s body like if it were papier-mâché and cut the pompous fool clean in two. His fine clothes were now ruined by sweat, blood, and bile that spilled from his sliced entrails. Kassok pressed a foot to the upper half of Dakross’s severed body and turned it over so that he could see the fool’s face. Amusingly enough Dakross’s frozen expression was identical to Karg’s: shock and disbelief.

Kassok smirked just as the green light dissipated and his features returned to normal. When the signs of age returned they brought with them all the damage that had been wrought on his body in the course of the day. Blood once more trickled down his forehead and nose and breathing became labored and torturous again. Kassok collapsed to the hard marble floor on his back with his arms and legs in a spread-eagle position. He was tired, so very tired.

*************

Epilogue

Kassok heard strange noises buzzing through and flitting in and out of mind. Without sight and unable to feel his arms, legs, or any part of his body Kassok was left only with noises and thoughts.

‘Is this the afterlife?’ he wondered to himself before fading out once again. When thought returned the noises returned, this time with greater clarity: voices.

“Incredible,” one voice said, an oddly familiar if strange accent, “I didn’t have to do a thing, but his body is putting itself back together on its own.”

“That is incredible,” another (also familiar) voice, this one female, agreed, “When I found him he was as dead as a stump.”

“Yes…,” the first voice chuckled, “His neural tissue was completely necrotic when I first examined him and yet now he’s almost completely regenerated. The broken bones too: completely mended.”

“Is it because he’s Rukenian?”

“No, my dear, this is something else entirely, something that deserves further stud—wait…hold on…were his eyes always green?” The voices faded and things went quiet, a brief calm before the storm. And what a storm it was when Kassok awoke. His blue eyes bulged out of their sockets and the veins in his arms swelled while a bloodcurdling scream escaped through his teeth.

When he awoke he did so without any memory of who he was or what had transpired recently, he awoke only with an inexplicable rage directed at…something. Kassok’s arms and legs tugged at metal and leather restraints while his back rocked against the hard metal surface beneath him, rattling the table and even loosening the bolts that secured it to the floor. For those first few moments he didn’t know who he was, much less where he was. He was yelling something…a name…Dakross…whatever that meant.

Slowly the name took on meaning and the memories came flooding back. Unfortunately to Kassok’s chagrin he had no recollection of his current surroundings. The first thing Kassok did after his sense of self returned was to take stock of his person. His clothes and weapons were all gone and his only article of clothing was a small pair of gray underpants in lieu of his usual loincloth. Then he turned his attention to his surroundings. The room was bare and almost shockingly featureless and from his vantage point all he could see beyond his examination table was a small dolly with a tray filled with what were clearly medical instruments.

Kassok didn’t know what he was doing there (or why he was alive at all for that matter given the severity of his wounds when he blacked out) but he knew better than to lie helpless in a strange room. With a surge of strength Kassok tore his arms clean of their restraints and managed to tear away the restraints on his feet when the sound of a door opening from behind sent his pulse skyrocketing.

Kassok acted on pure instinct: he moved without thinking, without even seeing. It was only after his initial blow (a high-kick to the interloper’s face) landed that he made out the intruder’s features. He was of roughly human size but his features were concealed in tan cloth wrappings, like a turban but for his entire body. Attached to the intruder’s right hand was a forked dagger, a weapon that along with the interloper’s familiar garb harkened back to an old (and long dead) victim of his: the famed assassin Taau. Kassok was stunned but not distracted by the revelation as shown by the fact that he skillfully dodged Taau’s first lunge with his knife and caught Taau’s arm.

With all his strength Kassok picked the revenant assassin off the floor and tossed him over his shoulder and onto the metal examination table, denting the table and forcing Taau to release his grip over the dagger. Taau bounced back quickly and came at Kassok with bare fists and feet, using a fighting style that was markedly different than the one Kassok remembered from their fight long ago. Different, but no more successful. Even without the physical advantage his power-suit would have granted Kassok was the clear and decisive superior in the match.

Taau was kicked and thrown around the room while Kassok landed blows with impunity, Taau’s only saving grace was his frightful ability to take punishment and keep going. No matter how hard Kassok slammed him into the wall Taau still kept coming until at last Kassok lost patience and went for the kill. After snapping both of Taau’s wrists Kassok put his hands around his head and twisted until he heard a satisfying snap. Taau went limp in Kassok’s hands and collapsed on the floor when the assassin released him. When Taau hit the ground a small metal trinket bounced from the folds of his body turban and clattered on the cold, hard floor. It was the copper pendant! With trembling hands Kassok picked the familiar ornament up and studied it.

“Who the hell are you?” Kassok mused, looking down at Taau’s corpse.

“Well…” a feminine giggle escaped “Taau’s” lips, “…You can call me Impressed.” The limp arms and legs of the ‘corpse’ came to life and soon the body rose to its feet as if compelled by the strings of a marionette. The head rolled back into place as the broken wrists mended and the body-turban began to morph into wax. The wax molded into a new, equally familiar form, “Am I Taau?” the voice asked from the wax, “Or…” the girl from the tavern smiled at Kassok, “Am I the curious girl from the tavern perhaps?” then the innocent little smile morphed into a razor-toothed, black-lipped Cheshire grin and the young girl turned to a strange pale-skinned black haired woman with black tattoos all over her body and a skintight green and black outfit, “Or none of the above?” a stunned Kassok backed away from the woman but didn’t drop his guard, “My name is Blanque,” she said, “As you can see I’m good with disguises. So what’s your plan here?”

“My plan?”

“After killing me, what’s your plan? You’ve no weapons, no clothes, and no idea of where you are.”

“I admit its not the best situation,” Kassok said dryly, edging away from Blanque, “But I’ve been in worst. Now you mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Let him explain,” Blanque gestured to the doorway where a tall white-haired man in silver armor was standing.

“There’s no need for alarm, Kassok,” the man proclaimed, in the same voice as the old man from the tavern, “I have no intention of harming you, quite the opposite in fact,” the man smiled through a thick beard while a mechanical eye whirred and flashed bright red, “My name is the Polar-Man, and I’m interested in hiring your services.” At that Kassok chuckled bitterly.

“Do you now?” the assassin smirked, “And just what can you offer me?”

“I can offer you what you want,” the Polar-Man explained, “The only thing you want: the chance to kill Drexxis.” At that Kassok’s suspicious eyes widened and his stance slackened.

“Drexxis is already dead,” Kassok sneered. Drexxis’s disappearance had been a major turning point in the assassin’s life, when it happened any chance of achieving the ultimate kill went out the window and Kassok was forced to chase down a new purpose in life.

“This,” the Polar-Man produced the metal handle of a katar knife from behind his back. Upon squeezing the grip of the knife-handle a blade of orange light (representative of Drexxis’s living power) flared up. There was an old saying, that seeing is believing, and seeing the once inert katar activate was proof enough that Drexxis anything but dead, “Says otherwise. So what do you say, Kassok? Do we have a deal?” the assassin looked at the glowing blade with a blank expression on his face. A smiling Blanque approached the assassin from behind and wrapped her arms around his muscular torso.

“I’ll get your swords and clothing,” Blanque whispered in Kassok’s ear, “Welcome to the team.”