Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  “Thank you, child.” She said. She embraced her son; her feeble arms, wasted and thin, made a concerted effort to squeeze with strength. It used her reserves of energy, and she sagged into his arms, breathing heavily. He went to help her to her seat but she waved him off. “No, I’ll be okay. I want to be standing up for this.”

  Reuben wanted to argue with her, but there just wasn’t the heart in him to do so. They stood there, awkwardly, not knowing what to say. A flash behind Reuben caused him to turn around. There, silver as a liquid mirror the portal opened, a voice issuing from it, “Come on then, quickly, or it will be too late.” With one last hug and a peck on the cheek he left his mother and hustled to the portal. He stepped near but did not yet step through. He saw his mother standing, shakily. She had some secret, some magic she wanted to perform, he guessed. With failing health beyond the known boundaries of magic to cure, and a burning desire to end her years in the place where she had loved husband and son, she would not go quietly, he knew. What surprise she had in store he could only guess.

  The veil came down. It flickered for a moment, cracking into large sections that seemed almost solid for a moment. Then it was gone. There was no fanfare, no great cracking crash. It just simply was gone. One moment as impregnable as the edge of dawn, and in the next open as the vacuum of space. All around, the wailing imps and screeching forces charged forward.

  She watched Reuben as he stood at the portal. “Get on with it,” she yelled to him.

  He nodded to her. “Goodbye,” he shouted.

  She smiled, weakly, and shouted back, “Goodbye.” As she did so, she took from around her neck the secret weapon she had long held. It was special, given to her by a master craftsman. To any onlooker it was a simple disk of stone, engraved with runes and a deep scoring down the middle. But for her, who had been trained, and knew the trigger words to activate it, it would be her last work. She smiled, remembering the old councilor who had given it to her, years ago now. It had been a parting gift, one that he insisted she take, though she had sworn she’d never use it. That was then, though. And as the forces neared she smiled, Bregil always had been a farsighted man. She looked for the last time at her son, and then turned towards the graveyard, whispering to herself, “Good bye dear Reuben.” And she looked over towards the headstones, “I’ll be with you soon, my Johann. We’ll watch our son together from now on.”

  Reuben stood one foot in the portal, unwilling to step through till he saw what would happen. He saw his mother draw the stone from around her neck and hold it between her frail hands. Even in the madness that was descending upon the cathedral grounds, racing towards them both, Reuben heard the sharp retort of breaking stone. Immediately, a bright flash and a blossom of fire arose from the spot where his mother had been standing. He stepped fully into the portal and watched for the moment it was open before snapping closed. He would remember it always, the perfect petals of fire spreading outward slowly but powerfully as the large center portion rushed upward. How long had she been storing that, he wondered? The blast was enough to destroy what was left of the cathedral, the grounds, and the advancing forces before they had time to react. Wreathed in flames unquenchable and righteous, the unexpected explosion robbed the masses of the cinder lands of their victory, their feast, and all their gloating. It was an empty victory though. As the portal closed the only comfort was a cold one; neither the body of his mother nor the bones of the rest that were held in the graveyard would be desecrated, instead a purer flame would consume them in its radiant grace. The heat was felt even here within the closing portal. The soldier in him was proud at the heroic effort, it was an empty end. That was the last of the continent, and who now knew what lay in store for the rest of the ordered world? But the soot still fell like ash, the cruel contrast to the red petals from his mother’s last act. The victory was a parting shot, a last remonstrance that they could not take everything, but his emotions were numb. He looked on and knew that he would remember it. Always.

  2 DRINK THE DREGS

  The ongoing discoveries of Karthild magic during the reign of King Ostidinies marked the beginning of the War of Stone. Entigria, being the most studied in the art, subdued the rival neighboring city-states after a series of highly destructive battles. Its victory could not help but alter the political landscape within, however, and the great council was formed to ensure right of rule where one could not take control of all. Thus ended the unbroken line of kings, which naysayers foretold would shape the world for ill in the ages to come.

  History of the Empire Volume 4, Of the End of the Royal Line

  Traveling via the conjured portals was not instantaneous; there was an intermediate stage, as if the world held you in place in a pocket outside of normal space while it continued its course until you reached the correct spot. When his mother had first explained it to Reuben when he was a child, she had described it as walking through a heavy rainstorm without the rain. It hadn’t made any sense to Reuben at the time and his understanding had not improved after his own experience. For him, it was reminiscent of wearing his grandfather’s heavy coat, the leather one with the all the warm wool on the inside. Pressure and heat were all around, but yielding to the rhythm of movement as you walked forward. To each person the journey was unique, he supposed. To complicate matters further, the conjurers assured that the process of travel could be concluded without actually walking along, that it required the effort of will, not the physical representation of primitive locomotion. Despite such assertions, most still found that they needed that reminder, that link between what the mind and the body do in conjunction. Separating out the will, so that it had an effect just by itself without involving the body, an ephemeral action made Reuben feel a little queasy.

  Reuben had used the portals only a handful of times, all in conjunction with his career as a soldier. It wasn’t a common way to travel, being reserved for those with enough coin to make the expenditure of effort worthwhile, or by order of the magistrates, who controlled most rigorously all magical efforts. During the time spent in transit one could witness spectacular scenery. Often, what you could see was largely dependent on where you were traveling from and to, almost a harmonic of the scenes that blended into the surreal. As if you were within a painting and strolling into another with a period in-between that blended the two. If you had the training or experience of multiple trips, you could focus on what was behind or ahead, almost getting a preview of your destination. You might see the actions of those ahead, moving in unnatural slowness, or see the last moments of the closing world behind you. Other times it was a riotous jumble of color without pattern, or normal in some ways yet bizarre: it would be as if underwater, or a glass tunnel through a starry night, or a very normal looking path through a well-lit forest. Making sense out of something as grand as travel through arcane arts was not one of Reuben’s strong suits. He was just glad it worked. Today’s journey was a one way trip only; he knew that he could never go back. There would be nothing and no one to go back to anyway, not if the red and orange that streaked from behind like dragon fire had anything to tell of what his mother had achieved with her last act.

  Tiny figures ahead stood in a circle, their background indistinct and blurred. He could see them gently swaying back and forth; their movements in unison. Faintly, he could hear words of their chanting in echos as if he were in a long tunnel, the sound bouncing around him and scrambling distinctness. Without warning the perspective shifted, he had the sensation of falling now, the figures were below him and he was rushing towards the ground on which they stood. He just had time to huddle, waiting for impact. Right before he hit the ground the light flashed white in his eyes and he found himself standing, not crouched at all, in a large room very much like a warehouse. In the fugue that always seemed to follow portaling he fuzzily saw the stacks of crates, the laborers in the distance with cart and horse. A random whinny of one of the beasts of burden came into his ears as through cotton wool. Reuben stood there and swayed a bit
, dazed in triplet from the whirling emotion of loss of his mother, anger at the fall of his home, and not the least from the magical propulsion through time and space that had been visited out upon his own self. He shook his head to clear the fog out of his mind. He was standing on a stone platform, carved with many warding and stabilizing words of magic cut into the surface. Their etched and angular edges had always disturbed him somehow, nearly as much as those that used them in their work. Several such individuals were there now, stationed around the platform and swaying a bit as well. It took quite a lot of power to portal even one individual across such a distance. They were probably harmless folks in their everyday lives, Reuben thought, but their proximity made his fists itch.

  “Ah, Reuben. Good to see you at last.” Reuben turned to the speaker, a richly dressed fellow in the flowing blue robes of high office that he recognized as Stentor Folson. Folson was a magistrate of Entigria, and more than that, he was the head of the councillors who ran the city. A man whose finger was on the scales of the proud city, now walking down the length of the room towards the platform, calling out in a high clear tone, “We’ve been eagerly expecting you, you know.” The bright smile on his face faded to concern, “But what’s this? Why is there but one heroic survivor of Braldoan here to meet me?”

  “Only one left,” said Reuben, his voice husky and cold. The statement rippled around the room, the conjurers straightening up. Workers in the background saw them all standing still and watched with curiosity, halting their own tasks. Gradually the whole room was quiet.

  Taken aback, the councillor looked perturbed; however, long practice of guidance and care with dealing with others came to his aid. Stentor Folson radiated concern as he said, “I see.” And then, solemnly, “I am sorry to hear that, she was a wise and courageous woman.” When this was met without response he continued, “The council had been hoping to meet with you immediately… though perhaps we should postpone the matter. We have accommodations ready for you,” with a gesture for Reuben to follow towards the doorway. Reuben followed after him for lack of a better direction. As the two walked forward the room started up again, like rewound clockwork.

  “No thanks, I’d rather just be alone,” said Reuben. Now that he had regained his composure, he wanted to lose it again as soon as possible. But that meant walking after the councilor toward the exit.

  The magistrate hesitated only a moment, “Of course. I understand.” He halted at the entrance to the large room and turned to Reuben, while fishing out something from within his robes. Passing it over to Reuben he said, “Well here, at least let me give you this for tonight,” A small bag, clinking with promise, was held out. Reuben wanted to swat it away, but held back his temper. If this old councilor wanted to fund his imminent quest for inebriation, then who was he to argue? He took it noncommittally and picked a direction at random to tread wearily down with the hope it would eventually lead out.

  “Reuben,” a call down the corridor halted him, and he half-turned to the councilor, who was still at the doorway to the warehouse, “Tomorrow afternoon, the council will be meeting. When you’re ready, return and we’ll go over matters.” Reuben shrugged but then nodded, his patchwork robe and knapsack of mementos from the cathedral weighing heavily upon him.

  “Mightn’t you want to leave some of your effects here?” called Folson. “We could have them for you at the meeting. I would look forward to learning of this unusual garment’s origin.” Reuben started to say no but stopped, it seemed reasonable enough and he didn’t want to lose anything, so he placed the knapsack down. Next he pulled off his makeshift robe and folded it carefully. He watched as Folson walked over and picked up the articles. The old councilor knew better than to probe for information just yet. At the next door, a brief explanation of directions, a nod, and the two parted ways.

  Getting through the maze of hallways and buildings took longer than he would have wanted, with half-heard directions, though at last Reuben stepped out from the government’s holdings and into the broader city. This was Entigria, city of wealth and leisure. Innocent in its ignorance, guilty in its complacency, home of civilization and parent to the western city-states across the great sea where Braldoan had stood as the last bastion, just as it had been the first colony. Entigria was unusual in its nature. It filled all the large, mostly flat, raised upland of the surrounding moor. Over time the elevated land was filled, yet there was need for new space. Since no one favored expanding to the lowlands, full of troublesome moisture and not nearly as defensible outside the city walls, the engineers of the city expanded upon the vertical axis. First, the great towers rose up, per the design of the council, in pleasant symmetry and order, though even this could not alleviate the need. The only direction left was down, so the remaining recourse was to build underneath themselves. Great labor and concerted effort took the very land they were on and morphed it into usable space. Ownership above did not necessarily equate to ownership below, the council proclaimed. The nobles, and rich merchants, purchased rights. For the rest, some saw their own basements taken away, or built around by what would become the second, below ground, level of the city.

  Entigria was a luxurious and prosperous city, center of the civilized world and largest of the seven cities that spread in a great wheel across the land. Its infrastructure bore still in places the hallmarks of a simpler time with older cobbles instead of the brick that was favored by the leading figures of the age and small little corner shops in the poorer districts. Now the multitude of building materials created a kaleidoscope of masonry. The oldest parts were in various stages of maintenance; some it good repair, others in slow decline. The manors nearest the city’s heart had long ago been refashioned into a more acceptable approximation of the latest trends which came from all over the continent. Entigria lay on the crux of trade routes, still used, even with the great renaissance of magic and all the blessings and curses that it had brought. The churches that hailed from the time when the gods alone were sources of almighty power competed now with the towers of the mages that were in equal number, if not more numerous.

  The famed stone and rune magic had first been used here, first perfected. Now, that technology, that type of magic, was part of the natural day to day. But Entigria had been where it all began. The churches had said it was against the will of the gods to use such things. But over time even they found uses, ways in which it was beneficial to utilize such power. Until at last they were accepted. Traditionalists complained that this would displease the gods, make them angry. But who could blame the everyman for wanting a little peace and quiet, a little break from the hard toil. Bit by bit it was openly embraced. And controlled. Those with the ability were trained accordingly, and duly watched.

  Reuben was just walking under the shadow of one tower and noticed the workshop next to it. In spite of himself, he walked to the window and peered in. He saw a large man, aproned and sweating with furious concentration at a table. A sense of theater was evident, yet it was more than an act. There was an immense stone slab held in a metal frame the size of a large desk, below which a container let loose small wisps of smoke. A stool was set next to it, where the man sat, poking and prodding into a divot in the stone with various rods. Above the stone, floating in the air, an indistinct black cloud of dust gyrated, expanding and contracting. An edifice of thin arcs of metal and wire surrounded the center of the depression and the dust above it. The man turned a wire this way and that, causing the framework to gently spin, arcs of metal moving around in elegant dance. An unusual feeling crept over Reuben, like he was still traveling through the portal. He wanted to look away but curiosity held him, something was happening there. He could almost feel the impression of…

  Compression. Immense heat and from without, the hearty laugh. Squeezing. Squeezing, the particles were forced closer and closer together; they resisted, their natural will rebelled in the manner that forcing magnetic fields together push back. Heat, such heat. It came from the tension of the holding wires, it
came from the flames below the great stone bowl, it threatened to consume but was held back. Held back just enough by skill and subtle craft to prevent the release that would bring an end. Worst of all, that laugh. Full of contentment, full of a job well done when it wasn’t yet complete. It was secure in its victory, assured of its latent success. Tiresome, troublesome laugh. The pressure, the heat, and then the final wobble of that damned chuckle. A sudden flash, the floating motes coalesced into the correct form from the ball of airborne particles. The crafter straightened up on his stool, and laughed, for he had no cares or concerns. Not now anyway. He saved all his concentration for those moments, those last precious few seconds when they were needed. A misstep here, at the finish, and it could quite likely have been his death. Others of his craft took towards a serious nature, and were considered rightfully so in their doing. He was different, was the odd one, with great mirth and zest for life. When he sat down at his great stone bench with the metal tongs, the great crucible, as he called it, there with skill that matched the masters of his craft, he carried out the difficult work of the forger of stones.

  Reuben stepped back, disturbed by the wave of insight. He walked quickly away, renewed in his purpose to find an alehouse. Damn magic, how could they do something like this, yet be so utterly helpless against the plague of the cinder lands or the forces that traveled with them? It infuriated him to no end. It made no sense to him, which was no large feat as some unwise fellow patron at a pub had told him long ago. After that the patron hadn’t said anything on account of being knocked out. He hated the blasted stuff and if he was any judge, any judge at all, it did at least as much harm as it did good for those that used it. It was hard for him to decide which he hated more though, that magic had power, or that his prayers in Braldoan were answered by gods that didn’t seem to care that much. It had always baffled him. He hated bending his knee to petition for help, it made him feel like a mewling babe. But also he distrusted the nature of the power that was harnessed through runed disks of stone. Now if they could do something useful, say like provide food for the hungry, maybe he’d be swayed a little more. Instead the greatest intellects born busily sought new and exciting ways to make their magic into weapons. It rankled him, though he supposed he owed some type of gratitude for that now, for how his mother had made that explosion, it had to be the rune and stone magic that he hated. He knew she’d dabbled a bit, had been taught a few things by Bregil, an older man who had taken a fancy to the widow in the town. He was glad, in a way, that she had had the last laugh. But he felt sick inside. He felt the need for companionship, camaraderie. Time to see if he could find his old mate from training, Donovan. He’d heard the old boy was retired now, and had set up a pub. He’d be good for drink either way though and that is what he most wanted. If the world could not make sense he wanted to lose his as well.