Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  * * *

  The high council of Entigria met with clockwork efficiency at the start of every week. Their deliberations were swift due to their access to the Karthild, or rune-rock, magic. For those first witnessing, when they had open forum, they were astonished at their rapidity. Utilizing the magics available to those of their station, and while sitting at the specially prepared chamber table, they worked their acumen. Fifteen members and one chairman were the constituency that would discuss the policies, planning, and goal-setting for an entire city in the span of an hour. In the time it took most people to get ready for their day these folks would be concluding business, the ramifications of which could be felt for years to come.

  The great hall of the council was richly adorned with all the best materials that Entigria could provide for it: dark slate and white marble made intricate patterns along the floor while smooth red granite lined the walls only to be covered in part by ornate tapestries. From the ceiling hung several chandeliers, filled with only the best candles which gave off supple light. The table was itself a work of art. Each member of the council sat at a specially prepared section of the oval table. The kaleidoscope of color represented the great houses the members hailed from. Not just a plaque, but the table itself was joined stone of the house colors. Reuben thought it was ugly. Not that it would have done any good to antagonize them by saying so. Reuben watched now, as each took their small circular stones and broke them in unison. How he had come to hate the crack of thin stone. As the echoes died away he approached the proper place, a small seat to the side where those who were called upon sat when presenting information to the assembled leaders. He sat, waiting for them to query about his report. He watched as the tendrils of smoke from their stone wafers were inhaled by each member. It made him feel rather strange to watch it, how similar it looked to even what he had been using, but different all the same. He was still feeling rather woozy from the vast amount of alcohol consumed the night previous and was in no mood to put up with the ceremony preferred here. Sitting, he glanced around the faces that had directed his steps as a soldier from far away for half of his life. But those were just orders here and there that had affected whole companies. The last five years on the other side their specific directions and arguments back and forth were a different thing altogether. And it much felt different now seeing them in the flesh rather than on the specially prepared device that had been sent to him. He hadn’t minded leaving that behind at all.

  There was Stentor Folson, he’d always been a leader even back when they were both cadets. Reuben was not at all surprised that now his steady presence and keen mind had made him chairman. He also recognized Bregil, a man who had taken a shine to his mother before he evacuated to Entigria. Reuben never cared much one way or the other for the man, as long as he had given his mother some companionship before the hard times that had followed. He was not surprised to see him here at all, he had carried much weight in Braldoan and it seemed his rise in Entigria had been swift. The rest were unknown to him personally, though he knew their voices. Male and female, none of them young, but not all as grey-haired as Bregil or the woman who sat next to him. As they finished their ceremony he groaned inwardly, he had seen one of the family crests just minutes before, and the sour look of the scion who sat there told him that his little encounter at the park might have traveled further than he’d expected.

  “Ah, Reuben,” said Folson, looking up at last from his hands. Reuben felt very uncomfortable looking around the room.

  Bregil chimed in next, “I remember your mother, remarkable woman.” Reuben felt the fingers curling of their own volition, hardly to be seen. “Yes, she was always a woman with such spirit,” dreamily the man said, not noticing the steely look that had entered into Reuben’s expression. He went on unabashedly, “You know, there was this one time when we were both in Braldoan, and I tell you,” This might have raised eyebrows if not for the fact that the gentleman in question was old and grey enough to be not only Reuben’s father, but could make a decent go of being his grandfather.

  “Really I think we don’t need to hear your reminiscing just right now, do we?” Reuben’s aid came from the silver-haired lady next Bregil, whose nameplate proclaimed her to be Vivian.

  Bregil continued, “Oh, yes. Well then. Where were we?” Tension left Reuben’s arm as he forced his hands to relax, fingers slowly uncurling and the knuckle returning to normal hue from the blanched white of moments before.

  “Report, and please if you do not mind let us keep any sensational accounts of your mother to a minimum, shall we,” said yet another councilor, the sour looking one. He was unknown to Reuben, salt and pepper hair with a pinched look about his face and a trim mustache that made a neat ledge to thin lips. They matched the thin shape and scant meat on his bones. The man’s eyes were sharp, almost scornful of everyone and everything in their purview. A dancing jocularity that took absurd pleasure in the proceedings, well aware of Reuben’s movements, the embarrassment he felt, and having a good time looking on.

  Gritting his teeth, Reuben began. Much of what he had to report was already known to the councilors, a rehash of the initial attack, the defense strategies they had enacted, what worked and what had not. In this stage their questions were few, seeming mostly to be concerned with the appearance of the tunnels and how they had been kept at bay for a time. It was old news, but told by one who had been there to see it happen. In all their communications before, Reuben had reported this, and more. They especially wanted to know of what his experience had been in his prayers, the nature of the censer and smoke. There he could not provide all that they would liked to have known.

  “I’m not a priest,” he said, “no matter what they or you think of me. You need a theologian, not a soldier. I just said words and hoped. That they worked or seemed to work is beyond what I would care to contemplate.”

  A muttering began, as the councilors took this in. It was quiet but shrill, as they spoke to each other looking back and forth in quick, darting movements. Their speech was so rapid he was sure they could not understand each other, he certainly could not follow their talk. It was a undulating wave of sound that seemed a cacophony. They all spoke at once and rapidly, old voices deep and sonorous mixed with the higher notes of the three women on the council. It was bewildering to Reuben, he wanted to clasp his ears over their chorus of dialogue.

  Suddenly it stopped. Folson looked at him, raised eyebrows arched high, “So you’re not a believer in the old gods then?”

  Reuben tried to gather himself, he felt a little woozy again. “Oh no, I believe they exist. I’m just not sure they care.”

  A male, but higher-noted whine of a voice addressed him, “What of our magic, do you believe in that?” The name from of the sour one’s plate read: Eustus.

  Reuben paused, “I believe there is power there, yes. I know there is, just as there is power in the old gods.”

  Eustus pressed him, “But you don’t wager one over the other I see.”

  “I go with what works,” said Reuben.

  “A pragmatist,” said Folson.

  “Or a heretic,” said Eustus.

  “That won’t do, that won’t do at all,” said Bregil. “You know well as I that the churches do not covet rune magic.”

  “And the mages do not covet the old ways,” said Vivian.

  “But this one, he doesn’t care, does he,” continued Eustus. “How can we make use of him when he doesn’t believe one thing or the other?”

  Reuben had been listening in growing consternation. He knew, had known for a long time, that he was to be their mascot to the populace, once it started to wonder about the news that could not be kept quiet. And he had entertained doing so, despite his misgivings. Now that he was here though, listening to their talk, he resisted the notion. Whether it was the alcohol that still flowed in his veins or simply the tone of voice, Reuben found it very difficult to maintain his composure in the face of the council members. That, coupled with a health
y dislike of Eustus in particular, coalesced into getting fed up.

  Reuben rose from his seat, placing his hands on the great table, “The entire Western continent is now lost, and if you take no further action than to bar the doors and pretend everything will be all right, then we will all in time be consumed, maybe sooner rather than later.”

  “Tunnelers at the door you say, and yet here we are in our capital city with prosperity and peace in luxury,” said Eustus.

  “Luxury bought at a price and fleeting at that,” countered Reuben.

  “You would do well, Reuben, to respect your elders and your betters,” said Eustus.

  “I’ll give respect when I see something worth respecting,” said Reuben.

  “That’s enough out of you.” Eustus motioned for the guards with one bejeweled hand and a frown on his face. Wearing the highly ornate but still functional breastplates and armament of the council guard, four large fellows stepped forward from the room’s doorway.

  “So that’s the way of it then? You’ll simply discard me to keep alive the illusion of your own safety?” Reuben’s voice bounced off the walls and ceiling in its disdain.

  Stentor Folson stood up. “Really, this has gone too far, Eustus. And you too, Reuben. Put aside your quarrel, you must see reason.”

  Reuben shouted, “Why dammit? Why let me struggle for years to hold onto a place you yourselves did not care for? What was the point?”

  “To see what would happen, of course,” said Eustus, the smug look was only deepening the fury that rose in Reuben’s heart. He could feel the heat inside of him, threatening to drown him as the self satisfied words poured over him, fanning the flames within.

  Eustus stood up as well. The rest of the council was looking concerned as the irate councilor continued. “Bregil, you’re far too sentimental, as I’ve said before. I’ve been against the whole deal from the start, as you all were well aware. Now we bring this ingrate back and what does he do? Boozes it up and insults my family. Then he has the gall to stand here and proclaim some sort of righteous drivel in front of us, minds greater and wiser. To the cells with him I say.”

  It was too much for Reuben. He got up and was striding towards the smug councilor when the guards caught up with him. They laid hold of his arms. “Come on then, don’t make this difficult.”

  Bregil looked at Reuben with pity, “Shouldn’t have let him bait you into it.”

  Folson caught their attention with a loud voice. “Reuben, I know that this is difficult-”

  “I’ll not stand some brigand causing a threat in our chambers,” interrupted Eustus, almost gleefully.

  Folson sighed, “Alright Eustus, you’ll have your pound of flesh. I’m sorry Reuben, but it’s best for us all if you cooperate. Just cool off and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  The council guard led a seething Reuben away.

  3 WALLS

  The pantheon of gods, major and minor, though never amended, does have certain prominences change over time. Deities have been the focus of more or less devotion along the ages. Among the great of these days, Ibdal of hope and Kormog of war are given high regard in these times of uncertainty.

  Journal of Rufus Gallador, High Temple of Entigria

  The cell door closed behind Reuben, the grinding metal of the key in the lock making real to him his predicament. He was very still for a moment, waiting for the sound of the retreating guards’ boots to die away. His chamber was square with one straw pallet in a corner, stone walls, and the wooden door that he had entered through which was braced with metal bars. Opposite the door, a small grill let in warm afternoon light. Reuben stood there for minutes, going over everything that happened at the council meeting. Humiliated and angry, but powerless to act, with great effort he restrained himself from yelling like a wild beast, he paced over to the pallet and slid down. His descent was slow, scraping his back along the stone, letting gravity carry him down. The pounding irony of his situation slowly drained his anger, replacing it with sullenness; five years walking the grounds, doing everything he could to prevent the barrier from weakening, and now here he was again, surrounded. Walls again.

  Reuben felt knotted up and without direction. Donovan and Patterson wouldn’t know he was here, he had no family in this place, and he had made an enemy on the council. Folson seemed to indicate that he’d not be here long, but the vindictive smile on Eustus’s face made Reuben second guess that. He wondered if he ought to pray, but he felt of two minds about it. He didn’t like any of the gods, not really. He’d never felt a connection to them. While at Braldoan he had simply cycled through their names, nine in all, and addressed his words to any that cared to hear. He’d never been sure which one had answered him by filling the censer with smoke, or who had initiated the barrier centered on the cathedral in the first place. The church had been dedicated to all of the Divines. Zuetal, god of grain and fertility, had been more prominent there because Braldoan grew out of the many farms that had first been part of the settlement long ago. He was always liked, with his smiling face and golden hair. Even when the lands could yield no more grain, ruined as they were, the people still looked to him. Jirnjil had been worshiped there with honor as well, revered by craftsman and all who applied skill in careful work, be it at the forge or creating music scores. His symbols were as varied as the tradesmen themselves, who often sought the priests to bless their tools. Would those two help him now? What would be the point in helping a soldier who had angered his lords, what benefit or glory could he offer to their names in return? He was not a farmer nor a craftsman, he was a soldier. He considered Kormog next then, a god of vengeance and war. His onyx talisman was worn on many of Reuben’s fellow arms-men, who prayed most often to the black-armored warrior. Reuben didn’t much care to pray to Kormog anymore, not after so much had been lost. Maybe Kormog did not care to help those that prayed for his blessing. Who would listen to him now? Would Volmaetria, goddess of desire and appetites, care? He doubted it, he’d only ever prayed to her for a good ale. Yagd was no use to him either, he might be seeking for a way out of this mess, but it seemed a stretch for the god of the hunt to bother with him. Aigid was for travel and weather, Zhijid for beginnings and seasons, Arneph for luck or fate. Who was left then? Ibdal. He had thought about Ibdal a lot over the last five years. He was the god of mercy and renewal. Reuben wasn’t sure he believed much in Ibdal.

  Reuben decided it wouldn’t hurt to pray, despite his uncertainty that the gods cared. There was no holy garment, no special oil, no offering, just a drunken, angry man who resented asking for help in all his muttered words. “I know you can hear me, all of you. You’ve helped me before, help me now.” Reuben hadn’t bothered to fold his hands in prayer, hadn’t bothered to kneel, wasn’t even bowing his head. He just sat there, back against the wall, legs outstretched, staring at the door and speaking through clenched teeth. He tried a general petition. Nothing. He tried it again, louder this time. He tried the prayer for incense, feeling silly but it had been answered before after all. He tried a few of the awkward sounding intercessions he’d read in the older prayer books, just in case. Only far away noise of the busy city filtered down to his ears in return. “Damn you all!” He shouted, the sudden fury bouncing around his cell and back into him, rebounding and amplifying in terrible fervor. “Years I’ve given to you, years. My years, my home, my family!” He got up and with two large steps reached the door. He slammed his fist as hard as he could into the door, a solid ‘thunk’ the only mocking sound of acknowledgment. “Everything, you ungrateful bastards, whores the lot of you! The world rots, may it take you first!” He closed his eyes, screwing them shut tight.

  “Hee hee, do you think they hear you?” said a voice. The reedy laugh caused him to open his eyes again. It sounded like it was coming from across the hall. He looked through the small grill set high and center in his door. On the other side of the hall was a cell of a different sort, iron bars on three sides that exposed all bare space. Within the cell a man sat
, face pressed against the bars, peering intently at Reuben.

  “Yeah I suppose so,” he said in response. His new acquaintance tilted his head as if taking in the answer. Reuben stared at the prisoner. He looked to be about his own age, though his countenance was disturbing. The face might have been friendly and hale at one time, but now this man looked at the world through a broken visage. Scars and welts, some fresh, marred the man’s features. The whole man looked misshapen in one manner or another. He held his head forward, almost leering, but lopsided, and one shoulder was higher than the other. He even managed to sit on a cant. Then he started rocking back and forth. Reuben wondered if the man was aware of what he was doing, but for all of that distracted nervous energy, the man seemed wistfully friendly. Reuben decided the man, though odd, was harmless enough.