Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  “Reuben’s my name, what’s yours?” asked Reuben.

  He was mystified by the reaction, the prisoner turned his head, this way and that, looking all around, eyes roving ceiling to ground. Then he lowered his head, almost to the floor, before he whispered, “You can call me Chester.”

  Reuben, puzzled at the secrecy involved in the revelation, tried a different approach, “So, we get the old bread and water treatment down here or what?” Whatever circuit the other prisoner was on in his head must have included periods of inactivity, as if a spring inside had lost tension. Chester had gone suddenly limp, he looked like a discarded child’s toy, laying in a spineless heap with arms draped almost on the floor. Reuben was about to call over to the fellow when the heavy tread echoing down the hallway signaled he was about to have visitors. Two guards came into view. They were wearing not the gilded uniforms of those that protected the council members during their meetings, but instead simple leather and chainmail. These were the grunts then, those put on guard duty either as punishment or because this was the station in life that best fit their wits. Reuben thought they looked the part as well, crass men with shaggy facial hair and sweaty brows. A flurry of movement from the other cell caught his eye, Chester was obviously afraid of them, for he backed away and started whimpering. The spring had been reset. Reuben’s heart flared anger as he pieced together the origins of Chester’s scars on the knuckles of the guards; the same hands that held the pails of water and crusts of bread that were to be his supper.

  Chester’s meal was placed just outside the bars, where he could reach them. He stayed huddled in one corner, as far away from the guards as possible. For Reuben, the door was opened so the other guard could set his meal just inside. But if he had thought of daring an escape, the drawn sword of the second guard discouraged rash actions. The first guard set the meal down and the door closed again and locked, leaving behind the small pail of odorous water and half loaf of barely molding bread. The two guards had gone about their work without comment. But after the door closed, the one who was passing out the bread caught the look of Reuben’s hard stare through the grill of the door.

  “Looks like we’ve someone here doesn’t like his billet,” said the guard. Reuben and the guard stared at each other in silent contest.

  The other guard’s face came into view behind the first’s, “Any customer that is unsatisfied need only mention it aloud, so as me and Jasper here can hears it. We can be sure to make the place more accommodating for our fancy guests what doesn’t know how lucky they are.” Reuben ached to respond, but held himself back, he was in enough trouble as it was.

  Leaning close to the bars, Jasper addressed Reuben, “Looks like you might want your room decorated, maybe add some red on the walls.”

  The other guard put his hand on Jasper’s shoulder. “No time for that right now.” He continued, “But don’t you worry,” glaring at Reuben, “You keep up with your hard looks and we’ll be sure to find time for you.” Then he flicked the bars of the grill with a dirty finger, “I bet you’d like us to unlock the door here, wouldn’t you. I bet you’d fancy a chance against Jasper here. I don’t think he much likes you.” Jasper kicked the door, “Maybe you’ll get your chance, maybe in the middle of the night.”

  With that the two stalked off. Reuben kept still, waiting to see if they would return. When it was clear that they had used some other stairway to leave the prison, he inspected the leavings for his meal. First the bread, dry and old, it crumbled almost immediately into crumbs, which cascaded to the floor. The water was equally unappetizing. Entigria was a clean city, so he surmised that the two guards must have intentionally fouled the water to give it the oily appearance and smell of rotten eggs. He gathered the bowl and bread, setting them in a corner. It was a toss up really, his stomach told him he was hungry, but his sensibility said not yet. His boots would make a better meal than what he had been given, but he was not hungry enough for them either. Reuben walked back to the grill, peering across the hallway. There was Chester, huddled in a corner, shaking.

  “Psst,” Reuben called. The other man startled at the noise, looking around wildly and crouching low. Trying to keep his voice soft and nonthreatening, “Hey, it’s me, remember.” Reuben said. This time Chester nodded slowly. He came back nearer, reaching out between the bars to grab his pail and take a drink.

  “Did those guards hurt you?” Reuben asked.

  Chester spat on the floor. “What, ol’ Chester? Takes more than a few lumps from those louts to bring a good boy like Chester down.” As he spoke he kept his head down, not meeting Reuben’s questioning face. Then Chester got up, moving around, pacing back and forth.

  “Used to - be like you. Used to - pray.” Chester stammered. His pace matched his words, silent when still, talking only when moving. “Everyday. Chester - was a good lad.” His walking was like everything else about him, lopsided. When he reached the edge of his cage he would switch trajectory, erratic and random. Sometimes he’d go along, gently bumping against the bars. “First was merchant - merchant in Ria Vol.” Reuben recalled that had been one of the first cities to fall. Chester went on while Reuben felt disgusted inside as his story unfolded. Chester had seen the mounds of earth which were like large mole tunnels encircling his town. He had witnessed them bursting forth with the imps who clawed and bit, tore and devoured. They feasted on the flesh of the fallen while others still fled in terror. Worse still was the cruelty of the smoke knights, cutting down all in their path, young child along with soldier, men and women, it made no difference. They could not be stopped in their brutal strokes. The strongest and bravest warriors had stood in combat with the dark knights for a little time, just enough for a few to flee that otherwise would have fallen, before they too were hewn down, the cruel toll collected in exchange. It became apparent that the man had been a survivor of many encounters with the cinder lands. First his city of Ria Vol, then a series of small towns, always running to the next outpost and trying to survive, never able to get far enough away from the encroaching ash. Chester had been a rather inoffensive individual simply trying to get by, doing odd jobs and generally making himself useful. The flames claimed each new home in turn until he had been lucky enough to escape to Entigria, through one of the escape portals provided by the council. But even then he was not free, not from the memories which had left their mark upon him. Reuben guessed that for Chester, with his troubled mind, would never be free of the images that he had seen. He did not know why Chester was here, but when he asked Chester went very still.

  “Come on then, what was it, did I say something wrong?” Reuben asked. His companion did not respond, staring at the floor instead. “Hey, Chester?” He tried again. He noticed the man was shaking, trembling all over. “Chester?” He tried again, beginning to get worried.

  The man seemed to wither, sagging to the floor. He crawled to the corner and covered his head. He spoke now in a whisper, “Council is - smart. They saw how - trouble followed me. Took me - different place. Through portals. They always came there - first, no matter how - far away. But I am - safe here, too many - wards.” Reuben felt sick, Chester had been taken to other villages, and the cinder lands had followed, literally as if his past was trying to catch up with him. Why the forces of the cinder lands held such a grudge against him, or how they could track him, he could not tell. Maybe their intention was to complete the destruction of the populace of Ria Vol, claiming Chester’s life at last. Once the pattern was recognized, the Council had attempted to use him as bait to capture some isolated enemies. After repeated tries ending in failure, he was brought back to Entigria and placed under safekeeping within the magical barriers spread throughout the city, especially strong where the government buildings were.

  Reuben tried communicating with Chester again but the man was still, silent in the corner in the fading light of the evening. He wondered why the council had used this man in such a way. What were they up to? Reuben decided it was best to leave the poor man alon
e for awhile, Chester was apparently too scared to speak, and with no chance of a good meal he settled down in the straw. Whatever rest he had experienced last night was only the black curtains of drunken stupor and his body was reminding him that sleep was meant to restore himself, not a way of escaping a spinning room. He wondered why this person was locked away in the basement of a building, same as he. Many of those with troubled minds found peace at the temples, much as Reuben disliked them, he had to admit they were at least decent enough in that purpose. He doubted that Chester was violent or had any capacity for harm in him, just a gentle soul all beaten up by life, without a bearing anymore; kind of like himself, he thought. He lay down on his stiff and smelly straw pallet until weariness overtook him.

  * * *

  There exist two means of overcoming the limits of nature. At the start there was harmony, or at least not competition, between the two sources. The oldest locus of power was the gods, and that influence flowed through the religious orders that followed the pantheon. For generations, under the careful guidance of the priesthoods, humanity had been steered along the course of history. The pantheon was ancient, its worshipers had the luxury of being an established institution, one that had been around long enough to prove their power. The influence of the gods was not measurable by any mortal, the priests undeniably had access to power. No one denied the existence of the gods, but neither still would anyone deny that the gods could be fickle. The figures of the pantheon could be capricious, and there was nothing that anyone could do about it. When the blight of fire and ash transformed the western continent, it could not help but be noticed that the pleas of the priests went unanswered. The variableness of the gods frustrated the faithful, for they did not understand why their prayers for safety and supplication were not answered. As a result, many left the churches, no longer seeing the gods as their protectors; not with their homes burned, the land consumed, and family members lost or dead. Some said that the gods were angry, that was why they stopped answering prayers and refused to help the people who called out to them. Others said they had always been cruel, never caring for the concerns of mortals. Despite the uncertainty of the gods and their care, when the fires came and burned, when the ash choked the air, it was always the holy sites that were the last to fall. Detractors called it a foul mockery, a parting riposte from the gods; while the priests claimed otherwise.

  The faithful still worshiped their pantheon, its nine members strong in their minds. Each was revered, but their prominence in the hearts and minds of the people varied. Soldiers had Kormog, lovers had Volmaetria, and so on. When planting crops or harvesting, Zuetal’s baskets were filled with more donations than in the middle of the colder season. Those whose lives were very tied to the sphere of influence of one god only might hold that one in higher regard, but never hold the others in disdain; they recognized the handiwork all around them and the woven context it was made from. Arneph and Ibdal stood out from the more everyday tasks. Arneph, god of fate and luck, was more of all or nothing in many people’s minds. The laborer recognized a certain amount of luck for safety in the daily chores, or a craftsman that usually praised Zhijid might also offer thanks to Arneph for a discovery that furthered their field, but that was not the same as daily consideration. Only those not quite following the law, or the desperate, might turn to Arneph first before another god, for Arneph had a bit of sway in all of the actions carried out in the spheres of influence of the pantheon. Ibdal could also be considered a god of fate, but his role was that of mercy; not to change things for the better, but to renew and bring back to a state before things spiraled out of control. Sometimes, it was said, Arneph and Ibdal might even compete, Arneph guiding as he sought to bring fate’s decree and Ibdal returning the unfortunate back to an even keel.

  New, only a few generations in its growth, the Karthild magic became the second viable source of altering the natural world. Its power lay in making reality malleable and fitting it into a mold born of the mortal mind. This new way also evidenced great power, and its limits were constantly being sought by some of the keenest minds of Entigria and beyond. Through its use the portals were made, increasing the productivity of the nation. On the downside, war was made deadlier when it broke out, but also sometimes lives were saved through diplomacy, when lords considered that equal assured destruction was a rock and rune away. The feeling of the general populace was very positive towards Karthild magic but there was a challenge that it faced. The cinder lands. Some practitioners saw it as a personal matter, for glory and honor, to perhaps do what the priests could not, while others merely considered it their duty to strive for saving land and life. They started with exuberant optimism, but in time all of them were stymied. Many had left the churches and turned to technology to save them; they were disappointed again.

  The archaic runes were used for the Karthild stones, an old script first utilized when cities like Entigria were still small. Through the advancement of that craft, and the success the mages had there, Entigria grew to become the strongest city-state. Strong enough to begin controlling the western continent, whose struggling colonies welcomed the portals and access to trade that they brought. They were only too happy to acknowledge Entigria’s authority in exchange for the markets that she held. Stone was a different matter. Few stone types would work in their natural state, not needing the preparation of the stone forger, though basalt, granite, and onyx, worked well enough. The rest of the stones needed to be prepared, the careful process mixing stone with added minerals. The possibilities were not endless, though very nearly so. The strength of the rune and its harmonic with the stone engraved upon it was the endless puzzle to find new effects or make them more efficient.

  As the land continued to burn, perspectives of the people soured regarding their sources of power, and friendliness declined between those two sources. As prayers went unanswered and innovative magic could not halt the ash, people around the world lost both faith in their old gods and hope in their new technology. Not all forsook their optimism, of course, but neither seat of power had quite the prestige they once held. Why the gods did not halt the conquering ash confounded laity and clergy. What would motivate the gods to act? What runes and rocks that might help became the alchemist’s gold for the practitioners of the Karthild magic. To call out to the gods, to discover the correct formula, these became the fevered efforts of the dying land’s populace while the ash swallowed church and tower both.

  * * *

  Reuben woke when it was fully night, stiff and sore, coughing from the roughness in his throat. Just enough light leached into the cell from the outside world to see the vague features of his cell. He dragged himself over to the bowl, left in disgust at evening, and gulped down the sulfurous-smelling water. The taste was appalling, and he nearly gagged from the odor. At least it stopped the coughing fit, though. He drained the contents and took another look at the bread. It contrived to be even more dry than before. He forced himself to eat that too, the coarse grains chalky and gritty. “What a wonderful way to begin my new life,” he said to himself. Rubbing his eyes, he took a look at his abode in the pallid moon light that filtered into the room. Reuben supposed it would have been impossible to miss the life he’d led at Braldoan during the last years, yet it had its charm now, he realized. Charm like the ability to move more than a few feet without changing course. The tedious, time consuming duty of maintaining the veil was a delight compared to the grudging minutes that plodded by wearily as he waited for whatever sunrise would bring.

  Minutes stretched on, filling his imagination with myriad possibilities. He amused himself for awhile with smugness, remembering the way he’d made that one councilor, Eustus, glare at him so. It made him feel better for a moment, that those people at the top were still capable of being reached by someone like him. That gaze of hatred was a mutual line, it reminded him that the councilors were just mortal like him, with all of the blessings and faults that were abundant in life. It felt good to be able to touch the stars a
nd make them pause to give a thought. He might be insignificant to them, but he could still affect them. Self-satisfaction did not last too long though, not when he started to wonder what would happen next. Would they just push him away, let him fend for himself? He knew now that he would flatly refuse to be posted again as a soldier at another outpost. He’d seen enough of that and wanted a different course. Maybe he would go back to Donovan, see if he needed a hand running the bar. He thought about that for a little bit, but something didn’t quite fit there either. He couldn’t see himself waiting on people or passing out drinks behind a bar. Reuben sighed, feeling rather out of touch with the world around him and out of place. The only time he’d fitted was in a place that no longer existed, a simple man with a simple task.

  Wandering in his memory around those traveled steps again, he did not notice at first the slow change in the air. He had just revisited in his mind that last day, how outlandish it had been when the dark adversary had called him a priest, when his nose twitched. He sniffed the air, was that smoke? He sniffed again, it was faint but unmistakable, something, somewhere, was burning. Reuben sat up, listening intently, he could not discern any alarmed people or sounds of panic from outside. It was quiet, which was all the more confusing. He got up and went to the door, peering into the hallway. No lights were there except a faint glow, probably from a torch placed in the stairwell that he had been led down. The smell seemed stronger though, an acrid, sharp smell that set the nerves on edge. He retreated back into the center of the room and then went to the window and craned upward, trying to catch a breath from the outside. The sweet air was refreshing, which meant the smoke had to be coming from inside. As the smell grew stronger, Reuben became concerned. He went to the door and shouted, “Guards!” Whatever it was, it was becoming overwhelming, his vision swam in his eyes. He crouched to the floor, remembering the air might be less foul there. Then he felt it, a low rumble beneath his feet. Tunnelers. “Help!” Reuben shouted beating on the door. “Get us out of here, help!” He rushed to the grill to the outside, shouting the same plea. As he struggled at the grate to the outside, sudden light blinded him from behind. Crunching stone thundered and tremors shook his cell. A loud tearing sound came from the hallway, then footfalls and yells, followed by screeching metal. Sounds of conflict filtered into the cell, Chester’s voice cursing and shrill. A scream, high and piercing. Reuben rushed to the door, calling to Chester, but falling stone created an explosion from the hallway, deafeningly loud and rocking the building, causing him to lose his balance and topple over. Smoke and dust filled the cell in choking curtains. Silence, eerie and full of trepidation, wrapped itself around the cells.