“Here on the frontier, things be just exactly as bad as you might have heard,” Jessop said, frank words spilling from cracked lips. The two of them leaned against the half wall that marked this edge of the village, the furthest outcrop of Entigria and furthest east that Reuben had ever been.
“I’d heard that things were not too good out here; attacks from bandits, lack of resources, that sort of thing,” said Reuben. He watched as, across the town’s one main artery, a man worked in a large wooden shop, pounding away at red metal on an anvil. The doors of the building were open, for what little cooling the hot air might provide.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Jessop said, his mustache muffling his words only slightly. He kept his voice low as he leaned towards Reuben, “You’ve the look of someone who’s seen a few things, maybe been around the world a bit.” A sinking feeling grew in Reuben’s stomach as Jessop continued, “Well, ‘round here lately, we’ve been shorter yet. Take a gander o’er yonder at our new blacksmith.” He was pointing the rough looking fellow across the street, one-eyed with a crude leather patch. “See ‘im, that there man, come the morrow, been here a month.” Jessop snorted, “A reformed bandit, if you please. Would you believe it? If times weren’t so tough he’d ‘ave been hanged, but we need the extra hands, so there you have it.”
The two watched the blacksmith plunge his project back into the furnace. The coals blazed into life as the man hauled on the bellows, the wheezing of the canvas edifice audible even at their distance. Reuben looked away, the fire an all too familiar sight.
“Now, he stokes the fire. Even learning the trade a bit.” Jessop said this with a hint of distaste, or so it seemed to Reuben. He was confused by the arrangement, “A reformed bandit, that’s good, isn’t it?” Reuben asked.
Jessop replied, “Hah. You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? Maybe this one, ‘haps he wasn’t the bad sort we usually get out here. For his sake I hope so, then he might have a chance to stay on the path we’ve set ‘im.” A series of ringing peals drowned out conversation momentarily, as the blacksmith pounded upon a bar of red metal. When it subsided Jessop continued, “I don’t know about ‘im though, it wasn’t out of regret for ‘is choices or the caravans he’d hit that he threw hisself on the mercy of the town folk. Sommat happened to his crew but he came out of it. Seems he had a will to survive, but rightly what it was he saw no one’s been able to figure out. Not the chatty sort, that one. Must’ve been bad to make a man the size of him pack it in and beg for mercy offa sorry lot like us. Just look at the size of him will ya, man’s more an ox than man born outta woman. But just you go ask him, iffin you’ve the mind to, and if you’ve the stomach for it. Might have to buy him a drink though.”
Reuben felt intrigued by this person across the street. “Maybe I will then,” he said. “I appreciate the tour, Jessop. And thank you for taking me in, I’m grateful.”
“Had to, didn’t I?” Jessop winked, “It’s awful rare fer someone to choose life out here. Keep outta trouble and we’ll see where ye fit best round here. Might have a job or two coming up could use a man who’s used to something other than farming or mining.”
They parted ways, Jessop heading back to his house, one of the only properly built large houses in the village, and Reuben retired to the lodging of the working folk. These were very basic rooms, a series of tunnels and hollows hacked into the ridge of rock that bordered the town. Reuben hunted through the hallway until he found a vacant room and wrote his name in chalk beside the cloth curtain that separated the interior from the hallway. The room was nearly as barren as the cell he’d so recently vacated. Similarities were quite noticeable: a roughly square room, small window high and lonely, rough cot in a corner. The only thing that made this room different was that he had chosen to enter it. Now that he had arrived and gotten to know Jessop, things were looking decidedly more positive. He wanted to try to talk to that blacksmith attendant soon, if time allowed.
* * *
Reuben found his first weeks at the mining town of Tekuda busy. After a series of odd jobs and a stint in the mines, which Reuben had found utterly tedious, he ended up with regular duties at the mill. Besides grinding grain, it was used to pump water from deep reservoirs underground. It was also used to pulverize some of the rocks during the mining process. There were a number of small wells, but most of the town relied on the windmill for a steady supply of fresh water. Reuben watched over the edifice and let the rhythmic churning of the gears soothe his spirit while the miller himself attended to more important matters. Reuben suspected that meant going with his buddies to the brewery.
In the open doorway of the mill, Reuben stared outside into the light of the setting sun. He was reflecting on his experiences thus far, that this town wasn’t as bad as he had feared it might be. It was small, but there was the working man’s lodge, a few of the more well-off folk had regular houses. There were stables, mostly empty, a brewery, mostly full, even a modest if adequate Karthild workshop, the blacksmith, carpenter, and a few of the other necessary trades were represented. What there was not, of course, was an inn. No one expected visitors here. No, if you were here, it meant you had the means to set yourself up on a business venture or that you had to chance the rougher life of work out here for whatever reason. He supposed a few of the laborers nearby were actually honest folk even further down on their luck than those in Subria. The rest were probably malcontents or fugitives, as he was, from the life that Entigria represented. They might be fugitives of law, of the cold logic present in the city, or its decadence. Either way, this place represented a sort of freedom while at the same time was held in servitude of a greater master, the great city always collected its tax. There was nothing in Tekuda that was there for its own sake only.
Reuben saw the large fellow from the blacksmithy, he had learned from the miller that the man’s name was Vern. The tired form with its stooped back, the soot smeared face, told the tale of another long day’s work. He supposed the apprentice was headed for refreshment at the eatery, a long hall where most of the town got its victuals each day. He called out to the man, “Hey there, you. You’re Vern, right? The reformed bandit?”
Immediately the huge man stopped, his tired face scrunching into scowl. Reuben could hear the restraint in the man’s voice, “So, what was it to you then?”
Reuben had not expected the man to be friendly, but also he was not looking to provoke him. Clearly he had taken the wrong tone. As he considered how to smooth over his awkward greeting, Vern stepped closer to him, the large bulk blotting out more of the scenery and filling the immediate vision. “Go on then, have a go at me, like the rest of these washerwomen.”
Reuben persevered, “It’s not like that. I was just curious about you, your story,” hoping that he was being conciliatory enough.
“Yeah? Well, that’s nice,” said Vern, his frown deepening. “And why would you care?” he growled.
“Wanted to know what this town is up against. Jessop wants me to get this place better protected. Figured I’d ask someone who knew about it,” said Reuben, hoping to appeal to the authority figure of Tekuda.
“That I do,” said Vern. If naming the mayor had any effect, it did not break up the frown on Vern’s face. “But you’re wasting your time.” Then, with a great shrug and a guttural hawking, Vern spat on the ground, “Ah, who cares? Tell you what, if you want info, buy me a drink. I’ll tell you the tale. Not that you’ll believe me.”
“Sounds fair enough. I’ll be along shortly,” Reuben said. Vern grunted and trudged away, heading towards the long building near the center of the village.
* * *
The long room was sweltering in the evening. It was dim inside, and noisy with the clatter of dishes and conversation. Reuben got in line, waiting to pick up his own tray that would feature his food allowance provided by the town. For those with a greater hunger, they could purchase extra. Reuben had found, though, that the meals were sufficient, if sometimes strange. He had opted
once or twice to sample the brewer’s art on the frontier. He did so this evening as well, two tankards, one for him and one for Vern. He found the blacksmith apprentice sitting in one corner, in a small pocket of empty space. Reuben walked over, sitting down next to him. He proffered the drink, which was accepted with a curt nod.
Pushing the multicolored mash, sort of a meaty vegetable and pearled grain dish around his earthenware plate, Reuben couldn’t help but notice that, once again, the cook had included the dreaded sagebrush leaf into his dish. When harvested from fresh young leaves, it had a tarragon flavor that was tolerable, however, Reuben was under the impression that the taste-buds of the village had atrophied, for the bitter flavor of the dishes were overpowering. Blast, he wished he’d never mentioned his hearty dislike for the seasoning, for it seemed now his own little trial from the town was to put up with malnourishment through inability to eat any of their food. Who would stockpile or use so liberally this much sagebrush leaf? It was maddening; glumly he tried to salvage whatever he could from the horribly tainted mess. Next to him, penetrating even his cloud of disgust, were the sounds of the blacksmith himself as he happily chomped down and enthusiastically rolled the greasy mess of food around his cavernous maw. It truly was a spectacle, watching the blacksmith eat. He could have sold tickets back in the city.
Appetite unfulfilled, Reuben decided to waste no more time. “I’m new to town,” he said to Vern, “I was wondering if some of the tales I’ve heard about the frontier are true.”
“They all laugh, you know,” said Vern, watching condensation roll down the side of his drinking vessel. “They think just because we’re out here where there’s nothing but dust and rock, that the worst problem they might be bothered with is missing a shipment from the capitol.” He took a long pull, throat bobbing as a torrent of liquid was downed. Vern wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand, then he continued, “Not even the Mayor wants to listen. But I didn’t choose the life you see me in now because I had a bleeding heart. I liked being a marauder, suited me fine. Up till they all got wiped out.” He paused for another great guzzle, “Then I had to find other work. The mines are the only show around, so here I am, And that’s my story.” The blacksmith’s apprentice finished the drink, his tankard landing with an echoing thud on the rough wooden surface of the table. “And you then, why a soldier boy out here? Cross your masters, did ya?”
“You might say that,” Reuben replied. “Though it was more complicated than that.” He took a more measured draught than his companion. “Let’s not change the subject, though. I didn’t part with my day’s earnings to hear the singsong tale you just spun.”
Vern’s eye flashed momentarily and he went very still, peering hard into Reuben’s eyes. Reuben felt himself drawn in, watching the small flicker deep within that orb, black in the center, ringed by a broad brown band. “You’re a hard one, I can tell,” whispered Reuben, so none but Vern might hear, “But I’ve stared at harder glim than yours.” Reuben felt his heartbeat slow, seconds stretching out. He could feel it, this man had a larger story than he was letting on. Something terrible, but it drew Reuben’s attention. Reuben could sense the tension in the blacksmith, a bridled rage on one hand, and a horrible memory on the other that chased this bandit into the arms of law-abiding society. Vern looked away first, “Fine, then,” his voice husky, “you come ‘round the smithy. Bring another drink with ye and I’ll fill in the details.” Before Reuben could respond, the large man was up and out of his seat, stomping away through the hall and out into the warm evening light. A few heads had turned around at the sudden movement, and a momentary hush at the pounding of Vern’s tread, but then the moment was over, and the noise of the hall rose to its good-natured hum.
* * *
The forces of the cinder lands were not sophisticated by any means, but they made up for their lack of intelligent tactics with overwhelming numbers. Most numerous were what became known as the imps. Whatever name they had for themselves was inconsequential to those that faced the small but persistent fighters. There were variations among even their crawling masses; some large and broad shouldered, others sinewy and scampering. In all their variety of frame, they all bore the same resemblance, the same grey-green skin, the same yellowish eyes. The tallest among them was not half the size of the average human being. Their strength was not proportional in the same ratio, rather, it was overwhelmingly forceful once they attacked. They did not have the reach of a man, being shorter, nor did they have combat expertise and finesse. Lack of intelligence did nothing to stop their blood lust, they would grapple an opponent, hop onto and bear down like wolves, tearing tendons to lame and puncturing whatever flesh was exposed. If they could not reach tendon or sinew to sever, they would attempt to squeeze the life from their victims, clinging like malevolent limpets until exhaustion and lack of air brought victory.
More terrible were the smoke knights, whose mere presence with their glowering visage on the field of battle quenched bravery and stamped out hope. They were captains, probably, since only a few were present at any one time. Their presence provided some direction and command to the roiling mass of imps. Though they, too, would at times enter the fray, and kill anything and everything in their path be it imp or human. When they fought, they wielded their great black blades, always an ax or sword, cutting swiftly and brutally, with each stroke calculated to kill or maim. When a brave soul stood up to them, they would take their time, relishing the pain and loss of hope in their foes, which bolstered morale for the imps to frenzied heights. They could, in theory at least, be killed, but no one was quite sure. So far, all encounters in combat had ended one way only. There had been reports of seeing a smoke knight fall, the testimony of dying men pulled off a battlefield, or the scarred minds of the one or two who had escaped. Such reports could hardly be trusted to be accurate with any degree of certainty, yet rumor has a way of spreading even without conscious mouths.
Perhaps only Reuben had seen a smoke knight fall. He had witnessed it during one of his many rounds of the cathedral walk. Sometimes, without notice, the enemy forces had fought amongst themselves. Usually it was the imps fighting and tearing each other to pieces. It was strange, discipline left and the brawl would grind the already broken city further into finer grist. Once, Reuben had seen the melee involve a smoke knight. He had viewed the towering knight hew through swath after swath of imps as they struggled to swarm it. The battle was long and fierce, only barely visible from Reuben’s position, though in the end a great crash and howl, accompanied by excited, high pitched screeching had signaled to him the result. Although they were fearsome, those knights, just knowing that at least they could be brought down was enough to embolden Reuben to defy them himself. The few times that Reuben had spoken to a knight led him to believe that, although there was intelligence there, whatever mechanism of hatred powered the foes must certainly be controlled by a mightier will. Left to their own devices, he suspected they would act little better than the imps. Of course, this was all idle conjecture, born of boredom and endless days and nights behind the veil while the city all around succumbed to that same brutal intent that watched his steps, standing boldly and challengingly just beyond the barrier.
The forces of the cinder lands would often use the large, beast-like tunnelers in their assault of a fortified structure. They were also used to create underground highways for the imps. The creatures were huge, half again as tall as a man and as broad as his spread arms. Their serpentine bodies were covered in fur and as long as a street. Their hard carapace heads compacted earth as they wriggled through the soil, tearing through earth and rock at an alarming rate. They moved through the earth, eating what they wished of the very land, and could erupt from the ground within minutes of the first rumbles that precedented their arrival. The creature would burst forth, pulling itself along on thousands of stubby appendages that covered all around, a horrific amalgamation of earthworm, mole, and millipede. Tremors of the land heralded witness to the unfortunate
fate to come, though at first it could be mistaken for a passing earthquake, just a rumble of the earth. Those that had heard of the rumors, though, trembled long after the tremors ceased. Was it indeed, as the boastful and drunken lot at the inn would claim, just an earthquake, that the cinders would never reach their own little town? Surely, the enemy would be contained by the mountains, or the lake would bar them from nearing. Others, the ones not drinking, would be worried. Would their government send aid? What of garrisoning a troop here? The fact that those tactics had not worked before when the tunnelers came did not matter, it was something to hope for, something to focus on instead of the fear itself that wormed into their hearts, choked the life and fun out of the festivities, until all but the truly far gone noticed the change in the atmosphere. And sometimes, it was, just as they said, an earthquake. Those did happen, after all. But more often than not, within a few short days, nothing was left of whatever little hamlet had first bandied about the possibilities over the drink. Sometimes, it was in the middle of the delightfully tipsy naysayers’ talk that the first screams would be heard. The large, snake-like figures with their huge, shovel-like hands bursting forth, and then the rest would come.
Litany of Wrath Page 10