Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  Disgust and despair entered Reuben’s heart. “Ibdal have mercy,” breathed Reuben in a hoarse whisper.

  “Didn’t take you for the religious type,” Ambril said.

  Reuben hadn’t meant to speak out loud. Flustered he said, “You look at that and tell me something better to say then.” He felt just like he had when he’d turned to Vern and told him to run, only this time there was nowhere to run to. If the cinder lands were taking over the eastern continent too, then where was left?

  The image faded, without warning. “Hey!” Ambril shouted, “what the-” As she was speaking, the pooled light flared back at the crystals. A sharp report sounded as they burst in pieces, rock shrapnel bouncing around the shop. They all ducked, protecting their heads with their hands. After a moment, silence reigned again. Acrid smoke wafted in the air. Peeking carefully at the device, even Reuben could tell that the show was over. The wires were bent and twisted.

  “I suppose that’s it then,” said Pim.

  “Yeah, and don’t even bother asking again. It’s going to take a long time to replace those crystals,” said Ambril.

  Reuben glared grimly at the mess of wire and bits left in jumble. He had to let people know, he realized. He couldn’t let the city just stand by, unknowing of the danger that would be at its doorstep soon enough. He had to let people know. Oh well, he thought. There was only one thing to do now. Time to get himself arrested.

  * * *

  Various parts of Bolson’s body were sending signals to him, their urgency breaking through the haze of confusion. Pain, he was in pain. But why? Focusing on the feeling he tried to remember. There had been the meal at the inn, too starchy. The cook never could resist extra thick gravy. That, along with the songs and beer, it had not been a bad evening, all things considered, even with the uproar earlier in the day. The maid had turned down his advances, it was true; the only unfortunate part of an otherwise enjoyable time. Was that it then? Was he just aching inside, just feeling sorry for himself about a missed pleasantry? No, too much pain for that, besides, he was used to sleeping alone. The calluses on his emotions were far thicker than that to let a simple dismissal by a young lass ruin a perfectly good evening of drink. What then? He’d made it to what he called home he was sure, even with bouncing off the walls unsteadily. This was Tekuda, not some big city. Hell, he could have fallen asleep in the street with no more than a few jokes, no fear of being robbed blind amongst these people that he’d known for so long.

  Through the fog of memory he recalled the anxiety in the town, what was it about now? Oh yeah, smoke on the horizon, the setting sun dulled by the band of dark in the way. It was strange, but what of it? It wasn’t the first oddity found out on the frontier and he’d paid it no heed. Finally his memory coalesced. He groaned, the nightmare he’d had; the one with the huge earthworm-like creatures, the scraggly figures with claws, the flame-eyed warriors all in black metal, it hadn’t been a dream. Realization poured its icy truth into him, he was captive. He must have put up some kind of fight in his drunken stupor when they came for him. He could feel now, wishing he couldn’t, the dangling uselessness of one half of his body, one arm broken, half of one leg missing. The pounding ache returned with his consciousness, every heartbeat cause for wincing.

  Bolson tried opening his eyes. It was a sorry sight. He could barely see the sky above him through drifts of black smoke, yet the occasional glimpse of blue could still be seen. He looked around, he was with a few other of the townsfolk, all in various stages of injury. The dead were piled in heaps. Light was abundant for now, he could see smoldering, broken buildings all around. Nearby, he could even see the small stump of the tree he used to sit under. He groaned again, straining to see those closest. He recognized a few of the miners, and that man splayed over there might have been the cook. Not that he could tell from the features of his old friend, but the corpse still had an apron on. He wondered, with dull surprise, if that was his very own leg right over there, roasting on a spit for the ravenous imps. Well to blazes with that.

  “Hey you!” he shouted.

  The patter of rushing feet reached his ears as the imps startled momentarily. Then several of the imps scampered closer, sometimes on two legs but forelegs touching the ground occasionally to keep balance. Some were taller, some broader, but all had the same glittering heavy lidded eyes of malice. Their faces were foul, muck and blood caked over their wrinkled features and folds of flesh. Mostly they were charcoal dark, with bands or splotches of mud-slime green and grey. They peered over him, his broken body amusing and pleasing their broad snuffling noses on their grinning, jagged-toothed faces. He struck out with his one good arm, attempting to grab one at least, but he was too slow for their reflexes. They hissed and spat, snarling at their sport which was not so entertaining after all. Bolson conjured up a smirk of disdain at them, despite his injuries and the torment that suffused his body. They came at him again, as Bolson hoped they would, so he would be at the end of suffering. Just as they had almost reached him a heavy sound could be heard. The imps halted, a look of fear washing over them, and they scattered again, bolting away. Some threw themselves into the still burning ruins in their haste. Bolson was left with the rest of the injured townsfolk.

  The source of the sound came into view, two armored knights and one other, a leather-robed figure. It was alike in its menacing presence to the armored giants that watched over them, but smaller in stature. It looked out of place amid the carnage, leather flaps of its robe made a heavy thwack in the stray breezes. The head was hooded, hiding the face. A pale glow issued from under the hood, not burning the leather. It carried no visible weapon that the prisoner could see, but even if he were left alone with this figure he would not favor meeting it in battle. Its presence was more sinister, seemingly vulnerable and exposed, paradoxically more menacing with its hidden power. The imps stayed still, completely cowed by the approaching soft tread of boots on ash, the sad crunch of the ash of the homes beneath its steps. They walked among the dead and dying, not bothering to step over them but either kicking them aside or else walking on their outstretched forms. They halted next to another townsperson. Bolson could feel himself starting to fade away, but he noticed that they were looking at the prostrate body of Vern.

  “No,” said Vern, “Go away.” He did not move at all.

  The knights rumbled threateningly, but the leather-robed figure held up one hand, halting their impulse to crush and main. Instead, the figure leaned down and reached out one hand, turning Vern so that he was on his back, staring up into the sky. The gloved hand reached down, cupping the bruised face in one palm while whispering, hardly to be heard, “There is no hope for you. You will join us. It is fate’s decree.” It turned Vern’s head toward the remaining villagers and motioned at one of the knights.

  This one carried a great two handed sword, held with ease and even a solemn poise. But the hiss of disdain that escaped nonstop from its helmet belied the pent up energy waiting to be released at a moment’s notice. Seeing the signal from his master, the knight strode quickly forward. It selected a miner who was barely injured, and who could not stop himself from whimpering. The knight placed one boot on the chest, leaning on the man as he squirmed in pain. Then the knight took one step back. The strike came quickly, merciless except in its brevity, snuffing the life. As the body twitched on the ground the knight picked up the head, tossing it carelessly into a nearby fire.

  The imps howled in delight, in dread contrast to the moans that escaped the townsfolk who had witnessed the murder in paralyzed horror. Not Bolson though, he was near enough to the knight to strike. His gaze was stern and full of hate. He grabbed a fallen knife from the ground and lunged forward toward the knight, broken as he was, summoning up all his failing strength for the blow. The knife made a rending screech as it scratched along the boot of the knight, a piercing squeal of dashed glory.

  “No!” shouted Vern, but it wasn’t even heard over the hollow, ringing laugh of the knight, who simpl
y trod on Bolson’s neck and wrenched his foot down with a sickening crunch.

  “Good,” said the leather-clad leader, and chills came over Vern on the ground at the robed figure despite the heat that surrounded them. It turned Vern’s head back towards the sky then obscured his view with its face. Again Vern found himself staring into the golden gaze, the pools of light without iris. They bore into his mind once more. He struggled, but as Vern willed himself to strike out he found that he could not. A leadenness had filled his limbs and he found his will and strength sapped by the pallid light of the robed figure.

  “Submit to your destiny,” it commanded and to his horror he found he wanted to be done, to no longer be in control of his own actions. It would be nicer to give in, to rest. A small part of him resisted, a raging small voice that was angry and afraid.

  “Calm I bring, hateful one, surety of purpose.” It drew back its robe for a second, pulling out a small disk that looked like a coin.

  Vern found his voice, finally, “Scum! Die and be forgotten!”

  It motioned with the other hand, pointing to another wounded person. Immediately, the imps set upon it, tearing and biting. Screeches rent the air and clawed at Vern’s mind and hatred poured into his heart.

  “Vengeance we provide,” voiced the golden-eyed one.

  A knight joined in with the miner’s death with sudden fury, slashing miner and imp alike in a flurry of swift blows, great peals of laughter at the ceremony of slaughter. When all were dead around it, it stopped, still and quiet in ringing silence.

  The eyes burned into Vern’s own, encompassing every sense. The voice sounded louder now, deep and sonorous, as if it were coming from all around, and within, “Reaper you shall be.”

  Alone now, no one to protect, nothing to live for, Vern lost hope. There was nothing for him anymore, every part of his life seemed a waste. He could feel himself falling through the walls of despair, pinned like a fly underneath the cruel stare of his captor. Part of him wanted to die, to be brave enough to throw his life away. And yet, he realized with utter self-hatred that he could not. He could not muster the will to do so. Loathing himself, hating all that he was he answered, “Yes.” And the howls of triumph cascaded over his craven heart as the light of the eyes curled around his mind, coiling and constricting, filling his senses with numbness and darkness until Vern faded away.

  8 COIN FLIP

  Brothers, my time now is short. You must carry on without me, for I fear that ere this letter reaches you, my bones will be cold in the ground. Remember what we have discovered and preserve our work. The world must know, in time, the secrets we have uncovered.

  Notes preserved and much copied among the now extinct rival priest faction, put to death during the last unhappy days of the War of Stone when their secret enclave was discovered.

  “Stentor, you have to let this go, we’ve already tried it,” said Eustus. The great council of Entigria was in closed session, assessing their options. It was not a happy meeting. Unpleasantness hung in the air, the product of a full working day’s worth of effort and frustration.

  “Did we get anything out of that fellow, what was his name again?” asked Bregil, wearily. His tired, old face was deep-lined and his eyes bleary. Several of the other councilors looked equally worn out.

  Eustus chimed in, “His name, worthless as it is, is Jessop. And no, we’ve got nothing more than the babble he first spouted when he arrived. I’ve got him at my estate for now, being attended to by my personal physician.” He added sourly, “And I expect to be repaid the expense.”

  “Of course, Eustus,” Vivian replied. “We would not expect you to draw on your own account. Have patience and present your receipt when either the poor man is cured or else your physician has exhausted his acumen to heal.” She sat back in her seat, steadying Bregil who was slowly listing over. She nudged him quietly; Bregil’s eyes popped open. He nodded his thanks and straightened up.

  A messenger entered the room, a glimpse of afternoon light warming the haze filled hall for a moment. He quickly moved towards the councilmen, his soft-soled boots padding across the marble floor. As the councilors continued to bicker, he reached Stentor Folson and leaned down to whisper into his ear. Folson listened carefully, and his face brightened up considerably. The others noticed and quieted down, waiting to see what the news was.

  Folson shared, “Good news, the other one has made his way to us, just as I said he would.”

  This caused a stir among them, the first real progress made on any of their plans. They looked alert again, ready to tackle their problem, only Eustus glowered darkly, “You mean to send him, don’t you?”

  “And why not?” said Vivian, her frail frame projecting a stout resolve. “I don’t see you volunteering for it. You know this is the best option we have right now. And he’s had some luck with them before, you cannot deny that Braldoan ought to have fallen long before it did.”

  “That’s not the point,” responded Eustus, “I think-”

  “We know what you think,” interrupted Bregil, coming to Vivian’s aide. “You think because the man insulted your wife at the park that he’s no good. Leeway is granted, however, in times of grief. Have a heart, Eustus, the man had just seen his city burn.”

  Eustus looked fit to burst, face darkening with the blood that pounded through his blustered face. Folson rapped the great table with his hand, “I’ll not have this here, not now. We already agreed earlier about the probabilities. I’m still the casting vote here, and I say we use what options are available to us in the here and now.”

  As he was speaking the door opened again, this time both doors. The heavy tread of two guards echoed off the walls. The councilors waited for them to come forward with their charge, who walked calmly between them. They halted, waiting to be addressed, keeping firm hold of Reuben.

  “Have you ever heard of the land of the gods?” asked Stentor Folson, who was seated in his customary place at the head of the council table, calm and collected as ever. The full complement of councilors was present around the large table with its ornate chairs. Each wore attentive expressions, the kind face of Bregil, the pinched and glaring of Eustus, and the rest, waiting for the response from Reuben.

  Reuben was confused, it was not the first question he was expecting from the council leaders. While he stood there dumbfounded, Folson waved a hand at the two guards that had hauled him into the chamber. They released him and walked away, back to the posts they had left during the commotion. Too baffled to reply, Reuben had expected a comment about his recapture; after all, he had punched out a guard to make sure he was taken straight to them. None of them seemed to be disturbed or surprised by his presence. Not a question of how or why he had returned, not a question about the nature of his escape but instead something unexpected. Reuben’s brain rattled into gear, as to their inquiry, of course he’d heard of the land of the gods. His parents, especially his mother, had taken him to the temple regularly as a child, until the age when he started to care more about sword practice and drills. What he could remember was that the gods lived in their own world, separate but connected to the material world that he lived in. He’d heard it said by some of the priests that Karthild portaling made use of their realm somehow. One man he’d met at a pub said he’d even been to the land of the gods, that it was in the center of the world and the gods had made beautiful gardens of everlasting peace and joy there. Whatever and wherever it was, he would be the first to concede that it made a certain amount of sense that gods needed a place to dwell, and presumably they didn’t want it accessible to others. If it were in the center of the world or in the clouds he did not know nor care.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” Reuben said, “But I need to tell you about what happened at Tekuda. I went there and-”

  “We already know all about it. That is not why we had you brought here,” interrupted Folson.

  “What?” said Reuben.

  Folson chuckled quietly, “You think we sit here breaking li
ttle stones and inhaling their smoke because we like the feel of polished rock in our hands and sooty nose-hair after?”

  Reuben collected himself a bit, it was easy to forget that these already keen minds that had risen to public office were made all the more acute with Karthild.

  The sour-faced Eustus sneered at Reuben, “How little you understand. But since that was not your duty, I shan’t ridicule you for it.”

  Vivian, grey haired and much kinder responded, “It really would do to have you soldier types at least taught the barest fundamentals of Karthild. It would save the time having to explain it over and over again.” Then in a sterner tone, “It was unkind, you know, to strike the guard.”

  Reuben felt the merest heat on his face. He thought he’d been clever in his ploy to gain access to the council, but in truth he did regret striking the guard. There was another side of him though, a shameful little corner of his mind, that had got a thrill out of letting go of his usual morals and smacking the smirking face of the one who had barred his way. Of course, once the rest of the guards showed up it hadn’t been quite so much fun for him. He realized how far ahead the council thought as his mind connected the dots, “You wanted me to be here today? But why?”

  Folson leaned forward, heavy arms on the table, obscuring his inlaid family crest set in metal and stone. “You are one of the few people we have around that has experience with the cinder lands and surviving them, that’s why. And you at least have heard of the land of the gods, unlike some these days. That will makes things easier.”

  Frustrated and flustered, Reuben said, “Who cares what I believe? What do you mean, ‘easier’? And anyway, no one knows where they are exactly, even if they do exist.”

  “Oh, they are real all right,” responded Vivian.

  “How do you know that?” asked Reuben.

  “Because we have sent people there,” said Folson. “And tomorrow morning that is where you will be going.”