Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  Reuben’s words were like blows, rocking Ibdal backwards several feet with hands waving to his sides, trying to keep balance. Ibdal withstood the storm, not attempting to ward off the force of Reuben’s accusations. When Reuben’s ringing words died in angry echoes around him, Ibdal only looked on sadly with concern, as a parent watches their children when they are upset. As the fury abated briefly, Ibdal spoke. “I was there,” and the voice was sorrowful, a deep, full sadness that cut through the white hot rage surging through Reuben’s veins.

  Before Reuben could respond, Ibdal held up his hand, saying, “I was there with the dying soldier, taking away pain when their bodies were broken.” As he spoke, images formed in Reuben’s mind, faces of soldiers on the field of battle, bloody and dying, whispering fragments of prayer. All around the glassy stares of those already gone were no comfort. Blood ran in appalling rivulets to form forlorn pools; greedily they were lapped up by imps. Ruin and devastation, desolation and despair, the few remaining able-bodied soldiers scattering like leaves before the violent gale. Reuben was paralyzed with fear, seeing the faces of those still alive who would not taste death soon enough before the imps had their sport. The view grew out and suddenly he was looking on from above. The soldier was being administered to by a green and blue robed figure. The image grew close again, and the eyes of the soldier were less creased with pain, an acceptance of what was to be wreathing the face in a beauty that spoke without words against the ugliness of his wounds. A final rattle shook his ribs before the soldier’s eyes closed for the last time. Reuben was looking at Ibdal again, at the square.

  Ibdal continued, “I was the one that purged the memories of the little children, that their sobs at night were not due to the terrors they had witnessed, but instead only out of the the losses they had endured.” And in his mind, Reuben saw the huddled young in the church, the very church he had protected for years. The dirtied refugee youths, whose cries for lost parents still haunted his dreams, were huddled together. Some managed to sleep, but jerked awake many times throughout the night as the dreams came. Others tried to stay up for as long as possible, not willing to leave the land of the conscious now that the soothing songs of their parents could not reach them to carry them to slumber. Instead, he saw Ibdal standing nearby, singing a lullaby that mortal ears could not hear. Despite that, some of the children quieted down, heavy weariness closing their eyes as sleep without memory granted respite.

  “I was with the land, that fire did not consume utterly, only transformed into cinders and ash.” Reuben saw the fields of Braldoan, how the immature grain had withered and faded, how each stalk had been eaten by the heat, curling and shedding threads that turned into cinders to light their neighbors. The ground below was already salt and pepper grey and brown, the metamorphosis condemning the very loam. Reuben saw far places, where green shoots fought to survive in the altered land.

  “I was there in the heart, so any that might resolve to go forward in the face of oblivion would do so with their head held high.” Soldiers again, companies whose standards he recognized. Men with fearful sidelong glances toward their captains, waiting for the orders to go forward. There was green grass beneath their feet, but on the horizon the land was already fading into that dread color of death. The lines held steady, though the morale was low. Standing ahead of them, unseen, Ibdal was there, a sword in his hand, wheeling it above his head in a circle. A captain had his gaze fixed upon the sight, a sudden spark of confidence causing him to sit in his saddle straighter than ever. Imperceptible, those men that looked upon the strong face of their renewed leader gathered their own strength. Everyone knew, there was no illusion. They would not be coming back. But they would make their end worthy of remembering by those they would die to defend. Trumpets rang, mark leaders waving flags for the formations to step forward, into glory.

  The visions wheeled in his mind, and others, of countless small victories in the face of defeat. Scenes from before the world began to char, of things as sweet and innocent as a young lover’s question, as somber as a deathbed where rheumy eyes closed for the last time, and with them all, somewhere in the moment, Ibdal working in a thousand different ways, in a thousand different places. Then he was looking again at the old, grey man in his green robe. Ibdal looked with understanding and pity at Reuben, “You ask me if I was there as if I had abandoned those who call on my name. I answer you that I have never left.”

  As if released from a spell, Reuben slumped onto his knees, shocked. Breath came ragged and halting, he felt himself shuddering from exertion and revelation. He raised his head so as to open his throat more clearly, and choked back a cry, the sky above that had been so full of darkness was now full of bright stars, sparkling in fascinating array. Each point of light looked as brilliant as diamond in a warm light. They pulsed slowly, not all at once, the effect mesmerizing. It was too wondrous to look at. Reuben hung his head.

  Ibdal spoke again, still in the same soft tone of voice, “I cannot alter everything that happens, none of us can. The forces at work can only be directed, not controlled. I was there even for you, Reuben, every day. When you looked at the cold flakes of snow settling on the church yard and a few steps away the cinders glowed, when you walked the circuit, when you waved the censer, when you cobbled together the small shrine for a holy place in a ruined temple. I was there.”

  Reuben was bowed with grief. Footsteps padded over to him, and he felt the touch, the resting of a warm hand on his head. He looked up, wanting to express himself, but he could not. In that moment Reuben had nothing to answer. The look on Ibdal’s face was profound, the deep set eyes exuding comprehension and acceptance, an unending patience, an unfathomable mercy, and Reuben watched as Ibdal’s face mirrored his own, tears streaking the cheek of a god.

  Reuben had come to vent, to make the gods finally understand, to finally act and do something. That had always been part of his goal, to make them hear. Never had he entertained the thought that one of them had not turned their face from the cares of the world. Instead, at least one had watched on, had done what was possible. The boundless depths of cheerless work, days unnumbered in the echoing misery of a burning world. He had not known or suspected this new terror; it was one thing to be powerless in the face of evil, and another to be strong enough to fight but not enough to stop it. Giving quarter, doing what could be done to lessen the blow at every turn, the silent work of little thanks for a world that needed more than what could be done. It struck Reuben deep inside, great wracking shame like a lead weight, the realization of his accusations, he could not face that kind face. With a bowed head, his own grief a silent scream that he could not give voice.

  “You know now. Punish yourself not, for your heart is good,” said Ibdal.

  The understanding poured over Reuben like a soothing balm. Yet there was conflict, and another thought rose in his mind as his emotions and senses were mixed in a moment of time that stretched on. There was still part of him that was filled with his old companion of silent rage that had fueled his steps, kept him strong and alert. Another part of him longed to release that terrible fire, to let it die and move forward. The two sides of him struggled, as they had for years. Reuben felt the choice within him. He would have to make it soon, or be consumed by it. It was not an easy decision, his anger had brought with it benefits. Not every moment had been misery, his anger had saved his life on more than one occasion. When surprised in the alley, when fleeing back to Tekuda. Anger had provided him with strength to endure the trials he had faced. Despite its use, it was a wearisome burden that no amount of time, alcohol, or practiced patience had ever quenched. The burden of it all had become stronger with each part of his journey. There was unexpected respite here with Ibdal, and with it an opportunity. He could release it, if he wished, he could let the anger drift away. It would be a relief, he told himself.

  The other side of Reuben was not listening; in fact, it was striving against the first message. Inarticulate, the wrath was a sensation, not a
reasoned, logical rebuttal. There was fear there, too, at many things: not having enough strength, of not knowing how to survive after carrying his burden for so long. The anger had become familiar, an unhappy but known quantity. What would happen if it were no longer around? Reuben could no longer remember what it felt like to be free of its weight. More than that, his mind told him, the choice hadn’t been his to even be thinking of this. His anger was unhealthy, but it was part of him. Realization dawned, he was being manipulated. And as quickly as he realized this, the chance, the pincer of choice was gone. It had seemed like an eternity but Reuben came back to his senses. He glared at Ibdal, looking the picture of his own indecision, part rage, part thankfulness.

  Ibdal stepped back from Reuben, now wearing a frustrated look on his face. His tone was calm though, as he said, “I see you are not ready to be my champion. You do not yet trust me.”

  “Why should I?” Reuben bellowed, anger winning out for the moment, getting up from the ground with malice aforethought.

  Ibdal stepped back and sighed heavily, “Not all meddling is evil, just because it involves you.”

  The sound of a portal opening took Reuben by surprise. He spun around, wary of whatever might come next. He spotted the small shimmering sphere of light, which looked to be a passage back into the green gold fields from where he had arrived.

  Ibdal spoke again, in a commanding voice, “The time of our meeting is over. Go now, and wait with Zuetal. He is kind, or at least sympathetic, to you and your friends.”

  “My friends,” Reuben felt a pang of guilt, realizing that during his tirade and trial he had totally forgotten about them.

  “Yes, they are in danger, I am afraid. I will do what I can to bring them to you.” Ibdal said.

  “Let me help,” said Reuben, gruffly. He did not like at all taking directions from someone who had just tried to mess with his mind. Nor was he thrilled at leaving them to Ibdal’s ministrations.

  Ibdal smiled, his face lighting up with a grin, “They have nothing to fear from me. And it is brave of you to offer, though you do not understand. Your sword arm will be of no use.”

  Reuben was puzzled and confused, “Why not? What’s going on, where are they?”

  Ibdal frowned again, “You arrived near Zuetal and me, because you are drawn to such as us.” Ibdal ignored the reflexive snort from Reuben, explaining, “You grew up with Zuetal, and despite your distrust, you are near to me as well, though you know it not. I am afraid that the other guests had different upbringings and hearts. As such, they have been found by some of the less scrupulous of us.”

  “Will they be okay?” Reuben asked.

  Ibdal did not respond immediately, but walked slowly away, “That depends on who found them first,” he said over his shoulder.

  Reuben stamped the ground in frustration, “It’s not in my nature to have someone else do the work that I should have done.”

  Reuben could not see Ibdal’s face as he spoke, “And despite this, it will be done as I say, not your will.” Ibdal was receding into the distance, getting smaller as he walked the length of the empty square.

  Something inside Reuben told him that he had done enough god-baiting for one day. He was tired and upset, as he stepped reluctantly through the portal.

  11 TENDING THE GARDEN

  Not all accepted such restriction on progress. Renegade Karthild users faced death upon discovery. After the first wave of executions, along with seizure of notes and materials, those that survived fled to the wastes. Those that remained opposed in secret were starved of their craft through the tight control of the raw materials necessary.

  History of the Empire Volume 4, Aftermath of the War

  Bowls had been emptied, jugs drained, platters plundered. All around Lucius, crumbs and utensils were in untidy array. Never before in his life had he consumed such an astonishing amount of food. The small part of him that was not fully engaged in his gorging, the inner critic that always evaluated the outside world, was preoccupied with why his stomach had not yet burst. It was thinking along the lines of, “I mean, it should have, right? There’s no way that whole roast pig, apple and all, would fit inside my stomach. Is that any way for an up-and-coming Karthild prodigy to conduct himself while on assignment in foreign parts? Besides…” The nagging thought itched away at him, that it was inconceivable any human gut would hold that much. Surely his stomach must be churning within, it could rupture at any moment. His thoughts became muddled at this point; if he were full he would have stopped eating, it stood to reason. So what if he had nearly consumed half of the great feast? Another half lay standing by, as steaming and succulent as when he first sat down. It would be such a shame to not eat, it would be a disaster. It would be wrong. And so Lucius lifted his fork once more. His forehead was beaded with sweat. The room was warm and his shirt was nearly soaked through. He could not cool off, no matter how many times he filled his tankard from the barrel of foamy ale. He was only half aware that he was chewing yet another fillet of meat, grease running down his fingers. His inner critic hounded him again, “It should be torture at this point, to lift another piece, to force the jaws to work, force the throat to allow entry a single more bite of dinner or swallow of liquid.” The inner critic also pointed out that he ought to be stunningly drunk, yet he felt sober, for the most part. In truth, a warm glow had suffused his mind, to sit and enjoy the repast was a simple yet profound pleasure; one from which he realized dizzily, he had no intention of stopping until all the wonderful food, at the last, would be consumed.

  Lucius was watched with admiration by two women, who sat nearby on a luxurious pile of cushions. The first was the one dressed as a chef, sitting primly on the edge of a cushion. The other woman, though alike in overall beauty, was quite different in attire. The chef was comely, and lithe, yet plain and unadorned. The other was dressed in a revealing evening gown of black and white, one leg exposed from the slit that ran up the side to near her upper thigh. Her expression while watching Lucius was of amusement, the crimson painted lips turned up at the corners. The chef was also happy, a glowing self-satisfied expression of contentment. The chef waved a hand, and a stemmed glass appeared next to her, full to the brim with mead. She sipped at it with a smile. “Something for you, sister?” She addressed the black and white gowned woman.

  The sultry woman's face smirked, “Yes, Volmaetria, a brandy if you please.” She held out a hand and it was immediately holding a snifter of amber liquid. “I must thank you for finding this one. Quite a treat, isn’t he?”

  Volmaetria nearly blushed, “Much better than the last one that ended up here, what a bore. Do you think it was right, what we did to him?”

  Eraskur’s lips puckered with a knowing grin, “Hush with that talk, you’re starting to sound like that bore Ibdal with his silly ethics.”

  “Take that back,” said the chef, plopping her glass on the stone floor. Unnoticed by either woman, Lucius had risen from the table to a sideboard like an automaton, and was now prodding a layered cake as tall as he was.

  “Won’t. You know it’s true, you’ve always been a people pleaser. No motivation to please yourself,” said Eraskur, sipping her drink with a decisive motion that brooked no argument.

  A thin little smile appeared on Volmaetria’s lips, “Oh dear, maybe I ought to have another drink myself, then.” She motioned her hand, and her mead disappeared, to be replaced by a huge stein of frothy beer, dark and bitter.

  “Now you’re talking, and while you’re at it, how about we see if we can get the rest here. Make a real party of it,” said Eraskur.

  Volmaetria drank her drink in one long, gulping motion. She slammed the stein down with gusto, as if proving a point. Then, foam still ringing her mouth, she called, “Do you think your friends would like to join us?”

  Lucius looked up from the cake, much diminished already, pausing his voracious chewing, mouth hanging agape with crumbs spilling from his frosting-smeared face. He turned his head as if considering deeply,
then said, “Oh yes, that would be nice.”

  Volmaetria smiled at him, “I’m glad you think so.” Her honeyed voice sent tingles down his spine. Lucius nodded happily, much like a dog being rewarded for doing a trick.

  Eraskur called him, curling her finger towards the herself, “Surely you have a full belly by now, don’t you think? Maybe it’s time for rest.” As she spoke she patted the cushion next to her.

  Her charm flooded through Lucius. For a moment all thought of food and drink was swept away. He saw Eraskur clearly, and it awoke desire within. The way her lips were parted in anticipation, the way she sat on the cushions, inviting him over. It was more than even his wildest dreams. He took one pace forward towards her, then turned around suddenly and went back to eating. The allure of the woman could not overpower the hunger he felt for the aromas still at the table.

  “Come here,” Eraskur spoke again.

  For Lucius the differing passions battled within his mind. He turned around again and stood stock still. Finally, he nodded dumbly, eyes mesmerized, yet still his hands were taking piece after piece of dessert into his mouth. The figure on the pillows snorted with frustration, angry that Volmaetria still held the upper hand with this gluttonous, silly person. Volmaetria giggled and got up, walking over to Lucius. She leaned down to whisper into Lucius’s ear. His eyes blinked once, twice. And then he slowly fell over, already snoring uproariously.

  “Fine, sister, you win, he’s yours if you want him. A walking stomach that doesn’t know what a good appetite is really about,” Eraskur said with a wry grin.

  “Don’t be jealous, not all men are ruled by their stomachs,” she said smugly, reaching out for a piece of the cake that had remained untouched.