Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  “I do not mean to come across like I am unappreciative,” Folson said, “It is wonderful to see you alive and well again. It’s just, well, what do we do now?”

  The question hung unpleasantly in the stale air. It was even more so for Reuben, to hear the absence of confidence that had been the hallmark of his friend’s speech ever since they had met. This was his friend, the chief councilman, asking him, of all people, for direction. Reuben was stumped for an answer. “No news yet from Lucius and the rest?” he asked.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid,” sighed Folson, padding over to his large window, surveying the city. “Will it matter though, against a god?”

  “Probably not,” admitted Reuben. He felt desperate himself, to be waiting on a bunch of loony magic users, he thought. Those not actively working to bolster the city’s protective magics were busy in their studies, ferreting away with feverish energy, seeking, something, anything that might help them. Reuben, from his personal experience, figured that there was little they could do. That was the sticking point, of course, but he’d rather go down trying, even using the magic from the gods, than to just give up and be destroyed. “How long do you think we have?”

  “Hah. I wish I knew,” said Folson. He sighed again, and went back to his large, overstuffed chair. “It seems to be holding. We had plenty of time to set it up proper, that’s a mercy at least. Mayhap it will be enough to matter. From your experience though,” he said, nodding at Reuben, “I doubt it will last forever.”

  Reuben hit his own chair arm, causing a cloud of dust to poof, adding more haze to the already dim room. “Damn them, the lot of ‘em,” he grumbled darkly. Seeing the frown on his friend’s face, “Sorry. Look, maybe I’ll go get some fresh air.” He got up and walked towards the door. The disagreement about how the gods were handling the world was still raw between them. Reuben was critical, feeling too much the personal cost, while Folson was adamantly philosophical about the whole affair. That was always the difference between them, Folson had said. Reuben had rankled at that because he knew it was true; then he had accused Folson of being unable to understand the suffering caused by leadership. They had gotten over their quibble, but it had made the already tense atmosphere that little bit more uneasy.

  “At least promise me this much,” Folson called to Reuben.

  Reuben paused, one hand on the doorknob. He really did not want to continue their debate, but turned his head. He would at least listen to his friend, no matter how aggravated he was with him.

  “At least try it for me, okay?” asked Folson.

  Reuben hated the pleading sound in his friend’s voice. Worse, he hated what he was being asked. He left without replying, letting the door close on its uneven setting.

  He was a free man, of a sort. It was small comfort to be liberated when the city itself was hostage to the menacing cinder lands. He was trapped along with the rest of Entigria. He’d been around to the barrier to observe the progression. It would be probably another week at most before the transforming power would have completely encircled the city. For now, it was held a bit at bay by the forward wards, hastily built, that would perhaps slow the progression. Travel to and from the city was cut off. No one wanted to travel on foot through the changing lands, even if the patrols of the enemy were few right now. And portaling was impossible due to the barrier. The hard choice had been made to make their ward as strong as possible, not even allowing travel. It was deemed too much of a risk. The clock was ticking then, Reuben knew. There were many storehouses, and Karthild could be used, if they were desperate enough, to provide food. No matter how one viewed the situation though, they were at best in a standoff.

  Reuben walked along the streets, tracing steps he’d gone before, on his way to Donovan’s pub. There, at least, he hoped to wash away some of the problems, if only temporarily. Hardly anyone was out and about, and the quiet hush that had settled on the metropolis had an eerie feel. The few he did pass kept their heads down, as if not looking at the barrier made it any less part of their reality. Reuben could not blame them though, he had seen it all before. And he knew what would be coming next. As time wore on in the face of unavoidable destruction, all of the worst parts of humanity would be on parade: riots, fires, debauchery. Some would swing the opposite direction, screwing themselves up to do something noble before the end. He would miss them more than the rest, stupid and futile though their actions would be.

  Most of all, Reuben wanted to forget the one thing he was asked to do. It had been Folson’s suggestion. He wanted Reuben to pick up the censer once more. It was incredible, Reuben had thought, for his life to be defined by walking in circles. If he could have left the city then and there he would have. He knew far more than he was comfortable with about gods, sieges, and doing the rounds. It was pointless, he had argued, for he had been told by the gods themselves that they could not win. The response had been to have hope. Hope. He had nearly struck Folson for that. He’d met hope, and now he had none. Whatever had happened before, at Braldoan, had been a fluke, he’d said.

  At least the lights were still on at the Broken Barrel. Reuben opened the door to a dismally quiet repository of sullen drunkenness. “Ah,” he thought, “These will be the ones throwing bricks later, instead of throwing down glasses of beer and shots of liquor.” There were plenty of people about, all of them concentrating on their own thoughts. Reuben’s tread sounded unnaturally loud upon the wooden floor beams as he made his way to the bar. Donovan had his back to him, sorting out the tabs and wondering if it was worthwhile to collect any of it.

  “Anything left in the barrel?” Reuben asked as he sat down on one of the few remaining empty spots.

  Donovan spun around, nearly toppling his own glass that was sitting by the receipts. “You!” he cried.

  Reuben did not even try to hide the smug grin and twinkle in his eye as he responded, “Told you I’d be back.”

  Donovan nearly jumped over the bar, but, thinking better of it, he hurried around, leaving the little door to his area of command ajar and whisking over to his old comrade. He rushed over, shaking Reuben by the hand, patting him on the shoulder, as if to reassure himself that he was truly there. “You son of a-” He stopped himself, “Of all the damn, foolhardy-” He shook his head in disbelief. “Here, I’m forgetting myself.” He returned to his bar, grumbling good naturedly. Such was the reunion of the two that it even managed to lift the spirit of the room. Some of the emptiness left the eyes of the patrons, and even one or two had enough sense to realize they had better head on home while their legs could still carry them.

  “Here,” Donovan handed a tall tumbler, nice and full with amber liquid. Reuben accepted it with gratitude. Not that he had been without a drop, especially with Folson, but this was different. Folson had all the fancy bottles, with labels as pretentious as anything. It was good stuff, as a rule, but what he really craved was just what Donovan had placed down for him; nothing fancy and with a burn that he could feel all the way down.

  Reuben grimaced as the fiery liquid went down, sucking in some air out of the side of his mouth. He cast a glance around the room, weary faces and empty glasses much in evidence. Not even a bit of theater on his part was piquing interest. He looked back at Donovan, “That bad, eh?”

  His friend nodded almost imperceptibly, but said, “Oh, mustn’t grumble. Might be brown outside, but what’s the trouble o’ that? We’ve got plenty of brown stuff in here to match.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Reuben said.

  * * *

  “I see.”

  It was not the response that Pim had been expecting, truth be told. But, Gavin was a tricky one; it was always unwise to predict how he would respond to new information. She knew that better than most, having worked for him so long. Behind the cool gaze and wispy beard, brightly polished gears were turning madly. She had sometimes suspected that the odd fellow smoked his exotic blends of gods-knew-what in some effort to slow himself down. It worked, on the surface at least, but th
ose who only saw a steady mind and measured response could find themselves wishing they had paid close attention when they had the chance. Now it was her turn to wonder what two simple words could mean.

  How had it started? She had been trying to explain to Gavin what had happened. He had been understanding as Pim lost the thread of the story and wobbled along in the tale. She had to stop and try again several times when discussing her own particulars. Eventually she got through it all. Along the way she had been trying to push something away, a thought, a certainty, about what her future held. It had come out all at once, and before she had really planned on saying it out-loud, she had blurted her intention to leave for good. Gavin, to his credit, had waited a good long while before uttering those two enigmatic words that caught her by surprise.

  Pim tried to back away from her initial gut feeling, “Look, I’ve been through a lot. Maybe I just need some time to sort things out.” In truth, she felt, it wouldn’t be a bad idea. All sorts of thoughts were swirling around in her head, not all of them bad, but not many of them pleasant. Her days had been mundane enough, small errands and whatnot, except she had lost her nerve. That was the truth of it. The spark, the fire, the edge, it was still there… somewhere. Yet, just walking down the street she felt the prying eyes. The canny folk of Subria had surely noted that her steps were not quite so confident as when she had left. Without that armor of self confidence, she felt exposed, vulnerable, weak.

  “Tell me, have the nightmares stopped?” Gavin spoke soothingly, quiet and soft.

  “Only dreams,” Pim replied. She could not hide from those bright eyes in the dim room though, “No,” she responded. Dreams. Well, what else could you call them? There was not much to them either, just empty darkness and a feeling of sadness that would not go away. Every night that happened; once though, last night, she had awakened screaming. That’s when she had spoken to Gavin about it, the nightmare. It had been the same darkness, but faint, so faint, she had heard it. The terror had come flooding back, the hideous laughter chasing her into consciousness and preventing her going back to sleep at all if not for one of Gavin’s special elixirs. Then at last, a few peaceful hours of slumber. She didn’t want to live like that though, she needed to get away, or something.

  “Tell you what, how about you finish out today, and then we’ll see? Sound fair?” Gavin’s cushions moved about in a jumble as he moved into a more comfortable position, hands crossed behind his head, staring up at the thick curtain of smoke near the ceiling. His pipe threatened to tip its contents out at the steep angle, but he carefully kept his balance with a smile on his face.

  Pim felt relieved, in a way, but still the unease that seemed like her constant companion had not withdrawn completely. “Where am I headed next then?” She asked.

  * * *

  Finally a break. A break from the maintenance of the barrier. All of the Karthild users had been put on the list. It did not matter that Lucius had just returned from the land of the gods. He could use Karthild, so it was his turn to work. After all, they told him, he’d missed several shifts already when he was out gallivanting. It was useless to argue with such as they, so he had done his part. All the while, his mind had been elsewhere. Had his plan worked? He would find out soon, his shift complete, a break from labor, but not from duty. Lucius went as quickly as he could towards his workshop. He could only hope that his fellow researcher, Eistor, had kept his end of the bargain. Space in the city was cramped, especially in the Karthild district. It had only made sense to share his workspace with Eistor, even if his family could have provided the funds for him to be a solo practitioner. Eistor was sometimes dull, but he was thorough and steady. Lucius doubted very much the man would ever contribute something of real advancement to the craft, yet every once in a while Eistor had surprised him with his insight. Thankfully, his instructions had been clear and simple; contain the monster.

  Lucius felt a twinge of guilt at that, keeping secrets from people that he quite liked. In the great game of politics that was Entigria’s upper crust, and his family’s name, he had to play along. He believed in the work, there was no doubt there, but he wondered if he ought to have pulled Reuben aside at least and given the poor man a clue. As he hurried up the steps to his impressive, stone-carved building, he put away the thought for later consideration. There was work to do. The heavy, oak door slid back on its well-oiled hinges and Lucius stepped into the heart of his own acumen, his workshop.

  Grander, more ornate buildings there were in the district. Those were usually more customer oriented, market-type buildings that catered to the rich nobles that could afford and were allowed to use the special magic. This was not Lucius’s place of creativity, however. Inside, there were bookshelves, untidy, with piles perched precariously on edges. These were arranged in a personal library, taking up a considerable portion of the room and part of the second floor as well. Occupying one corner was his workbench, not that of a carpenter, but the large table with its inset kiln where new Karthild stones were forged. In the middle of the room, in the light of the open ceiling, past the second floor, unhappy brown light seeped in through the domed glass. An ornate, flowing, iron railing encircled the second floor. Eistor worked up there for the most part. The ground floor, though, was all his. He could not hear his fellow researcher as he passed by his workstation, his stacks of books, his various accoutrements. For, much as he wanted to research, or create, or simply rest, there was the last corner of his workshop to visit. The corner with the cage.

  Eistor had done well, he could see that. It must have been a hassle, he wished he could have been here to see it. Who could have known they’d get so lucky as to have the chance to act on their scheme so soon, even before entering the garden of the gods? It had been a wild shot, but that was Eistor in a nutshell. He’d be all steady and plodding along, then one day come up with some grand idea. It kept life interesting. Sometimes his schemes were spectacular failures, that’s what kept him humble, Lucius thought. This one though, had worked. In a cage, restrained on a table, was a knight all in black armor.

  This is why he had been put with the expedition to the land of the gods all along. It had taken some persuading, and money, but it had worked. They had their specimen, and the chance to work on it. Eistor had calculated that it would be an almost certain thing that the council’s attempt to send an envoy would be interrupted. Lucius had been skeptical, but went along with it. He had gone with him to the meeting as well. When Eistor had an idea he could be very passionate, and surprise even himself with an eloquence that was otherwise absent from his usual self. The council had agreed to let him try his scheme, but chose Lucius to go. Eistor had rankled a bit at that, it had been his idea after all, but he had contented himself that at least his plan had been approved. Without Lucius’s support, given his past mistakes, it would have been more likely for his plan to be shot down. Lucius had made him agree, if they did indeed capture a knight, to wait for Lucius to return.

  Eistor looked to have kept his promise, the knight was bound in the cell and there were no footprints in the fine layer of dust on the floor, just up to the bars. It must have been a torture in itself to have their prize and wait, but Eistor was a man of unusual patience. Lucius looked with a mixture of pride and fear. Had they been lucky, or was Eistor just that good at planning ahead? There had been much guesswork in their Karthild mixture. That was his own triumph of intellect. He had been sure, or at least pretty sure, that he could do it on the first go. Lucius recalled, with a grimace, tossing the stone at the knight who had appeared through the portal just before they were about to go to the land of the gods. He’d been so nervous, even though he was sure it would work. He’d had a sudden thought -- if he had gotten the calculations wrong it could have sent the thing who knew where. But it had worked. Better than that, Eistor’s work on barriers and bindings had secured their prisoner well.

  What to do next was a good question. There was so much they needed to know. Any direction they chose now might
be disastrous, even deadly. What was the armor made of? How could the knights be reliably killed with Karthild and how efficiently? Who or what were the knights even? He felt the questions swirling in his mind. There was so much to do, but he felt so tired. He’d hardly had a rest since they got back. He was having difficulty concentrating. It had started in the evening shift at the barrier. He tried his best to hide it; he was sure no one had noticed yet. It was becoming more difficult. He would wake up at night drenched in cold sweat. Mealtimes were blessed release, but torture because they were too short. Only the barest, tiniest filling of the aching, gaping emptiness that ravaged him inside. He taken to surreptitiously using some healing Karthild tablets, just enough to be lost from the stockpiles without comment. It was only a little helpful, it did not take it away completely. He had not told anyone yet; it did not seem worth bothering about, not when so many more important matters were at hand.

  The knight on the table stirred, straining against its bonds. Red light illumined the corner as it opened its eyes, staring directly at Lucius with its fiery gaze. Then a hiss issued from its mouth. Lucius felt the hatred of the pinned foe flow at him. There was but one focus there, one urge, revenge. Everyone would pay for caging him. Each heartbeat carried the furious tide of blood in seething hatred. Lucius could see the body fairly twitch as the unending fury coursed through the veins. Each moment it lay captured, every second, they would pay for each and every one. With a flash of insight, Lucius pictured the journey of this being; first the mad old man had captured him. That must have been bad enough. There would be no mercy for that wobbling mustache, that stupid way the rat talked to himself as he meticulously secured his prize, making notes about each part of the binding. Now he was trapped, bound by force that he could not understand. He was cut off, on his own, no direction. Worse, now the one that had sent him here to begin with had arrived. It should have been impossible for a new level of putrid bile and disgust, but it was experiencing it now. The uttermost depths of rage filled it to bursting as it watched the tired face on the other side of the bars. How had he been captured by such mewling pukes? He would find a way. He would have his revenge and feast on their flesh. If only, if only he could be free, their end would be so swift that they would not know they were dead before their heads hit the floor. The insight faded and Lucius stepped away quickly. He decided he was not up for any more work this evening. He needed refreshment.