Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  “By Kormog’s beard, who are you?” Brother Rufus exclaimed in surprise, “And return that at once,” he pointed to the censer. Even at a distance, Rufus could see that it was heavily marred, with scrapes dulling the once brightly polished silver and dents obscuring the delicate engravings. Rufus was usually a kind, patient man, as a rule, but seeing a drunken man trashing priceless church property put him over the edge. He went forward to snatch the censer, fully intending on ushering the man out of the holy temple with a stern lecture.

  Rufus probably did not deserve what happened next. He had just laid hold of the man’s shoulder, when the interloper moved like a snake. Quick as a flash, acting on a cocktail of instinct, training, and rage, Reuben pivoted out of the priest’s grip like a ghost. He was slow, by his sober reaction time standard, but still far quicker than the parish brother. A quick jab in the Brother’s stomach, an elbow to the back after he doubled up, and the brother was left in a disoriented heap on the ground.

  Reuben’s own senses were not much better. He was having considerable difficulty keeping a straight course, with many a stop to keep the world from spinning so. He regretted this hallway, going inside at all was a mistake, he should have stayed outside in the cool. He grunted, anger propelled him forward; he had come here for a reason. Despite the mildly convulsing vision and a sense his head was full of wool, he carried on.

  Brother Rufus was made of sterner stuff than his somewhat frail frame might suggest. Reuben had not gotten far when Rufus regained his sense of balance and composure. Rufus picked himself up from the floor, hurrying after the distant figure. He knew better than to try to physically confront the stranger a second time, but it was his duty to at least catalog the damage that was being done. He watched with growing concern as the wobbly figure reached the ornate doors that opened to the main worship area. In a series of curses and stopping at one point to steady himself against the wall, Reuben managed to haul the door open and stepped through. Rufus followed cautiously, but man did not seem to be bothered with him now that he was not impeding his progress. Rufus watched the man stumble along into the center of the room.

  The cavernous hall was imposing, as befitted the high temple. It was meant to represent, as best it could, the grandeur and glory of the pantheon and their realm of wonder as best mortal kind were aware of. There were no chairs or pews, not here. A large expanse of empty polished marble was where the faithful would gather for the service, standing reverently and kneeling when instructed. All around the perimeter, statues of the divines stood proud on their pedestals, towering above and reaching toward the vaulted ceiling. Even late in the day, yet more candles at the bases bathed the feet of the gods with warm light. Otherwise, the expanse was darkening in the fading light that was further obscured by the stained glass windows.

  “Here I am again, you bastards!” yelled Reuben. He was standing in the middle of the room, gently swaying. “Does it make you all feel better, having me here on the circuit again? Do you feel all special to have me walking the rounds again? Miss me on my knees, begging like a dog?”

  Rufus was truly astounded. There had been a few that had come in with sentiments similar to this man, but none so angry as to yell. Certainly no one else had dared to shout in the temple proper, even the sullen ones scared out of their wits had been gently persuaded by the good Brother to not give up hope. Rufus walked toward the raving man, “Surely you do not mean what you say? Take heart, man, for our divines will surely come to our aid.”

  “Like hell they will,” Reuben spat, venomously. “Look around you, see these pricks? They don't give a damn about you.” Reuben cast his gaze at the statue of Ibdal, which seemed sad and disapproving to him somehow. Reuben looked away, “All right, some of them do care. But that one doesn't.” His anger returned as he pointed at the statue of Kormog. He paced over, nearly tripping over the long censer chain that he still held in one hand. The censer bounced behind him, enough clatter and din to raise the dead.

  “Yeah, you. I hate your guts!” Reuben was standing in front of the statue of Kormog. He looked down at the censer, then up at the grand statue. It was a work of art in its own right; tall, well-sculpted. The stern face, so imperious, the arms mighty, chest forward in superiority. For Reuben, though, it was a representation of everything he had hated, the architect of all that he had lost. To him, there was no divine justice in that face, only oppression. And for what, Reuben thought, for some other god getting all screwed up and messing with whatever appointed history was supposed to be. It was unfair, people’s lives, just regular people, dead and gone because of vagrancies of offense. Reuben knew well how luck could play out in life, no matter the game of chance: the beer hall dart board, the battlefield. He thought he had known Kormog, he was supposed to be the patron of justice, but this was not his idea of righteousness or forbearance leading to renewal. There was only death.

  Rufus was unaware of Reuben’s inner turmoil. All he saw was the intruder standing still. After the erratic pacing down the hallway, the swaying barely avoiding the walls once or twice, this new stillness was more ominous. Maybe the man was asleep? It would be too much to hope for. He’d never get the archbishop to believe this, maybe if the man was unconscious he could rouse him and bring him here.

  Movement. Rufus saw the man slowly gather the censer to his hands, the rattle of metal on the stone, ungraceful and brutish. Then he let a small length play out, about an arm’s length. Reuben began swinging the censer around and around, a hum in the air from the cord. First, the unorthodox flail was vertical in its trajectory, but Reuben adjusted this, spinning it over his head as he increased the cord length. Rufus ducked low to avoid the missile. Reuben moved forward, towards the statue. In silence, save for the whizzing cord and censer, with all his might, Reuben smashed the precious vessel against the hard stone. There was a terrific clatter, and the censer burst apart, scattering dead ashes and metal everywhere in a sad shower.

  Horrified, Rufus rushed over. He needn’t have worried, for there was no damage to the statue, only a veil of ashes that streaked the otherwise pristine features. Rufus was furious, ready to try again, he turned his attention to Reuben, “Are you quite finished? You come in here, desecrate this holy place, and then have the gall to stand there with a stupid grin on your face. Out, just get out!”

  Reuben let the grim smile fade, he was feeling tired now, more tired than he had felt in ages. Agreeing to walk the barrier had been a mistake, he thought. He had been prepared to see the transforming land again, he’d thought. It looked bad, the land changing far quicker than his home city of Braldoan had done. He’d kept it to himself, no point in worrying the rest of the darting-eyed folk that walked along the circuit as well. He felt it was useless, he’d told Folson it would be, but he’d tried anyway. He felt he had done no good at all, that it was all a mistake. No, his battered conscience supplied, going back to Donovan’s and spending a good hour or so downing drink after drink had been the mistake. Reuben shook his head, trying to drown out the pesky voice of reason. “Yeah, I’m done,” he said. He turned away from the irate brother and started his uneven gait towards the exit.

  Rufus, glad at last to be rid of the ghastly man of impiousness, attended to the scene of shameful spoilage. First, he went to wipe away the ash from the statue, resorting to using the wide sleeve of his habit. “Strange,” he muttered, for the ash seemed resolutely stuck. He tried harder, reasoning that his first attempt had been too cautious. It wasn’t like he was going to mar the fine stone, or have enough strength to push it over accidentally. Despite his renewed effort, there was no effect. “Hey, what's in this stuff?” he called to the perpetrator.

  He did not have time to hear a response. The candles on the pedestal around Kormog’s feet snuffed out, streaming smoke. “What the -” Rufus said. He started coughing, usually the smoke was a pleasant aroma, but now was foul and sour. He stepped backwards quickly. Another oddity, although surely the candles ought not produce much smoke at all, these were not
obeying their regular nature. Smoke billowed out in streaming plumes. More worrying, the smoke seemed attracted to the the statue, obscuring it but also almost filling an invisible mold. Rufus watched, fascinated, though still sputtering because of the stench.

  Reuben, though he might have expected to see some odd sights, given the nature of his spree of imbibing, was just alert enough to the land of reality to realize something was amiss. He turned around, and saw the smoke and statue. He grinned, “Finally got your attention, eh, big boy?” he shouted. The grin faded, he could see the form of the temple brother on the ground, not moving. As quickly as he could, Reuben stumbled over. As he got closer, the overwhelming odor of the smoke caused him to cough violently. He was familiar with it at least, cinders and ash. Reuben grabbed the unconscious priest’s ankles and dragged him a short way away from the smoke. Then, he turned around and shouted at the obscuring cloud. “No mercy even for this poor sod,” Reuben said.

  A voice, booming, commanding, came from the cloud, “You have your audience, scum.”

  Reuben drew his dagger, his senses were reeling, unfocused and wavering from anger, alcohol, and breathing in smoke. “No, I’ll give you an audience, you prick!” Reuben yelled running, straight at the cloud and slashing wildly.

  Rufus’ inert form shuddered, and his eyes opened. It took only a moment for recent events to coalesce in his memory and supply his curiosity with the answer for why he was on the floor. He started up, seeing the same bothersome intruder haphazardly striking at the pillar of smoke. Occasionally, there was a ringing sound of metal on stone. Still sluggish from his unexpected trial for the evening, he tried to get up. He was still a little woozy, not the least from the bellowing echoes of the madman in the smoke and another voice, terribly loud and uttering words that although he did not understand, could only be cursing of the highest order.

  The candles stopped streaming smoke, and the cloud dissipated. The smoke disappeared more quickly than it had arrived, evaporating into nothingness. Rufus saw the ash streaked statue, the crazy interloper, and an otherwise empty room. He watched as the man turned towards him, a twisted look of triumph on his face.

  “Ha,” Reuben said, then his eyes rolled upward as he fell to the ground with a thud.

  15 BEFORE THE ONYX THRONE

  Glory be to our hallowed master, Lord Ustan Avoc. The heretic false priests have been destroyed. The honor of Arneph is preserved, just as you foretold.

  Avoc House Treasury, secret archives

  “That’s incredible,” said Lucius, pen scritching as he wrote down Vern’s account. Night had fallen, but the workshop was full of light; Lucius had made this so, all the better to clean up the ash and soot. At first, Vern had been timid, retreating from all attention; gradually, Pim and Lucius had been able coax him from his corner and reassure him that this was no dream, he had returned to the land of the living in his proper form. After being clothed and eating a huge meal, which seemed to much restore his former self, the man had begun telling his tale to Lucius and Pim.

  Vern continued, “It was like a dream, but more real, you know? I knew things weren’t quite right. All sort of foggy, but I could feel what was going on. You know how when you dream, things kind of blur together? It was sort of like that a good deal of the time... I was angry, always angry, and that propelled me forward, like it was all there was of me left. Most of the time, I didn’t think about what I was doing, the rage was there to do all my thinking for me. Part of me didn’t mind that, the destruction, the fires and screaming. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s true. Other times I didn’t like what I was doing, when it was - when it was people that - that even in my bandit days we’d have never…” his voice trailed off.

  “What happened?” Lucius asked, only partly sure that he wanted to know.

  Vern scowled, “Then that voice I told you ‘bout would come back. I’d maybe not want to strike and it would make me. Small as a child’s whisper it’d start out. I could ignore it first, but it never stopped a naggin’ and a growin’ until my head was fit to burst. I tried to drown it out, howled like a demon I did, but it didn’t work. I’d remember them eyes, them eyes what swallowed me whole. It’d happen all over again.” Vern looked away, “Then I’d sorta watch myself act. I retreated somewhere in my head and the voice took over, and… all them people, well… they died.”

  Lucius’s pen stopped writing and his gaze went over the rough form of Vern. The man’s eyes looked distant, reliving the horrors he had committed, hands opening and closing slowly as if he was still getting used to them. “This voice,” asked Lucius, “Was it the same voice as the person at Tekuda you mentioned earlier?”

  The question snapped Vern back to the present with a jerk. “Yeah, you don’t never forget something like that, all weird and echoey,” Vern said.

  Pim, who had been listening with distaste at the grisly story, startled. “Wait a second,” she said, “Echoed, like down a hallway?”

  Vern shrugged, “I don’t know about that, but maybe. It was like two people talking at once, but not quite at the same time or rhythm. They sounded just a bit different.”

  Pim hit her fist against the table, “I knew it!” she exclaimed.

  “Knew what?” asked Lucius, looking back and forth between the two of them.

  “I don’t know who or what it was that you met in Tekuda,” Pim said, “But I’d bet all the money in the world it was the same voice I heard.”

  “You heard?” said Vern.

  “It’s a long story, but listen,” Pim said, “That was Arneph, or part of his influence, that was in your head.”

  Lucius was excited, writing everything that was being said, his pen scoring the paper deeply in quick but heavy strokes. “That makes sense, they are working together, he and Kormog. That’s what Reuben said.”

  “Reuben! He’s alive?” Vern asked, leaning forward towards Lucius with such an intense look on his face that the Karthild master halted his work.

  “Why yes, of course,” Lucius responded.

  “I thought for sure he was dead. Was worried maybe I killed him, even.” Vern said. He got up from his chair, pacing around like a caged beast, “He’s the only one outta that whole town that gave two pins about me. Where is he, the lucky bastard?”

  Just then, a knock on the door reverberated urgently around the room, breaking the flow of their conversation. Lucius excused himself, walking to the door as the loud knock repeated. Somewhat miffed at having his company and research disturbed, not to mention the late hour of the visit, he opened the door. There stood a man he’d seen once before, right before their strange journey to the land of the gods. The visitor looked harried and tense, huffing and puffing as if he had run up to his doorstep.

  Donovan put his hand down, he’d been about to rap the door once more when it was opened. “You, mister, I seen you with Reuben,” he said.

  Not at all pleased to be accosted such, Lucius nevertheless deigned to respond, “Yes I suppose you did, what of it?”

  “He needs your help,” Donovan said in a rush.

  “What’s going on?” That was Pim, who, along with Vern, had ventured toward the door, curious at what was happening.

  “It’s Reuben,” Donovan said, “If he’s a friend of yours you’d best come along too. I seen him with this fellow earlier, and since he’s been back he’s not been right. He needs a doctor or something like yourself. He did some work on the barrier today, came back to the inn afters. First time I’ve seen him in a few days.” Donovan paused, “He damn near drank himself into a stupor, then up and left without a word. I followed him, quiet like. He went to the church on Stone Street. Something happened, I don’t know what. He won’t wake up. I thought maybe you could help, or at least clue me in on what to do with him.”

  Vern pushed his way through to face Donovan, dwarfing the innkeeper, “You lead us to him, now,” he rumbled.

  Donovan nodded gratefully, and turned to leave. Pim and Vern exited and they set out, Lucius pausi
ng only a moment to lock his workshop before trotting after the rapidly disappearing group down the darkened street. It was a cool night with little breeze. The barrier interfered with the natural weather patterns and the city was replete with an unpleasant stillness that rankled. Oil and candles were being conserved during the siege, making their progress slower than might otherwise have been. There were few street lamps lit and most of the houses were dim. They hurried along as best they could towards the large cathedral, itself still shining bright. Even the most cynical of the populace agreed that it was worth the off chance of the help of the gods to keep the vigil lights burning. The church seemed part of another world, standing out as it did from the dusky surroundings. Here, it seemed to declare unabashedly, there was hope.

  The company hurried up the steps to the main entrance, greeted by an acolyte who addressed Donovan, “Ah, welcome back speedy one,” he said, “You’ve brought your friends I see.” It was all that he got out, for Vern bulled through, nearly knocking the welcomer. The rest stopped to make sure only the man’s pride was injured, though he received a rather askance glare from Pim, who whisked inside as well.