Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  A portal opened nearby, Aigid herself stepping through, “Forgive my indulgence, Lord Kormog,” she said, flatteringly, “I will take your guests away now that they have served you well in bringing you such important news.”

  Kormog’s mouth formed a wry line, he knew he had been bested, but he took the compliment at face value, his ego slightly less ruffled, “May they continue to serve well,” he said.

  16 THREADS OF FATE

  Traitor! To think I would not check! Now that I am so close, the work is almost finished. We could have had it all together. I must find some suitable punishment. I love her still, even now. Arneph must not know.

  Private journal of Eustace Avoc, councilor of Entigria

  Donovan surveyed the remaining customers with a morose sense of satisfaction. Those still conscious were barely so, and far too gone to have many cares in the world. They might do for a quick bit of action, right before the end. It was sure to come soon now. He regretted that some of his patrons might, if the city were not set to fall, have died instead from the large quantity of alcohol imbibed with wild abandon. There had been no speech, no grand announcement; there didn’t need to be. Everyone knew, it was all over the faces of the guards, the pedestrians, the stones themselves could not hide the reality of what faced them next. Entigria was weakened from the siege. Surely, only a day or two remained before supplies ran out entirely. Rationing could only go so far, then you starved.

  Hollow, pleading faces had lined Donovan’s bar, the window seats, the floor. He had known why they had come. So he’d done what was expected of him. He broke out the ale, the mead, the assorted liquors, the wines, nothing was held back for this final event. There would be nothing to save it for anyway, not anymore. There was not any cheering, however, just thankfulness for a brief reprieve before the darkness that would take them all. In one corner, all by itself, one cask he had marked special, being deliberate that the symbols were displayed prominently. It had taken a lot of effort to collect the herbs he had dumped in there. Anyone looking for a fast track out need only take a mug of that brew. Those sorts usually were the ones without any emotion at all; he could offer them no other solace. The directions were precise, drink half a mug if you wanted to just sleep through it all. And if you didn’t, and there was no hope left after all, then drain the mug and no one would blame you. Them that took a full dose held the mugs with both hands, and walked away slowly. The rest of them were drinking enough of the regular stuff that they might already be well on their way too.

  As for himself, well, Donovan knew he was drunk. He was drunker than he’d ever been or might ever be. He could no longer feel the pain of loss, the anger, the fear. Most of all he couldn’t feel the fear anymore. He was pretty sure, if he could be sure of anything much right now, that somebody had stopped by just moments ago, asking after Reuben. He had said something to him, but he didn’t know what. It was all flowing together now, which was a bit of a relief. He looked at his glass, the one he’d been given when he’d left the old military company. It was chipped, with a crack along the rim, but he chose it to hold his best whiskey and the bottom third still full of the finest that fermented grain could offer. He sat looking on into the sunset, or sunrise; it could be either but the light was pretty. It wasn’t true, he knew it wasn’t, but he was looking with the sight of memory, not of the present dull hues. He sighed. The customers faded into the background as the accumulated drinks worked their charm on his senses. Maybe he’d head upstairs and broach his last stash. He tipped the glass back, gulping down the liquid. It had taste, the best, yet even that was gone now too. The world swam out of focus and his glass hit the floor as his head bounced on the table, the only sound besides the steady snorers and heavy breathing of a tavern that had filled out its last duty to its patrons, who were satisfied, like a damaged ship at sea, that its captain would go down with it.

  So near as to be within the alcoholic haze of the bar, a person stood in the alleyway behind Donovan’s bar, but they were very unsatisfied indeed. Lord Eustace Avoc rested, one hand braced against the bricks. He too was breathing heavily, though not from the drowsiness brought on by alcohol; instead, sweat dripped down his chin. There was an unhealthy pallor to his color that, along with his unkempt hair and stained clothes, told a story of prolonged illness. Held still, in the other hand, was a tankard from the special barrel. He had consumed half so far, and was waiting for it to take hold, if only it would; but there was resistance.

  “You’re mine,” whispered the voice that only Eustace could hear, “You cannot escape me, no matter what you do.”

  “My family was to be safe, you lied to me,” he croaked, a pain in his voice that none of his political opponents would have dreamed possible.

  “She had served her purpose,” sneered the voice, “She was going to betray us.”

  Eustace spat, “Damn you Arneph, you betrayed me, you bastard. I helped you, me. You never could have gotten this far without me.” His body shook violently at the turmoil within. He tried to stop it, but the arm holding the brew shot out, tossing the contents against the wall. Eustace got one knee to obey him, and he knelt over, trying his best to lick the wall and collect what he could from the dry bricks. His body shuddered, and Eustace jerked away, standing awkwardly in the center of the alley.

  “You have been of service, I accept. Be that as it may, you cannot barter with me. I own you. Your will is mine,” pounded the voice in his head.

  Eustace stammered around in a circle, trying to rid himself by will alone of the passenger, now the jailer of his mind. He collapsed in a twitching heap. “We’ll see about that!” Eustace shouted. His other hand, still under his control, darted to his belt and withdrew his hidden dagger, always kept close at hand by his paranoid tendencies. With a swift thrust, he plunged the blade deep into his chest. He thrashed about like a fish out of water, legs hitting a stack of bottles, scattering the empties around in a discordant crash. Eustace felt the pull within, the urge to hold the blade still, to keep the blood from flowing out; he knew that will was not his own. “I’m done with you!” he screamed, pulling the blade free in a crimson shower. He reeled backwards, striking with some force against the alley wall and sliding to the ground in a series of shuddering steps. Blood pooled around his feet and for awhile longer his body twitched, then lay still.

  Over the forlorn crumpled heap a light hovered. It drifted around Eustace’s body, golden hued but streaked with darker flecks. It swirled over him, surrounding him. The cloud of light spread all over the inert form, then it poured like mist within his open mouth, his ears, nose, penetrating the very skin. The eyes, previously closed in death, opened, fully glowing with power and a light that brightened the dim alley. “Finally,” said Arneph. The body of Eustace stood, shakily, with a hideous smile on the face. One hand passed over the wound, which was fountaining blood once more. The flesh obeyed the command and closed, leaving nothing but a white scar with a dark bruise all around. One hand wiped the blood away, though when it was finished the hand reached up and the tongue licked the sticky fingers. “I say when this is over,” said Arneph, “Now to deal with the others.” The body stalked off, the first steps wobbling all over the narrow stretch of cobbles, as if waking from a deep sleep. By the time it had reached the entrance, however, it was walking straight and purposeful.

  * * *

  Rufus was sitting quietly in a corner of the main worship hall, watching idle spirals of smoke curl and twist in the air. Sunlight leached in from the high windows, muted by the colored glass and the barrier that protected the city. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles, having watched over the four unconscious forms near the statue of the god of war. A full day and a half had passed without any movement from them, except for their shallow breathing. At one point, the large man’s face had been, unbelievable in one so scarred, streaked with tears. Rufus felt moved by the sight, despite his misgivings regarding his strange guests.

  If his mood was shifting towards optimism, now was n
ot a good day for quiet reflection as to why. While he waited anxiously, hoping this misfit crew might be successful in entreating the gods, Rufus knew that time was running out, for the barrier was in decline. Even the most uneducated lout could see it. The Karthild masters were looking more and more harried, which was true; and all the more embellished by rumor, that evil poison which spread with unfortunate truth behind it. There had been riots, people screaming, and even the temple had not escaped unscathed. Several of the smaller chapels throughout the grounds had been ransacked as the angry and frightened people churned their emotions out. The council leaders were cut off from the populace by a line of very worried looking guards as they met to focus their effort on solutions. Rufus had tried to reach them, once, to tell them of the strange happenings in the holy site under his charge, but had been denied access. Worse still, as he had stood watching the upset crowds from a safe distance, for one horrible moment, the barrier had disappeared. It had only been for a instant, but the rush of wind, along with the sudden increase of light from the unfettered sun had been dazzling. The tumultuous looters had halted their behavior at once, shocked into silence. From a distance, screams and sounds of ringing battle as leading forces from the cinder lands had crossed into the city. Then, just as he had been ready to despair, the barrier had returned. Was it a sign, a miracle, a judgment about to fall? Rufus was not sure of anything anymore.

  Waiting around was the worst part. There was nothing for Rufus to do. The prayers had been chanted, ringing hollow in his heart but dutifully completed anyway. The incense had been lit, candles trimmed, and the rituals of the hours were hardly enough to keep his mind off of what seemed to be the last days of his city. He could feel the urgent desperation from the few supplicants that still came to the temple to pray. Their eyes held a horrible begging fear that he found hard to face. Walking around the city was no better; a feeling of dejected acceptance had settled like a smothering blanket. It was hardly better than the frenzied looting; at least then, people had thought it worth doing, stealing from neighbors to better their own lot in a time to come. Now, though, all seemed resigned to their fate.

  A sputtered coughing came from the forms on the cots near the statue, Rufus leapt up and sped over to them. The initial troublemaker was the first to sit up, “Water,” croaked Reuben.

  Rufus poured him a glass from the pitcher that had been set nearby, “Here,” he said, passing it to him as the others stirred and sat up.

  “Well, that was interesting,” said Lucius to the world in general. He pulled himself up to a sitting position, hands holding his head steady as he became acclimated to their proper world.

  The bantam female was the next to speak, “Got news for ya, mister,” said Pim, hoarsely, “Kormog said he’d give up trying to burn us all to a crisp.”

  Rufus, nearly fumbling the next glass of water, gasped out, “What? You actually spoke to him?”

  “Yelled at him, more like,” Lucius chimed in.

  “Doesn’t matter right now,” Reuben interrupted. “You, whomever you are, you’ve got to help us find Arneph’s priest.”

  “Arneph’s priest?” Rufus said, “That’s not how we do things here in the city anymore. We haven’t had a priest for Arneph in more than ten years, not since people started disregarding the old ways when the cinder lands first…” his voice trailed off thinking of the reality of the approaching fire.

  “I knew it wouldn’t be that easy,” said Pim with a sigh. She stood up, massaging her back, “I’ll go check in with Gavin, maybe he knows something.”

  “I’ll do a little research back at my place,” said Lucius, standing up quickly, then sinking back down a little shakily, “Maybe I can find a way to track the person.”

  That left Vern and Reuben, “Alright,” said Reuben, “Meet back here when you can. I reckon we’ve missed out on a bit.”

  Rufus blurted out, “What? Rest, tell me of your travels, please. You’ve only just returned and-” He was cut off by a glare from all four. “Fine, fine, have it your way,” he said throwing up his arms in frustration.

  Reuben relented, “I’ll talk with you at least, and you can tell me what’s been happening here while we were, wherever we were. I probably owe you that much at least.” He paused, a grimace on his face, “I, uh, think some of my last evening is coming back to me.” The others turned their faces, embarrassed for his sake but also trying not to laugh. Pim and Lucius headed off to their respective lines of inquiry. A sheepish Reuben stayed with Rufus, hearing first from the priest the full catalog of his interesting behavior at the temple. Vern remained with him, listening with something approaching a smile on his face, the first time since he had returned to his true self.

  * * *

  Pim walked through the quiet streets, feeling worried. Above ground had been bad, really bad. She could never recall a time when things felt so tense. The constant reminder of the sword hanging over the head of the city was palpable. Her quick ears had picked up random muttering from the few pedestrians and folk hanging around. Apparently, there had been some sort of breach in the barrier, resulting in destruction and loss of life. The worst, it was said, was in Subria. She felt lead in her stomach already, but pushed ahead resolutely.

  Her pace quickened as she went through the underground streets. Subria was in disarray. Faces that she was used to seeing leering and sneering, were instead preoccupied with a inward fretfulness that would have been laughable any other time. Pim noticed, with a sinking feeling, that what destruction there was grew as she neared Gavin’s residence. There were more people out and about here, but they did not slow Pim in the slightest; all scattered before her like minnows from a shark. Her determined march stopped cold when she turned the last corner and she witnessed what she had been dreading, Gavin’s home was a chaotic mess.

  The building was half burned, walls caved in at several places. The doorway was a ruin of shattered timber with a trail of sad smoke coming from within. After a moment, Pim came to her senses and rushed into the remains of the broken building. Whatever violence that had hit the house was gone but the evidence remained. Cushions were scattered, torn to pieces, several former employees lay dead, their glassy eyes dull. Bodies of imps and humans lay mingled in gruesome array. Smoke hung in the air, unpleasantly mingled with the sweeter incense that used to predominate. Pim searched as quickly as possible, eyes passing over the spilled blood and ducking among the debris. She was cursing softly and doing her best to keep from calling out frantically. A busy silence settled over her in her task until she came at last to a back room with another broken door. She peered inside, striking a match against the rough wall. In the unhappy light, Pim found Gavin prone on the floor in a corner. Somehow, the old fellow had managed to light his pipe, even with one arm trapped under a heavy floor joist from the caved in second story. Gavin was still but for his mouth, which sent smoke rings through the wreckage of his home as a way of saying goodbye. He looked peaceful, despite the dirt and cuts that covered his body. His eyes were closed as the nose twitched, snuffling in the aroma of the exotic blend burning to ash in the bowl of the long thin pipe he always favored. His thin grey beard wobbled a bit as the mouth formed another ring, a barely audible exhale sending it towards Pim. She leaned away, not wanting to disturb the art of her mentor. Slowly, the lips turned up, “I knew you would come,” he said.

  She padded over, picking her way over rubble and merchandise, broken beads and scattered cushions, to crouch near him. She didn’t need to ask, she knew that the old one was dying. She felt the tears start to blur her vision and the man said, “Weep if you must, but mine is not an evil passing.”

  Pim choked back her anger, out of respect, but still questioned, “How can you say that?”

  “A friend is here, that is enough.” The old man opened his eyes to look at her, eyes shining, “Thank you,” he said. He coughed, and his pipe slid out of his grasp to land on the floor with hardly a sound.

  Pim spoke quickly, knowing there was not mu
ch time, “Who did this?”

  Gavin’s eyes fluttered, then closed. One hand feebly reached for the lost stem. Pim guided his hand to it. After another, laborious puff, Gavin spoke, “Him that has the golden eyes. I should have known not to trust him, but he hid it so well for so long.” He coughed again, “I still recognized him though, even now. It was Councilor Eustace.”

  “I’ll kill him myself,” Pim said, raising her voice without noticing.

  Gavin shook his head, dropping the pipe once more to motion Pim to lean closer, hand shaking, “Don’t give in to it,” he said, “Fate has a certain way, but fight it. Use your head, young one, use your heart. Remember me in love, not in vengeance. Stop the pattern… weave … a new one.” Then his head sank forward. Pim caught his head, then she guided it to rest gently on the floor, tears running down her cheeks as her body shook in grief. So passed her first friend in the Undercity, the old man who had taken her in as an orphan child all those years ago. Rage, pity, loss fought for control of her emotions in that moment. The world was falling apart, being torn apart, and even her little corner of it, mean as it was, had been torn asunder. She forced herself to stop, wiping the tears away with such friction her cheeks burned. She took the pipe and finished the bowl in silence. She had never cared for the stuff but right now would swear to any human being or god that she had enjoyed it every day. When the last threads of tobacco were reduced to dottle, she turned the pipe over, gentle tapping the base to release the fine ash into the air. Then she slipped it into her pocket.

  * * *

  Lucius approached his laboratory, certain that something was amiss. The door was wide open, when he was sure that he had secured it. He immediately suspected looters, for many of the buildings on this street were damaged in some way. Peering into the dim light within, he was surprised to see the place not completely ransacked. Perhaps the esoteric volumes had not merited pilfering after all. He walked about, someone had certainly been here, for books were scattered and bags upended to spill their contents across the floor. When he was sure that the building was empty, he secured the door as best he could, pulling a bench over and propping it against the damaged timbers.