Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  Even his workbench had been rifled through, the one where he made Karthild stones on occasion. A warmth from the stone base of the crucible surprised him. Surely looters would not have known how or tried vainly to make a stone? He did not have time to inventory his stock but the spilled powders and strewn equipment left no doubt in his mind about it, someone had used this station recently.

  “Blast it all. How am I supposed to sort this mess out?” he said to himself. He crouched down, gathering the materials and notebooks. He hated even a moment’s delay, and the time it would take to reorganize would be far too long. Throwing things down in a huff, he concentrated on why he had come here to begin with. He found the notes he was looking for in the jumble he had brought from the floor. These contained his accumulated trials of Karthild research. It was left here as though worthless, though it represented to him many months of painstaking work. He had been commissioned by the council, before he became entangled with the others, to work on a formula that would help in locating individuals. It was a delicate work, for scrying was not heavily favored, and he had to do most of the work from scratch. No other master of the art would share information like this, if they even had it, it was far too valuable. Despite the barriers to progress, he had been persistent. The glimmerings of a basic formula were there, now he just had to tweak it. It helped that he knew who he was looking for; though there would likely be some trial and error. Still, it was better than randomly searching the whole city for a moving target.

  Lucius paid no heed to the tinkle of glass in the corner, he was too busy. He looked down at the combination of metal and stone he had written down. That, plus the words he had pieced together should just do the trick. He might have enough raw material to make three discs worth to try this with; it ought to be plenty. It would have to be, he thought, because he’d run all out of basalt and it was rather unlikely he’d be able to gather more supplies. All around him were the scattered books, scrolls, and stones of his workstation. It would be a lot of effort to sort out and then form the stones, but he was willing to give it a try. He took a deep breath. He froze, still as a statue, and toppled over. Shock and confusion overflowed his senses in a wave of nausea and pain as his newly created Karthild formula fluttered to the ground from his unmoving hands. By the throbbing in his skull and the trickling feeling on his forehead, he realized with a shock that he was bleeding, and worse, he was on the ground and unable to move. Lucius saw a boot on the ground in the corner of his vision. Then a voice spoke, “For what it’s worth, you were on the right track. It’s just your hard luck that I happened to come along and put an end to such foolishness.”

  The foot tread came forward and Lucius looked up into a face that was all covered over with a leather cowl and robe. Golden eyes showed within, but that was no comfort. His visitor crouched down. Lucius tried to move but strong hands reached out, pinning him to the ground. As his eyes stared up into those twin orbs he was struck dumb. His attacker spoke, “All out of words now, aren’t we, you meddling mage? Well, don’t worry about that. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later. Fret not, you won’t die for a long time yet. I’m going to make the time to deal with you, personally. Until then, let’s just make sure you stay quiet.”

  Lucius looked with fear as the figure drew out a small circular object from a hidden pocket within the folds of his garment. Internally, Lucius struggled all the more, his agile mind piecing together what was about to happen. His struggle was futile, and the person kneeling over him laughed harshly as Lucius strained against the restricting magic that held him. When he was exhausted, unable to fight any longer, the man spoke, “I, too, have more than a nodding acquaintance with Karthild,” holding up his own disc and tapping it on his chin. “Yes, you are full of curiosities. An intricate mind, but I don’t need your service, at least, not yet.” He leaned down again, his arm crushing down on Lucius’ chest, causing him to struggle for breath. While he fought for air, the wafer was flicked into his mouth and the hands pressed his jaw shut. It turned to liquid in his mouth instantly with a burning, vile taste. He tried to spit it out but he could not open his jaw. Then the other hand pinched his nose. The rasping laughter entered his ears again as, after a time, he could not stop the inevitable and swallowed the liquid. The hands were withdrawn and he gasped for air. As the magic took hold of him, he saw all the world turn red, a raging cauldron of flame that swept edges into waving lines of heat and violence, then slowly it seeped into shades of dull blood, aged and cracked like a scab. He heard, as though his head were swathed in a blanket, the mocking laughter of his assailant. It echoed in his skull, looming in his senses in an awful cacophony of ceaseless taunting. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. He could not move, could not speak. His breath became labored and slow. He tried to fight the terror and panic welling up. He could not. He ran away down the corridors of his mind, seeking refuge from the terrible noise that pursued him.

  * * *

  Unbeknownst to Donovan, Reuben and Vern walked into the bar. By the snore and heavy halitosis that hung in the room, it was evident that most were far too gone to be of practical use, some maybe terminally. Reuben cast about, looking for Donovan.

  Vern grabbed one sleeping patron, lifting his head up by the beer-soaked hair, “You know Donovan, don’t ya?” Vern growled. The man’s eyes fluttered open and he shook his head slowly before slumping back down on the table.

  Reuben considered his own recent foray into drunken despair, “This lot probably followed my example,” he said. They tried a few more of the drowsy forms but could not find anyone coherent enough to respond. With no one to stop him, Reuben went down the steps to the cellar. It was musty and dim and he found yet more inebriated patrons, though no host. The barrels and casks were all broached, even the ones that really were not ready for it. More spilled alcohol and signs of debauchery were much in evidence. On one table, near the steps, he found the inventory journal. Curiosity overcame him and he peeked at the untidy handwriting therein. He whistled, there certainly was enough here to get the job done. Creaking back up the stairs into the main room, the air barely stirred.

  Vern pointed to the stairway, “There more stuff up there?”

  “Just rooms, but let’s see,” Reuben replied. This time Vern accompanied him.

  Reuben poked his head into the room that he had stayed when he first returned to Entigria. It was bare expecting a few forlorn empty bottles.

  Vern called from further down the hallway, “This might be ‘im,”

  Reuben looked, there was Donovan sitting on the edge of a bed. Something seemed off about his rigid stance. Reuben held up a hand, indicating Vern to remain at the doorway. Reuben approached carefully, not wanting to startle the man. The remains of several bottles were around him in a half circle. He held one remaining bottle in his hand, still half full. His eyes were glassy with a sweaty pale face. Reuben sat next to him, putting an arm around him. The head turned languidly toward him with a gust of foul breath. Recognition dawned on Donovan’s face, “Fancy a belt then, for old time’s sake?”

  Reuben reached out, but stopped himself, “Perhaps not,” he said.

  Donovan blinked slowly, refraining from nodding lest it prove too much for his constitution, “It’s the good stuff, you know.”

  “Oh, I believe it, good stuff indeed,” said Reuben, trying to humor his friend. “How about you have a good lie down?”

  “I- I tried to help,” Donovan said, as he slid slowly onto his side.

  “I’m sure you did. Thank you,” Reuben replied, wondering if his friend would remember their conversation at all. “And you still can help. You’ve been here a long time, ever hear of a priest of Arneph?”

  Donovan’s eyes closed, slack mouth already drooling. “Come on, Donovan, don’t sleep yet. Think,” said Reuben.

  In the riddled alleys of Donovan’s mind, memory stirred. One hand clasped the bedpost as he tried to hold onto something solid in his current state. He managed to answer, “Yeah, some lord s
ome-such. He’s on the council now, changed his job after people stopped caring about the gods.”

  Reuben stiffened, “You know which one?” he said slowly. As he was talking he was piecing together the troubles that had plagued him throughout his stay in Entigria. A suspicion formed in his mind, of a sour face that was never on his side, of one who had tried repeatedly to impede him.

  “Eustace,” Donovan said before his form went limp and he began snoring uproariously.

  “Sleep easy, you old dog,” Reuben said, not unkindly. Turning to Vern, “Well, that’s a start at least, let’s see if we can’t get our friend at the temple to point us in the right direction.”

  “For what?” asked Vern.

  “I’m not going to accuse a council member without something more than this,” Reuben explained, “It’s not that I don’t believe him, it’s getting others too as well. If we go to Eustace’s place, maybe we can find something.”

  * * *

  Reuben, Pim, and Vern proceeded along the quiet streets of Entigria with caution on their way to the address provided by Rufus. For Reuben the mirage had been broken. Now that he had the eyes for it, he could see the signs of decay that had long plagued the city. It looked innocuous at first; a broken flagstone here, or unkempt hedge. Or perhaps it was a statue in the Plaza, no longer the pristine white marble that it once had been. All these things might have passed unnoticed, had passed unnoticed for years. Not so for him now though, not any longer. It was with growing anger inside he wondered just how far the canker had been allowed to spread. The subtle signs of decay grew more prominent as they neared Eustace’s residence.

  “You think we should pick up Lucius?” asked Pim. “We’re not too far from his place.”

  “He didn’t show back up at the temple, so no. He’s busy enough, I suspect. We can handle it.” Reuben responded, “If we can’t find anything we’ll have to see if he was able to cook up something to help.”

  They never would have been allowed to walk along these streets so near the government council unaccosted by some impatient lord or haughty noble if not for the present distraction. The palace was besieged really, surrounded by the decay. It was astounding that no one had noticed, even him, when he had been here earlier. The heart of the city was the fly struggling to escape in the web, not knowing the manner of the strands that were woven ever tighter around its body. But when the web is built, how does one figure out which strand was laid first? Reuben marveled, going down the last street, that its swamp-like nature hadn’t raised considerable comment. And if it was not the source itself, it surely housed some pocket of the cancer.

  The estate grounds of Eustace Avoc were like walking through a bog. No one greeted their call at the open gate or empty path. As they walked towards the mansion, the fetid air filled Reuben’s nostrils. Over the years he had encountered a number of unpleasant smells, but this had to rank among the worst of them. The fumes made his eyes water and made the air feel oily. The stones underneath his feet were treacherously slippery from being smeared with unknown substances. He followed the pathways through the quagmire garden up to the mansion itself. There, on either side of a moldering door, were flickering torches. Even the flame contrived to be sickly with pale green and blue sparks from the sputtering half-lit display. The once grand portal door was covered in a film of mildew and white fuzz. Reaching out with his boot he prodded the door, but it was latched. He took his handkerchief and covered his hand before trying the push tab of the door. Even with the barrier in place it felt like grabbing an eel, cold and slippery. But he found enough grip as his covered fingers squelched to push the tab down. Awkwardly he pushed with his foot, Pim reaching out a timid boot as well to heave against the portal. With a sucking noise the door was released from the foul muck that encrusted its edges. It barely moved a pace forward before stopping up against something on the other side. The waves of decay that poured forth from the manor house threatened to overwhelm the senses. Reuben and Pim staggered backwards, covering nose and mouth. Pim was nearly doubled over, hands on knees and coughing up a storm. Reuben was faring no better. Vern withstood the onslaught, though his eyes were watering profusely.

  Without thinking, Reuben reached up to steady himself on the nearby moss-covered statue. His hands could not find a purchase and he found himself tumbling to the ground. The bile rose within him and he retched there on all fours. Pim, struggling to not make the heaving noises a duet, concentrated her effort to stumble over and haul him back to his feet. Reuben’s pants were covered now in the slime that coated all the surfaces on the inside grounds, a brown green slurry of irksomeness. The disgust of it all rankled his nose. With no other recourse, he wiped his hands on his lower pant legs. It did nothing for the smell, which he presumed only fire would destroy, but at least the viscous sludge had been dislodged. They waited a couple of minutes to catch their breath and to let the air from the house dissipate. Without speaking it, they all understood that they could not leave the property like this. They needed to find what was going on here if they had any hope of being able to stop it. Reuben motioned to them and they walked back over to the entrance. Already fouled, Reuben heaved his weight into the door, fully exposing the interior. He stepped inside, noting that the floor was covered a few finger’s width high in the muck. “This stuff must be what kept the door from opening,” he mumbled. Pim winced to hear the sound of her boot break the crust of the ooze.

  “What is this stuff?” Pim said.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, it’s like we’ve discovered a swamp right here in the middle of the city,” Reuben said. They stopped talking as they observed the chamber within. If it had been a picture from a jungle perhaps, or the buttressed cypress moss-covered glades, it might have been believable. But this? They stood dumbfounded at the hanging, dripping moss.

  “Look there,” said Pim. Reuben followed her pointing hand to the sad, crumpled heap on the floor. They approached cautiously. It was a body, though hardly recognizable. The poor individual was nearly snapped in two. He looked like one of the ruffians you might encounter in the Undercity, Reuben thought. Even that kind of person didn’t deserve this. The man had been dead for a couple of days, and, stiff as he was, the decay could not outweigh the smell of the place.

  “What are we dealing with here, that could do this to a man?” Pim said.

  Reuben thought he might guess, a smoke knight would have the ability, but something didn’t fit. “I don’t know. If it were the forces of the cinder plains, they wouldn’t stop with one poor soul, that’s for sure.”

  “You’re right there,” said Vern, “Never could stop myself once the killing began.”

  “Well anyway, nothing we can do for him now.” Reuben said stoically. They spent some time searching the room, it looked like a study, but was so foul with muck they had difficulty remaining within.

  “That’s not the only one,” said Vern, who had progressed further down the hallway. Reuben and Pim came over and looked to where Vern had indicated. There, in what must of been a parlor of some sort, resting on a soiled sofa, was the decaying corpse of a woman. She was still dressed in a fine evening gown, purple with ruffled sleeves and bodice, her purse on the ground from where her out flung arm had dropped it. Reuben had to look away, despite his many years of seeing the unthinkable. The livid wound across the neck, which was bad enough to witness, was a horrible testimony to the violent death. Yet this was not why he could not look, for he knew that sour face; it was the same one that had accosted him with disdain in the park, which seemed an age ago. He had disliked her intensely, but this was too much for him. He had once thought of violence towards this woman, but to see her dead, and the eyes staring accusingly upwards, was not the end that he would have wished upon his opponent.

  Pim’s eyes hardened, “I think we’ve seen enough.”

  “I agree,” said Vern, his voice tight and hard.

  Reuben spoke quietly, “I don’t know if even Eustace could do this, but Arneph could. Either
way, we’ve got to find him and put a stop to this.”

  Footsteps from the hallway caused them all to look about quickly, readying their weapons.

  “Yes,” boomed a voice, “That is exactly what you ought to do.”

  The three wore surprised expressions as, in the doorway, barring the exit, stood a smoke knight, eyes flaming bright.

  17 FATEBREAKER

  I begin, perhaps too late, to consider the unsavory possibility of subterfuge at the highest level. I must convene the council at once. We must find the source at all costs. It breaks my heart to think that one of my fellow workers has sold us and the city, but evidence shown to me points to no other conclusion. I go now, may truth win out against deceit.

  Private journal of Stentor Folson, high councilor of Entigria

  The three companions stared in shock at the appearance of the smoke knight. Reuben had the presence of mind to quickly draw his dagger, holding it in a reverse grip so that he might have a hope of puncturing the strong armor. Vern was not so perspicacious; instead, he charged headlong towards the foe with arms wide, relying on shear strength. Before the other two had moved halfway across the room, Vern had closed the distance, dodging the stroke meant to cut him down. Vern met the knight with a thud, attempting to grapple the enemy to the ground. Reuben and Pim stayed clear, unable to reach their opponent as Vern and the foe whirled around the room. Each had the other in a grip by the shoulders, trying to wrench each other from their feet. Vern was the more agile, picking carefully around the scattered debris. He sought to misdirect the knight, using his foe’s own energy to overbalance him. In return, the knight relied on his armor and weight to either crush or bowl over whatever obstacles it encountered.