Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  To the surprise of Reuben and Pim, it was not easy to see who might win the contest. Reuben had known that Vern was strong, immensely so even, but this was something he found hard to believe. He had never seen any challenger take on a knight and survive for long in a single combat. Indeed, even in this case, though Vern was giving a good account for himself, Reuben’s practiced eyes could see that the knight was slowly winning. The stronger foe was able to gain small advantages in position and was steering Vern ever so slowly to a place where he might be pinned. For all the weight of his armor, the knight had enough poise to redirect his momentum at every potential misstep.

  Pim stood stunned, but in the treacle slowness of the unfolding fray her reflexes took over. She dashed forward, while reaching for her blades. Her instinct for picking the right moment helped her. She lunged, stabbing downward at the feet and ankles of the foe as they whirled by them. Her aim was true, but her blades were not strong enough; they screeched along the metal, leaving long gouges, but not penetrating the armor. Pim had to spring backward to dodge the counter from the knight, the gauntleted fist missing her by a hair’s-breadth and smashing into a table instead. In that moment, with the knight’s attention split, Vern lunged forward. The desperate measure caught the knight before he could return to the fight, and he fell over with a crash.

  Reuben had been waiting for something like this and was ready. In a flash he was there, knowing he had to act swiftly. Using both hands he struck downward, plunging the dagger into the chest with all his might. The blade bit deep, buried up to its hilt. The knight sprang like a salmon, knocking its attackers aside as it spasmed in pain. The knight thrashed about, roaring like a bull and careening around indiscriminately. Light flared from its eyes as it tried to regain its footing, tottering sideways and smashing a shoulder into the door frame, cracking the wood. Gantleted hands managed at last to pull the blade free. From the hole leaked a thick dark smoke that poured out like ink into a glass. Again the knight roared, smoke leaking from its mouth too. The fire of its eyes flared and spat, as it coughed dark clouds. It took a step towards the three, but the damage had been done. Arms reached out to attack, yet the knight had to flail madly to stay upright; losing balance, it fell over again. This time it rolled on its back, and with one last spasm, the fire in its eyes went out.

  The three companions approached the body of the fallen enemy. Reuben noticed that the armor was already turning a dusty ash, lightening in color from the jet black it had been. Vern knelt down by the foe and pulled off the helmet. Ashes and soot poured out from within. Vern wiped the material aside, revealing a human face underneath the shroud. Vern leapt back as if recoiling from a snake, dropping the helmet and turning aside. Reuben looked at the exposed face and cursed. He recognized at once the face of someone he had known, it belonged to that of the mayor of Tekuda, Jessop.

  Reuben came over, pulling the body upright into a sitting position, “Why?!” he shouted. Jessop’s eyes slowly opened, gone was the flame, the hate, replaced by his normal self.

  Hoarsely, Jessop answered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do this.”

  “I know,” said Vern, visibly shaken. He turned back to Jessop and leaned down, helping the former mayor over to a wall, propping him up against the mildewed surface.

  “I was brung ‘ere,” said Jessop, his voice low and weak, “After I escaped Tekuda. Thought I was going to a house while them lords and ladies figured out what to do wit’ me. I thought it was nice, to be taken care of for a bit, but he did this to me instead.”

  “Eustace did this?” asked Pim.

  Jessop nodded, “I been pris’ner... long time now it seems. Had to follow his orders, guard this place.” He started to slump over, but Vern and Reuben held him steady. Jessop strained to keep his eyes focused, looking from one to the other in turn, “You sprung me out o’ his clutches. Thankee.”

  The light in the room drained away and the room shook, “I did not release you from service,” the voice was menacing and screeching. The three all whirled around, seeking the source, but no one could be seen. Jessop writhed on the ground, and they turned. The armor was splotched with color, some patches white with grey streaks and others glossy black.

  “Return and serve,” sounded the harsh voice again, imperious and full of self-satisfaction. The three companions readied their weapons. Pim kept an eye on Jessop, whose eyes had rolled up in his head as the power fought to control him. Vern and Reuben were casting about, searching for a hidden assailant. Pim watched the former mayor with concern. He looked dead, a macabre marionette whose master was cruel, flopping the appendages without a care. Alarmingly, the metal armor began, changing colors between red and black and white. All along the metal, smoke twisted and coiled.

  The room shook violently again, nearly knocking them all to the ground, and another voice, full of authority, “Trickster. Deceiver. The power is not yours, it is mine. I command.”

  The snarling voice answered, “Fool. Idiot. He is mine.” The sound of it, so full of venom and wretched corruption, made every heart quake.

  Kormog answered, “By my will, I release this one from the order. None shall claim or abuse my power, Arneph. You will learn, your time is almost up. I retain my honor. And you, mortal one, I shall not have unwilling servants. Your honor is your own, be free!” The room was flooded with light, and the armor that encased Jessop burst apart, metal shrapnel whizzing around the room like a cloud of angry hornets.

  A snarling wail rattled the windows and shook their senses, as it trailed off, the skirmish not in its favor, but the war yet unwon, then room was still.

  Reuben crouched by the unconscious form on the ground. “Ibdal, help him,” he whispered in a rush. Faint, so faint that he could have fancied it a trick of his mind, there was a faint golden gleam around the limp figure. Then Jessop’s chest rose in a gasp, and another. After a few huge breaths Jessop settled down into a steady breathing, but he was deathly pale and unconscious.

  Taking charge, Reuben stood up, “Vern, can you get him over to Lucius’s place? He’ll be better off there than in this muck. Pim, come with me and we’ll scope it out while Vern collects Lucius. We’ll need everyone for this.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “The only place left,” Reuben said, “To the council hall.”

  * * *

  The crowd waited on the steps and grounds of the palace. They were quiet for now, perhaps quelled by the stern countenances of the guards in their shiny armor. Each guard had a sword, and while those were sheathed, hands were stiff on the pommels, down to the last soldier. In the stifling heat, the stench of anxiety lingered on the still air. They were all, citizens and civil servants alike, hoping that one of their esteemed leaders would emerge soon and tell them what was going to happen, tell them that everything was going to be alright. None of them really believed it would be, they just needed to hear it. They needed to see confidence from their leaders to counter the fear they felt within. Panic would come soon, they all knew it, like pieces set on a game board they did not understand, but ready to play their parts. They had no training for the end and did not want to participate in it but Fate gave them no option.

  Arneph stepped adroitly through the throng of people at the palace steps. A keen observer would have noted that each purposeful pace forward glided onward with strange precision. He brushed past just after a random sideways shuffle, finding every opening in the crowd. Arneph moved like a wolf among sheep. The crowd tensed; something was happening, the storm was about to break. As people stirred nervously, there was the feeling of the intake of breath before the plunge. Bouts of coughing followed in Arneph’s wake as a smokey sweet odor both cloying and bitter settled in the air.

  All the way up the steps, Arneph sauntered, all the way up to the unfortunate souls that had been stationed at the entrance, who were unaware of the impending danger. They were guards, used to watching the way folk walked and assessing what was about to happen. Hands tightened and p
ulled on sword handles in a chorus of steel. Their number made them bold, foolishly so, and the two bravest stepped proud of their compatriots and moved to intercept the person who dared approach. In that little moment of time, the last seconds when the dice rolled on the table, the still pause when the last card is revealed, the small intake of breath when the two horses pass and the lances of the jousters connect, in that space of time, without a pause, Arneph went from confident stride to full tilt run.

  Arneph dashed the last paces and hurled himself bodily upon the nearest guard, bringing him down as the answering steel in his own hand caught the light. The other guards, seeing this development, shouted in alarm and moved to help their fallen comrade. Quick as they were, they were far too late to change the fortune befalling them. In the seconds that followed, the stricken cries of the first guard rang in awful tribute, snuffed out as they gasped for air that would not come, watching with horror his life’s blood dripped off the dagger held in the assailant’s hands.

  “Glory in the inevitable,” Arneph pronounced.

  The other guard, nearest to hand charged forward. Arneph ducked the blow with ease, his body twisting with unnatural grace, the hem of his robe twirling wide as he swept closer. He closed too quickly for the guard to react, the blade bent down and in then suddenly up, catching the wrist and severing the tendons holding the sword. As the guard screamed, Arneph spun and slashed, this time striking the ankle, cutting the tendon. The guard fell, still screaming. This left him at Arneph’s feet, who, though the rest could not see it, was smiling. Arneph stomped down on the exposed throat with an sickening crunch. The second guard lay still.

  “Praise to the unaltered course,” Arneph spat.

  The rest of the guards rushed to the encircle the attacker, who in response flourished another blade in challenge. In the flurry of steel that followed, two more went down, swords unable to find their mark, while their opponent’s strikes found opportunity at the smallest opening. One of the remaining guards fled, raising his voice in alarm as he went towards the palace, leaving the other two to sort out the foe. Arneph laughed in that still moment and there was the snap of stone. A bright green beam of light sprung from his outstretched hand, hitting the retreating guard in the back. The guard went rigid, then flopped bonelessly down the steps to rest at Arneph’s feet.

  The two guards left standing were motionless. They had seen the cat-like movements, the swift dispatch of their fellow armsmen now staring sightless at the sky, the show of powerful magic beyond their understanding. They knew that they were at the mercy of their foe. They knew without a doubt that if they so much as moved a muscle they were dead. They could see it, all too easily, the repugnant pictures of their own brutal ends with the clarity granted to those on the edge, the tightrope walker’s shifting scenes of failure in their minds. It all happened so fast, the stillness now was no comfort, it was the creaking before the breaking of the dam. When it burst, they would either end up running away as well, or joining the rest of the fallen to bleed upon the stones.

  “Hmm,” said Arneph, “I see but two more who stand in my way.” He tapped one dripping blade against his teeth, “Perhaps, I ought leave one of you to spread the word of my arrival. I can’t waste all of my time and energy with you lot, after all. But which one, I wonder?”

  The two guards looked at each other with fear and pity, shared humiliation and dread. Their craven hearts guessed at what was coming next.

  “I know,” Arneph’s voice was almost cheerful, “Why don’t you two gallant and dashing guards help me?”

  Acid rose in their stomachs, the words turning even their smallest hopes into long wretched despair.

  “Yes!” Arneph, took a stone from his pocket and snapped it, then stamped his foot down, “Whichever one strikes the first with a good blow, why, he shall be the one I let live.”

  Twisted now, and sullen, the hope mingled gall and venom in the two guards’ minds. They looked at each other again with hatred and fear in their hearts.

  “Well, my lads, go at it now. Put on a better show for this wonderful audience, so tame, so shorn. I don’t have to enlighten you as to what will happen if you do not, do I?”Arneph said, “No, I don’t, your friends here tell all what will happen.”

  The unhappy men turned to each other, tentatively holding their weapons, not believing they were about to strike but readying themselves to do so anyway. The crowd was silent, watching on in horrified fascination. Each guard had barely had any real training in combat like this. They had performed drills, of course, maneuvers on the field and such, but to duel one on one was not their practiced fashion. Each blade met with a timid strike, Arneph’s spiteful laugh egging them on.

  The next blows were more bold, as fear and panic took hold. No longer was it a dream, it was a waking nightmare. Their combat was truly amateur, each wildly flailing with blades while trying to avoid the other’s haphazard strikes. Moving forward recklessly and ducking, one guard thrust upward toward the other. His opponent barely sidestepped, striking a vicious downward strike. Adrenaline saved the first, who rolled out of the way and leapt back to his feet to press the attack once more.

  More by luck than skill, a strike managed to slip past the block of the first guard and pierce the leg of the other. A cry of dismay sounded and his foe moved to end it all. Arneph’s voiced stopped him cold, “Tsk, tsk. Quite the eager little one aren’t you? But don’t take his life, that is mine own pleasure.”

  Arneph stepped toward the fallen guard, eyes blazing bright. The guard pleaded for mercy, hands empty and raised in supplication. Arneph’s eyes flared all the more, and a rage overtook him. He snatched the fallen weapon and set about the guard, beating him with the flat of the blade. The guard was unable to avoid the blows. His meager attempt of lessening the damage goaded Arneph on, who screamed unintelligibly. Finally, Arneph turned the blade itself and brought the edge down on the fallen guard’s neck.

  The victor backed away quickly, his heaving chest and wild thoughts of freedom nearly causing him to keel over. Arneph kicked the dead guard contemptuously. In the odd silence after, Arneph walked up to the remaining sentinel.

  “So, can I go then?” the guard asked, eager to be away, scared out of his wits.

  “Hmm.” Arneph patted the guard on the shoulder. “Oh yes, good show and all. You have served well.”

  Then the guard felt the grip tighten; he struggled but it was too late, too late to stop the strike that left a blade in his abdomen. The pain blossomed as he too crumpled to the ground. Arneph whispered into his ears, “Served well, but long enough. And about your freedom… well, fool, I lied.”

  The still moment ended, sands flowing in the pinch of the hourglass. The crowd of witnesses, realized slowly what had transpired. Seeing the last of the guard down, as one creature, they fled the palace, not screaming, but with a hush of panic and terror that lent the whole scene an otherworldly quality. They left the area bare and open, like a freshly opened wound. Arneph smiled to himself and walked forward once more, straight up the quiet promenade steps to the governmental palace.

  * * *

  Walking down the quiet streets, Vern wondered at the silent hush that hung over the city. There was no one about, everyone seemed to be hiding. Vern had Jessop slung over one shoulder, trying not to jostle his cargo unduly. As he neared Lucius’s workshop, he knew immediately that something was amiss. The entrance was open; in fact, he could tell the door had been demolished entirely, shattered spars at jagged angles the evidence of violent entry. He set the former mayor down just outside the door. As he entered the dim building, his senses were on high alert, searching for any tell-tale sign of an enemy. Something didn’t feel right about this place. Scanning the area quickly he saw the mess, the scattered materials. He saw the figure on the ground. But he did not rush forward. He took his time, checking the walls, ceiling, even behind him a couple of times. He heard the wheezing breath that came out from the still form at odd intervals. He saw the dribble of blac
k saliva puddled on the floor. Vern walked stealthy as he could through the rest of the shop. Boxes were shifted impatiently aside, doors forcibly shoved open. He stalked around at the ready, a spar of wood from the broken door his only weapon. When he had finished searching the interior, he was satisfied at last that there was no one present. Vern stepped outside and brought Jessop inside and laid him next to Lucius.

  Vern knelt and prayed, his arms outstretched over the two, “I don’t know how to do this properly. You all know that, but I asks anyways, help them.”

  There was silence. Vern waited, but nothing happened. Growing frustrated, Vern slammed his hands against the floor, ignoring the pain, “I can’t help them, you can. Do it already.”

  The quiet calm of the battered shop felt like a mockery. Vern grew incensed, shouting, “Kormog! Maybe youse at least owe me, maybe you don’t, but I ask. And you, golden one, I felt sommat off’n you I’d wished I’d encountered before. Come on already! Help!” When there was nothing in return, Vern’s chest heaved with an intake of breath, “Iff’n these two here don’t be getting up proper quick, or iff’n those that went forward don’t get no help from youse all then I’ll dedicate whatever little time is left to your destruction!”

  Still nothing. Veins stood out on his great neck as Vern screamed, “I knows you’re all bastards! But Reuben, he believes, deep down where it means something! Prove to me you all are worth that kind of devotion! Show me just once, the lot of you, that it’s worth following you!”

  Vern heard a faint sound. He turned, picking up his shattered spar of wood to defend himself, but there was no one there. He turned back to his charges, and caught, out the corner of his eyes, the faintest glimpse of golden light. The eyes of his patients opened.

  Lucius stirred first, “Trust them. You must go, quickly,” he said, one arm trying to feebly wipe away the drool from his lips.