Arneph sneered, “Ah, the renegade. I turned you once, I can do it again.”
Vern advanced. He kept his mind focused on his opponents’ hands, the one containing the long knife, the other which was already reaching towards a pocket. Arneph grinned as Vern charged. When the two met, Arneph leaned back and jumped to the side; Vern passed by. Arneph took the opportunity to clip Vern’s back, raking him with the point. Vern barely felt the scratch, but it warned him to not try rushing again, Arneph was too quick. Vern turned, facing Arneph once more.
“I can give you purpose,” Arneph said.
“Take your lies to someone else!” shouted Vern, and he cast the blade back at Arneph. There was a sickening squelch as the blade hit Arneph’s chest.
Arneph pulled the blade out not bothered in the slightest. “I do hope you did not damage my blade with your childlike tantrum,” he said, inspecting it by scraping the edge with his thumb. “Oh dear, a nick.” Arneph said, “I’ll have to add that to your list of debts, fool.” Arneph moved like a snake, far outpacing Vern’s ability to react. The blows that were rained upon Vern in quick succession were like nothing he had ever felt. Each strike was as concentrated in force as a hammer strike, as mind-rattling as falling from a height. Vern withstood the pain of several hits, knocked from side to side. At last, Arneph stood still, and Vern toppled over like a tree.
Vern was barely conscious, but he saw Pim on the ground, wounded. Reuben was down too, prone on his side with a dark liquid dribbling from his open mouth. The former magistrate stamped around him, pouring yet more weight of condemnation upon his fallen opponent. Vern could not even feel the pain as he drifted away into the abyss. The tall, robed figure stamped his way around, weaving his spell and binding his victim with the despair inducing magic.
Vern despaired, floundering for an escape. In that moment, he saw golden motes of light hovering outside the chamber. They were moving and bouncing off the barrier, denied entry and he recalled what Lucius had told him. He reached his one still functioning arm into his pocket, straining against the magic that sought to numb him into submission. Arneph was so immersed in his ranting and raving that he did not notice. Questing fingers located a stone. He had hardly bothered to look at any of them. He did not know what they did nor how to activate them. He grabbed one, and snapped it between his thick fingers. Vern breathed out the only thing he could think to say before unconsciousness took him, “Help.”
There was a blinding flash of golden light, and Arneph was hurled into the air, landing heavily. Surprised, he looked up to see the barrier gone and the the golden lights flow forward, straight to Reuben. “You’re too late,” Arneph taunted, “It won’t matter now.” The lights flowed over him and disappeared.
The figure of Reuben rose like some horrible revenant, shambling and unsteady. His eyes were open, revealing shimmering pools of light. “See,” Arneph quipped, “I am victorious.”
Reuben took one tottering step forward, then another. Arneph stood up, dusting himself off, “Yes. Come. Meet your master.” The hobbling form made its shuffling course, and halted before Arneph.
Arneph gloated over his prize, “You did better than I thought. Such a vigorous soul shall surely serve me well.” Arneph pointed at Vern, “That one proved less than useful. As your first act under my service, go. Kill.”
Reuben’s head turned to around look where Arneph was pointing. He bowed, slow and stiff. The body straightened and took one awkward step toward the prone Vern. Then, Reuben whirled around like a tempest, catching Arneph completely off-guard and landing a blow in the center of his chest. For the second time in the space of a few moments, Arneph was cast into the air, this time knocked over by the force of the strike.
Reuben tottered towards Arneph, who stood up as well, blood leaking from his open mouth. Arneph glared pure hatred at Reuben, “Worm. Understand your fate. You are mine!”
The words hit Reuben stronger than any blow could have, knocking him to one knee. He fought on, his mind a kaleidoscope of competing wills, his own, fate, and something else. Each step forward was utter agony. He had gained strength somehow. Despite feeling that his whole body would tear itself to pieces, he forced himself to keep moving. Reuben focused on his goal, destroying Arneph.
Arneph tried to inflict his will upon Reuben as he drew closer. Seeing that it was not effective, he cast aside his blades and grabbed for his stone pouch. Reuben arrived before he could complete the trigger sequence. Swinging his arm in a sweeping blow Reuben struck the former councilor across the side of his head. Arneph dropped like a stone, his body hitting the ground. Reuben struck again, pummeling the chest, the face, striking any part of the corrupted councilor. His work was machine like, trying his best to crush his foe to rubble under the hammer and anvil strikes of purified hate. Reuben grabbed hold of Arneph’s limb that tried to strike back, with a swift jerk there was a loud snap. His blows were battering the body to a pulp, creating splotched bruises and breaking the skin. Blood rained in the air, and all Reuben could think of through the cacophony in his mind was to finish this task, to end it all at long last. He raised his hands again, and struck out. Arneph was laughing as the final blow came.
There was a a pause, a blossom of pain, deep within Reuben’s mind. For him, the world slowed as his fist descended. He blinked.
* * *
When Reuben’s eyes opened again, he found that he was standing in the place where he had first met Ibdal, the shadowy facsimile of the city square in Braldoan. He was standing, not kneeling like he had thought he had been, ready to kill Arneph. More, he was dressed in a robe, not armor. He patted about his person, searching for his weapons.
“You won’t need those,” said a voice. Reuben looked up, there was Ibdal, sitting on the same bench as before with his green robe and blue belt, under the sad sky of memories gone by.
“What?!” Reuben shouted.
Ibdal held up a hand, “You were not ready, before, when we met,” he said, “Now, I’m sorry, even though you’re still not ready, you have to make a choice. You have earned this, in your own way.” Ibdal smiled, “Mine was the easier route, but you’ve forged your own path. I congratulate you on your independence.” He stood up, “But, dear one, this is the furthest I can reach.”
“What do you mean?” Reuben said angrily.
“I mean this. No one can escape their fate. Not even me.” He took a step toward Reuben. “Destiny cannot be changed.”
Hot tears sprung in Reuben’s eyes, “What good are you then?” He said, turning away.
A hand rested on his shoulder, “You misunderstand,” said Ibdal, “Some things cannot be changed, but they can be altered. Before, I said you were not ready to become my champion. I was trying to use language you might understand, and though you are still not really ready, you have the chance to act on my behalf. That is what I can do, offer hope and mercy. That is who I am.”
“I don’t want to be anyone’s servant!” yelled Reuben, shaking off Ibdal’s hand. He took several steps away, and the pit in his stomach grew, the sensation of falling but never hitting the ground. A voice, or an echo of one, in his mind began listing all the reasons, as it always had, of why the gods were stupid, why he should just give up. He remembered the endless toil of the circuit, the lost years protecting land no one else cared about. He remembered his mother, breaking the Karthild stone she had kept secret, even from him. Everyone had secrets, no one was who they seemed.
“I know, you did not wish to serve us gods, but you always were serving us anyway,” said Ibdal, “No mortal forges their own path alone, unhindered or helped by the powers that be. Humans cooperate with whomever might notice and would deign to help set a course for them.”
“That’s not true!” shouted Reuben. In his mind, he saw the blast again. His arms reached out as he thought of trying to help, but he was already gone, spirited away through the gods damned portal as his city fell.
“It’s not so one sided as Arneph would have you believe, tha
t is correct,” said Ibdal, “Understand, though, you who have walked with the gods, that you are never far from us.”
Reuben saw the wounded soldiers, the burned fields, the destruction wrought upon the world. He remembered his wrath, his indictment of the gods at the last temple in Braldoan, “We’re more than that,” Reuben said.
“Of course,” replied Ibdal, “You are free. And yet, not so free as you think.” There was an echo of words said and unsaid.
Reuben looked at Ibdal with alarm. How did he know this was Ibdal? How did he know his thoughts were his own. The stress and confusion of the last days were running together, the world pinwheeling away in his mind. Doubting everything, hating everything, he despaired. “I choose neither,” Reuben said.
“Somehow, I knew you’d say that,” replied Ibdal, with a sigh, “Consider though, that the chance to make a choice is more than many have had. If you tarry, or reject the gift, a will greater than your own will make the choice for you.”
Reuben heard the words, but they sounded like a threat. He was tired. He would not be threatened, he would not accept it. Reuben crossed his arms, defiant.
“I will be no master of men,” said Ibdal. “Though it saddens me. I shall let you return. Excuse the expression, given the circumstances, but… good luck.”
* * *
Reuben blinked, and now he was back in the council chamber, time returning to normal and his fist slowly gaining speed, on its course with destiny. A light glinted from a corner. The brightness of it caused him to turn his head, Reuben could not stop his eyes darting, even as his blow carried onward. There, struggling to get up, gazing with horror at what was happening, was Pim. She had raised herself up on her arms, body unable to stand. She was crumpled in a corner and weeping, a pleading whimper on her face. He focused on it; what was her name? She looked familiar somehow. He couldn’t be sure anymore in the slow drifting room that was starting to twist slightly, as if he were drunk. It was too much effort, though he wanted to understand. That woman over there, she stirred something in him that he wanted to avoid. She looked unhappy, almost desperate. She was trying to say something to him but he didn’t want to communicate with her. He felt stuck, writhing in confusion, something inside of him didn’t want to let go, to drift off into the dark. His slow thoughts bumped into each other. That look, he had to figure out what this woman wanted. Then he could go away. Then it would be enough.
He tried to focus eyes that did not want to respond to the commands that he issued them. What was wrong with him, had he become ill? He could not remember much of anything. It was not unpleasant but part of him was annoyed. A small, tiny part of him that always wanted things to go better than they were. It stirred unpleasant echoes of memory in him. No images, nothing specific. Just a wave of heat in his body. But it was enough for him to focus on the lips of the person in the corner. What was she saying…it looked like…Reuben? Who was that? More struggling still in the small space of his mind. Another wave of heat, uncomfortable now, rolled within him. He looked again. She had just mouthed another word, it looked like…. What did this woman want? Why did she look so upset? What did he have to do with it? All he wanted to do was sleep and not feel anything anymore. There was one more stab of light in his eye, reflected from the drop that rolled down the woman’s cheek. He watched as another word came out…stop?
Something broke, deep inside of Reuben. With a flash he started to remember. It raged forward, a burst levee, a broken dam. His fist had almost landed, but at the last moment he dropped his weight, rolling his body forward. The arm swung wide, scraping across the cobbles in a trail of skin and blood. Reuben thudded into the stone floor with considerable force, jerking in pain as his shoulder bore the brunt of his sudden shift in trajectory. He could feel the pain of it, somewhere, behind all reason and beyond all care. Punishing his body, he stood up anyway, looking down at the bloodied Arneph on the ground, “No. I chose another way. I chose mercy.”
The laughing visage stopped, grin fading suddenly, “No. I am your master, accept your fate.”
Reuben shook his head, “You are mistaken. I am my own master.”
Arneph grinned, taking a new angle, “That’s right, of course you are. Powerful and strong. Now-”
Reuben interrupted, “Shut up. I am master of myself, but I listen to others. And I’ll not listen to your lies anymore. I will listen to better advice.”
Arneph struggled to his feet, facing Reuben, “You think you can change fate?” he said, hands burrowing into his pockets.
“I don’t believe in fate,” Reuben said, grabbing the searching hands, “Or luck, for that matter. So where does that leave you?”
Arneph grinned, “You cannot escape your end.”
Reuben was aware of the power in that verdict, the strength of will trying to subdue his own. He let it pass through, not trying to resist but withstand, like a tree that bends in the wind but does not break. “I can appeal, there’s always hope for a better outcome. Hope is eternal. Same as you.”
Reuben caught Arneph’s hand as it struck out, not relishing the pain on the face as he squeezed. “You gave me power, but Ibdal gave me a choice on how to use it.”
They struggled, but Arneph was wrested to the ground. “Petulant child, I cannot be beaten!” Arneph shouted.
Reuben shook like a doll before pinning him, “I don’t have to beat you to be rid of you.” Reuben felt the power in him, and he waved a hand, a portal opened, directly next to him, multi colored and bright. Reuben spoke, “Your own doom is upon you, Arneph.”
Tendrils of light snaked out, wrapping themselves around the struggling councilor, whose twisting and squirming was to no avail.
From the portal, a strong voice proclaimed, “We shall be the jailer of the damned,” said Kormog.
Reuben wrestled Arneph closer, shouting, “What of Eustace?”
A different voice, vibrant and full of life, it was Zuetal, “You, Reuben? Would you ask after one that worked against you? One that brought all this to fruition by his cooperation with evil?”
“I don’t want to,” Reuben admitted, “But that’s not the point. At least, I think there’s more to it than that.”
“Well said,” proclaimed Ibdal, “You are correct.”
“Do you demand of us?” said Kormog, but there was no anger in his question.
This time it was Reuben’s turn to smile, “No. I request.”
“He has learned,” said Aigid, wryly.
“Too well it seems,” said Kormog, “Fine, deliver him to us. We will see…ugh…what can be done. But it is not justice.”
Reuben countered, “Isn’t it though? I want him back. I want him to live the rest of his life.”
“Yes, in torment, knowing what he’s done,” there was grudging admiration Kormog’s voice.
“No!” shouted Reuben, “I want him alive, undoing what he’s done. Working every day to make penance. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll have a chance, or a hope,” said Reuben. “Then, please, restore my friends, and me.”
“He has learned, indeed,” said Ibdal.
“So be it,” said Kormog, “That is the new doom, I judge.”
“So be it,” said Reuben.
* * *
In a field, now long devastated, a portal opened. Bickering voices could be heard, if anyone had been around to listen. The peaceful light made a sad contrast on the ruined ground. Ash and smoking cinders were all that remained of a once great field.
“This is breaking the rules,” mused one, a female voice, its tone carrying neither approval nor objection.
“He broke them first,” said another, passionate as the turning of seasons.
“Really, should we be encouraging this?” said another. It was a voice used to command and equally unused to asking for collaboration, but it was making the effort.
“I think we owe it to them,” said a fourth, full of kindness and the smallest hint of satisfaction, but it was trying not to show it.
“Fine, le
t’s get it over with then,” said the third, annoyed but trying to contain itself.
Power manifested as a green-gold light. On the barren ground, where the light fell, ash and cinder receded, leaving bare dirt. From the ground, sprouts were already unfolding, seeking light. After that another light flared, red and gold as the sun, strong as fire yet it was harnessed strength, held at bay from scorching the new budded leaves. They, in turn, responded to the heat and light, drinking in the power.
“You know, this is an ending of an age,” mused the first voice.
“A stupid age,” said the passionate voice, waxing in confidence.
“We had order,” said the commanding voice, “There was a course forward, no matter what else, we had that.”
“What good did it do us?” said the passionate voice.
“We can never go back to the way things were,” said the first voice.
“Good,” said the kind but satisfied voice, even more so now.
18 GOLDEN HARVEST
It is a strange place we live in, this new world of ours. Much that was is changed; while old sentiments will always linger, there is a freshness to the air. Time will reveal whether it is a respite or a new season of hope that is upon us. Either way, for the first time in many years I feel again that it has all been worthwhile.
Journal of Rufus Gallador, High Temple of Entigria
Golden were the grains that flowed through Reuben’s fingers, each one a small part of the bountiful season’s harvest. They were unusually large, or so the farmers said, and tasted more sweet and felt more filling than any others in memory. Surely it was a gift of the gods; all were thankful, for without such a crop there would not have been enough food to go around for the workers. The builders had been hardy and swift, they needed every bit of nourishment that the good earth could provide. Looking up from the golden pile, Reuben surveyed the progress all around him. Braldoan was being rebuilt.
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