The Madness of Gods and Kings

by Christian Warren Freed

  The sell sword paused. His mouth opened and closed as his mind cycled through the possible futures. Death certainly changed things but not enough to keep him from following Bahr through to the end. There was never any real choice, not for a man like Nothol. He worked for the highest bidder and, in this instance, men he knew he could rely on. Bahr wasn’t perfect, but he was good enough for Nothol.

  “We’ve been hounded by Lord Death from the beginning,” he said carefully. “How many times should we already have been killed? You’ve seen the darkness growing in Delranan and other parts of Malweir. Dorl, we have a chance to stop it. To end it all so our children won’t have to endure the same trials.” He held his hand up to keep Dorl silent. “I’m not trying to sound like a hero. You know me. But I think after all we’ve been through we owe it ourselves to see this thing through.”

  Dorl Theed had no comeback. No witty banter to lighten the situation. As much as he wanted to deny his friend, refute his claims, he couldn’t. Deep inside he took pride in knowing his actions were going to matter. To make a difference for generations to come. How could anyone in their right mind argue against that sort of logic?

  From atop the wagon bed Skuld listened to their exchange with rapt interest. Almost at the end of his teens, he was the least experienced one of the group. Childish dreams of grandeur made him stow away aboard the Dragon’s Bane when Bahr sailed off to rescue Maleela. He’d come so far, seen so much that that youth was gone, replaced by a young, confused man burdened with more responsibility than he ever wanted.

  He’d come to envy Dorl and Nothol’s friendship. Growing up on the harsh streets of Chadra left him with little friends. The cutthroat world he endured for years made him hard, calloused in ways the others weren’t. The one thing he ever wanted was a true friend. He hoped to find that before the end of this journey. Perhaps then he’d become a man. Skuld climbed off the wagon to inspect the wheels and undercarriage.

  Ironfoot slapped Skuld on the shoulder and grumbled, “They bicker like an old married couple.”

  The youth didn’t have any witty reply so he meekly nodded in reply. His lifestyle hadn’t allowed for family, brothers or sisters, leaving him with no frame of reference to reply to the Dwarf. Ironfoot noticed his awkwardness and walked off chuckling. Skuld watched the Dwarf, still unable to read him any better than he was Boen or Groge, the Giant.

  Each step thundered across the courtyard as Groge, Blud Hamr strapped securely to his back, ambled over to stand beside Bahr. He wasn’t a warrior and had no aspirations to become one. Violence was anathema to his clan. They secluded themselves away from the rest of the world, claiming the mountaintops to establish Venheim, the forge of the gods. Each day they labored to create the perfect tools. Legend said Giants had forged the Blud Hamr in response to the coming war between the gods of light and their dark brethren. Perhaps forge master Joden knew the truth of this, but at his advanced age it was near impossible for him to recall.

  Surrounded by others who had no qualms with taking lives, Groge struggled to find his way in almost the same manner as Skuld. While he stood nearly ten feet taller than the boy, and was roughly a hundred years older, he found himself liking Skuld greatly. They’d spent countless hours discussing the small matters that revolved around youth of every race.

  “Ah Groge, feel any different?” Bahr asked with a bright smile.

  The Giant cocked his head as he tried to decipher Bahr’s meaning. “I slept well last night, Captain.”

  Boen broke out with laughter. “He’s talking about the hammer, lad. Does the hammer make you feel different?”

  Cheeks reddening, Groge said, “No. It’s heavy but I haven’t felt any of the magic transferring into my body.”

  “Nor should you,” Anienam added. “From what I’ve been able to discover, the hammer’s magic won’t become activated until it is near the Olagath Stone. You should be fine until then.”

  “What happens then?” Bahr asked.

  Anienam didn’t offer an answer.

  Artiss Gran arrived in his fashion, silent and drifting a few inches off of the ground. He listened patiently as they dithered over minor, unchangeable details before making his presence known with a gentle cough. Not all of the subtle nuances of mortal interaction had been lost to him. “The time has at last arrived, my friends. Captain Bahr, is your team prepared?”

  “They are,” Bahr answered without looking back.

  Artiss nodded, the gesture almost faint beneath the gossamer hood. “Good. It is time to go into the chamber. I ask you all not to touch anything. The way is guarded by powers left behind when the gods of light departed Malweir. They will destroy you instantly. Follow me and all will be well.”

  Nothol gave Dorl a playful shove. “See, how bad can it be?”

  Ignoring the barb, Dorl shifted the weight of armor and watched as Artiss Gran spread his long arms. Raw power danced between his fingertips, violent shades of green in stark contrast to the gentle smoothness of the alabaster walls. The ground trembled as a crack opened. Thin at first, it widened to reveal a wide slope going down. Dust began to settle. Rocks stopped rolling. Artiss slowly lowered his arms and bowed his head. “Follow me, please.”

  The Dae’shan effortlessly began to glide down. A rainbow of lights reflected sunlight back up to the surface, temporarily blinding the others. The passage down widened enough to allow both horses and wagon and deepened enough for Groge to walk comfortably. Bahr followed without hesitation. Better to get it over with. Delaying survived no purpose.

  “Great, we’re going back down,” Dorl complained just loud enough to make Nothol laugh in reply.

  Going down didn’t prove as difficult as any of them imagined. Soon enough they stood on level ground scarcely one hundred meters below ground. Artiss strode to the center of the circular chamber and produced a thick rod of oak and steel the height of a man. Gesturing for the group to gather in front of him, he slammed the staff one time. Ringing echoes danced throughout the chamber as it came to life in seas of colors. Bahr looked around and noticed the entire chamber was made of glass. The effect was dizzying.

  “What is done cannot be undone,” Artiss said, his voice baritone, authoritative. “Once the light is summoned you will be taken across space and time to the kingdom of Delranan. Stay within the light until it fades completely or you will be lost, trapped in a dimension akin to the prison of the dark gods. Do you understand?”

  Half nodded while the rest mumbled a quiet yes.

  It was enough for Artiss Gran. He slammed the staff once again and brilliant white light bathed the chamber. Bahr and the others were forced to shield their eyes lest they were blinded. One by one they faded from reality. The journey back to Delranan had finally begun. Artiss stood alone in the cold chamber once the light faded. Exhausted, he leaned against the staff for support. Much of his strength bled away from the raw power the chamber demanded. He’d done all he could, for Bahr and for Malweir. The rest now lay in the hands of the eight individuals en route to the frozen north.

  FOUR

  The Army Moves West

  The column of horses wound nearly a full league back to the east, to the city of Rogscroft. Bundled under thick cloaks from wolves and bears, the riders shivered under the cold steel of their body armor. Sharpened spears jutted from their sleeves attached to each saddle. Swords clanged and jangled with each bouncing step. Banners waved in the light breeze. What had been a sight reviled--the bloodstained wolf head on snow-colored background--was now celebrated in the small towns and hamlets as the Wolfsreik marched west towards the Murdes Mountains.

  Just a few short months ago they’d come fighting and killing their way across Rogscroft to lay siege to the capital before conquering the kingdom. King Badron executed King Stelskor and claimed the kingdom in the name of Delranan. The victory, which should have gone down in history as one of the Wolfsreik’s proudest moments, became tainted by the unexpected involvement of an army of Goblins. The Wolfsreik’s commanding g
eneral, Rolnir, suspected foul deliberations between his king and the Goblin commander. Worse, dark influences altered Badron, subtly at first but progressed to the point of brazen dementia. Rolnir did the only thing he could in order to keep his army intact. He rebelled.

  Virtually all of his army, those still combat effective to carry on, sided with him. Only a handful of units that were closest to Badron refused. Rolnir had nearly seven thousand soldiers ready to throw into the field. Another fifteen hundred were wounded, most not severe enough to stay out of the war. The rest were either dead or on their death beds. Seven tenths of his army remained intact and, combined with the survivors of Rogscroft and the mountain tribes of the Pell Darga, he found himself in command of nearly fifteen thousand soldiers. There was no greater military force in the north.

  Commander Piper Joach looked back at the snake his command had transformed into with a mixed grin and grimace. Compared to what lie ahead, they’d already accomplished the easy part. Rogscroft had been secured from Badron’s insanity and was already being rebuilt. Rolnir commanded the allied armies as they drove what remained of the enemy out. Most of the Goblin force was dead, ambushed by the Wolfsreik at the turn of the tide. All that remained was to drive them back into the Murdes Mountains and let the Pell deal with them.

  Only that wasn’t enough. The mountain passes were buried under feet of snow and all but impassable. Goblins and traitor soldiers alike would flounder and be caught or killed by Cuul Ol’s odd fighters. They had orders to offer any captured Wolfsreik soldier the opportunity to return to the army, but Piper had a feeling none would make it that far. He’d seen the Pell Darga in action, fought against them personally, and the thought of them sent chills down his spine.

  Far from handsome, Piper fit the role of second in command perfectly. He’d been the first to engage the Rogscroft defenders and, while he considered the battle a stinging defeat, opened the way for the main body of the army to invade. He bore scars from a dozen wounds, marring his chiseled facial features. Proud eyes watched all keenly beneath thin, brown eyebrows. Lightly muscled, he wore his armor like a second skin.

  He was the perfect soldier. Everyone in the allied army knew his name and his exploits. He demurely shrugged aside any accolades while remaining focused on the mission. A mission he wasn’t sure of the purpose any longer. The invasion of Rogscroft had been simple. Badron responded to the murder of his only son and attacked after following the evidence. Only when the Goblins became involved did Piper’s notion of justice begin to muddle. Right and wrong mixed without jurisdiction. In the end he was forced to follow his commander, and his heart.

  Cold winds blasted down from the north, driving under his cloak to the millimeters of space separating armor and clothes. Piper spent his entire life enduring the harsh conditions of Delranan. The north was no place for weakness. Men and women alike learned to grow hard from an early age. Punishing winters were offset by humid, blistering summers. The only respite came from fleeing south. The men of the north were among the toughest in all Malweir. That didn’t mean Piper enjoyed freezing in the elements when he might have been sitting in front of a roaring fire with a mug of his favorite ale.

  Dreams of that moment kept him going. A professional soldier, he forced aside his simple dreams of warmth in order to lead his men back to their homeland. He’d never be able to rest until they reclaimed Delranan from Badron and Harnin. Peace came with a price too few understood or were willing to pay. He’d already buried more friends than he ever wanted and was burdened with the knowledge that yet more would go to the ground before the campaign ended. Cut off from Delranan, neither he nor Rolnir knew what to expect upon their return. All reports suggested Harnin had systematically transformed Delranan into a living nightmare.

  “Winter seems to be taking her sweet time moving on this year,” General Vajna commented upon noticing the look of consternation pinching Piper’s face. The Rogscroft man grimaced as another blast of wind slashed through.

  Suppressing a shiver, Piper nodded. “It grows most tedious.”

  While neither considered the other a friend, both men had grown to respect the other. Once enemies, Piper and Vajna had tried their best to kill the other before Rolnir defected and changed the scheme of the war. Now they shared command of the massive vanguard as it slowly ground through mounds of heavy snow into the foothills of the Murdes Mountains.

  “I hope the passes aren’t too congested,” Vajna continued. “Spending time in the mountains isn’t my idea of fun. Nor the men’s I suspect.”

  Piper thought back to the beginning of the campaign when he’d led the Wolfsreik over the Murdes Mountains and down into Rogscroft and replied, “The snows weren’t very deep the first time passing through. Of course we had the Pell to deal with instead.”

  Nodding, Vajna said, “We’ve had more than our share of ill dealings with them in the past. Nasty fighters but good to have on your side. I’m glad Aurec managed to gain their trust over these last few years.”

  Otherwise they’d never be able to cross the mountains intact. The Pell Darga had been driven from their homes in the east long ago and settled in the heart of the mountain range separating Rogscroft and Delranan. Fiercely independent, they ignored the laws of most lowland kingdoms in favor of their own brand of justice. They’d spent generations fighting with the peoples of both kingdoms, earning a fierce reputation. Fact turned to fear and fear into legend. Eventually the Pell Darga became the creatures mothers warned their children of. Until Aurec made peace with their chieftain, Cuul Ol, no one had any reason to believe otherwise.

  “They are among the fiercest warriors I’ve ever encountered,” Piper added respectfully. He found it odd how allegiances shifted so casually. What had once been improbable only a few short months ago was now taken for granted. The war proceeded with unprecedented twists, making it difficult to follow, even for a seasoned veteran like Piper. In the end it came down to one simple conclusion: his sole purpose was to keep as many of his soldiers alive as possible until the end of the war. Nothing else mattered.

  “We’re less than a day away from the base of the mountains,” Vajna explained, shifting the focus of the conversation before it devolved into past hatreds and rivalries. “The sun’s going down. I suggest finding a bivouac site. There’s no sense in trying to scout out the mountains in the night. Nor letting the men freeze while they wait.”

  Piper agreed. He couldn’t wait to warm his frozen toes, even if for only a little while. “I’ll lead a scouting patrol out and do the rounds. Badron may have already taken ship back to Delranan but there is still a strong Goblin force somewhere between us and the mountains. Set up camp at the first suitable place and get the fires going. I don’t want to lose anyone to the cold. This damned war’s already taken enough from all of us.”

  “Stay safe.”

  “As much as I can be,” he replied.

  Piper wouldn’t feel safe until the Goblins were found and eradicated. Their filth was a blight on the world, one threatening to spread if Badron was suddenly in league with them. Technically subordinate by rank, both Piper and Vajna agreed that it would be best if he remained in command of the Wolfsreik regulars until the war’s conclusion. Vajna had no qualms with that. He doubted his own men would find it easy to take orders from a man from another kingdom, much less one who’d been an enemy only months before.

  The alliance was still extremely fragile. Petty fights and arguments broke out almost daily, resulting in several trips to the field hospitals, prisons, and more than one body being buried. Those guilty were punished according to their infractions, regardless of which army they had once served. Rolnir and King Aurec understood that the only way to forge a strong alliance was by enacting a singular set of rules for everyone. Balance must be maintained in order to facilitate the full assimilation of three different cultures. Failure here meant failure at the end.

  The one hundred men in the scout company divided into two equal groups. Piper led the one that rod
e north while the other hurried south. They’d cross paths halfway around and meet back up at the starting point in a few hours, hopefully before the sun dipped over the distant horizon. Daylight temperatures were tolerable, if just, but the combination of darkness and wind chill drove the cold deeper past freezing. Piper didn’t relish the idea of moving through unfamiliar terrain while worrying about freezing a finger off.

  Still, he had no other choice but to move slower than normal. Uneven snows left the terrain hazardous. They’d already lost several horses on the push west, each one further constricting their combat capabilities. He knew it was just the beginning. The soldiers, all of them, were tired. They’d been fighting for months. Mistakes stemmed from exhaustion. Mistakes got people killed. More soldiers died from accidents and diseases than enemy contact. Until the day came when that was no longer true, Piper was forced to make the difficult choices.

  Soon the sounds of axes and hammers ringing across the snow-covered fields faded. The scouts had gone far enough away from Vajna’s camp that they felt totally alone. Already shadows crawled across the world as the sun began to drop. Piper shivered as the temperature plunged more cruelly than any dagger ever could. His face was red, raw in places. His lips burned. His eyes were sore, tired, and on fire. Thoughts of going home didn’t help, leaving him truly miserable for the first time in many years. He made a note to give Rolnir a piece of his mind when the main body joined back up with the vanguard.

  “Rider coming in, sir!” the burly sergeant with flowing crimson hair announced and pointed.

  Piper followed the direction and his heart leapt at seeing how fast the rider was approaching. Snow kicked up with each thundering step. Speed meant trouble. His horse pranced with nervous anticipation, causing Piper to pat its neck reassuringly. “I feel it too. We might be heading into a fight.”