The Madness of Gods and Kings

by Christian Warren Freed

  Cheers erupted. The rebellion had suffered many and varying shames over the course of the war. It was past time for that course to reverse. Even if it meant burning Chadra Keep to the ground around Harnin’s head.

  Ingrid reveled in their support. For a time, a much longer time than she’d anticipated, she felt lost, felt the rebellion was on its last legs and about to die. The passion of her assembled fighters changed all that. Holding up her hands for silence, she continued, “I do not command you to follow me. No, for I am no tyrant. Those of you who wish to return to your families may do so at any time. No one person has the right to expect others to lay down their lives for a cause they aren’t committed to. Go now without shame or the burden of failure. You have served your kingdom and your people honorably and will be treated so.”

  She paused, nervous about the results. Long moments stretched on yet no one moved. Her heart relaxed. Slightly. They were all with her. Only to what end I cannot promise. I fear I may be leading you all to slaughter. “Through your actions will our lands be free again! From your courage and sacrifice will Delranan rise from the ashes of this nightmare Harnin One Eye has created. You are the future and it fills my heart with great joy to see that each and every one of you is as committed to the cause as I am. Thank you, my friends. Thank you all.”

  She stepped away as the crowd roared their approval. Seldom were times calm enough to leave her feeling good about the path she’d chosen. The longer the rebellion stretched on the more she lost little pieces of herself. She longed for the days before the war, before her husband was killed. That moment burned in her mind, a blinding candle incapable of being extinguished. Her husband had been one of Piper Joach’s captains during their first engagement with the soldiers of Rogscroft. While the report was intentionally vague about the manner of his demise, it did mention he was struck down saving a pair of fallen troopers. He had done his duty for Delranan. She could do no less.

  “That was inspiring,” Bahr told her once she exited the public view. “It’s been a long time since the people of this kingdom had any reason to hope. My brother was never one for fancy speeches, especially not ones meant to inspire hope. I think you are the right woman for this position, Ingrid.”

  The admission did not come without a measure of guilt. Rebel leaders often found their heads trapped in a noose. He secretly suspected she and the others would meet much the same. Harnin had too many trained soldiers, too much experience, and a nasty streak unlike any Bahr had ever encountered. Artiss Gran cautioned the One Eye was under the sway of his fellow Dae’shan, prompting Bahr to question what could be worse than adhering to the will of demons.

  Catching the sadness in his voice, Ingrid said, “Somehow I doubt whether or not any of that will matter when this is said and done. You and I both know Harnin has no mercy for those outside of his favor.”

  Bahr nodded. A prisoner himself, he and the others escaped through blind luck and the treason of Lord Argis. The traitor lord of Delranan paid for his indiscretions with his life, as Ingrid explained shortly after her initial interrogation. A shame. He was a good man. One this kingdom is going to need. There is much to be said for quality of character.

  “I’ve had a few nights in Chadra’s dungeons,” he admitted. “Not the sort of place for a lady. Harnin will kill everyone he thinks gets in his way.”

  “You’re still alive,” she countered.

  He barked a laugh. “Only because we escaped. Otherwise my head would be on the walls with all of the others.”

  He felt silently abruptly, knowing the loss of Argis was still too real for Ingrid. She’d come to respect him in many ways and continued to feel his loss. Knowing better than to speak ill of the dead, he changed the subject. “We still have a problem. We need to know where these heavy infantry patrols are headed and in what kind of numbers. Until then there’s no way we can risk moving.”

  “I agree. I’ve sent scouts out, but we could always use a little help,” she hinted.

  Bahr scratched the back of his hand. “I might be able to arrange that. Boen is itching to get back into the field. It might do him some good to stretch his legs.”

  “Can you trust a Gaimosian to avoid a fight?” she asked, suddenly rethinking her proposition.

  Bahr hadn’t considered that. “Who knows? He’s focused on our task, but that doesn’t mean his sword won’t find its way into a belly or two along the way. No one enjoys battle like a Gaimosian. Still, I think he’ll use his discretion, though it might kill him inside.”

  She hoped so. The alternative wasn’t pleasant.

  * * * * *

  Boen rode into the darkness. His armor and helmet were stored back on the wagon, leaving him swathed in furs and heavy riding cloaks. His only weapon was his great broadsword. He didn’t need anything else. Gaimosians were masters of all aspects of military training. Killing a man was just as easy with his bare hands as with a sword. Reluctantly, he forced himself to recognize that it wasn’t about the act of killing. It was about being better than his opponent and avoiding death. Therein lay the true skill. So many warriors, of all races, failed to understand that simple concept.

  Alone the way the gods of light intended his kind to be, the Vengeance Knight stalked through the night in search of the trail Dorl had run across earlier. It felt nice to be away from the incessant conversation and bickering. They’d been together for so long they were at the point where nerves frayed easily. Patience gradually wore away alongside the endless path of leagues stretching across half of Malweir. Rather than arguing with them, Boen jumped at the opportunity to get back into his natural element.

  His breath came in plumes. Pervasive chills crept down his spine each time the wind grew too strong. His eyes bore that constant burn from being tired and cold. Every stumble his horse made jarred maddeningly through his body. Yet for each discomfort he found another pleasure to take his mind away. The call of a great owl. The howl of a wolf. A snow shoe rabbit sitting immobile under a small bush as he rode by, hoping against being seen. The world was as fascinating as it was dangerous and he enjoyed living through each new experience.

  Time meant nothing in the wild. There was no future or past. There was only now. Boen’s mind casually drifted back to echoes of decades past. A young knight, he set out for Paedwyn, capital of the mighty kingdom of Averon. The world, it was said, revolved around what the king of Averon decreed. Minor border wars broke out from time to time and, rather than waste his own soldiers, the king often hired mercenaries and his favorite Gaimosians to break the backs of his enemy. Boen was hardly a tested warrior when he jumped at the chance to prove his worth.

  A war party of Goblins had come down from hiding in the Gren Mountains to raid and burn a string of small villages along the banks of the Thorn River. Incensed, the king deployed his largest field force to crush the Goblins for good. Ever since the fall of the Silver Mage and the destruction of Gren had they clung to the shadows, hiding deep in the mountain caverns while biding their time. Their defeat on the Nveden Plains remained a painful reminder of their failings against men. It spurred their hatred and drove them ever on in a pointless war of attrition they seemed destined to lose. While their kin could be seen as thriving in the Deadlands far to the northwest, the Goblins of Gren struggled just to exist.

  Boen helped them ease that burden. He and a contingent of Gaimosians, Elves from Elvenara, and heavy horse from Harlegor disobeyed the orders of the king and went in search of the enemy base of operations. The quest didn’t take as long as many feared and battle was met on the mountain slopes. Boen himself met the Goblin King in battle and took his head in a duel so engaging the rest of the battle stopped in order to watch. Disheartened in seeing their king’s head roll down the blackened slope, the Goblins broke and ran. And were hunted down to the very last.

  He’d heard rumors of a band of cutthroats braving the caverns to kill the Goblin women and children though he had no proof. A man was nothing without proof. Deeds meant little without w
itness. Boen took the Goblin King’s baldric for a trophy and rode away. His task was complete. There was nothing else to prove in Averon. Only the king didn’t view matters the same. He grew enraged over the disobedience of his orders and decreed those responsible were to be hunted down and brought to justice. Outlawed, Boen fled Averon.

  His reputation had already spread. Word reached Paedwyn of how a lone Gaimosian struck the Goblin King down and turned the battle into a rout. The king of Averon, while ever grateful for the act, thought long and hard on whether to pardon the Gaimosian or not. Any simplicity bled away. Boen didn’t wait to learn the decision. His fame brought wealth and no few assassination attempts by zealots eager to curry favor with the king. Boen killed all foolish enough to cross his path and continued on into new adventures. To this day he still didn’t know whether the old king had ever rescinded the order to kill all involved.

  Nor did he care. His life abounded with wealth and glory. His legend continued to grow with each new battle. Every quest went beyond the previous. Boen snorted. It seemed fitting that this last quest would not only change the course of all life on Malweir, but determine the very fate of the world. One last quest before he packed his weapons and tried to find peace in what little time he had left.

  The very idea of no longer fighting his way through life frightened him in ways nothing else could. Never one to languish under family constraints, Boen didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d lived a warrior’s life from an early age. He didn’t know anything else. Combat was his legacy. It was all his people had left to them. Families and normalcy were anathema to Gaimosians. Still, the prospect of engaging in an entirely new facet of life offered great promise. Or so he told himself.

  Half of the night was already gone by the time he crossed the heavily worn track. So many boots had marched through he could no longer distinguish individual prints. Boen nodded. It was the sign he’d been looking for. Wheeling down the trail, Boen rode north in pursuit of what the enemy seemed intent on concealing. To the best of his knowledge, no other scout had returned with so much as a scrap of actionable intelligence. The leadership needed to know the enemy’s intent. That left only Boen. A Gaimosian could succeed where ordinary men failed.

  He rode for another hour when he spied the first glimmers of torches. His smile spread. The urge to ride ahead and meet Harnin’s forces head on nearly proved too much. Killing a handful would be self-gratifying but nonproductive in the grand scheme of the war. Seasoned, he knew better than to make rookie mistakes. There’d come a time for vengeance to boil over and for the blood to flow, but it was not now. The sound of hammers and saws working through the night enticed him. Dismounting, Boen tied his horse to the nearest tree and crept forward.

  His size was a nonfactor. Bigger than most men, Boen was still able to walk with extreme stealth. Stealth he needed in order not to get caught. Bahr’s words echoed as he walked. Whatever you do, don’t get caught. We can’t afford a fight yet. Frowning, Boen reluctantly agreed despite being forced to abandon his greatest asset. Making no more noise than a deer, he crept close enough to get a better view. What he saw confirmed his fears.

  Walls were being erected, complete with murder holes for archers and deep, wide pits ringing the perimeter to prevent direct assaults. Four towers were in various stages of completion. Boen counted close to two hundred men working through the night. No doubt more tried to find some respite from the forced labor. Hard work left tired soldiers. Judging from the amount of construction already started, they were nearly finished. Harnin One Eye had just built his first redoubt in western Delranan.

  FIFTEEN

  A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing

  “I’m going to piss,” Maik said as he dropped his work axe and headed off without waiting for a reply.

  Tired from being worked to the bone, Maik was normally a guard in a merchant’s warehouse in Stouds. Harnin’s call up of the Wolfsreik reserves forced him to abandon his life’s work for, he wasn’t exactly sure of what any longer. He participated in the near total destruction of Chadra and marched countless leagues into the middle of nowhere to hunt down what remained of the rebellion. Maik still hadn’t seen an actual rebel yet, despite his commander’s insistence otherwise. For the last seven days and nights he’d been building a small fort in the middle of nowhere. The reasoning why was well above his pay level.

  Leaving his weapons behind--after all, what could possibly attack him this far away from all traces of civilization?--Maik trudged through the snows. He tried thinking about better times, like those summer days by the lake where he and his father used to go fishing. Three feet of snow and below freezing temperatures didn’t allow for it, though. Everywhere he turned was another reminder of just how harsh life in the north could be. Unbuckling his trousers, he never saw the giant pair of hands reaching out from the night to grab his skull and twist.

  The armor was a little too snug, further evidence that he was getting on in life and not in the shape he had been in. Frowning, Boen tried, and failed, to adjust the leather straps on the sides. No matter what he did he reluctantly had to admit he was just too large for the armor. Hopefully he didn’t stand out among the others. At least the helmet fits. Now I only hope this man didn’t have many friends.

  Boen glanced down at Maik’s corpse one last time before heading towards the redoubt. Bahr would be furious if he found out, but the Gaimosian had an intuitive feeling that he had to know more before heading back to the rebel camp. Building a fortress in an endless field of snow made little sense, unless Harnin had information regarding the precise whereabouts of the rebel force. Boen couldn’t shake the thought. Spies were common enough in Delranan these days. It certainly wasn’t much of a stretch of the imagination to think Ingrid’s ranks were riddled with infiltrators. He hoped to discover the truth tonight and possibly a name or two.

  No one questioned him or bothered looking twice as he slipped through the lines and into the construction zone. So far so good. Now I just need to find someone with a little rank and beat a confession out of them. The last thought put a smile on his face. Bashing in the brains of an enemy without them realizing what was happening almost made him laugh, but laughter would have been a dead giveaway to him pretending to be one of them. No one in the redoubt had a smile or seemed the least bit happy with their lot in life. Another good omen. Soldiers didn’t mind fighting, but had nothing but complaints when it came to anything else.

  He knew from personal experience that work details were the worst. Some genius with a little rank on his collar decided that the only way for him to gain acceptance from the soldiers was by having them undertake a seemingly mindless project. Idle soldiers were a waste, or so the military frame of mind went. Little did most new commanders realize was that their over eagerness to gain respect often turned sour and did exactly the opposite. Boen learned early on that the best commanders were the ones with shovels in their hands digging holes beside their soldiers. Respect was earned, never given, regardless of the luxuries of rank or privilege.

  Fighting men were simple. They always complain, even under ideal conditions, and give their all for the soldiers to their left and right. Those few commanders who stay alive long enough to figure that out went on to become some of the best generals and lords in all Malweir. The rest were ground underfoot until nothing but powder remained of their bones. He’d seen it play out a thousand times over the course of his six decades. Boen, like all Gaimosians, learned quickly and had naturally ingrained martial abilities. That didn’t take away from the learning curve that could only come from raw experience. A quick look around the redoubt showed him there were few enough walking around with that kind of experience.

  He knew better than to let down his guard, however. The only thing Boen had going for him was the fact that it was the middle of the night and freezing. No one wanted to be working the night shift, nor the day for that matter. Frigid temperatures left the men feeling more tired than usual and wholly disgruntled with their li
ves. None of that would matter should one mistake him for the man he’d just killed. Or find the body for that matter. Combine that with this damned idiot not carrying his weapon and I had to leave my sword behind.

  Going virtually unarmed into an enemy position was beyond foolish and he needed to make every effort to blend in. Camouflage was his best defense for what he had in mind. Others accused or chided him of lacking the finesse to pull off working behind enemy lines. This was his chance to prove them wrong and quash all doubt while simultaneously producing sorely needed intelligence on enemy troop strength and movements, disposition, and operational status. All he had to do was slip away through the cracks and make his escape without being noticed well before the dawn sun broke the horizon.

  Unfortunately he couldn’t count on his size and demeanor to get him out of working. The idea of going on sick call briefly entered his mind but, knowing what he did about the inner functions of an army, he’d be degraded and sent back to the line, accused of sloth more than actual sickness. No, Boen needed to find another way to move freely about the encampment.

  Lacking any frame of reference for what part of the labor lines the dead man came from, Boen headed towards the largest knot of soldiers struggling to move wagon loads of freshly cut logs to construct a wooden palisade on the southern perimeter. Stones were being set on the east and north. They were giant, squared stones polished smooth and near impregnable by any weapon in the Delrananian arsenal. He mused of the miraculous Dwarven cannons shattering the defenses under a hail of smoke, shrapnel, and thunder. Having seen their full destructive force in action, he knew they’d make quick work of this redoubt, not to mention the already waning morale of the soldiers huddled within.