The Madness of Gods and Kings

by Christian Warren Freed

  His ruminations were disturbed by the commotion coming from the eastern flank. Horns bellowed, announcing the arrival of a figure of importance. Jarrik almost came to regret developing the signal system his army used. It had been more bane than the boon he initially intended. Setting aside his bow and quiver, Jarrik slid back into his bearskin cloak and headed towards the eastern gate. Calloused hands smoothed over his clothing. He was, after all, still a lord of Delranan.

  What he saw emboldened him while silently crushing his spirit. Skaning’s black hair stretched down his back, blowing wildly in the light wind. His menacing eyes were narrow, fixed from beneath his war helm. The newly arrived lord rode stiffly, as if he’d come with dire intent. Jarrik’s world gently shattered. There could be but one reason for the unexpected visit. He was being relieved.

  “Greetings, Skaning,” he announced without betraying his emotion. “Your arrival is most unexpected. I would have prepared a tent for you had I known.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Jarrik. Lord Harnin has sent me with haste.”

  There it is. The dagger in my spine. Will you have the nerve to finish me in public or take the coward’s way out with poison? “We’ve received no word. Our preparations demand most, if not all, of our time.”

  Clearing his throat, Skaning offered the slightest hesitation Jarrik took as a good omen. “He feels you are not performing your duties properly. Where is Lady Inaella? She needs to be present for me to continue.”

  Jarrik looked behind his onetime friend. A double column of cavalry stretched back onto the snow fields. None of them bore the look of reservists. Each wore a hard face suggesting the disciplined lives of mercenaries or worse. Perhaps I was too much the fool to trust to hope. “She’s retired to her tent for the moment. Shall I summon her?”

  Skaning shook his head. “No. What I have to say needs to be done in private.”

  Dismounting, he followed Jarrik.

  “Those are my orders,” Skaning finished. He’d languished through days of doubt, never quite knowing how he was going to explain Harnin’s desires or even what he was going to do about them. Plotting and imagining while locked in the solitude of his mind on the road west was one matter. Doing it before his old friend was another entirely.

  “So this is it? A knife in the back while we sleep?” Jarrik accused.

  Skaning held up his hands weakly. “It’s not like that.”

  Inaella rasped, “We should kill him now before the others are aware. Harnin will have to come here himself if he wants me dead.”

  “Calm down, Lady. No one is killing anyone this day, or so I hope,” Skaning replied quickly, suggesting his lack of faith in Harnin’s ideals.

  “For what other purpose would you have ridden all this way if not to obey the One Eye’s orders?” Inaella pushed. She’d fallen victim to betrayal once before and it nearly cost her life. Doing so again was not in her best interests.

  Taking the offered mug of water, Skaning blew out the tension building. Days of travel and I still am not sure of what I should do. Would that I were a better man, or lesser. This would not be so damned difficult. “I’d have been a fool to remain in Chadra. You’ve been gone for too long to understand. Bodies line the walls. Death and madness rule with stern surety. Our kingdom is already dead, Jarrik.”

  “We know all this. What else have you to offer before I summon my guards to kill your men?” Jarrik asked boldly. His words lacked the conviction they were meant with.

  Skaning smiled sadly. “They won’t. My men have orders to burn this camp to the ground and kill everyone if I don’t reappear after a while.”

  “Traitor!”

  “Which of us?” Skaning fired back. “We both betrayed the king in order to follow Harnin’s fool dreams of conquest, thinking this was our best opportunity to finally advance our lots in life. What fools we were! Harnin doesn’t care for Delranan any more than King Stelskor. We are alone, Jarrik.”

  “Alone is the operative word. What can we do outnumbered thus?” Jarrik failed to find a scenario where he didn’t lose. All of the suffering of previous generations broke against the shore as Harnin continued to plunder his own kingdom. There was no way out.

  Skaning considered the statement briefly. True, Harnin commanded the better part of five thousand soldiers and had a pool of roughly ten thousand more to draw from. Those would be civilians, most too old or young to make any other difference than being warm bodies plugging holes in the infantry lines, and of little tactical use. The two thousand soldiers in the west were largely oblivious to the power struggle going on and, both men agreed, they needed to remain that way. His private force of two hundred was considered among the best, most ruthless fighters in the north but even they would be ground under such overwhelming force.

  Truthfully, Skaning had nothing to gain from betraying Harnin. His legacy would be tarnished and his corpse would hang beside Jarrik’s, food for crows and buzzards while the madman laughed away in his wooden tower. Killing Jarrik presented more problems than it was worth. Friends for years, the pair won great reputation and glory during a series of border wars. Badron counted them among his greatest military minds. Skaning wasn’t so sure about that claim. Rolnir and Wolfsreik officers devised and executed every tactical maneuver in the campaign while the young lords were given credit.

  “I stand trapped at the crossroads,” Skaning carefully said. His tone and words were measured for the best effect.

  The scrape-hiss of Inaella’s slender blade being drawn sounded as thunder in the confines of the tent. Murder danced in her pained eyes. “You should decide quickly if you expect to leave this tent alive.”

  Skaning looked to Jarrik who stood tensed, but with the faintest glimmer of mirth on his face. Clearly he was amused by this sudden turn of events. The board was set. He’d done all he could to buy a little more time. His fate now rested in Skaning’s hands. Doubt gnawed away as swift as the minutes.

  SEVENTEEN

  Land of the Pell Darga

  “This is a bad idea, Mahn,” Raste half whispered as they rode higher into the forbidding Murdes Mountains. “They’d just as soon kill us as take care of us.”

  Mahn tried, and failed, to ignore the young, headstrong scout. He’d hoped that the string of adventures and mishaps they’d experienced over the course of the autumn and winter would build Raste’s character, make him a better, wiser man. Those hopes were dashed the moment Raste opened his mouth. Not even surviving the fall of Rogscroft or being appointed to the fledgling council of King Aurec seemed to have made much impact.

  King Aurec. Mahn still wasn’t certain how he felt about that unexpected turn of events. Stelskor had been one of the finest men, and greatest leaders, Mahn had the pleasure of knowing. Working closely with his son was both privilege and honor. Now that son was king, the world changed drastically. Rogscroft was largely destroyed from the occupation. It would be years before the kingdom found any semblance of its former self. Compounding matters was the sudden alliance with the very men responsible for bringing his beloved home to ruin.

  The Wolfsreik were fearsome warriors, an army without equal in the realms of men. They tore through Aurec’s meager defenses in a matter of weeks and brought a king to his knees. No other fighting force in Malweir was capable of such. Or so he’d thought. The wave of Goblins coming from the Deadlands changed his mind quickly. They killed without reason or discretion. Hundreds of innocent men, women, and children lay buried under the snows, dismembered or worse.

  The longer the war continued the worse the crimes became. Aurec’s last, desperate gambit lay in the lands of the Pell Darga. Only Cuul Ol and his secretive tribe of mountain dwellers were capable of delivering the allied army back to Delranan where they intended on bringing the war to a close. Win or lose. Mahn looked at Raste and sighed. He greatly wanted the young man to be there at his side on that last day of the last battle. The cold reality was it probably wasn’t going to happen unless he changed his ways.


  “They just might as long as they can hear you plotting it out for them.”

  Raste’s cheeks might have reddened if not for the severe cold they already suffered from. “You know what I mean. The Pell aren’t exactly our friends, now are they?”

  “Nor are they enemies,” he scolded. “You and I have both been in their camps and set free under the provision we don’t discuss what we saw. Aurec needs us to execute this task in order to keep the war from stagnating.”

  Raste cringed at Mahn’s choice of words. “Execute” was the last comment he needed to hear given where they were headed. The Pell Darga, if they could hear, chose to ignore the bickering scouts. To be fair, neither party was enthused about the interesting turn of events leading the lowlanders up into the mountain passes.

  “All I am saying is there must be another way,” Raste continued. His nose began to run from the combination of their rising altitude and extreme cold, reminding him just how much he despised winter’s kiss.

  “What way would you have? It would take too long to go around the mountains and Rogscroft has never had the sort of sea power capable of transporting nearly twenty thousand soldiers. This is the only path ahead, Raste.”

  “Certain doom? I’d rather take my chances with the Goblins,” he snorted derisively.

  Mahn resisted the urge to reach over and slap his younger friend senseless. “Doom is a matter we all must face when the time comes. What we represent, to all of the kingdoms and tribes involved, is the chance to right wrongs. To end a pointless struggle inspired by the greed and jealousy of a single man. If that calls for traveling deep into the Murdes Mountains to meet with people we aren’t on sure footing with, then so be it. Don’t you want to be on the side of history?”

  “I’m not concerned with history, Mahn. I just want to survive the war and find a small cottage somewhere out of the way where I can try and find a different life.” He paused. “I’m sick of war. If I never see another corpse or take another life I won’t shed a tear.”

  He’d never admit it, macho pride demanded it that way, but Raste felt he was losing tiny parts of himself with each new engagement. The gods hadn’t made him a killer. Life decided to make that detour for him. Dramatic twists ended whatever dreams he once had, leaving him adrift in unfamiliar waters. The war dragged on, dragging him down roads best left untraveled. Raste killed when he had to. He fled when necessary. Yet each day drowned his spirits further. It was a winless proposition.

  Mahn eyed him carefully. To deny they’d been through a lot was foolish. Whereas Raste felt continually ground down, Mahn simply felt old. The years hadn’t been overly kind. Life as a scout pushed him beyond the borders of what normal men would endure. His body was constantly sore. His mind worn down. Yet no manner of distress or personal misery was enough to keep him from performing his job.

  “This war won’t last forever,” he tried consoling. “You’ll have your chance at a decent life once we accomplish the king’s purpose.”

  Only, I don’t know what that purpose is. I don’t think Aurec knows either. There must be a point to it all. We’ve taken back Rogscroft. Driven our enemies from our borders. Badron has lost his strength. What else remains before we can finally send our men home to their families? To the lives they’ve nearly forgotten over the course of this long winter?

  Raste refused to look at Mahn. They’d ridden together since the young scout first enlisted, forming bonds few outside of military life experienced. He knew he was disappointing his mentor and friend, but there was no denying how tired his heart was. Too many friends had fallen, most during the siege of the capital. Each time he closed his eyes he saw faces that no longer sat at the same table. Empty chairs where the old and familiar once sat. He hoped, for all of their sakes, that Mahn was indeed right. That the war wouldn’t last forever.

  “That doesn’t change the fact that we are heading back into the mountains with a tribe of people who wanted to kill us the last time,” he finally said.

  Mahn couldn’t ignore the logic in that statement. The Pell Darga were venomous warriors with fierce tempers. Secluded from the rest of the world, they avoided other forms of life whenever possible. Generations had been hunted down for sport, diluting the race until the few that remained left their grassland homes and took refuge in the mountains. The Murdes Mountains were the latest in the story of their evolution. Once they’d had a thriving community in the kingdom of Thrae. The war with the Goblins and the dragon Ramulus drove them west where they struggled to merely survive under the harshest conditions. With each passing winter freeze so did their hearts.

  “They didn’t kill us, though. I have no reason to suspect they will now,” Mahn said.

  Cuul Ol and the other Pell chieftains were eager to help Aurec fight against the Wolfsreik and Goblins. They ruthlessly attacked supply convoys and rear echelon support troops while suffering few casualties. Aurec admitted he never would have been able to force General Rolnir and the Wolfsreik to switch sides without the help of the Pell. It was that same aid he was counting on now.

  Knowing such didn’t alleviate the doubt now growing in the pit of Mahn’s stomach. As much as he wanted to curse Raste from bringing the subject up, he couldn’t. Doubt was a natural thing for soldiers to feel, from time to time. Placing complete faith in the actions or concepts of others wasn’t easy for most, but Mahn had grown to accept such from an early age. He prayed his king had the temerity to trust the Pell. Otherwise the war was going to come to an end much sooner than any anticipated.

  Raste seemed more dazed now, as if his mind had been stunned with some irreverent fact made prominent by the severity of their situation. They rode in silence. Neither wanted to dwell on what fate might await them once they reached the secret meeting place of the Pell. Only time would tell if death hid in the shadows.

  * * * * *

  Winter’s chill was driven back by the warmth of their fire. Cloistered in a deep cave, those assembled spoke softly in small groups. Mahn and Raste watched and ate a meager few bites of the smoked meat the Pell chieftains offered without much interest. Following the broken, almost guttural speech of the Pell was virtually pointless. They largely ignored their guests, although the scouts received an occasional menacing glare or thoughtful stare.

  Raste’s nerves were getting the best of him. The cave was larger than he imagined, coming from the lowlands. A domed ceiling more than half again as tall as a man was stained with soot and smoke. A fetid stench clung to the air. Not the smell of death but of rot and worse. Warriors came and went as the chieftains talked. Whatever was being discussed was no business of theirs. Curiously, Raste didn’t see any women or children. Surely they existed, for how else would the tribes have so many warriors with which to fight? The near perpetual crawl of darkness spreading and shrinking with the glow of the fires left him feeling claustrophobic. He wanted to be back under the open sky. Breathe the fresh air even if it was so cold his nose hairs froze almost instantly.

  “Relax,” Mahn soothed. “I can’t imagine this taking long. The Pell we’ve dealt with are of the immediate decision sort. Not ones for taking excessive amounts of time getting to the point. I wish some of our leaders were more like that.”

  He winced, knowing that last bit should have remained unsaid. Aurec and the others were doing their best to piece the kingdom back together but the resurgence of politics was inevitable. Already the young king was forced to remove a vaunted councilor of the old king, Paneolus. That sort of cancerous need for consolidated power was what drove Badron mad in the first place and led to an invasion. A conquered man should know better.

  Raste tried to stretch, desperate to shake the feeling gnawing its way down his spine. “We could have done this outside.”

  “In below-freezing weather? Now who’s mad? We have food, heat, and shelter. What more could we ask of our hosts?” Mahn countered.

  The young scout offered a baleful look and bit his lip. Enough of the Pell spoke the common tongue to get him in
trouble if he dared voice the thoughts dancing around in his head. Instead he reached for another piece of the smoked meat--mountain bear he guessed, though he’d never eaten it--and took a bite. The meat was tough with a gamey taste. While filling, he almost would rather stick with field rations. The life of hunter-gatherers was more difficult than anything he’d been forced to endure during his childhood or early adolescence.

  Mahn forced out a sigh. “Look, Raste, there’s no point in giving in to your emotions. We’re here representing our king, our kingdom. Any tantrum will only make Rogscroft look weaker than we already are. These Pell are good warriors and, I’m daring to guess, a good people. We’ll be fine as long as you remain calm.”

  “That’s just it. The longer I stay here, in this cave, the more I feel like going mad.” Raste looked away lest Mahn see the raw emotion burning his face. “It…it reminds me of the siege.”

  Mahn paused. They’d served side by side during the siege of the capital. Each day the battle lasted drew the noose tighter around their necks. More friends fell. Enemy numbers swelled with reinforcements. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable conclusion arrived. Rogscroft had to fall. There simply weren’t enough defenders to prevent the thousands of Goblins and Wolfsreik from storming in.

  Those final moments when the decision to fight or flee was instant were among the most harrowing of his old life. He could still smell the blood and he could still see the bodies when he closed his eyes and dared to let his thoughts drift back. Watching friends cut down ingloriously as the dark tide of Goblins murdered their way through his beloved city left gaping holes in his heart. He too had lost during the siege. Raste didn’t own the market on suffering.

  “Those days are over,” Mahn said, staring into the fire. “We survived, and so did plenty of other good men. Be proud of what you accomplished there, Raste. Very few in the entire kingdom can say they lived through that experience. Use the anger and the fear welling inside to your advantage. We’ve cleansed the majority of the kingdom of enemy. King Aurec seeks to take the war back to Delranan in order to finish this sad, sordid mess. I don’t imagine he’s apt to kill the entire population like Badron tried with us, but I have no doubt there won’t be any threat once we finish our business. History remembers the deeds of the great. I doubt you or I will be named in those pages. Our stories will go largely unknown to scholars and future generations, but we go to the earth knowing it was through our actions that Rogscroft was rebuilt. Pride, Raste. Always take pride in what you do.”