The Madness of Gods and Kings

by Christian Warren Freed

  Artiss Gran reluctantly turned from the view he’d enjoyed each morning for two thousand years. His time was nearly expired. Ages of waiting, planning, and enduring the pain of abandonment were wrapping up. He felt it in the air. Deep in his bones. He’d told Anienam Keiss that leaving Trennaron would kill him and allow the temple to fall into ruin. Death was coming for him regardless. Should the quest to destroy the dark gods succeed, he and the other Dae’shan would perish. There were very few certainties in life. He’d taken much for granted during his supposed immortality. The sobering reality of what came next weakened his conviction.

  Planning for the hour of death was one matter. Waiting for it to finally occur distinctly different. His shoulders sagged some. He stood smaller than normal. The conviction of his principles kept him steady. He was of singular purpose. Nothing mattered aside from stopping his errant brothers from opening the nexus. Artiss hoped he’d prepared Bahr and his group enough to deal with the nightmares awaiting them. The Blud Hamr was a powerful tool, but only if used properly. Groge the Giant was young, inexperienced. Artiss doubted whether the Giant had the necessary strength to destroy the Olagath Stone.

  If by chance he did, Groge would seal the dimensional paths forever. The threat of the dark gods would be ended, allowing the races of Malweir to deal with their own affairs unencumbered by the promise of doom. Artiss partially wished he’d be around to see how Man, Elf, and Dwarf would learn to cope with their sudden abandonment. Sadly, he wouldn’t. His fate was determined. His death foretold.

  Giving the sunrise one final glance, Artiss Gran headed down the alabaster stairs, passing gargoyles with leering faces and judgmental eyes. He reached out to caress the cold stone. The ever present protectors of Trennaron, the gargoyles remained impassive as their master walked by. Artiss silently wondered what was to become of this most special place. Trennaron was unlike any other structure. It held the promise of all races, should they ever learn to set aside differences and grow for the good of all life. The former Dae’shan recalled the dismal failure of the first grand experiment: the Mages. Perhaps their sad tale will help guide new generations to succeed where so many others failed. Perhaps, but I fear life is doomed to repeat this mindless cycle of violence.

  Artiss Gran, last of the true Dae’shan, mouthed a last mournful sigh and passed under the main arch for what promised to be the final time. His intent remained private. Not that there was anyone else to talk to. Most of the servants and staff were still asleep. He preferred it that way. They’d been given their instructions for once he’d gone. Artiss wished he didn’t need to leave, but the nagging feeling in the back of his mind left him without doubts concerning the Giant. Such an important task couldn’t be left to chance.

  Whistling an old--ancient, he reckoned--tune, Artiss made his way to the chamber that would transport him to his final destination. He had a war to wage.

  THIRTY

  A Last Parting

  “At this rate it will take the rest of the week to get the army through the mountains.”

  Venten glanced at his king with pursed lips. The impatience of youth struggled to regain control. It was unbecoming but expected in one Venten agreed wasn’t prepared for the responsibilities of the crown. Each diadem bore hefty weight, Aurec’s most of all. Losing a father so violently would change anyone. Venten decided his fledgling monarch’s rash of immaturity stemmed from the nearly intolerable wait they’d been forced to endure.

  “Moving so many soldiers and equipment takes time. You’d do well to focus your attentions on less stressful matters,” he cautioned.

  Aurec visibly snarled but his words lacked venom. “Venten, we’re wasting time. Our enemies have more chances to prepare than we have to reach Delranan. Each delay will cost lives. Lives none of us can afford to spare.”

  “There’s more to this than pre-battle jitters,” Venten concluded. “What troubles you, Aurec? I’ve seldom heard you talk this way.”

  Suddenly bashful, the young king wiped his face with both palms. Where do I begin? How can I tell you that I know in my heart we are marching to a desperate, hopeless battle from which the majority won’t return? Oh, Venten, how can I tell you I’m afraid you and I won’t be around much longer? The world conspires against us and we blindly march into whatever traps awaits us. This will not end well.

  “Nothing. It’s just a feeling I have. A premonition of sorts,” he finally admitted without giving away too much.

  Venten frowned. “Premonitions? You speak of witchcraft.”

  “Don’t be foolish, old friend. There are no witches in this part of Malweir. Well, none we know of at least. My great grandfather’s campaigns saw to that, as I believe you instructed me one summer night.” He paused to smile. “I can’t explain why I feel the way I do, Venten. All I can say is that we are heading into a dark time. I’d be lying if I denied being scared.”

  “A king should know fear. To be without leads down paths men like Badron accept. I’d be more than willing to lay you flat with my pommel if you insist,” the former general admonished smoothly. “Quality of character is not easy to come by. Your father prepared you for this day as best he could. I’ve done all I know to ensure you find success, even in the most dire of circumstances. None of that means a thing if you refuse to exercise a measure of patience. Vajna is a capable man. He will lead us safely through the mountains. Combined with Piper Joach, I wouldn’t want to put any unit up against their prowess.”

  “What if their concerns over the Pell’s loyalty are founded?” Aurec asked. His eyes hardened at the thought of betrayal. The only reason the Pell Darga became involved in the war in the first place was through his insistence. Now all of his hard-won battles stood on the precipice of ruin.

  Venten shrugged, a nonchalant move vague in meaning. “We’ve gone decades without their support. I can’t see how their abandonment will matter much now. Not with the Wolfsreik on our side.”

  Aurec wasn’t so sure. Rolnir and the Wolfsreik were certainly unexpected allies, but how long would that last? Shifting allegiances remained the bane of leadership. Rolnir and his ten-thousand-strong army flipped sides in the span of a night. Nothing prevented them from doing so again once the army returned to Delranan. Aurec and his meager force would be overwhelmed and destroyed before they could flee back into the mountains.

  The loss of life would be catastrophic for Rogscroft’s remaining population. Leaderless and without military strength, the civilians desperately trying to rebuild would be ripe for invasion and worse. Aurec’s legacy would be written in shame and defeat. Rogscroft would cease to exist. It had happened before. Kingdoms with names like Gaimos and Gren were thoroughly transformed or removed from existence entirely. That fear crept into Aurec’s mind and refused to let go.

  “We’re going to need all the help we can get if Rogscroft is going to recover,” the young king said, expressing his latent fear.

  “Keep your mind focused on the task at hand,” Venten reminded. “We’ve got more than twenty thousand soldiers to deploy in enemy territory. Rogscroft hasn’t invaded another kingdom in generations. Unused to being the aggressor, we must remain grounded in our principles. Remember why we march on Delranan: not only to avenge your father and our fallen, but to remove a hideous stain on humanity.”

  “Is self-proclaimed righteousness enough of an excuse to lead yet more to their deaths?” Aurec countered.

  Venten eyed the boy approvingly. No leader worthy of the title marched to war without extreme caution. Life was precious. There were many who’d either forgotten that lesson or were never concerned with it to begin with. Aurec had great potential to be the ruler his people needed, possibly surpassing his father. All he needed to do was stay focused. Venten was a firm believer that all matters worked themselves out with time. A little nudging didn’t hurt either.

  “Righteousness has nothing to do with what we’re about. I would argue revenge is the underlying factor to this movement. Revenge for both you and Rolnir.
Wrongs have been committed yet we are not the designated defenders of justice. You seek to end a threat to Rogscroft. Once that threat is removed we will be able to go back to our homes and rebuild in earnest. Don’t be so fast to pass harsh judgment on your actions, young king. There will come a time for grief and doubt. Let them come on their own accord.”

  “Venten, I wish you were younger,” Aurec said after many long moments staring off into the looming Murdes Mountains.

  The elder statesman’s eyebrow peaked. “Why is that?”

  “So that I’d have the benefit of your council long into my twilight years.”

  * * * * *

  Rolnir tossed down the overused charcoal pencil and leaned back in his field chair. His cramped hands roamed through his full head of hair before dropping down over his face. He traced the deep groves and lines carved into his skin through time and emotions with blistered fingertips. Raw exhaustion left him sluggish. Muscles conditioned through years of campaigning and the daily rigors of military life were sore beyond belief. His body ached with each movement. A headache pounded behind his temples. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt this miserable. Compounding his misery were a stuffy nose and sore throat. Damned bad time for me to catch a cold.

  Every healer and medic in the combined army insisted he needed to drink plenty of fluids and rest but, as general of the army, what choice did he have? The army needed strong leadership, now more than ever. With Piper and Vajna already deep within the mountain passes, that left Rolnir as the singular leader in place. He needed to be seen trooping the line, offering words of encouragement to the army. Morale was already slipping. He felt it ebb daily.

  Nerves stood on edge. Especially for the Wolfsreik. There was no escaping the cold fact that the soldiers of the Wolf were about to attack their own kingdom, own people. It sat ill with many. Armies were designed to protect their population, not destroy them. The soldiers of the Wolfsreik would do their duty, though with mild reservation. Of that Rolnir had no doubts. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that many of his soldiers would either desert or refuse to fight if they came across family. Best-case scenario left him with enough strength to crush Harnin’s defenses and retake Chadra quickly and with minimal loss of life.

  Of course there were too many outlying factors beyond his scope of control. The Pell Darga bothered him greatly. They’d been uncanny opponents and brutal allies. Capable of shifting their allegiances without notice, the mountain tribe presented too many problems. Cuul Ol wore an uneasy mantle while dealing with the young king. Rolnir couldn’t shake the feeling he was walking into a trap.

  Nothing for it, he turned his attention to the Rogscroft army, or rather what remained of it. They were brave, capable fighters but they were also at the end of their ropes. He couldn’t blame them. Any army who’d gone through as much as the soldiers of Rogscroft over the past six months deserved to be sent home to their loved ones. Rolnir would have cut them loose without second thought but they came because of Aurec. The last defenders of Rogscroft followed the boy king out of respect and love.

  Rolnir admired that. Admirable qualities were rare these days. Loyalties notwithstanding, the soldiers needed adequate downtime. They were more exhausted than he was and tired soldiers made mistakes. As much as he wanted to order a stand down for a week or more, Rolnir couldn’t. He needed to get them through the mountains and in battle order before tomorrow’s end. Their haste would serve to bring down Harnin’s regime, hopefully, before Badron managed to worm his way back into Delranan.

  Blinking away his exhaustion, Rolnir rose and slid into his heavy winter cloak. The day was getting on and less than a quarter of the army was deployed into the passes. Campfires were being lit. Meals prepared. Rolnir had originally argued to keep moving throughout the night. His advisors said otherwise. Armies were incapable of moving or fighting at night. The dangers far outweighed the rewards and, given the restrictive terrain of the mountains, Rolnir stood to suffer numerous accidents over the course of the night. Casualties he could ill afford.

  The cold blast of wind lashed him as he exited his tent. Winter was in the latter stages yet refused to relinquish claims on the land. He didn’t mind the snow and wind so much as the endless hours trapped in the cold. Guards snapped to attention and saluted as he passed. Soldiers from all three armies looked up, acknowledging his presence. The general had become well known over the last few weeks. He treated them all with equal consideration. Old loyalties dissolved as the newly formed army adjusted to new roles. Rolnir and Aurec decided to maintain the majority of unit integrity, building specialized units of all three armies to bridge the gaps. Some of those units were already deep in the mountains.

  Even Rolnir was amazed at the ease with which three distinct styles and types of leadership combined to form a cohesive fighting force. They’d been blooded against the Goblin army. The old ways remained strong but were subsumed by this new concept. Aurec’s soldiers felt rejuvenated now that the threat to their kingdom was removed. Rolnir’s soldiers now suffered from the lethargy they’d encountered upon entering the ruined capital city. Their nerves were frayed. Apprehensions unsteadied many. Their greatest trials were upcoming. He hoped the ingrained professionalism of the Wolfsreik would stay strong, using the strength of the Rogscroft army to buoy them during the dark times.

  “Evening, General.”

  “Sir.”

  Heads nodded. Waves rose up from the crowds of soldiers trying to find a little warmth in the dying day. Despite the underlying feelings working through each soldier, they greeted him with real enthusiasm. Rolnir took hope in their faces. He returned the waves with genuine gladness. Their strength built upon his own. Stifling a cough, he wormed through camp en route to Aurec’s tent.

  He paused at his commanders’ fire. Their roles in the campaign were greatly diminished since the alliance yet they remained the brain trust of the army. Rolnir needed each to perform to his utmost capabilities in order to achieve the lightning quick strike he intended. Being around his old friends again rejuvenated him, albeit slightly.

  “General Rolnir,” Colonel Herger, commander of the cavalry, greeted him with a cup of hot coffee and a smile. “I didn’t think to see you slumming with the rest of us.”

  Rolnir smiled back, choosing to ignore the rib. “Nonsense. Too much time dancing politics with the king and his council leave me stagnant. I need to find you rogues to keep me grounded. Wouldn’t do for a general to suffer from delusions of grandeur.”

  Chuckles spread through his commanders. A good sign.

  Ulaf, seated on a blackened tree stump, looked up at his general and asked, “Any word from the front? My lads are aching to take a crack at Harnin’s defenses.”

  Rolnir’s chief of engineers was a likeable enough man but lacking in proper military decorum. An accomplished veteran, Ulaf offered pragmatic views to otherwise complicated scenarios stymieing more traditional leaders.

  “Piper and the van are pushing as fast as possible. The weather and the mountains are against us,” Rolnir answered flatly. He found it difficult to present his most-senior commanders with false bravado. The truth was no one knew what to expect upon arriving in Delranan and that worried Rolnir to the core.

  “All the more reason to include a company of sappers in the front. Harnin could have built walls to seal off the passes for all we know,” Ulf added.

  Rolnir held up a hand, gesturing his chief engineer to stop. “Ulf, there are some matters we can’t change. If Harnin is that prepared, we’re in for a nasty fight. Having a company of your sappers in the front would only get in the way while the infantry try to break free. I know what you’re going to say. We’ve been through all of this before. There is no other way. Your boys will have their chances soon enough. I doubt this campaign is going to go as smoothly as our councils believe. We’re in for a fight.”

  “It’s about time. I’m tired of sitting here babysitting the infantry,” Herger chided.

  His remark d
rew a scowl from the normally taciturn Colonel Krueger. The infantryman bore a long scar down the side of his neck, bleached white by the cold, and a natural bitterness born from a lifetime of heavy fighting. His voice was gruff, reminding Rolnir of steel scraping stone. “Remember that when you need my grunts to bail your pretty horses out.”

  Herger laughed and tossed a winter apple core at his friend.

  “We’d all do well to remember that when the time comes,” Rolnir added. “I want you to ensure all of your men get as much downtime as possible. It’ll be at least another day before the last units get into the passes. I’m expecting a fight as soon as we get on the ground in Delranan. Harnin’s a crafty one. We can’t leave anything to chance.”

  “We’ll be ready, General,” Krueger said. His large arms were folded across his broad chest. The long-stem pipe jutting from the corner of his mouth puffed grey-white smoke.

  Rolnir nodded. He hoped his army was a match for the tenacity of its leaders. He reached out to slap the joyful Herger on the back. “See to your men. Hot food, water, and clean socks. As much as possible. The march continues at dawn.”

  They saluted and watched him stroll through the ranks, pausing here and there at random to speak with privates and captains alike. Only the smaller Pell warriors avoided him. They stuck together in small packs, reminding Rolnir of feral beasts waiting to attack. Hard allies. Speaking in their native tongue, the Pell warriors huddled around their fires. Many sharpened their wickedly short spears. Others busied putting a keen edge on swords and daggers. Few laughed. A sad fact which struck Rolnir odd.

  It was another hour before the redheaded general made it to King Aurec’s tents. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, releasing its hold and bringing bitter cold sweeping in behind it. Rolnir frowned as he thought of the long walk back to his tent. Thankfully there were plenty of fires between stops.