Made to Suffer (Journeyman Book 3)

by Golden Czermak

  “I discovered the King after I made my way to his chambers,” Fenran began, “mainly to rouse him for the upcoming battle but also give him a hard time for his tendencies to drink beforehand. When I knocked, no answer came. So I tried again three more times to the same result. Jostling the door, it was not locked and so I entered, expecting to find his Majesty passed out drunk on the bed.” Fenran chuckled before drifting back into the gloom of sorrow. “Instead, I found his body crumpled on the floor in squalor and reek, dead from an apparent poisoning.”

  Gildan too slumped into sadness, his face grim and gray. “But, Meriden had nothing to do with this, right?” he pleaded distant with hope in his eyes. “I ask because she would often come to the stables and assist us all with menial tasks, even though we insisted it was no place or someone as fair and beautiful as she. Such a kind soul that surely couldn’t sink to such depravity?”

  “I know of her beauty,” Fenran said, placing a hand to Gildan’s shoulder. “Yet darkness and monsters come in all shapes and even the most well intentioned soul can be corrupted. It could very well have been her that did the deed, or one of her many sympathizers instead. I cannot say. However, I do know that we would not even be at this juncture had she seen reason and eye-to-eye with her father.”

  To that Gildan didn’t necessarily agree, knowing how easily power could corrupt the great souls who often dabbled with it, even generals or kings. Clearly, he chose not to reveal his thoughts on the matter to those present. Instead he whistled, and Fenran’s horse was called to them.

  “Ah, such a beauty,’ Gildan observed, always pleased by such masterful handiwork. As the steed approached, his black coat and mane shimmered like polished ebony. “One of the best I have seen in a long time, probably from the line of Huros, I should think…”

  Fenran mounted, taking hold of the gilded reins and fair gear that adorned the rest of the horse.

  Three elves swiftly approached, striking and tall. Two began checking out his armor for fit and form while the other delivered to him a curved steel sword. It had a leather grip and a gilded vine pattern that branched out to the ends of the hilt. As the trio of elves departed, Fenran studied his blade before sheathing it, looking off as a stream of riders made their way from the stables.

  Gildan noticed the light was striking Fenran favorably and he looked ten times greater in that moment; majestic and perhaps in another time or place, heroic.

  “You look grand!” Gildan stated. “Surely now –”

  Suddenly, a massive noise rang out, akin to a thunderous melody. The bell tower was at last speaking to the people, tearing down the veil of silence that had shrouded the valley for several millennia.

  Bong…

  It was like the gods were again awakened, lending their long-forgotten voices to an ever-growing chorus of lament for the King.

  Bong...

  Onward and outward the sound resonated, from the city center across the entire valley, filling every trembling heart in earshot with both hope and despair.

  Bong...

  Fenran took the sound as his call to exit, taking his leave of Gildan before hastily departing. Soon he joined up with the other cavalry that were amassing outside the city in imposing formation. The General and his riders had passed through the interior gates, reaching the main one where they trotted out into the solemn fields of green that stretched down to the south. There the grassland met the muddy soils that edged the mighty river and its single crossing.

  While riding out, Fenran spoke from a poem he had read when he was younger, written by someone long forgotten about the march of the First Kings. The original was quite lengthy, but there was a section near the end that fit his circumstances perfectly.

  With the tolling of the bells;

  Its sound rung out across the fells;

  The die is cast and war is at hand;

  So all shall end by my command.”

  IT WAS PITCH black, Gage unable to see a thing no matter where he looked. Then, somewhere in the distant dark, he heard a horn blaring, the noise growing louder and louder like an oncoming train. Before long, it was deafening.

  He suddenly woke up… but it wasn’t in his comfy bed in his comfy room on the ship.

  It was uncomfortable, his chest thumping while his head did the same. Gage found his vision very blurry and bright, like someone had cranked up the saturation on everything to blinding levels.

  Slowly, he lifted his head, finding it had smashed right against a steering wheel, specifically the one in his GMC – he couldn't help but recognize her. Feeling his forehead there was no blood, but plenty of ongoing pain to make up for it.

  Glancing around as his focus returned, he saw an empty, rural street with no other vehicles nearby. The leaves were gently falling from trees and as he followed them on their unpredictable path, his gaze met the body of a young boy just down from the truck, lying on the hot pavement.

  Gage clambered out, nearly falling when he tried to stand. He shuffled his way down the road and was shaking hard when he reached the child, who could have been sleeping except for all the blood around him.

  Gage fell to his knees.

  “Oh no… no, no, no,” he said fervently as he searched him for signs of life, making sure not to disturb the body too much out of fear of injuring the kid further. Regardless of how dainty he was, this was bad. “What the hell happened?” he asked himself, the time and memories since his encounter with the mothman fragmented and hazy.

  He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, as he was joined by a hooded shape that grew out of the hard shadows made by the harsh sun.

  It just stared at him, silently hovering.

  When it spoke at last, the air was drained of all its warmth and it sounded like many whispers speaking at once. “I am the living death and the death of the living. I am come for the soul that is owed us this moment…”

  Gage wasn't afraid. “Take me instead,” he said, not hesitating in the slightest. “I’ll give ya my own soul if ya can just save him.” He looked to the boy’s body. “Please…”

  Death reached out with a bony finger, stopping just short of Gage’s face. “No,” he said emotionlessly. “It is not yet your time.”

  Gage began to weep; had to be due to the mothman’s lingering effects, surely. “No, you can’t take him. I won’t let ya…” He reached for a switchblade in his jeans, flicking it open to brandish its wards. They glowed brightly in the Reaper’s presence, something they'd never done before.

  Death was impressed by what he heard and saw. It was a rarity for a mortal, especially a human, to show such lack of fear over their demise. After all, it was their mortality that compelled them to do many things, be they great or shallow, beneficial or destructive.

  “The boy shall also be spared,” Death revealed and with a wave of his hand, Gage’s tangled state of mind was gone.

  As Gage stared at Death, now with clarity of vision, it said something that he never would have imagined in a million years of this supernatural bullshit.

  “I fear you, Gage Crosse,” Death uttered with conviction, “and what you are capable of. You are a man that does not show fear in the literal face of Death, yet you manage in the same moment to show your respect for it and therefore… life. There is much left for you to do, man who does not fear death, and neither those in Heaven or Hell will be able to console you for the things coming ahead.”

  The area suddenly melted away, replaced by flashes of light and sound that indicated the passage of time and he experienced every moment through it. Gage felt as if he were being dragged by a rope, tumbling end over end and to the side until he fell once again into the seat of his GMC. This time, there would be no recovering her.

  Even though his eyes were closed, Gage could feel Death near him again as he hovered on the brink. The Reaper was there, on the highway, floating above the median with a long pole of mahogany.

  The rain falling on the area transformed into hail as Death made his way toward the cras
h site, continuing until he was within inches of Gage’s deadpan face. He lifted one of his bony hands and a lean finger, dusty and splintered, pointed at Gage’s temple.

  “Gage Crosse…” Death spoke, jabbing the finger right into his skull. “Rise...”

  Abruptly, the hail became rain once again as Gage gasped hard. All around him the world began to drip and run like a watercolor painting and he was whooshed away, meeting the foul odor of rotten eggs.

  He manifested naked under a night sky, red with the light of distant fires. Above the clouds, three moons hung and Gage realized he was far from home in a world he did not know.

  Sparks cascaded over his body as strange cities burned across the entire horizon. The screams of countless souls rose up in swirling columns of black ash to join unearthly behemoths that soared overhead. Great swaths of shadow stretched across the land as the skulls of many creatures fell from their mouths.

  Suddenly, the land abruptly heaved and lightning flung its way from the uppermost clouds to the land below, building up in a discordant rage. A massive bolt then whipped free, tearing a path through what was left of the ground. Solid rock was hewn and fell away into an expansive abyss.

  Gage soon followed, pummeled by fragments of sharp stone.

  The visions he had in the cellar returned in all their uncomfortable glory to plague him.

  A golden crown, wreathed in flame, was set upon the silhouette of a man. He lorded over a legion of demons and other foul beasts that defied description as an army of Journeyman countered them in the greatest battle he had ever witnessed.

  The fight shrank away while Gage continued to plummet, raising his hands to cover his ears as he tumbled end over end. Beneath him the bottom whirled, approaching far too fast.

  Darkness took him, the impact so great his entire body cracked and blood gushed from his mouth and eyes. His last few breaths escaped as coughs, Gage once again spying his old friend Death approaching, this time wielding a sickle in his ancient hand.

  Death stopped just ahead of him and looked down through his deep, empty sockets. Extending a skeletal arm toward Gage’s own, he grabbed the big man’s hand and snapped it clean off, just below the wrist.

  Gage tried to scream the loudest he ever had, but no sound came.

  Death placed the end of the sickle against the severed appendage and they both shimmered, a scream echoing as the objects melded together to form a gleaming new weapon. Gage continued to watch, helpless and motionless as Death raised his newly formed blade and then came down in one fell swoop.

  It struck the ground just ahead of him, sending shrapnel flying into his skin.

  Gage became irate. “Why are you showing this to me? What do you want with me, dammit!” he yelled.

  There was no reply.

  “Say something, motherfucker!” Gage shouted as he was able to lift himself up.

  Rushing at the Reaper, Death vanished in a cloud of smoke just as Gage would have punched him. Stumbling, Gage looked around the gloom for his adversary, but to no avail.

  There was nothing.

  There was a sudden and incredible pain in his chest and his body smoked, coming apart piece by tiny piece. The motes of dust and debris glowed faintly in the gray haze as Death spoke to him, fathomless.

  “You will need this very weapon to complete your task,” he said, “it is the final piece of this puzzle that will ensure all threats are ended. Others will certainly attempt to sway you from this path. You must choose not to listen.”

  Death jabbed the shining blade further into Gage’s gut and the searing pain overwhelmed him.

  HE WOKE WITH a start, sitting up as he frantically regarded the room. His breathing heavy, he expected to see the interior of his truck again, after the endless cycles of dreaming and waking that had seemed to ensnare him.

  However, he thankfully found himself in the comfortable surrounds of his room on the Odyssey, tucked away in his own bed.

  Adrienne! his mind through scenarios afraid that she had been stolen away or worse. The worry was for naught as she was off to his side, sleeping soundly though her mouth hung open like a fly trap. Leaning over, he picked up his phone on the nearby nightstand and snapped a memento for some future use.

  Smiling, he returned the phone to the tabletop and rolled over to relax, planning to stare at the decorative ceiling for a while. Because of all the Death-related dreaming, sleep wasn't as appealing as it normally would be.

  As he tried to settle back into the soft sheets, he noticed the bed was drenched with sweat, as was he.

  “My god Gage,” he said aloud as he sat back up, grabbing at the amulet with one of his hands. It was still unnaturally warm and as his skin continued to touch it, a feeling of dread crept in, hanging over like a shroud. Death was upon him and though he did not fear it in the same way many others did, he was still concerned, for everything. “What the hell is happening to ya?”

  THE DAY THAT would define Elvendom for years to come had dawned.

  Meriden walked alone the fair light of the misty morning, the air cool on her skin. She was surprising at peace given what was impending; perfectly calm before a brewing storm.

  Stepping proudly and tall across the dew-covered grass like old leaders with nobility, she bore a look on her face that was grave. In a moment of less than stellar wisdom, she had decided to forego any of her armor. It was meant to be a symbol for the people: that anyone could stand up and fight with conviction at any time. Yet, as she stared down at herself in her splendid white dress, capped with her golden hair and a gilded crown, she sighed. She hoped that it was not a bad decision; just the night before it sounded much grander than reality was currently presenting.

  How has it come to this? she stressed on the verge of despair. Fenran had managed to take everything and turn it into a pile of worthless nothing. Then a thought glimmered in response, off in the far reaches of her mind like a lighthouse at the edge of a narrowing sea. Maybe she was looking about this the wrong way.

  Perhaps all is not ‘nothing’. Fenran's actions should prove to you that things are, in fact, quite the opposite.

  Meriden wasn't too sure about that, needing to hear more. The voice obliged.

  He has managed to show you that everything is dear; something your heart and mind agree should be fought for. Life and love are not trivial matters of the world; they are at its very foundation. You have amassed an army, full of similar sentiment to counter him, motivation to take back what is yours, and you have the perseverance to see it through. That ‘nothing’ you speak of? It's the something that has brought you all together

  The voice then departed, carried away by the wind, leaving Meriden to reflect for a time. A single tear rolled down her silken cheek and she met it with a great nod and smile.

  She turned north, going back through the now empty encampment. It was serene, the trees at the edge of the clearing swaying hypnotically while a faint odor of incense and last meals lingered behind in the recently vacated space. As strange as it seemed, the combination of smells was surprisingly pleasant.

  Footfalls squeezing the damp ground made way to her ears. She looked right, toward an oncoming shape that caught her attention from the corner of her eye.

  A messenger approached, his mount grazing behind him. He wore distinctive leather armor, heavily patterned, that was reserved for messengers and couriers. A leafy brooch adorned his breast, the word ‘speech’ in Elvish across it.

  “Good day,” he greeted, bowing before her. He was fresh both in face and spirit, despite the threat of impending doom.

  “Let us hope,” she replied wearily. “So, not often is it that a messenger shows up without need of delivering said message.”

  “Indeed,” he said with a quick smile. Then, he told her of all the happenings in the city: the preparations that had been made for battle, the downtrodden spirits of the people in Dún Gorias, and Fenran's words of hate against her. Through his accounts, she also learned of the death of her father and that c
aused her much distress, though she didn't show any of it outwardly.

  “I… thank you,” she managed to say softly, still considering what she heard. “I appreciate your efforts in relaying this to me, but might I ask you why? What benefit do you gain from it?”

  She was curious if the voice from earlier was right and waited for an answer. She didn't have to wait long.

  The messenger smiled again. With a look as if he had been granted the same nicety sometime in his past, he said, “Because I believe in you, Meriden; a lot of us do. You’ve managed to rekindle the fires of Elvendom that have long been sputtering. Dare I say, even more so than what wonders King Danann had brought to bear?

  “Though Fenran might have stolen away the hearts of those in the city with his lies, it is fleeting. Those of us in the rest of the Otherworld are with you.” He paused, briefly looking down to the grass. “Plus, my Lady, everyone deserves to know of loss; it helps with closure.”

  He did not look at her again, turning promptly and a short time later, was away.

  Meriden didn't know what to think, his words more potent than his youngish face would have suggested. They still rung through her head as she raised a hand to her heart, realizing the voice was right.

  “Thank you again,” she whispered before returning on her trek to the north, her thoughts as company. So, Fenran had decided to place all the blame for her father’s death right at her feet – a preposterous notion if he knew anything about her, for the love of him as both parent and King ran deep. She imagined the cogs turning in Fenran’s mind, building up his scheming plans through all of its fakery.

  She also realized that if her father were dead, that meant he must have reconsidered this terrible course of action and she smiled knowing that he saw reason in the end.

  But then, a final realization struck her like a dagger and looking to the sky, she was compelled to tears.

  “I didn’t get to say goodbye, Athair…”