Litany of Wrath Read online

  Litany of Wrath

  Levi Pfeiffer

  Copyright © 2018 Windy Leaf Press

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  1 SNOW LIKE ASH

  2 DRINK THE DREGS

  3 WALLS

  4 SUBRIA

  5 BLACKSMITH CANARY

  6 DUST OF TEKUDA

  7 THE SMOKE CLEARS

  8 COIN FLIP

  9 DOORWAY TO INFINITY

  10 GARDEN OF THE GODS

  11 TENDING THE GARDEN

  12 THE BLIGHT SPREADS

  13 WAITING GAME

  14 GATHERING SMOKE

  15 BEFORE THE ONYX THRONE

  16 THREADS OF FATE

  17 FATEBREAKER

  18 GOLDEN HARVEST

  1 SNOW LIKE ASH

  Braldoan, sitting upon its favored golden plains, is sister-city to the great capital of Entigria. Taking its name from its first illustrious leader, Braldoan is the center of civilization upon the western continent. Founded before the council system now in place at its birth home of Entigria, it holds on to the old ways in much of its business life and within the private life of its citizens.

  Opening lines of the Colonial Territories Pocket Guide, offered freely by the Traveler's Guild.

  Snow fell in light, small flakes. Lazily they wafted in their gentle descent. They were in no hurry as they tarried in the cross breezes. Their course, though set by fate, was meandering and tranquil. It displayed acceptance, a certain graceful gravity. Ultimately, their course would be to join their brethren flakes piled in heaps, at rest at last from their birth in the heavy clouds above and down to journey’s end. They passed through the slate evening sky, through the ravaged and ruined ceiling of the cathedral, to come to a halt on the once brightly polished red marble floor. Ceiling shattered, ornate pictures of stained glass now lying scattered, stone walls and floor streaked with black soot, the sanctuary was beyond all workmanship to repair. And there, huddled in one corner, apologetic and pathetic in its construction, a single small little hovel. It was disgraceful, a standing monument of paradoxical devotion in the fractured ruin. Crudely formed, its polished board exterior bore witness to repurposed pews, the door fashioned from the hangings that once adorned the nave. One could hardly accept its existence in this place of past grandeur. The noble heart would rebel at such a folly. No more place had this small hovel than wooden coins given in tribute to a mighty king. But it did exist all the same, a final futility in resolution. Within the faded and ruined glory of what once had been, the hovel stood lonely. It was the only island of warm light, timidly shown from the doorway where the cloth did not quite reach the marble, in the shadowed interior with the murky sky’s grey cold hue above. All in all, it was a miserable, shameful mockery of a better time.

  Fate used the energy of the sound in the whispered snatches of supplication that drifted up from the hovel, from between the ill-set boards, to bounce a few errant particles to their destined place, not caring for whom the words were meant. Uninterested also were the flakes themselves, conquered at last and submitting to the lord of chance. Fitful and afraid, angry and subdued, the words from the hovel barely disturbed the air. Yet, it was enough. The air flashed silver for the briefest moment within the wretched shack, the sign of acceptance. And from within, the whispered sounds of gasping relief. Respite had been granted and downfall postponed. One more time, at least.

  Portraits of honored saints bunched and wrinkled as the hanging curtains parted to reveal the petitioner shuffling out backwards, snatches of supplication and thanksgiving still escaping the dried and cracked lips. It took a moment to tie the folds back as waning light trapped within spilled into the grey hall. This was the brightest the interior ever got these days, notwithstanding being open to the sky. The figure was indistinct, swathed as it was in a cloth garment that was perhaps akin to a set of robes. Though this robe was not of any practical weave, instead it bore the cloth of many origins. It was a great, messy, patchwork hodgepodge. Here, a length of spoiled satin finery with intricate gold braid rested next to, was badly stitched to, the raggedy tramp rags of a beggar. There, the solemn leather of the tradesman bordered the fine cloth of a wealthy merchant. The overall garment was an ill-tailored shapeless sack, but to the wearer it was the most important garment in the entire world. It was the last testimony, the most potent evidence.

  The robed figure continued its awkward backwards shuffle several pew lengths away from the tatty hovel before straightening up, arms carefully rubbing a sore back. With one final bow towards the hut, the figure turned around and headed for the proper exit, ignoring the several large holes in the wall along the aisles that might serve the same purpose. At the broken arch doorway the figure removed the swathed garment, revealing the lean and hungry figure of a man. He was of middle age, not too tall or broad. Even now, under the burden of long duty and little comfort, wasted away to a gaunt frame of a once more substantial presence, there existed still in ample supply the poised posture, the steady and purposeful tread. Uncovered from the haphazard cloth, the figure wore simple attire of brown leather breeches, stained and worn, along with a linen tunic, equally grimy and frayed with use.

  He halted before exiting to hang the makeshift robes with tender care on a hook that somehow remained attached to the stone wall just inside. Rough, calloused hands stroked along the fringe of the garment, and paused to trace the gold thread for a moment, then patted the rags. Finally releasing the patchwork curiosity, he reached to the floor underneath the hook where there was a censer. It was heavy with incense, a result born from the prayers that had been accepted. How it survived the cataclysm that ruined the building was anyone’s guess. Odd though it seemed, sometimes even in the fiercest raging fire there are things that survive. Occasionally, among the ash and sludge, only slightly crisped paper is legible, or a favorite keepsake is unearthed when thought lost, only tarnished by the remains of the shell that protected it. So it had happened with the incense burner. Once it had been swung by a priest, wafting holy smoke in various ceremonies. It had survived the sacrilege of the destruction of its home, the choking smoke of death and raging flames unable to destroy it. The censer was roughly egg-shaped, its surface of splotched silver was the best kept trinket from within the walls. Holding it carefully, he stood at the doorway while digging out a flint and knife from his pockets. He lit the contents within, with much fumbling and accompanied by words that would have shocked any upstanding former carrier of the holy smoke, and breathed deep the sweet aroma carried aloft by the slowly coiling strands of smoke.

  Standing in the doorway, his features were slowly obscured in the pooling grey shreds as in turn was his sight clouded from looking out into the world. Not that he cared; it was better to be within the fog of scent, better to see nothing but the tendrils from the combusting incense. Through the haze, his hazel eyes slowly lost sight of the world around. Peace settled on him for a moment. Outside the ephemeral bounds, beyond the former glorious structure of the cathedral and its grounds, the harsh red light of the fiery hellscape flooded the sky. Smoke and ash drifted in the heat until they reached the rectangular boundary of the church grounds. There, passing through some permeable transforming barrier, they continued on as the low hanging clouds with the wispy snow that fell within the perimeter of the ancient structure. Only a few feet apart, snow and burning cinders made surreal contrast in the bipolar land. Paces away from cold drifts, the ash heaps and cinders would swelter and spit. Minute, hardly to be seen, a thin film of air like glass separated the two extremes. Even the light changed as it permeated the veil. It would never be cheerful, but was instead a pallid blue. The ruddy light was transformed into azure hue, sullen and brooding, like a heavy winter. From within the cloud
of incense issued a heavy sigh that cleared the smoke. Wreathed in the grey cloud, the man observed once more his unusual home. Then the man walked forward into the cathedral grounds; it was time for the daily circuit. The unhappy light revealed the worn features, carrying many more years of burden than might be expected, the hard lines on furrowed brows. Crunching the snow with the heavy boots of a soldier, he set out.

  His route took him past the other ruined buildings. It was once a peaceful path of contemplation, walked by those seeking solace or enlightenment; and it was in places still intact and visible where effort had cleared the drifts of snow. The entire area would not take but a few minutes of walking from the center to the edge. Yet the snow and the burden of this place weighed heavily on him. What was only a minute of walking felt like a good morning’s hike over uneven land and waist high undergrowth. Despite this, he reached the veil between the landscapes without mishap. Making his way to the edge of the barrier he started his work. Letting the censer hang on its fine metal chains in front of him, he slowly swung the censer back and forth, as near the ground as he could without dragging it in the snow. The long metal chains’ clinking made a strange music with the hiss of falling snow, the hiss of falling ash. His progress was steady, following the slightly uneven ground along the border, sometimes watching its unusual transition and other times staring out across the vast ruined land, once the proud and prosperous city of a kingdom now forgotten. The path he walked was meticulously cleared of the powdery debris. It would not do to stumble with his precious cargo. Each day it was maintained. Each day he walked the burdensome path. Every long day for the last five years.

  The small plot of the church and its associated buildings were the only things not reduced to smoking husks. All the rest of the city, formerly known as Braldoan, lay in shambles. Once it had been the most prosperous of the child cities of its mother Entigria across the great sea. And it had been the longest to resist, the longest to withstand the assaults, but it too was near its final end. Here and there a stone tower stood still, though none were undamaged, none were untouched by ruin, and all bore the signs of the fire that had swept away all life. The other structures, those of wood and thatch, had only their empty plots and an occasional wooden spar yet unspent to show the aftermath of the attack. Of especial attention was the former palace of the city’s founder, Braldo. It was now a cratered pit of exposed earth, jagged foundations poking through the ground like broken teeth. Its destruction had been complete, bearing the full wrath of the forces that had taken the city. The man stared out across the expanse, hoping still yet that some other small place in all of what had been his home might have survived. But it was a useless task, done out of remembrance for that which had passed more than in any real expectation. He remembered the gardens with their tall trees and birds. Just over there was where he and his family had spent many a lovely afternoon at festival time. That jagged tooth of a tower over there, it might have been where he had taken astronomy lessons. All gone. All gone now. It was a barren land, full of death. But not empty. The ridges of the tunnels that crossed and wound their way around were evident, though none of the entrances could be seen. Far in the distance, beyond broken manors and the stubs of trees, the great light of bonfires marked the feasting camps still. And there, as he had anticipated, out in the fire and smoke, was his old adversary.

  Stationed on a hill not far away it stood, the silent watcher. One of them was always there. It resembled an armored knight, but dark and sinister instead of chivalrous and valiant. It was bathed in the pale light from its own eyes, peering from within the vaulted helmet. The war mask hid the rest of its face. Menacing even in stillness, if he was not used to that sentinel it would have struck him stiff as stone. Such was the effect from the fearful presence that emanated from it. The red-orange light also reflected down the blade of a long hafted ax of sweeping design. It was hefted and pointing, held ever outstretched towards his home, the last bastion of a forgotten time. Seconds stretched into minutes as the two locked gazes through the transparent barrier, each probing with their minds to strike the other. It was the old battle, and one that he’d fought with the figure many times over the years, as the barrier shrank and his duties became confined to a smaller and smaller space. Neither had ever broken the will of the other to continue. The watcher still threatened, the man still walked his rounds. Inevitably, each knew that this standoff must end someday. Until then each sought to strike, willing the end to come sooner. Sighing, the man broke his gaze first. Continuing his work, he went on until he drew to the point closest to the unwavering omen outside the cathedral’s barrier. Their eyes locked again, the sentinel’s will to overpower a great weight upon him this close, even with the barrier blocking the way. It was as if someone was right behind him, trying to overbalance him, tugging on him while whispering threats on the edge of hearing.

  Withstanding the onslaught, he countered with the only thing he knew to do. Holding aloft his censer, he shouted through the cold air to the heated land beyond with the giant form on its hill, “See this? Another month’s portion right here, you bastard!” The eyes flared briefly, snakes of flame waving about in the tortured air, adding their own luminescence to show the spiked pauldrons of the towering figure.

  Emboldened by the reaction he continued, “Yeah, come on then, you thrice damned traitor. But we know you won’t, don’t we? No power in you, not enough yet.”

  The words seemed to barb the figure, as it swayed this way and that, shifting about the heap of ash on which it stood. The ax was held closer in, as if the creature was unsure, barred across its chest. Shaking his head in disdain at his foe, the man turned to continue on his walk about the grounds. This final dismissal was too much for the giant. Harsh and loud sounded the challenge from the armored foe as it charged. Cruel footsteps crushed the already ruined road into finer grit underneath the huge one’s boots. Almost half again as tall as the man standing within the grounds, its great, heavy form was deceptively swift. Although it began its movement with wrathful intent it increasingly slowed. The great pressure of the barrier was too much for it to overcome and it halted, a stone’s throw away from the man, but still separated by the magical curtain. Here, nearer the grounds, the red light of fire and the reflected light off of the snow blended unhappily into a wan pale rose hue that picked out the cruel designs carved into the metal armor. It was hideously emblazoned with writhing figures tormented under the grinning visage of captors. Tongues of fire from the eyes flared again in the air where it stood, quelled in its passage. This one had gotten further than any other, he noted with concern, but kept his features expressionless.

  The figure spoke in a low, gravelly voice, “You have less time than you think, priest.”

  The man had not moved during the charge, and now openly laughed at the assailant. “Every second I stand here is victory; it is eternity.”

  During their repartee smoke was rising swiftly from the joins of the giant’s armor, streaming back as if pushed by strong winds. The strands held together for a little distance before being scattered into indistinct clouds by the onrush of air. As they did so the figure was noticeably becoming smaller.

  “Enjoy the walk back,” said the man, and he turned his back on the enemy. The figure roared its defiance, an empty gesture, which could not hide the tinge of fear within the rage. Halted in its attempt to strike, it recognized its vulnerability to the power that protected and rebuked its presence; it could not remain there. It turned and ran back to the ground where it could be strong, shrinking as it did. Struggling to escape, the figure was much reduced as it returned to the bounds of its own territory. Now it only stood as tall as the man, the walker who had passed along on the circuit of the grounds. The man did not even turn around at the sound of the erupting earth accompanied by the screech of skittering claws on platemail, the raging scream of his adversary cut suddenly short. He had seen it all before.

  Though content to win the contest at the veil, his former good mood eva
porated quickly as he rounded the corner of his little world. Here, the stones were regular, in nice rows. This part of the grounds was where he always slowed down. The snow had been studiously shoveled, revealing the small paths around the headstones. There were many here, more than the small area really ought to contain. But it was hallowed ground, when people still cared about that sort of thing, or returned to it in their time of troubles. He stopped in front of several of them, pausing to remember his fallen comrades. He always had trouble with this part of the duty. It never got any easier, it seemed, as his reason and emotions swirled inside. The many years of worry and want, the anger and sadness at the folly of it all. Reaching the last marker of one especially crowded row, the tears he had contained within finally spilled down his rough cheeks to wet the path. He dashed the tears from his eyes. The scattered drops pockmarked the snow that filled the spaces between the stones. Quickly he pulled his handkerchief from his breeches pocket and wiped away the drops from his face, then stooped to wipe the headstone where some had escaped. Then he walked away quickly, as fast as respectfully could be done, leaving behind the cold granite with its cold letters, marked simply, Johann Torald.

  The patrol would take about an hour and a half, and had to be done each day without fail. A simple walk about the grounds would take only ten minutes, but there were always cracks to repair. Along each stretch he would have to pause, waving the censer back and forth and allowing the smoke to fill the brittle edges until they smoothed over in quiet strength. Obscene work for someone never initiated into any religious order, never trained in any arcane art, yet needs must decreed that the former military man take on a new role. As he worked, he could spot the other remaining occupant of the ruined cathedral, his mother Elanor. He could hear, in the still air, the coughing fit that came from her direction. He looked over at her; white, wispy hair from the bangs of the old woman were slowly being buffeted in the breeze as she sat on the wooden bench of the church grounds, another randomly unbroken artifact in and of itself. She was huddled within a cocoon of blankets, with two thick scarves wrapped around her head. All of the clothing was of drab hue, except the scarves, one of which had a dainty green paisley pattern and the other stripes of color. Her little cocoon of fabric kept out the greatest part of the cold. In front of her, for the little good it did, was a small metal brazier. It was box-shaped, and within its metal cavern, a fitful fire played about the coals. The woman’s perch was situated in the corner furthest from the gravestones on a patch of what used to be a small garden. At one time the bench had been stationed to look out over the city, but now it was turned to face the cathedral. Luck or fate had made it so that the side of the building that could be viewed from here was mostly intact, though it too bore the marks of violence. Click-clack went her knitting needles, a small defiant noise of productivity in the desolation. Occasionally she would look up, marking the progress of her son as he neared.