Land of Madness

by B T Litell

  “You’re late, priest,” his voice boomed behind his mask as they approached. The man made no movement, standing so still a statue could be called animated.

  “I’m actually a day early, Bruce,” Joshua replied.

  “I presume you had a safe journey, brother,” Bruce replied, grabbing the priest in an embrace Michael hadn’t expected. Spikes stood on the knuckles of his gauntlet; everything about the man seemed like a weapon. Michael had no doubt that even without his weapons the man could still maintain the same level of lethality. Joshua clapped his hand against Bruce’s heavy shoulder plates before breaking away.

  “I’ve forgotten my manners,” Joshua said as he stepped away from Bruce, “this is Michael, a carpenter from Feldring. He is the visitor the King will be seeing today.”

  “Welcome, Michael!” Bruce said as he thrust his hand out. Michael clasped the man’s forearm and then flew forward as the man pulled him close and clapped his mighty paw on his back.

  “Bruce is the Commander of the King’s Guard,” Joshua stated, seeing confusion and concern in Michael’s eyes.

  With the introductions finished, Bruce turned, leading Joshua and Michael toward the portcullis. He raised a hand and motioned to the horses, and two nearby guards grabbed the horses’ reins, taking them down a side street. Bruce towered over Michael, who was neither short nor tall, and Michael felt the man to be more intimidating while he walked than he did simply standing.

  “What have I missed, Bruce?” Joshua asked with his hands in his sleeves once more.

  “Another lunatic tried breaking into the castle again. If I didn’t value my own time so much, I would pity someone so foolish, but here we are,” Bruce stated. His honeyed words barely covered the obvious disdain in his voice.

  “Where is he now?” Joshua asked.

  “We are being very accommodating. We gave him a comfortable cell where he receives two square meals a day. More than some of the poorest in the city can say, that’s certain. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why we have so many people trying to break into the castle. They may not actually be trying to kill the King after all.”

  “Have you gone soft, Bruce? I’m surprised he’s even able to breathe on his own.”

  “It pains me that you ask that, Joshua. Had I found the bastard he would be sleeping with the crabs at the bottom of the harbor. But as it is, someone else found him. His leg and a few ribs are broken and now he has all the time in the world to reconsider his life choices. I doubt he will breathe free air for at least a decade.”

  “Is this a common thing?” Michael asked, not sure how his question would be received.

  “Common? Not remotely. I think the last one we had was six years ago, and I found that bastard myself. I wouldn’t have caught that one if the King had requested wine instead of whiskey. This fool simply tried to walk into the King’s study. How he managed to get that into the castle is something I’ll never understand,” Bruce replied. His left hand remained on the handle of his club as he walked.

  Michael took a closer look at Bruce and noticed rows of small knives sheathed along his wide leather belt, which widened around the back. Bruce was clearly a living weapon, not that there had been any doubts before this discovery. Not a single person should be able to stand before the King with ill intent and live a moment longer, Michael thought to himself.

  “We will take you to a tailor so you can have some more formal clothes made up before you meet with the King, if you would like, Michael,” Joshua offered, looking at Michael under his hood.

  “We have no time for that, Joshua. The King is expecting a visitor and a priest within the hour, and we are cutting it close,” Bruce replied.

  “Then we’ll not keep his Highness waiting any longer.”

  With that, they walked faster, nearly jogging down the road; people stepped clear of Bruce and his large, lethal stature. Guards saluted Bruce as they walked down the road, his armor faintly reflecting sunlight through the dark lacquer. His weapons, except the club, shone brilliantly in the sunlight. The man had to spend hours polishing his weapons to manage that shine. Not a blemish showed on his sword or his armor. Perhaps his armor is more ceremonial than anything, Michael thought to himself. Doubtful he had seen combat in any recent times. Prikea hadn’t gone to war with anyone in decades.

  As Michael considered the condition of Bruce’s armor and weapons, they reached the portcullis. In the late afternoon, darkness would envelope the land a hundred meters from the castle walls. Two weathered stone statues guarded the gatehouse, their monstrously tall stone lances pointed to the sky with the hafts planted firmly on the ground by their feet. These soldiers had stood withstanding ages of weather, their faces growing less featured each year. The heroic statues showed men with strong jaws and muscles that showed through their armor. Perhaps the armor was shaped to show muscles.

  The portcullis was of an interesting design, Michael noted. There was one gate, a bridge that spanned a gap, then another gate. Two guards stood inside each of the gates, and they clapped their fists to their chests as Bruce led Michael and Joshua through the portcullis. Michael tried to look but couldn’t see quite how far down the hole went under the bridge nor could he see how far the hole had been made. Inside the second gate, in the courtyard outside the castle, stood a few dozen guards formed in a column three men wide. A man in armor similar to Bruce’s, though not as decorated, walked slowly from one end of the formation to the other. Michael could tell, even from this distance, that the man was inspecting the guards, and for the most part his face showed only mild displeasure.

  Inside the courtyard within the wall, tall stone buildings spread nearly wall to wall in a neat and organized manner. Streets and alleys formed a grid-like pattern between the buildings. As the road approached the Keep, however, the buildings stopped, allowing for a clear view of anyone approaching the Keep. Michael gazed up and saw several ballistae on the ramparts on around the top of the Keep, as well as on the outside bailey. Soldiers patrolled both along the ramparts and around the Keep itself; many carried swords or halberds with bows on their backs.

  Michael noticed more guards with lacquered plate armor like Bruce wore, as they walked up the wide, marble stairs into the Keep. These men did not bear feathered crests atop their heads, nor did they have the spikes on their armor as he did. They appeared less living-weapon-like than Bruce, but Michael doubted they were any less lethal.

  The large, thick, wooden doors leading into the Keep stood closed until Bruce and Joshua started walking up the stairs. A guard with a much smaller crest approached Bruce, clapping his fist to his chest, motioning them through the door. Bruce and Joshua walked through the arched doorway, but Michael stopped with a hand placed firmly on his chest by the crested guardsman.

  “The King is seeing no visitors today, citizen. Come back another day,” the guard said through the visor of his helmet. Michael could barely see the man’s eyes, but he knew annoyance flooded them.

  “Let him pass,” Bruce’s voice echoed. He had turned around and walked back to the top of the stairway.

  “Sir?” The guard seemed confused at the order.

  “Let him pass. I shouldn’t need to repeat orders for you to follow them, correct?” Bruce left no chance for the guard to argue. He turned away with Michael in tow shortly behind.

  When they were inside the Keep, the doors closed behind them with a heavy thud. The hall they stood in was open, large pillars on both sides of the walkway, and heroes depicted in stained-glass windows casting colored shadows on the floor. The light from the windows added extra warmth the candelabras simply could never provide. Three steps at the end of the hall led to another set of wooden, double doors. Two guards stood outside, and they opened the doors, which swung quietly on their hinges into the next room. The doorway spanned three meters in height and two meters wide, enough space for a merchant wagon and its horses to travel through, had the arch of the doorway been less severe. Michael couldn’t understand why a merchant wag
on would have the need for driving into the castle.

  Within the room on the other side of the door, white marble pillars rose to a vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows on the right side, as you walked into the room, cast colored light onto the floor. A plush, green carpet covered the floor from the dais at the far end of the room to the doors. Gold tassels lined the edges of the carpet, the sunlight playfully danced with the tassels. A small chair sat upon the dais at the far end. While simple in design and build, some ornate decorations made the chair seem of better quality.

  The King lounged upon the throne, his head cradled on one hand, his elbow against the arm of the chair. As Michael, Bruce, and Joshua walked up the aisle toward the dais he leaned to a man, wearing polished steel mail armor with a white linen cloak around his shoulders. His hood rested upon his shoulders, and he held his hands on the clasp of his wide leather belt, thumbs tucked between his body and the belt. The man beside the King had a beard, full but trimmed, which had clearly been white for some time, yet the man did not appear old. The King whispered something to the man, who gazed quickly at Michael, and nodded, then whispered a response to the King. Michael didn’t know what question the man answered, but now he felt a need to know the question asked more than he felt a need for anything. With his answer, the King stood and stepped down from the dais and waved his hand at the white-haired man. With that wave, the man left, his cloak catching a pocket of air as he spun on the balls of his feet and left the room.

  “You must be the man from Feldring that Joshua went to fetch for us. I trust that both Bruce and Joshua have been most hospitable toward you,” the King said, with a quick glance at both men with his statement.

  “The whole journey has been nothing short of hospitable, Highness,” Michael replied, rising from a bow.

  “Joshua has explained everything to you, correct?” the King asked.

  The King stood straight, half a head taller than Bruce, who already towered over Michael. His face showed few signs of age. Streaks of grey hair lined his temples, and a few wrinkles showed the merciless touches of age around his eyes. Beyond those signs, he looked to have aged no more than twenty-five years. His eyes, the bright blue seen in the sky right after a thunderstorm’s clouds empty themselves onto the ground, held a warmth Michael had never seen before. His gaze was powerful yet welcoming. Michael found it obvious why this man, more than any other, wore the crown and led Prikea. He couldn’t recall any displeasure toward the King, and he had worn the crown as long as Michael could remember.

  “Highness, he knows enough right now. When we speak with the rest of the Order, he will get the rest of the information he needs,” Joshua replied. “They also will like to meet him, I’m sure. With your leave, sire, we will go to the Order now.”

  “Take your leave, Joshua,” the King said as he broke his gaze from Michael and looked to his bodyguard, “Bruce, stay behind when they leave. I need to speak with you about the wretch taking up space within our dungeon.”

  “As you wish, Highness,” Bruce replied.

  “Joshua, please bring Michael to my study after dinner. I wish to speak with him privately this evening,” the King said, glancing back to Michael briefly before holding Joshua in his gaze.

  “As you wish, sire,” Joshua replied. With that, he led Michael out of the throne room. As they opened the large wooden doors, the King began talking with Bruce about the prisoner the Commander of the Guard had mentioned on their way into the castle. As the door closed, Bruce was speaking excitedly with the King.

  They walked down two hallways, up a spiraling staircase, and turned left down another hallway before Joshua stopped and opened a simple wooden door. The door was plain, except for the raven carved and painted into the center of the door. When Joshua opened the door, seven priests looked up from a large round table. When they saw Joshua and Michael walk in, they stood and approached slowly.

  The closest priest seemed the eldest of the group. But based on the stripes that adorned his cuffs he was not a senior priest. His head bore no hair, just as Joshua’s, yet his bushy eyebrows were solid silver, matching his long beard which hid his neck. His eyes were a brilliant green in the bright candlelight. Michael saw that he also had a raven on his right hand, like Joshua, but on his left hand was a golden rampant lion. Michael wanted to ask what the lion meant, but before he could ask, the priest reached and shook his hand.

  “I am Gregory, and it’s such a pleasure to meet you, Michael of Feldring. We truly cannot say how much we appreciate that you chose to accompany Joshua when he asked you to leave the life you knew in Feldring. If there is anything you need please let us know,” he said, his face lighting up with a warm and friendly smile. Perhaps a bit too friendly of a smile.

  Joshua stepped in and introduced the other priests from the left to the right: Peter, William, Oliver, Gerald, Francis, and Simon. Joshua introduced Francis, wearing four black stripes on the cuffs of his tan robes, as the High priest of the Order of Ravens. Had he not wearing a priest’s robes, Michael would have assumed he was a sailor. His face showed numerous scars, his eyes looked hard, and his face showed no signs of ever smiling. Francis also wore the most tattoos; some upon his neck as well has the backs of his hands.

  “Brother Joshua, we believe that, during your travels, we have found a possible location for this Sven from Michael’s nightmares. There is still no progress for locating James, but we will continue to search,” Francis said. His voice was smooth like fresh honey, and did not match what Michael expected, given the state of his face. Worries melted at the sound of that voice.

  “Where is Sven?” Joshua asked, pulling a wicker chair away from the oak table and taking a seat. On the table sat a plain, stout teapot with matching porcelain cups. Joshua poured himself a cup and offered one to Michael, who accepted graciously.

  “In that respect we have encountered an…issue. We sensed his presence across the sea, but you know what that means, Brother,” Oliver said, opening a large, leather-bound volume and beginning to read feverously.

  “Do we have a proposed solution, Francis?” Joshua asked, sipping his tea.

  “I’m sorry for my failure to understand the problem. So where is Sven?” Michael asked, feeling the steam from his cup of tea wave across his face.

  “They mean he’s in Drendil, Michael. And the King decreed long ago that no one can be allowed to return from there, as we discussed our first night on the road,” Joshua clarified. “What is our solution for this?” The faces of the other priests suddenly grew dour with that question.

  “The only solution we have is that we send someone to Sven. According to the dreams, these three are the ones we can count on to vanquish the Shadow Knight,” Simon replied. His gaze grew intense as his eyes fell on Michael once more. “Randall the Ruthless is willing to prepare Queller for us and will sail to this distant land. Or rather, the King said that he will be made to prepare Queller for the voyage.”

  “Who is Randall the Ruthless?” Michael asked. The slightly bitter sting of the tea lingered on his tongue longer than he expected yet stayed satisfying somehow.

  “He is the King’s youngest brother and the fiercest Captain of the Prikean Navy, though he rarely acts in a way fitting of his rank,” Joshua answered. This brought a quick glance from Francis.

  “Queller is the first and only ship he has captained. It is neither the fastest, nor the slowest, ship of the King’s fleet, but the man is feared by those who see his flag flying,” Simon added, before the High priest could respond.

  “This journey will be quite an endeavor. Has he not asked anything in return?” Joshua asked, pouring another cup of the dark tea.

  “When we spoke to the King, he made it clear that there would be a reward that Randall would be unable to refuse, no matter the circumstances. I don’t know what the reward will be, but it also doesn’t affect me. As we speak, he should be getting Queller moored in the harbor and coming to the castle to speak with His Highness about the assignment,” Fran
cis said, pausing when he finished this.

  Joshua leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table and intertwining his fingers around his cup. He held Francis’s gaze for a long moment before peering into his cup, looking for the words he wanted to say within his tea. As he looked into his tea, his whole body grew still. After a few moments, he inhaled deeply and sighed before he returned Simon’s unmoving gaze. Joshua looked defeated, as if he had a bit of morbid knowledge, he could share with no one.

  “I assume, since you have been careful not to mention it, that you wish for me to accompany Michael,” Joshua stated finally. His voice broke as he asked, and beads of sweat began forming on his brow despite the room not being overly warm. Blood drained from his face as he awaited Francis’s answer.

  “Yes.” Francis’s voice remained strong yet smooth.

  Joshua sat back in his chair as if the singular word had force enough to move him, his body reacting as if someone had buried a dagger in his chest and twisted the blade. The way Joshua looked, as he processed this information, is how Michael felt after waking up from the nightmares. He was stiff, unable to move, and wanting only to breathe. Michael felt himself starting to sweat, the same cold sweat he had been drenched in for the past few weeks.

  “Michael, you seem distraught by all this,” Simon stated, looking up from a book he was scrutinizing. He turned his gaze upon his guest, whom he seemed to have forgotten sat at the table with them.