Land of Madness

by B T Litell

  A tall, frail, old man dressed in white and red robes, matching the colors the soldiers wore, with a medium-length beard, gingerly stepped through the doorway. He wore a cloak over his robes with the cowl down, draped over his shoulders. His gaunt face was covered by a grey and white, medium-length beard that was longer at the chin than at the sides. His wispy hair, also the same grey and white mix as his beard, was drawn back and tied near the nape of his neck. Deep-set blue eyes gazed at the group from under his steel-colored, bushy eyebrows. A bereft sorrow filled his gaze so much that Týr thought he could touch the sadness within him. Despite walking like he needed one, the man bore no cane or walking stick of any kind. Instead his hands were tucked into his sleeves, only a sliver of his wrists showing between flaps of fabric.

  The old man stopped hobbling for a second, and in a flash the doorway behind him, and the room beyond, vanished out of existence. The only sign the doorway ever existed was a small strip of grass that was now shorter than the rest.

  “Master Edus, what are you doing here?” the leader of the horsemen asked, lowering his sword. Clearly this was a man of great respect among the solders.

  “Lieutenant, I am here with grave news,” the old man replied, the despair in his eyes growing somehow deeper.

  “What news have you, m’lord?” the soldier asked. His weapon dipped and his face morphed. He was clearly dreading what news would come from the old man.

  “Indeed. Lord Dennison has been murdered,” Master Edus said, his voice breaking and becoming grave as he made his announcement.

  All weapons pointed at Týr and Svenka lowered as the soldiers donned bereft looks as they processed this news. Svenka, still standing with her back against Týr’s, tapped his arm excitedly. Maybe this news meant they didn’t have to live in Erith! Perhaps they could simply settle in one of the villages, living out their lives in peace. Peace. Grief. So many lives had been lost, but no more blood would be shed for this war they had fought for so many years. The war that had never been given a name and that had never been a war.

  “What does that mean for us?” Svenka asked, her voice bearing a touch too much excitement.

  “Excuse me? What do you mean ‘what does this mean for us’?” the old man replied.

  “These men were going to arrest us for charges against Lord Dennison, who is no longer alive. What does that mean for our situation,” Svenka responded.

  “Svenka, allow them the time to mourn their lord,” Týr responded. He may have hated, fought, and stolen from Lord Dennison, but he had still been a man, and still deserved that much.

  “No! He made our life a living hell, and he had Lars killed. I will not be arrested for defying a dead man!”

  “Who was this Lars? Was that the leader of the thieves’ camp that we dispatched nearly a week ago? He was little more than a cur, a pest to be put down and done away with,” the old man said, the hint of a smile showing on his face, starting to curl the end of his mouth.

  Svenka dashed forward, darting between two horses that stood between her and the old man who taunted her. Before Týr could register what was happening, the old man had been tackled, a knife planted in his throat. The soldiers responded a fraction of a second slower than Týr, who pulled one of the soldiers from his horse, burying a blade in the man’s ribs, sliding it between plates of armor. A sword swung far too close to Týr’s head, thankfully missing him as he was still crouched beside the dying soldier, gasping on the ground with a collapsed lung. A trick Týr had learned from Lars.

  Svenka had turned her attention from the dead man, her knife pulled from his neck and ready for any of the soldiers to get too close. One of the soldiers charged at her, his spear angled too high to hit her and the distance between them too close to do anything about it. She stepped to the side, grabbed the soldier by his belt and swung herself onto the horse’s back, ending up on the back of the saddle. Her knife rapidly punched through his skin, his neck pouring blood as he was thrown from his horse. Týr blinked in surprise, unsure that what he had witnessed had actually happened.

  Pain. Týr watched Svenka as she shifted into a saddle that a moment before had had a soldier in it. He felt a sharp, burning pain in his left shoulder. Agony. He looked briefly and saw something had sliced into his arm, from the back to the front, a little higher than halfway up the shoulder muscles. Seeing the wound made the pain instantly worse. He scolded himself for looking at a wound in the middle of a battle. Lars had taught him, and he had learned well enough on his own not to do that. It always made the pain more real, harder to ignore. Týr dropped to his knees and grabbed his arm. Blood oozed between his fingers, now free from his knife, which clattered to the ground. He couldn’t remember dropping his knife. When did that happen? Týr wondered to himself.

  Svenka, atop the horse, grabbed the reins and turned the horse around, kicking its sides so it would run back toward the old man, now lying still in his own blood. The grass under his body had grown dark as his blood flowed onto the ground. Serves him right, Svenka thought mercilessly. She looked into the cluster of horsemen still scrambling to react to what had happened. She saw Týr kneeling on the ground, clutching his arm with a bloody hand. Quickly, she yanked the reins and kicked her heels again. The horse beneath her responded instantly and turned to charge into the group of cavalrymen. Svenka bolted toward the group of soldiers, commanding the horse to vault. She knew what was about to happen but wanted to make sure Týr could get away.

  Her horse obeyed her command, his front legs coming off the ground in time for his powerful hooves to connect with the Lieutenant’s chest. Svenka only knew he was the Lieutenant because of his helmet, with its feathery crest of red and white plumes. The man and his horse toppled beneath Svenka’s commandeered horse. A terrible crunching sound, like a crusty loaf of bread being broken open, came from beneath the horse just before it toppled to the ground. Svenka found herself sliding a few feet across the ground as she was thrown from the horse during the tussle.

  Once she stopped rolling, Svenka stood, grabbed one of the knives from her belt and tossed it at the nearest soldier, who caught the knife in the side of his thigh. The man wailed as he grabbed his leg; he leaned to grab the knife and, his balance having been thrown off, fell from his horse. The soldier landed roughly with a heavy thud sound.

  As Svenka stood and pivoted to see Týr, who had gotten up to his feet, and pulled another soldier from his horse, a group of soldiers wearing blue and black coats with a boar emblazoned upon their chests, rushed up, halberds drawn at the ready. The guards were tall and thin, much like the deceased old man, though none of them walked hunched over or as if they needed a cane. The group was mixed men and women, their rounded ears showing they were humans, not Elves. One of the women, standing in the middle of the group leveled her halberd at the group, her knuckles white around the haft.

  “By order of Countess Geraldine Kahler, everyone stay where you are! Raise your hands where we can see them,” the soldier called, her voice heavy with authority.

  Svenka, after she verified the soldier she knelt beside was dead, raised her hands and turned to face the new soldiers. Týr, on the other side of the circle of death, raised his right hand, still dripping with blood that only now was starting to dry into his cloak. His left hand he attempted to raise but winced with the pain of his injury. His arm oozed blood down his sleeve, the fabric now showed maroon instead of the light grey it had been earlier. The leading soldier motioned one of the others toward Týr, saying to get him some assistance. One of the soldiers who ran toward Týr reached into a pouch on his belt and removed a small cylinder, which he held toward the sky. A bright streak of fire shot into the sky, leaving a trail of bright green smoke that stayed in the air behind it. The orb of fire, having reached its apex, erupted into the sky. The resulting burst was a magnificent, glittery, expanding ball of sparkles and shimmers. Svenka watched the fire, enrapt by the mysterious presentation.

  Another doorway opened in the air, not far from wher
e the soldier stood over Týr, and a woman stepped through. She was short and stout and wore tight blue and white robes that revealed more of her plump body than Svenka cared to see. The newly arrived woman took a quick look around, saw Týr and his wound and rushed over to aid him. She held her hands out and her palms began to glow as she gingerly moved them across Týr’s wound and inspected him. Once she found the problem, the color of her hands changed from the faint white to a more menacing crimson. Týr’s face wrenched with agony, and he visibly stifled a cry, but in a few moments, he was left gasping for air and sweating profusely. The woman’s hands once again changed, returning to the white color they had been before, as she continued inspecting him for further injuries. Finding none, she removed her hands from Týr and walked to one of the soldiers writing on the ground, a knife stuck between his ribs.

  “No, madam healer. Those are Lord Dennison’s men, and they started this whole conflict. Leave the pig to die,” the leading soldier called, which stopped the woman, who only responded with a furled brow and a huff. She clearly had no qualms against letting a man die, even as a healer.

  “What do you mean we started this? She,” one of the other remaining soldiers questioned as he pointed at Svenka, “assaulted our wizard unprovoked. We had nothing to do with this.”

  “Then why did your unit surround them with drawn weapons? You were the aggressors, and if you say another word to the contrary, it will be the last thing you have to say about anything,” the soldier responded, her voice cool and level. Svenka shuddered hearing how calmly she was handling the whole situation. “How many of you that stayed behind are still alive?”

  “I believe we are the last two alive, if my comrade even breathes,” the soldier responded between labored breaths.

  “Sir retrieve your blade from his side, if you would. This pig should already be dead. And check his ‘comrade’ and finish what you started if he’s still alive,” the soldier ordered, as she looked firmly at Týr, who obeyed quickly. “Good, now follow me. There is some business in Erith that I believe the two of you can help us with.” No more words were spared talking to the man who gasped on the ground like a fish removed from water as blood pooled under him.

  Týr and Svenka exchanged a quick look before dropping their hands and following the group of soldiers. The healer, her brow still furrowed, bowed at the soldiers as they departed, then set to work collecting the bodies. Sometimes healers had tough days. Svenka tried not to dwell on the healer having to collect the bodies and dispose of them. Curiosity gripped her and she wondered how she would dispose of the bodies. Perhaps a fire would be used? Maybe she would simply leave them for the carrion birds and other scavengers? That option seemed less likely, this close to the city and the road. A pile of rotting corpses would likely not sit well with any of the merchants coming into or out of the city. A fire made the most sense, though perhaps it would happen elsewhere.

  “We didn’t need you to rescue us,” Svenka said, walking with the group of soldiers, making sure Týr was fine. He massaged his healed wound, something the healer likely would have told him to do.

  “From what we saw, you more than needed the rescue. Dennison’s men are more aggressive now that their Lord is dead,” one of the other soldiers replied.

  “How did you know about that? The old man just told the horsemen a few moments before and they all were taken aback by the news,” Týr said, rotating his shoulder gently.

  “Simple: it was our doing,” one of the other soldiers replied. “Not us, specifically, but a team of our covert soldiers from Erith were sent to put an end to the war. Without Dennison and his mercenaries, we won’t be losing so many merchants and supplies coming into the city. That fat slob has been stealing our supplies.”

  “Yeah we saw a merchant laden with gems and precious metals get murdered by the soldiers at the stop a few kilometers back. Their officer had the tax stamp in hand but tore it up and had one of his lackeys kill the man in cold blood,” Týr mentioned.

  “You saw what, exactly?” another soldier questioned. Týr recapped the events and without warning three of the soldiers in the group turned around and started running toward the checkpoint. Clearly there was unfinished business for them to deal with immediately.

  “Those bastards have been doing that for months and they will die the death they have inflicted on so many of our merchants. Now, where are you coming from?” the leader of the group asked. Týr and Svenka recapped the events that happened since they returned to their camp, leaving out some of the gory details.

  “You were stealing from him? How long?” the leading soldier asked.

  “About two years. Our leader, Lars, was dead set on Dennison having some map or treasure or something. He would send a pair of us into various camps that Dennison controlled to see what we could find. We happened to have bad intel and went into the wrong tent that night. I wouldn’t have killed the fat asshole if he hadn’t looked right at me,” Svenka replied.

  “Wait, you killed a fat lord?” the soldiers stopped walking, as their leader questioned this news. “What did he look like?”

  “Wispy blonde hair, beak-like nose, slack jaw, one eye was green the other a dull brown, really oily skin,” Svenka replied. “I stabbed him in the neck when he saw me. It was purely an instinctive reaction, and I shouldn’t have been so foolish.”

  “You killed Dennison! We must have hit the camp right after you were there,” one of the other soldiers replied, his face rumpling at the thought.

  “We saw a group of soldiers running through the camp when we were escaping, but it was too dark to see what colors they had been wearing. Was that your group? Or were Dennison’s soldiers responding to your group?”

  “Your guess on that is probably better than mine, since you were there. You mean to tell me you were in a group of thieves who had been stealing from Dennison for two years, and you never knew what he looked like?” the leading soldier asked, a puzzled look on her face.

  “Lars never told us what he looked like. He simply told us the targets and trinkets we were after, and whether we could kill anyone. Usually we weren’t allowed to kill unless necessary. Guards were the only casualties we could inflict without permission. Lars had a run-in with Dennison a few years ago and started recruiting thieves for his group. We were close to him, almost like a family, took care of each other, watched our backs.” Týr replied.

  “Well, I’m sorry your group was killed. I assume you come to Erith to start new lives?”

  “That was our plan. We wanted to escape Dennison’s reach, and this was the closest city we could get to that let us do just that,” Svenka said.

  “Erith can be a rough city for newcomers. Stay out of trouble and you will be fine. If you go back to thieving, I’ll personally gut you like a fish,” the leader said, her countenance changing drastically. “Register with the magistrate if you plan to be here longer than three days.”

  The soldiers departed as they returned to their patrol route, and left the thieves alone standing before one of the gates into the city. A large, black stone wall surrounded the city, creating a barrier between the wilderness that Lord Dennison had laid claim to and the city. The wall was a boundary between the Madness spreading through Drendil and the last bastion of sanity. Protection for the people who sought common, everyday lives. Every few hundred meters a tower jutted from the wall, a parapet atop, likely with an archer inside, ready to launch arrows at perceived threats. The road leading to the eastern side of the city lacked trees, shacks, buildings, or any other kind of cover, ensuring the archers would have a clear line of sight for kilometers around the city, able to observe carefully and diligently.

  A lone gate marred the beauty of the dark, stone wall. The gate, two doors wide, stood open, three guards on both sides of the road that led through to the city. The guards wore plate and mail armor with thick cloth padding covers over their torsos which showed the same colors and patterns the earlier soldiers had worn: blue and black with a white boar
. This was undoubtedly the signet of Duchess Kahler and her lineage. These guards, armed with glaives, stood still as stone, their weapons barely wavering, even in the breeze that had picked up since the fight with Dennison’s soldiers. The glaives were held, shaft touching the ground near the right foot, angled slightly outward with small banners flying from the spear point at the end of the axe blades. Even without seeing their faces, due to the visors on their helmets, Týr could tell they scrutinized the former thieves through their entire walk across the small bridge leading to the opened gate. Their future, a life not spent running, not spent looking over their shoulders, worrying about where their food would come from was just beyond the gate…

  Chapter Nine

  The temple Michael and Joshua had been directed to was quiet from the outside. Inside, stone pillars rose to the vaulted ceiling half a dozen meters overhead. Windows made of colored glass brought in sunlight and muted its intensity from the harsh light of midday. The altar at the front of the temple was set in a rounded wall. It was furthest from the double doors and had a group of priests gathered around, preparing for some ritual or another. Michael couldn’t tell what they were preparing for.

  As they stepped into the temple, Joshua lowered his hood, once more showing his shaved head. After he lowered his hood, he made a motion with his hands and breathed a quick prayer. Michael wasn’t sure the meaning of either, but it was clearly something meant for the Allfather. The other priests looked up, a glint of recognition on their faces as they saw Joshua. They may not have known him, but his robes and the raven on the back of his hand appeared to be all they needed to determine he was one of their own. The temple’s priests also wore hooded robes, though they wore blue robes with a white wading bird on their chests. Their hoods, just as Joshua’s rested on their shoulders. Michael noticed markings on their hands similar to the one that Joshua wore, though these markings resembled Herons with long legs and beaks, no wings pulled back like the raven on Joshua’s hand.