Mask of Madness

[Hotsuma]

An expansive view of the city sprawled out beneath a brooding night sky. The full moon hung low to the west, partially hidden behind a cover of thin clouds. Its light filtered the world through a luminescent lens, lending everything before him an ethereal glow.

He shifted in his seat with unease.

The stirring within his soul at such sights as these was becoming more common as the days went by, each frightening him as much as the last.

With a sigh half relief and half regret, Griever looked away. On the grounds below, a wedding celebration was building up momentum for its second wind. The apparent chaos of such uninhibited elation had struck Griever as one of the most intriguing things he’d ever laid eyes on.

Flame eaters, jugglers, jesters, tale weavers, second rate magicians, puppeteers and even little people had all made an appearance. Each act did their best to please the hosts, and by the carnage that had been left behind, they had found resounding success. All around the square laid the bodies of patrons that had literally danced and drank until they had dropped to the floor. They didn’t go down without a fight however. Even now some of those casualties were groggily getting to their feet, fighting gravity as though it were the mightiest of foes.

The two souls that withheld a vague resemblance of sanity were the bride and her groom seated at the far end of the square behind a long table burdened with mostly untouched food and partially opened gifts. Griever felt almost as though he were intruding on an intimately private moment every time his eyes fell over them, though all they had managed to do this far in the night was drink in each other’s gaze like desert victims at a watering hole and nuzzle noses every now and then.

“The time has come,” stated a voice.

Griever’s blade was free of its sheath before the second word had been fully spoken. Another moment and the runes lining his face lit into black flame edged with a red glow. He would have wagered his life that the door had not opened, and therefore regarded any surprise as an immediate danger.

“That’s a pretty little trick you got there, friend.” a brief yellow flame brought light to a beaten looking man, a line of cloth tight over his eyes, as he lit the pipe sticking from his mouth. “Though I don’t think you’d’ve been as amusing as the rest of the clowns down there.” He chuckled to himself and vaguely waved with a hand, the heavy gauntlet covering it gleamed dully in the fire light, countless nicks and gouges marred its surface.

“You are?” asked Griever, his voice bled threat.

“I’m nobody,” said the man, pausing before he spoke again. “I’m the fool and the tyrant. The beggar and the lord.” He rose from his chair, a looming mountain waking from slumber. “I’m the Soldier, friend.”

A trickle of laughter drifted from below.

“But you.” Griever could see his teeth gleam in the moonlight. “You’re a trick. The poisoned needle that slides in our necks as we sleep, slick as a grin. A shit-eating maggot! Eating away at the world’s soul.” he chuckled. “A gods-damned arrow shot straight from heaven. Even now you‘re playing their notes, reciting their lines; why, you‘re the main attraction! As are the rest of us…” He grunted and turned away. “And what beautiful fucking instruments we are.”

Griever felt every word strike him true, echoing within him as the looked down and all but saw the manacles and chains binding him body and soul.

“Aye,” said the soldier, nodding. “You’ve felt Their ways worse than most, I can see that as clear as day.” He leaned forward, breathing a line of smoke into the air. “But if you’d look a little closer, you might find that you’re not as lost as you believe. A man’s choice is all he’s ever truly been given in this world that is truly his own.”

Griever shook his head. In his eyes rose a dead light. “Your words are like bile flowing from your mouth. What do you know of choice? What would you say to the man that had his torn away by a god?” His last words were wreathed in a snarl.

“Do we beat our fist to the ground, wail and tear the hair from our heads when we wish the night to be day? Or the storm to find peace? Or perhaps you would question the lion his rule, and command him close his mouth when you draw near?”

The soldier paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “Listen to me boy. Listen closely, for I will not have this chance again in a long while.”

[Hotsuma]

The night closed in around the two men, cutting off the world beyond them in that brief moment.

Below, among the crumpled forms of the defeated, a commotion was beginning. From the far end of the square a host of horsemen had come, the riders garbed in military gear, and whatever the people saw in the men’s faces caused them to part way as quickly as possible.

“It seems we won’t have the time tonight,” said the soldier. Griever was watching the spreading disorder with growing interest. “You’ll simply have to make do without.”

“Enough, old man--,” muttered Griever. But when he turned to face him, the soldier was gone. An unbidden shudder slithered down the mercenary’s spine. He decided it was better not to dwell on questions with no answers.

Turning back to view the square below, it seemed that a conflict was brewing, one that promised blood if things continued as they were. Griever rose to his feet and made to head inside. The closer he was when the blades began to fall the better.

His hunger screamed, a beast tearing at its chain.

Along the way he saw the patrons of the tavern frozen from their mirth, eyes on the building tension out in the square. Nothing sobered the mind quite like the cold caress of fear.

He Whispered the words.

“Grant your glory, King of Shame. I lay down my soul. Lok’ial draceloheim!”

Griever drifted through the crowd, leaving a wake of tangible dread trailing behind. Those closest to him as he passed would swear on their life's blood that if they were offered life for another hundred years, they would flat refuse, and kill the man for offering, if it meant living in a world that harbored the black storm they felt drag by, sinking iron talons in their hearts as it went.

Outside, he moved to the shadows, haltingly making his way forward. A man was sitting atop his horse before he table of the bride and groom, a ring of his comrades was behind him, facing outward. Griever could see the groom stand, his face twisted in anger.

“-a vile desecration! I would slit my own throat before allowing such sickness come to pass!” His hand fell to the ceremonial blade that leaned against his chair, an almost useless gesture against the force arrayed against him.

The rider looked on, unperturbed. “Do as you wish. She will come with me this night, and for as long as I deem fit. The noble’s right to sanctify this marriage in his own bed is a law bound by rule and I am its Hand.” He grasped the pommel of the wicked steel longsword hanging at his side. “It in my master’s best interest that blood not be spilled this night. Not yet that is. Lay down your blade, or would you rather throw away the lives of every man that rises to defend your foolish pride?”

“You ask me-” The groom’s words were interrupted by the studded gauntlet slamming his head to one side. He fell to the ground in silence.

“No,” said the rider to the prostrate body. “I demand this of you.” He held his hand out to the bride, who sat pale and still upon her chair, staring out with the eyes of those whose greatest fears are realized. Seeing this, he let his hand fall. “Thade.” A wiry man with lanky hair hanging in a veil that hid his eyes from view turned in his saddle and regarded the speaker. “Bring her along.” Thade nodded and dropped from his horse.

They left before everyone even knew what had occurred. A tide of mob-grown anger was slowly rising from the crowd. A few men threw meaningless insults at the departing horsemen. Griever noticed the groom fighting his way up from the ground, wavering to his feet by the help of several hard-eyed men, worn blades hanging at their sides. He stood by and watched.

“Easy now Teran. Sit down and think,” spoke the older of the lot, an aged warrior with wisdom in his gaze. “There’s nothing we can do. Truly I am sorry my friend--”

Teran ripped free of their grasp. “No! No, I have to get her back…before…” He fell to his knees, weeping. “Lorec, I don’t know what to do.”

“I know. We’ll arrange a meeting and discuss this as soon as we can, I can promise you that.” Teran had paused in his grief, and looked up at the older man with a new fire in his eyes.

“Call them. I know you can, Lorec. We can rouse the men to arms in less than an hour. They won’t expect it. We’ll send word to the ones within and end this tonight!”

The one called Lorec stared down at the hysterical young man with pity and Griever saw a path open up before him in that instant.

His torment would be sated soon.

[Hotsuma]

“I should kill you for speaking of this in the open, you show little regard for anything behind your own concern.” His fists clenched tight as he took a deep breath. “But tonight was yours. And even that was stolen away. I will give you time to grieve, but I expect you to control yourself eventually.” With that he turned and walked into the crowd.

But Teran was not finished. Springing to his feet, he caught Lorec’s shoulder and wrenched back.
He might as well have been tugging at a stone wall. Lorec lifted an arm to his shoulder, grasped the smaller man’s arm and twisted until Griever heard a sharp crack resound in the air. Teran sucked in a gasp, but despite a wound that must have been sending gouts of flaming agony shooting up his arm, he thrashed free and managed to swing a fist with his uninjured arm that connected with the old man’s chin. Lorec stumbled back, more surprised than injured.

The young man stood bent, hands trembling. “Those monsters. Those fiends that play as men, “ Teran was speaking with the passion of madness. “have raped our women, stolen our lands, chained our children, and yet we do nothing! Nothing but banter amongst ourselves like a roost of hens, flinging useless words that accomplish naught but the obvious. These men must pay their due.“

At the very least, each and every one of them deserves death. May it be slow and agonizing. Were you to allow us to exact true justice once and for all, I would have them thrown into a pit together and left to die, until they were forced to eat one another’s flesh in order to remain alive.” Eyes that brimmed with chaos pushed Lorec, along with everyone behind him, back a step. “I would stare down at them each day and piss and shit upon them. Each time one of them died I would raise a toast, my cup filled with poison, and fling it down among them, cheering the gods their justice.” He deflated suddenly, the fire within draining away.

“Please Lorec, raise the Legion. We must crush these tyrants. Not in a year, or a week, but now, lest our lives are forfeit, and we go on existing in this prison we call our home.”

An expression torn between grief and fury warred upon the old warrior’s face. Griever could almost feel the vast pain the man had bourn within himself for so many years. Much of it was fresh, a recent wound. But Griever was willing to sacrifice one man for the promise of so much more…

Lorec spoke, “I have known you since you were a boy, I have taught you all I know and regard you as my own son. But in this I cannot act as myself. I hold the lives of thousands in my hands when such a choice made. This is not the time Teran. You must heal, and accept the scars that fate brands upon you.” He walked away once more, and Teran made no move to follow. Instead, he stood rooted to the ground, like a man who knows has died and does not understand why his body has continued on living.

Griever stepped to his side.

“Your gods have heard you this night,” he said. Teran slowly focused on the hooded figure. “The fiends you call to death shall find it this night and I will find your bride and bring her to you any way that I can.” Griever watched hope flare once again.

“Why…”

“I am but a servant. And you are blessed this night to have caught my master‘s attention. There is but one thing you must do.”

“Anything! My wealth, my life, I will grant you anything!” Teran said.

Griever nodded and smiled down at the eager man.

No. You will give me everything.

“An audience with the man Lorec, your friend I believe, is all that I ask. I am eager to offer my services to one such as he. Grant me this, and you will have your wish.”