The Setup

The Man in the Black Suit

The Setup

Black suit’s apartment was small, but expensive and well kept.  When he arrived back it was three a.m.  The first thing he did was check the answering machine.  A woman's voice, slightly pouty, emanated from the speakers.

    "Blake, you missed our coffee date.  Is everything alright?  You're never home when I call, you don't return my messages . . . I'm starting to think you've left the area on one of your business trips.  You could've at least told me you were leaving.  Well . . ." her voice trailed reluctantly.  "If you get this, call me back.  At least I deserve an explanation!  I thought we were getting close, after all I shared with you about my boss.  By the way, I'm sure you realize this, but please don't tell anyone what I said, you know, about his habits.  He's an idiot, but if word got out, then . . . it could end very badly.  Like, for the company.  Well -- "

     The man named Blake deleted the message.

     The front room's windows revealed a breathtaking view of the skyline, lit with glowing lights and sleepless energy.  Blake changed from his damp suit, poured himself a drink, and lounged on the couch before the window, perusing the vanilla folder's contents.  There wasn't much there.  A plane ticket, an entrance pass to a formal event, a picture of a smiling man.  Residing in the envelope was a substantial amount of money: $10,000.
     Blake burned everything but the picture and entrance pass.  The money was marked -- very poor professional courtesy -- and whoever the man and woman had been working with, they would certainly have ways of knowing whether their ticket was used.  He also burned the wallets, which contained no identification.  On his laptop, he looked up the event that the pass was for.  It was a fundraiser -- a masquerade in Dresden.  He located a guest list on the website, and, after a brief search, found a name belonging to the face of the man whose picture resided in the folder.  Anthony Benedict.
    Mr. Benedict was involved in oil.  He was grotesquely wealthy and worked with several environmental causes.  That was an obvious link between Benedict and the masquerade: it was a charity fundraiser for a sustainable-energy project.  

    Obviously, the man and woman had been approaching Blake with an offer of a job on Benedict.  Judging from the money in the envelope, they'd been prepared to pay him half up front.  Targets of this high-profile were worth a great deal.

     An hour of further digging didn't reveal any overt motivations for the removal of Benedict.  True, he was a major power player in international oil, but the leading company he was involved with had reached a “maintenance phase,” essentially meaning that it was at its peak and would now recede into the woodwork as other corporations became more prominent.  So Benedict had only a few more years at the top.  Why go to the trouble of killing or neutralizing him?

     The masquerade was in four days.  Ample time, but with little to spare.  The man named Blake sat in thought for a while, sipping his drink while considering his options.  He made himself a small snack of olives and cheese.  Finally, he reached a decision.  Picking up the phone, he called his travel agent -- who believed him to be a businessman -- and reserved a ticket to Dresden.

The Job

The Man in the Black Suit

The Job

Without bothering to ensure that they were watching, he entered the gas station, progressing down an isle and waiting at the end of it.  This late at night the store was not busy, but there were too many people for any physical confrontation to be likely.  Every now and again, an employee or a tired trucker wandered past.  Black suit analyzed them, not dismissing any out of hand.  Finally, an older, grey haired man walked by.  His eyes touched black suit's for a moment, then leapt away.  The leap was more telling than the look.  He made to move past, but black suit cleared his throat, and the man stopped.  The two faced each other.
    "There was something you wanted to ask me." Black suit waited patiently.
    "Hmm . . . I suppose so."  But the man hesitated, and black suit's instincts screamed at him.
    In two steps his back was against the glass of the refrigerated goods.  Visibly he remained perfectly relaxed, but his mind was a scalpel, dissecting his surroundings as his body prepared to follow whatever pattern was necessary.  That was when he noticed the woman who'd been coming up the isle behind him.  Her eyes did not bounce away when they met his, but neither did they slide past.  She took her position next to the older man.
    "He certainly isn't slow," the older man remarked.
    "Yes, but is he fast enough?"
    Black suit tilted an eyebrow.  "Yes," he said, and he shot them both dead.  The silenced S&W he'd drawn from his jacket barely made a spitting noise.
    Obviously, they'd been approaching him with a job.  But he hadn't liked their way of asking.  Obviously these people were more professional than most of those he worked with, yet they'd broken every rule with a disgusting lack of etiquette.  The rules were there for a purpose, because in this craft, common courtesy was common sense.  When you approached someone for a job, you let them see you coming, and you certainly didn't bully them or pretend to be a threat.
    Stooping quickly beside the two corpses, he removed their wallets and relieved the woman of the vanilla folder she'd been carrying.  His fingers slid deftly in and out of pockets, avoiding the growing stains of blood.  In the man's breast pocket, there was a substantially thick envelope.  Black suit transferred it to his own jacket.  Then he left.
    The isle he'd chosen had been in the blind spot between two security cameras.  Now, as he walked freely from the gas station, he averted his face from the cameras perched around the exit.  Avoiding sight-lines was a trick you learned quickly.  There was science to it.
    Black suit got in his car and drove away.

Overdue Apologies

A plethora of apologies for the delay between posts!  Don't you like that word, "plethora?"  I think it's wonderful.  Anyhow, the next several installments of The Man in the Black Suit are completely written out and ready to go, but my laptop is temporarily inaccessible.  :(  Plus next week's finals are looming above my head, so even taking the time to write this quick note is a sacrifice.  On a happier track, however, Christmas break should provide ample writing opportunities, and I almost have the next installment of Gods and Chaos polished off.  And who doesn't like Christmas?!  Well, got to hit the books again.  Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays or Happy Hanukkah or Season's Greetings or whatever-the-heck-else your religious and political leanings are for!  I don't really care what you call it, just have a darn joyful time, draw close to those you love, and may the God of the lost bless you and lead you in His truth.

The Follower

The Man in the Black Suit

The Follower

He hated working for these types of people.  They were unprofessional, poorly organized groups who constantly got themselves in trouble.  Grown men playing spy.  But they -- and their habit of needing someone to fix their mistakes -- were his bread and butter.
    He pulled his car through the intersection and swung into a gas station.  A black Mercedes followed him in.  As he found a parking space, it drove slowly by, moving a discreet distance before pulling into a space of its own.  It had been trailing him since the boss's office.  The man in the black suit exited his car, into the cold and damp night.
    Only amateurs tried shaking tails through high-speed chases of the kind portrayed on film.  That strategy was only necessary when you were attempting to escape a pursuer.  Certainly not when you wanted to lose a discreet follower.  In fact, only an amateur would want to lose a follower.  If you lost them, your chance of discovering what they wanted was also lost.

Limitless Life, by Derwin L. Gray

Here's a review I wrote for The Aboite Independent: http://v1.aboiteindependent.com

Book Review 110513LIMITLESS LIFE: You Are More than Your Past When God Holds Your Future
By Derwin L. Gray
Thomas Nelson, 978-1-4002-0536-3, PB, 226 pages, $15.99
   Have you been tagged with a potential-limiting identity? All of us bear the shame of unwanted labels. Gray guides us down the path from limited to limitless with wisdom for Christians of all stages, particularly males.
  Despite success as an NFL player and mega-church pastor, Gray is no stranger to the damage of limiting labels. He utilizes scriptural, personal, and narrative anecdotes to support his crucial message. Scripture passages are excellently selected for pertinent reference, though occasionally overanalyzed. The engaging writing rarely drags, and the "transformation moments" ending every chapter offer opportunities for practical application.
    Though Derwin relies heavily on Christian success stories, he avoids prosperity theology. In fact, he speaks poignantly against the mindset of self-serving religion. My only serious complaint is some of his statistics lack supportive references (page 102). Overall, I recommend this book wholeheartedly, specifically for men's Bible studies. It shares an essential message.

The Professional

The Man in the Black Suit

The Professional

The rain was falling in wisps.  It was too light even to be called a sprinkle.  The fine floating mist could be felt, cold and damp against the skin, but in the dark night it could not be seen until a car pulled in front of the alleyway and its headlights captured the suspended droplets.
A man in a black suit stepped from the car.  Dress shoes, previously spotless, sloshed through the mud as he traversed the alley's length.  He halted before the scratched door at the alley's end, and rapped his knuckles against the frame.
After a long, silent pause, it opened.

The boss's dingy office was a cross between cold-war thriller and gaudy oriental imitation.  In the true manner of cliches, a single bulb hanging from a bare wire provided the only illumination.  The smell was almost unbearable: the boss was a chain smoker and the air was ripe with testimony to it, and there was also the strong odor of black coffee, which he consumed by the bucketful.  He sat behind a desk scattered with folders and papers.  A filthy ashtray was used as a paperweight.
    There was also an aspect of the oriental here.  The boss had a flair for that style, though little money or knowledge with which to pursue it effectively.  The result was extremely gaudy: one wall was draped in scarlet cloth with a golden dragon stitched on that looked vaguely Chinese. There was also a painting of a lotus flower framed and hung on one wall, and a figurine of the cross legged Shiva sitting on the corner of the desk.  The boss thought of Shiva, the destroyer, as his personal deity, though he was not a practicing Hindu and the figurine was actually a tourist's trinket, far from being sacred.
    The man in the black suit waited immovably before the desk.  The boss was purposefully ignoring him, running his eyes up and down a list of numbers.  Keeping this man waiting was one of the few ways he could feel in control.  Finally, he looked up.
    "You completed the Janson task."
    Black suit nodded, restraining from rolling his eyes at the man's dramatics.  But he was too professional to roll his eyes.
    "Very well."  The boss handed him a plain envelope.  "Enjoy your vacation.  We'll be in contact."
    With leather-gloved fingers, the man in the black suit took the envelope and checked that its contents were sufficient.  Then he silently left.

Gods and Chaos- 3

Other hopefuls were in the guard’s barracks, getting changed or just sitting nervously. It was good to see that he wasn’t the only person anxious about what was soon to occur. A few guards were lounging on their bunks, and one of them who Kale knew greeted him, wishing luck and offering a few last words of advice. Everything Kale knew about wielding an axe and being a guard had been taught to him by the guards he’d interacted with during his time at the palace. It was strange to think that in a few hours, if he passed the testing, Kale would be one of them. He couldn’t help but wonder which of the empty bunks around the room would be his.

“Ey! That lot’s mine; don’t touch it!” A tall, gangly figure nearby Kale grabbed his blue tunic from the hands of the squat, heavyset lad who’d been about to put it on. “Couldn’t you see that this would never fit you?”

“I’m sorry, I . . . I’m sorry.” The heavyset character glanced down at his toes as if he were ashamed of committing a major sin.

“Just don’t touch what’s mine.” The gangly figure was thin to the point of scrawniness, but he was all lean muscle. There wasn’t enough fat on his body to feed a speckled lizard.

Kale exchanged his loose woolen servant’s robes for the blue tunic and black trousers of a guard, then pulled the leather boots overtop and secured their buckles. The tasks were perfunctory, but his hands trembled a little as they went through the motions.

Then there was nothing to do but sit on the edge of a bunk and wait.

“So, how’ve you convinced yourself that you were made to be a guard?”

Kale blinked. “I don’t understand.”

The tall gangly figure helped himself to a seat on the bunk next to Kale. “It’s my observation that unless people are brutally honest with themselves, they usually invent high, lofty reasons for what they do. You, like me, want to be a guard: deep down you probably just want to swing weapons, get women, and feel tough. Plus the pay isn’t bad. But you probably believe that there’s some high ideology or principle that gives you a ‘calling’ to this job.”

“To me, it’s more than a job. I believe that I have a responsibility to protect others.”

“You see?” the lad exclaimed triumphantly. “A belief! Oh, I’m certain that there’s no chance at all of you failing this testing. The gods themselves have probably called you to this life so that you can become a hero and serve them mightily.”

Kale looked at his companion for a long moment, solemn. “I don’t believe that life is complicated. Actually, there are only two motivations that make me who I am. All my experiences and natural instincts come together within them. The first is that I am an idealist.”

The young man scoffed. “I should’ve known.”

“The second is that I don’t believe in gods.”

Real surprise swept the cynic’s face. “Well then, maybe there is something to you after all. But you’ve forgotten one other thing that’s important to who you are.”

“And what’s that?”

“What name do they call you?”

Kale smiled faintly. “I’m Kale.”

“Kale. Well, I suppose it’s a pleasure. At least as long as you keep doing interesting things like condemning your own soul. You may as well know that my name is Ven.”
                “My name is Courm,” blurted out the heavyset man who Ven had just yelled at for taking his tunic. He shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot and appeared to be worried he’d offended them.

“Courm?” Kale asked, surprised. “That’s an unusual name. Is if foreign?”

“No, it’s not! It’s not Shin, I promise!”

“I didn’t say it was. All Shin have two syllables in their names, not just the women. But the middle sound in your name is softer than is common here in Telenine. That’s why I thought it might be foreign.”

“Well, someone got drunk on his own knowledge,” Ven muttered. “Ey, you! While we’re making pleasant conversation, you may as well introduce yourself!” Ven gestured to the man who’d been standing close by, partially turned away to give the impression that he wasn’t listening. There were others in the room who seemed to be preparing for the testing, but all besides the four of them were older and looked as if they were soldiers trying for rank advancement in the King’s army.

The figure on the outside of the circle didn’t answer. Instead, he walked away and sat on the opposite bunk. Ven shrugged his shoulders. “Friendly fellow, that man.”

The door to the barracks swung open, and as an officer swept through it, all of them hastily stood in respect.

“It’s time,” he said simply, then turned on his heel and left.

Kale’s heart was a dancer’s drum, beating furiously as trepidation whirled and spun in his chest.

The hopefuls silently fell into line, then marched from the barracks. Several guards were waiting on the other side of the doors with an axe for each of them. This weapon was heavier than what Kale was used to, which was a worry.

They marched behind the officer, each man alone in his thoughts and fears. Some of the soldiers had no cause for worry. For them, this was just a ritual, no different from the sacred protocols that governed the life of every citizen in civilized Telenine. But then some of those about to be tested, such as Kale, were depending on this day to provide them with a future.

Their journey ended back in the courtyard, where the banquet tables had been moved aside to provide ample space. Thell flashed Kale an encouraging smile as he caught sight of her.

“Form up!” the officer commanded, and they spread out from a vertical line to a horizontal one, backs to the throne, facing the door through which they’d just entered. Another line of blue clad figures marched through it just as they had, coming from the other barracks. The two lines faced each other, each individual standing straight as an axe haft. The officer strolled down the center.

“Forward lunge!”

This was the first command in a long series. The familiar movements were old friends for Kale, who’d practiced these stances and procedures a hundred times. But evidently, that wasn’t true for everyone. As the officer stalked down the ranks calling commands, he would occasionally motion for someone to leave, dismissing that man’s hopes like smoke puffed from a pipe.

“Reform!” he finally called, and the two lines, now made of sweating men, took their places again.

“To the side, at rest.”

The soldiers made their way to the walls, leaning gratefully against them but not daring to sit without an explicit command. All were on edge for what they knew would come next.

The officer began calling names in pairs of two, and weary men left the positions of rest they’d just taken up and made their ways back to the open floor. Half would be judged now, and half in a second shift.

Kale’s new acquaintance Courm was called out. He nervously fell into line opposite the man who had been called out with him, a strong looking fellow.

“How do you think he’ll do?” Kale asked Ven. The gangly man guffawed.
                “You speak as if there’s some doubt.”

“You don’t think there is?”

Ven speared him with a sideways look. “For all I know, he’s a wonderful person and a fantastic cook. But he doesn’t have the confidence to be a fighter, and he’s not built like one.”

“It’s good to have weight behind your blows.”

                “Sure it is,” Ven scoffed, “but the kind of weight he has is more likely to slow him down than give him strength.”

                They watched as the pairs began fighting, two at a time. A cacophony of cheers, boos, and gasps rose constantly from those invited to the feast as they witnessed broken ribs, bruised bodies, and men knocked senseless by the hard wood of an axe haft. Those who were about to endure the same ordeal kept silent. As each pair finished, the officer presiding over the proceedings called out whether he approved or rejected the fighters.
                “Strange way of testing,” Ven commented.

                “It’s a tradition from the days of Renaden’s father. The King’s feasts were near as legendary then as Renaden’s are now, and one day he decided his guests would enjoy the entertainment of watching the testing of new officers and guards.”

                Ven was looking at Kale with grudging admiration. “Back in the barracks, you taught us something we didn’t know about our own language. And you’re at it again. Yet you claim that you’re looking to become a guard, not a scholar. How do you know so much?”

                Kale shrugged. “I believe in knowing things. So do my parents. My mother saw to it that I was educated.”

                “Look,” Ven said sharply, “that man Courm is up next. Mark what I said earlier.”

                Despite what Kale had said, he too thought that Courm lacked the confidence to be much of a fighter. The squat young man looked horribly frightened as he faced against his opponent. The captain of the guard yelled for them to begin.

                Courm’s attacker evidently entertained the same thoughts that Ven and Kale had. He moved in quickly, too quickly, Kale’s trained eye told him. But in the end, nothing he did could’ve made a difference to the result.

                The speed of Courm’s strike was incredible. His first blow left the other man’s axe quivering in his hands. His second batted it aside altogether. He delivered a third vicious strike to the man’s side, and then, finally, a last brutal sweep to the knees that ended with the man sprawled on the ground.

                Stunned surprise twitched the corners of Kale’s lips into a smile. He glanced at Ven, who gaped openly.

                “Well, I still think he’s fat,” Ven stubbornly held.

                There was absolutely no surprise that Courm was accepted to the guard.

                “Group one, at rest. Group two, to the fore.” The officer began calling pairs of names.

                They pushed themselves from the wall. Kale’s heartbeat was the march of a thundering army. He fell into line, and as the officer called him, he found himself facing the man who would crush his dreams unless Kale crushed the dreams of the man. It was the ill-mannered figure who’d ignored Ven’s greeting in the barracks.

                The fighting began.

                Ven went early on. His movements lacked the power that more strength and weight would’ve lent him, but he was fast and he was smart. His partner was better by a margin, and Ven ended up the loser, but the officer admitted them both. That was how this worked: not by who won, but by the level of competency displayed.

                Finally, Kale stepped forward. It was his time.
                Today, he won or lost his dream.

                His enemy – Kale couldn’t think of him as merely an opponent – struck the first blow. It was heavy, and Kale knew better than to block it head-on. He made sure to be out from under the axe-fall, and, even while halting its downward strike, he allowed some give beneath it. Then he swung in from the side, extending his weapon enough that only the haft would catch the man’s ribs rather than the blade.

                The man was fast; he stepped back and dropped his axe just in time to clip short Kale’s attempt.

Kale’s struggle didn’t look like it was going to be simple. His enemy was skilled.

                The two had briefly separated after their first exchange; now they closed again, using their axes as quarter staffs. A furious clapping of loud, wooden thwacks bit the air.

                It was time to fight unorthodoxly. Kale warded a blow, then kicked his opponent in the shin. He felt his boot make solid connection, and the rhythm was thrown off. Then he drove hard at the man’s center, and for a moment his opponent faltered . . . but he scrabbled out of it, knocking aside Kale’s attack with a wide, desperate swing, then throwing himself violently forward.

                Both of them knew that the longer this fight delayed, the worse they looked. Duels do not exist on a battlefield.

                But now, the other man was within Kale’s defenses. Kale had only one option, and it was dangerous. They were practically tangled up together, weapons currently useless at this close distance, but the other man was in a better position than Kale. A bar of wood smashed into his jaw, and vision frosted over.

                But Kale was already moving. He staggered forward, deliberately putting his opponent at his back. Any moment, a solid blow might strike him down. It was all a matter of impossible timing and blind luck.

                One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.

                Kale swung around with all the momentum he could muster and whacked aside the blow that had been falling on him. Then He smashed the pole of his axe into the other man’s side as hard as he could, catching the man’s arm in the process.

                There was the sickening crunch of breaking bone.

                The man screamed.

                Kale stepped back, dazed, heaving breaths. Medics rushed forward, but Kale wasn’t thinking about the man he’d just put into agony. He waved aside the medic who dabbed at his own stinging face. His eyes swung to the officer who would announce his fight’s outcome.

                One of the nobles had hurried over to the officer and was conferring with him. He kept glancing at Kale and the screaming man on the ground, and his face was furious, though Kale had no idea why it should be. The officer appeared uncomfortable, and he remained so as the noble departed to take his seat once more.

                “The man Nev, formerly a captain in the King’s army, is admitted to the guard upon healing of his injuries.”

                Kale’s mind buzzed. That man had been a captain switching from the army to the guard? Kale had just defeated a trained captain?

                The feast-guests were no longer listening; they were back in their drinks until the next bout of fighting began. But Kale’s dreams hung on the officer’s coming pronouncement.

                “The man Kale, formerly serving in the King’s palace, is rejected from the guard.”

Gods and Chaos- 2

Words can burn across a city like fire. Kale heard them everywhere, people lighting sparks, speaking of the things he’d been trying to deny. He plugged his mind and kept walking.

He was swimming in the sounds and scents and sights of the market: boys hawking trays of shining trinkets, women haggling the prices of fresh produce, horses dropping excrement in the road. The stalls dotting the market-square were shaded by awnings of every color. At each presided a vendor emphatically urging passerby to examine his wares. And among all the clamor there were always voices speaking fearfully or mockingly or eagerly about the idol.

“Kale!” Thella pushed through the gap between a boy herding pigs and a rickety cart. She was wearing her servant’s dress, its spotless white contrasting sharply with the brown sludge pasting the cobblestones. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, I just arrived.”

“Good. Let’s go.” She pulled him after her into the crowd.

They jostled through the throng of the market-square, wound the side streets, and paused for Kale to shake free the beggar who plucked at his tunic.

“I thought you pretended to be an idealist,” Thella dryly remarked.

“I am an idealist. That’s why I believe people should work for their bread, not depend on the charity of others.”

“You think everyone has the luxury of work?” she asked. “That wasn’t the case in Shillarine.”

“That’s one thing that makes Telenine different. Besides, Thell, even idealists have to be realistic. I can’t feed every beggar. I can’t do everything.”

“That sounds like an excuse to do nothing.”

As they reached their destination, a dozen different scents tickled Kale’s nose. This was the street of the spice sellers. In front of each stall was a table looking as if it were covered in a patched quilt. The tables sported rows of boxes filled with seasonings: everything from the pink, locally grown mesh to a finely ground, yellow powder that Kale could practically taste in the air. The bitterness of it filled his mouth, mingling with sweet and sour and salty and all the variations from all the spices.

Kale and Thella moved from stall to stall with their sacks, bargaining and occasionally dipping into a spice box for something the chefs needed. A feast in the evening always meant shopping in the morning for the servants.

Kale rummaged through a barrel of dried peppers while Thella bargained with their owner. Then the woman suddenly quieted. “Where’d that accent of yours come from?” Suspicion was heavy in her voice.

Thella went rigid, and the danger Kale smelled in the air was more potent than the scents of the spices. He straightened slowly, laying a restraining hand on Thella’s shoulder.

“There’s nothing wrong with her accent. Your ears are going old.”

“No, there’s something. . . she’s a Shill, ain’t she? And those are servant clothes the two of you is wearing! The palace is hiring Shills now!” The woman’s voice grew loud and shrill.

Kale hurled the peppers back into their barrel, furious. “Come on, Thell. We’ll spend our coin elsewhere.”

“We don’t want your kind here!” the woman screamed. “Murderers and thieves! Shill sorcery, raising demons and meddling with magic. Your sort ain’t natural, twisting people’s own minds against them! And now you’ve woken your old pagan gods again, right in front of the king’s own eyes. Looking to conquer and slave us all, are you?”

Passerby threw startled glances as the two stalked away, and Kale kept his hand firmly on Thella’s back till they were a significant distance. Her eyes were flashing in a fashion he knew all too well.

“I wanted to kill that woman,” she growled quietly.

“That would definitely have gone a long ways towards convincing folk that not all Shill are murdering pagans.”

Thella’s lips were a tight line. “Let’s just leave.”

It was a silent walk back to the market square.

Thella was brooding and Kale was focusing on staying clear from her path, but both noticed the obvious shift around them. Folk hurried by in the direction of the marketplace temple, murmuring excitedly, agitatedly, but not too loudly. Streams of people were pooling into a crowd before the temple. Thella and Kale curiously joined them.

A man was screaming from the pedestal of Virkalek’s marble statue. And he was more than a man.

The presence surrounding him was hard to define. He wasn’t large or small, handsome or particularly horrid. His body was gaunt with rags hanging off of it, but his movements were defined by a fiery, fanatical energy. Almost frantic. The glint in his eyes wasn’t quite sane, and the eyes themselves were nestled deep in a stiff, unkempt tangle that looked more like a nest of black wires than a beard.

“. . . you must tear down the temples, rip asunder the lies enslaving you! The falsehoods, the blasphemies, the desecrations! You have been deceived, but the dawning of truth is at hand, and with it, blood! Blood, flowing in the streets! Fire, raining from the skies! The gods themselves have decreed judgment; do not be found among the faithless as the gods rise in retribution!”

The crowd was restless. In peaceful, contented Telenine, men like this one did not exist. Kale watched the faces: a few were doing their best to make it obvious that they scoffed at the outrageous preaching, but their sneers were hollow, painted. Some folk looked afraid. But the vast majority of the crowd was shocked; not at what they were being told to do, but at the fact that they’d never realized before now that it was necessary. Shocked by revelation.

And Kale, who couldn’t afford to believe in gods, was feeling the same urges as the crowd, though he tried denying them. Urges to destroy.

“Kale! Did you hear what I said?” Thell jabbed his gut with her elbow. “We need to leave! Mobs like this can make men into monsters. I’ve seen it before, in Shillarine.”

“That couldn’t happen here.” But his voice was lost, his mind glazed with the ideas incepted there. Thella struggled to pull him after her as she edged away from the crowd. It was simmering to a boil.

“Your priests!” the man screamed. “Your priests have lied to you! They are to blame, and all who follow them! But they are only the first step! Heed my words, for I am mouthpiece of Murlack and the gods of old! I am his voice! You are his voice! And his voice thunders!”

And the crowd raged with the thunder of a storm, heeding the man’s dictum.

Then the mouthpiece screamed, “Unite against the blasphemers! Rise and overthrow! All the guilty must be slain! And even the King who claims to love you-”

But his grasp on the crowd slipped and his words were broken. The enraptured people stirred. The temple guards, who’d been equally lost, shook themselves.

“Run back to your gutters, old man!” a voice from the mob jeered. “Shill sewer scum!” The fanaticism with which they’d been ready to follow the strange figure was now turned against him. Cheers turned to jeers and everyone pretended that they alone hadn’t been taken in.

A guard approached the black-bearded man. “You’re a bigger fool than you look if you thought your words could drive us to rebellion. Telenine loves Renaden, and it’s lucky for your sake that you hadn’t spoken against him yet. Scram, before this crowd tears you apart or we clasp you in irons and drag you before the King!”

“I will stand before your King soon enough,” the scarecrow figure hissed, and the whole crowd heard him. His mad stare skewered the guard and then slashed at the crowd, and for a long moment, there was silence.

                Kale turned to Thell. “We can go now.”

                “That’s gracious of you,” she said in disgust.

                The two extricated themselves from the rapidly dissolving mob.

                “You see?” Kale smugly asked when they were a ways away. “Another example of Telenine’s greatness! Anywhere else, a man making insinuations against the King and the gods would be punished, maybe even with death. But here, not living in fear has made the people open-minded, and they recognized and dismissed that fool as a delusional fake.”

                “What?” Thell exploded. “Kale, that crowd was about to riot! How can you say any of that?”

                Kale dodged a donkey cart. The two were making their way out of the market. “You’re exaggerating,” he said. “The crowd was willing to listen to his ideas till he spoke against our King.”

                “That’s not what I saw!” Thell shouted angrily. “I saw a crowd that was willing to do anything. Your idealism becomes naivety, Kale, when it reaches the point where faith in others blinds you from seeing them as capable of wrong!”

                Kale stopped walking and looked at Thell pityingly. The stream of people flowed around them. A hawker cursed as he stumbled into Kale’s heels, nearly dropping his baskets. Thell rolled her eyes.

                “Kale, don’t start-”

                “It must be hard, when everything reminds you of Shillarine. But I can promise: that won’t happen here. Telenine is different.”

                “Poor little refugee, that’s all I am, isn’t it? That defines how you see me. It’s just as bad as being called a pagan Shill by that spice-seller. I don’t want pity! This city can burn to ashes for all I care.” She stomped away.

                “I’ll see you at the feast!” he called after her, unworried by her anger. Thell’s fiery temper often made her like this.

Kale sauntered down the street, enjoying the feeling of being part of his city. Warm sun massaged his back, and the strains of a lute touched his hearing. There was no place he loved or believed in more than Telenine, with its ideals and its promise. City of a thousand towers, it was called, blessed by the gods themselves.

But in the back of his mind, Kale was uneasy, and not only because of the testing that evening. He recalled words from a history of Shillarine’s demise:

“There is nothing more dangerous than a crowd driven by fear, driven by hatred, or driven by an idea. Especially an idea not fully understood.”
Those words would prove prophetic.

Gods and Chaos- 1

Chapter 1

Copyright Luke A. Wildman

Weapons crossed with the thwack of striking wood. Kale’s thoughts sprung to the present.

                A man stood in the street before him. His stance was perfect, and he could strike at any part of Kale’s body from the position he held his axe. He’d interrupted Kale in the middle of a practice form, knocking his weapon against Kale’s own. A clear challenge.

                Good. It’d been a while since there’d been challenges.

                Kale drove his axe’s blade towards the man’s side, adjusting feet and shifting weight instinctively. The opposing haft leapt to intervene. The weapons bounced off each other angrily.

                The pair of axes flew through the motions of training-forms. Then the man increased his speed. Faster and faster, until the tempo of wood knocking wood became desperate. Kale struggled to fend each blow, but the attacker had no difficulties. His weight was perfectly behind every motion, body sensing the patterns of the fight while his mind analyzed. Fighting is never a dance. It is a brutal flurry of blows and counterblows as you try to outthink and overpower your opponent.

            Then Kale’s legs were swept from under him.

Training was a ritual. Every evening he came here, on the street outside his house, and drilled in the forms he’d been shown by the guards. And on rare nights such as this one, Rayne came out and put Kale in his place, which was generally the cobblestones.

“You’re better than most lads playing with wooden sticks, but you’re too impetuous.” The retired soldier winked amiably. “You know, that brings to mind another boy I knew from a nomadic tribe, back when King Renaden’s father still reigned and was sending expeditions into the desert. Our captain was an imbecile of a man who’d gotten us thoroughly lost, and we’d just run out of water and food when the tribe stumbled onto us. They were hospitable – hospitality is very important to the tribes, you know – and kindly provided us shelter and provisions. Of course, it’s traditional for tribesmen to show off before strangers their feats of athleticism, and so they held foot-races, wrestling-matches, and javelin-throws. And in the middle of all the men, I see this boy, no older than you are now….”

Kale suppressed a smile. Far from the stereotype of tightlipped warriors, Rayne always had soldiering stories to share. He was friendly and talkative and an eternal favorite with the children of their street, who gathered on his porch to hear of his adventures. As a boy, Kale had listened enraptured for hours. The stories had been new ten years ago, but when a tale grew old there were always more. And despite the added years, Rayne could knock a wooden axe from Kale’s hands as easily today as he had then. It was humbling.

Rayne finished the familiar recounting with a fond chuckle, exactly the same ending he always gave it. “Well, I should get these old bones fed and bed. In certain mountain ranges to the north, anything moving outside after dark doesn’t live long unless it’s very large and dangerous. You keep training hard. When did you say the testing is?”

Tension knotted in Kale’s gut. The day he’d longed for, so close. . . .

“Tomorrow night.”

“Ah yes, that’s right. I recall my first testing. Of course, I wanted to be an officer in the army, not a city guard. To this day I don’t know what addled my brain. They faced me against a big bear of a fellow, and I could hardly move the next day for the thrashing he gave me. I had to wait another year, and then I avoided the testing by joining as a regular soldier. Only officers and guards endure the testing, of course,” Rayne reminisced fondly. “When I did become an officer five years later, then I was ready for it. Well, good evening to you, and I wish you all the best, though it might be better if you didn’t pass at all. The life isn’t for everyone.”

The retired soldier sauntered away. Kale hoisted his wooden axe and swung it a few times in the well-learned patterns. Advancement: a glorious freedom of their city. It was never easy to improve stations, but it was possible. Anywhere else, a servant would never dream to become a guard of the court he’d formerly scrubbed. But Telenine was different.

“You make us proud, son, whether or not you ever become a guard.”

Kale turned. “Thank you, father.”

Norn nodded vigorously, fuzzy mustache bouncing. “You’re a hard worker, you’re generous, and you’ve learned to serve, not only in the court but in life. Now come inside. Mother has prepared her delicious stew. If the King knew what a feast we’re having, he’d join us tonight instead of supping with his nobles tomorrow!”

Even in a city as prosperous as Telenine, tax collectors are hated. Honest or crooked makes little difference. Norn was a rare exception. He collected the King’s coin for their neighborhood, but he was always fair, and was even known to help families who couldn’t make payments from a little reserve he’d squirrelled away. The expressions of gratitude were everything from cups of grain – courtesy of the miller – to free boot-repairs from the cobbler’s shop. Tonight, large hunks of meat floated in their stew, and Kale remembered that his father had recently assisted the butcher down the road, who’d run into hard luck.

Of course, some did suspect Norn of dipping into the taxes he collected. They reasoned that there was no other way he could afford to help others as easily as he did. But they didn’t know that it wasn’t always easy. True, droughts or bad harvests had less impact on his living, but rainfall and good harvests did nothing to improve it, and so he was no wealthier than other men. His family had suffered tight stomachs in hard times, but Norn was educated and wise with his money, and they never starved. He did what he could for others, and he’d taught his family to take pride in acting the same.

And if he’d believed in gods, then he’d have had no complaints to make before them, for his family was happy. There was laughter around the table, hot stew in the bowls, and fire licking at the grate.

“And then,” Norn gasped between chokes of laughter, “the man turned to me and said, ‘They don’t usually come out like that!’” The family roared their approval for Norn’s hilarious recounting of collecting taxes from a shepherd and unexpectedly end up helping him birth a sheep.

Kale wiped tears from his eyes and blew on a spoonful of soup. Then he remembered something and turned to his sister.

“Alna, will you braid my hair for the feast tomorrow?”

“Seems like a waste! You’ll just undue it after the testing.”

“That’s only if I succeed.”

Vis thrust his spoon in the air excitedly. “Of course you will! You always win when we practice!” Kale’s little brother was just beginning to round out, taking after his father.

“Right. So if only they match me against a boy of ten summers, I’ll do fine.”

“Kale, be nice to your brother,” his mother chided. Vis suddenly realize that he had a right to sulk, which he promptly did.

“Come on then,” Alna said. “Bring that stool over by the fire and I’ll braid your hair for you.” They both looked to their parents, gestured at empty stew bowls, and then scampered away upon receiving a nod. Vis was forced to remain until he finished his heel of bread.

An hour later, Kale lay on the straw mattress he shared with Vis. Sleeping wasn’t easy with excitement gnawing him. There was also fear. Tomorrow was the day he’d wanted for years, and Kale wasn’t certain he was ready. But it was an odd comfort knowing that by tomorrow at this time, lying in this place, he would know.

For all his anxiety and anticipation, there was one thought that Kale very intentionally did not dwell on. It was the same thought that his family had carefully guarded from entering their conversation all evening.

The stone idol of a god had uttered human words.

The family did not speak about this. They refused to accept it. Because if gods were real, then all of them were doomed by the sins of their past.

Gods and Chaos- Prologue

Prologue

Copyright Luke A. Wildman

                There was mold growing on the god’s face. If it had formed a beard then the appearance might’ve been more divine, but instead it was a wide swath of fuzzy green that forested the chiseled nose and scowling lips. Those were the only facial features still recognizable.

                Kale thought that the scholars should've taken time to clean the idol up before presenting it to the King’s court. But despite the desecration of age, it was still ominous.

                The relic stood taller than a man. Its mass of grey stone had once been garbed in flowing robes, but the details, if there’d ever really been any, were long worn away. It was a crude thing, with a dark presence surrounding it.

                A scholar coughed. “Your majesty, I present to you Murlack, god of ancient Ezron!”

                The court was duly impressed, demonstrated by a smattering of respectful applause. Then the King raised his hands for silence.

                 “Behold the mighty god in all his crumbling splendor! See how well he has guarded his people, dead now for a hundred years! People of my Kingdom, I ask you: whose gods are real? Those like this one, deities of the fallen civilization our ancestors ground to dust, or those who have prospered our fields, guarded us with peace, blessed our kingdom?”

                Cheering erupted in the court.

                “He should not say such things,” Thella sighed. She shook her head as she joined Kale at his side.

                “And why not? It’s all true, Thell. If Ezron’s gods were alive, Ezron would be, too.”

                “You don’t believe any gods live,” Thell pointed out. Kale noted that her hair was recently woven into a braid. Probably preparation for serving at the feast.

                “True, and I’ve never been struck down for my lack of belief,” he retorted. He would need to have his own hair braided soon. Perhaps Alna could do it tonight.

                The King raised his voice again.

                “We honor our gods with fame, glorious deeds, the best of what is ours. By courteous conduct and noble character we honor them. The old gods demanded bloody sacrifices for appeasement!” The King gestured dramatically to the idol, letting his words linger. Then he loudly whispered, “But our divinities are not so! They ask only that we serve them and stand right. If we do, we will be uplifted! So I beg you, my people!” he was roaring now. “I beg you to tell me! If we stand right with the gods at our back, what need we fear?”

                There’s never been such a leader as our king, Kale thought. The monarch had captivated his court. He was pacing, and now he ran before the idol itself, spitting on its base.

                “Mighty god, tell us of the world’s beginnings! Reveal the future! Do something, good or bad, and inspire the fear of you in us!” The crowd dutifully hushed as the King waited defiantly for a response. Of course there was none. A sneer slowly painted his countenance. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he drew breath. . . .

“As you desire, so it shall be. Let the judgment begin.”

And the lips of the god, which had parted like a flitting shadow to whisper their words, returned to a stony scowl once more.