The Mad Puppeteer

The gray-black bones of the earth surrounded the four men, entombed them—ancient stone that predated the kingdom, predated the empire, predated civilization. The light of Xavier’s torch seemed feeble in the presence of such absolute darkness, such supreme stoicism. The rock walls of the cave stretched onward, and it felt as though Xavier was descending into a place unmoved by the passage of time or the paradigm of morality.

And as he walked, Xavier thought about the tale Kipp had told them on their ride to the cave:

“Seven centuries ago, when the forest was still young, an explorer came into the valley in search of a route that would lead to the Old Kingdom. An unexpected thunderstorm broke as he explored, and the man lost his way. He was soaked through to the bone, wanderin’ in circles, and on the edge of despair, when he came across a curious thing.

“There, in the space between two great trees, stood a wolverine, lookin’ at the poor man. And perhaps it was a trick of the storm, an illusion caused by the fallin’ rain, but before the animal disappeared into the undergrowth, it seemed to beckon to him, encouragin’ him forward.

“So the man stumbled on, through those two trees where the wolverine had stood, and found there an overhanging rock, a dry and sturdy shelter. The explorer weathered the storm, and afterward founded a village on that spot. The village was Cheydenvale, and the man would become its first steward.”

Kipp’s eyes roved the forest as she told the story, darting here and there, always moving, dancing in the dappled light of the sun through the trees. “The wolverine is special to us, sacred even. To see one in the forest here is considered extreme good fortune.”

Xavier was quiet, sensing the moment too powerful to spoil with tawdry words. His companions also held their tongues, and the only sound for a moment was the gentle clip-clop of hooves on mossy earth. A feeling of premonition, of prescience, hung over Xavier, like he was being drawn inevitably onward by some grand, unseen current, like every decision he had ever made had led him here, to this forgotten village in this ancient, tree-filled valley.

“So you see,” Kipp locked gazes with Xavier, her eyes for once standing still, “many of us think it is fate that you have come. That of all the mercenaries in the Two Kingdoms, it was the Wolverines who answered our call for aid.”

Fate.

Xavier lowered his torch to cast flickering shadows over his companions—stalwart, bearded Gustave with his looming frame, proud, baby-faced Grim with his arms of steel, gangly Camel who, all appearances to the contrary, Xavier knew to be a right bastard in a fight. The four men—the Wolverines—had wandered deep into the cave, yet they had come across no sign of Cheydenvale’s monster.

“Best keep moving,” Camel said in a small voice that was immediately swallowed by the emptiness. “Grim, keep that arrow knocked!”

Grim hastily put shaft to bowstring and squinted off into the darkness. “Camel, pipe down, will you? I swear I can hear your teeth chattering!”

“Both you, quiet,” Gustave muttered. “Let’s go.”

“That’s what I was saying,” Camel hissed.

“No, that’s what I was saying!” Grim replied in a slightly louder hiss.

“Shush!”

Booted footfalls and the muted clink of mail filled the quiet as the Wolverines started moving again, comforting sounds that calmed Xavier’s racing heart.

In the hand opposite the torch, he tightened his grip on his mace. Godric, the weapon was named. It had been given to him on the last day of his old life, on the day he left Fallen Sky. Tempe had bestowed the mace upon him as a token of her loyalty after he had lost his title, lands, and subjects.

There had been something between he and Tempe in those final moments as they said their goodbyes—something more than comradery or friendship—that Xavier had thought about during the restless nights and the long, silent miles on the road. And now, half a kingdom away, Godric comforted Xavier nearly as much as the presence of his friends. It was as if Xavier carried a little piece of Fallen Sky with him, a little piece of her with him, a little piece of all the goodness he once had and of all the goodness he once was.

Shaking his head, Xavier focused on the cave and the blackness and what lay ahead. “I’ve been thinking,” he said in an undertone, “what if whoever killed those villagers wanted people to think there was a monster? What if they purposefully mutilated the bodies so that people would stay away from this place?”

“What if they did?” Camel replied. “Here we are, marching straight into the place they were trying to scare the commoners away from. What does that make us…stupid?”

“That makes us uncommon,” Gustave answered.

“Hey, do you hear that?” Xavier said suddenly. He stuck the torch out in front of them, but all they could see was more stone. He had almost thought for an instant that he had heard a distant trickle of running water. The four men stood stock-still, listening. And there it was again! Carried to them on a draft of air, running water and—

“It’s those damn bugs again!” Grim exclaimed.

And indeed it was. Though more like a premonition than an actual sound, the throbbing chorus of cicadas that they had thought to have left behind was again ahead of them.

Gustave flicked a hand signal to Xavier, who was already extinguishing the torch. Without the light, the men could see that it was slightly less-black ahead of them, and they crept forward. Presently, the cave opened, and the men found that it had in fact not been a cave at all, but a tunnel that led into a narrow and steep ravine. A small stream ran through the ravine, and odd rock formations jutted from its moss-covered banks.

The mercenaries halted just inside the tunnel mouth and peered into the exposed space beyond. Stars twinkled out of the night sky above, and all was still save for the babbling of the brook and the din of the cicadas.

Xavier, Gustave, Camel, and Grim looked at each other. Camel flashed a questioning hand sign: ambush?

Probably, Xavier replied with a deft twist of his fingers. If he was the monster of Cheydenavale, this is certainly the spot he would pick to waylay his foes. Grim looked back and forth between the two; he had not yet been with the Wolverines long enough to learn their silent language.

Gustave glowered out from under his helm, sniffing at the night as if he could smell fell deeds awakening. Finally, he settled into a half crouch, raised his shield, and signaled, advance.

Gustave took a step, and the other three followed in tight formation, slowly and carefully moving into the open, eyes moving, ears alert, bodies ready for action.

Gustave took a step. Musty earth-scent filled the air. The cicadas’ drone was overwhelming.

Gustave took a step. Xavier’s palms were slick. The humidity felt like a fist closing about him after the coolness of the tunnel. He flexed his fingers and tightened his grip on Godric.

Gustave took a step, and the damp moss betrayed him.

The big man’s foot slipped, and he flung his shield arm out to keep his balance. Xavier was aware of a fraction of a second of silence in the ravine, perfect deadly silence that caused every hair on his arms to lift. Then everything happened all at once.

The first arrow took Gustave full in the chest, lifting him from his feet and slamming him to the ground.

The ravine was suddenly filled with swarming, shrieking people.

Xavier screamed, “Cover!” at the same time Grim screamed, “Fuck!” at the same time Camel just screamed.

A hail of arrows descended, a deathly storm of shafts that glanced off the rocks and buried themselves in the mud.

Gustave flailed about on the ground, gasping for air. Xavier dragged him behind the nearest rock formation, noting the massive dent in his breastplate that made every breath excruciating. Xavier drew his knife, sliced through the leather straps of the armor, and cast the damaged plate aside.

Arrows continued to pummel the standing stones, shattering and filling the air with flying splinters that stung like angry flies. Ten paces off, Camel and Grim sheltered behind a stone of their own. Wild shouts reverberated through the air, coming closer and closer.

Gustave grasped Xavier’s shoulder and tried to pull himself up, wincing in pain.

“Can you fight?” Xavier asked.

Gustave’s mouth moved as he continued to struggle.

“What?”

“Damn it—help me up!” Gustave spluttered through gritted teeth.

Footfalls pounded the earth, splashed through the creek—comingcomingcoming—fierce, untamed men and women, lips peeled back in feral snarls.

Xavier heaved his friend to his feet.

Bedlam was upon them. There was no time left.

“Wolverines!” Xavier bellowed as he gripped Godric with both hands. “Show this rabble the meaning of violence!”

With a ragged shout, the four men broke cover, and all was chaos.

Splashing water. Flying mud. Ringing steel.

Blood.

Godric rose and fell, whistled through the air, bit through armor and flesh.

Bones snapping like brittle wood. Skulls caving in. Screams all around.

Blood.

Grunts and sweat and anguish. There was no time to think. There was only reflex and luck and the desperate desire to stay alive.

Camel braying like a madman, thrusting and slashing with a seax in either hand. Gustave knocking two opponents to the earth with a single almighty swat from his shield. Grim rolling and running at the fringes of the melee, loosing arrows here, there, and everywhere.

Blood.

Blood that was the color of ink in the darkness. Blood that was warm as it surged from bodies. Blood on Xavier’s hands, his arms, his face.

The fight ended as abruptly as it had begun. The Wolverines stood panting on a field of slaughter. The gargle of the brook reigned once more. Inevitably, the first cicada started back in, joined after a few notes by the orchestra of its fellows.

Xavier looked around, brushing a little wet chunk of something from the side of his face. He counted eleven bodies lying across the ravine.

“Well,” Camel asked between breaths, “did we kill our monster?”

Xavier hadn’t heard him. He was staring at the corpses surrendering their fluids to the earth. Each one of them had a black cloth tied at their left elbow.

Cold eyes behind a visor of steel. Bloodstains on the snow. Three graves in the meadow by the wheat field.

“Xav?” Camel ventured. “You okay?”

Gustave whispered, “It’s the Fiendish Host. The monster is the Fiendish Host.”

Camel’s eyes widened. “These are the ones who attacked Fallen Sky?”

There was a roaring in Xavier’s ears, suffocating everything but the pounding of his own heat.

Tempe hugging him as she said farewell. Sadness and disappointment in Walden’s eyes. Humility. Anger. Shame.

Shame.

Xavier dropped to his knees beside to the nearest prone figure. With stammering fingers, he undid the black armband and tucked it into his belt the same way he had seen Heliconia do in Bleeding Basin. His companions were silent, waiting for him to say something. He simply set his face toward the far end of the ravine, clipped Godric to his belt beside the strip of black fabric, and said, “Come on.”

Hands clapped Xavier’s back as he stood, firm and reassuring gestures filled with unspoken words. A footpath led off into the night, following the brook. Not far ahead, a collection of shabby tents surrounded a low structure built from freshly-felled logs.

Bloodied and exhausted, the four men trooped toward the makeshift camp, and fate willing, also toward some answers.

Cover image by Jametlene Reskp from Unsplash

Chronicles of the Wolverines
The Mighty Wolverines
Scars of Drehana
Lost to the Night
Fallen Sky
Escape from Bleeding Basin
A Beautiful Jest part 1
A Beautiful Jest part 2
A Beautiful Jest part 3
A Beautiful Jest part 4