Onslaught of Madness: Chapter 1

THE MADNESS

Weeks Before The Escape

---

The weight of the blade on his back increased as workers drove home the stakes that secured the last stones in the arch. The tent, stifling and oppressive, seemed overwhelmed by the structure. He looked behind him, to the modest cot waiting for his weary body, and cursed.

“Master, the king has summoned you. He summoned you early this morn. You mustn’t keep him waiting any longer. It is treason to draw his ire,” Stalt said.

Rextur Cherlot ran his scarred hand through his mane, scratching the scalp hard, feeling it sting with pain. He grunted. “I would make him wait for another year, Stalt. One more year. Give it time. His father would have listened to reason. Let the world settle after the coming storm, then unleash the Madness. Then I would not fail him.”

“You will not fail him now, Master. No man in this camp believes you capable of failure.” Stalt coughed as he peered out the tent flap into the thick night. He turned back to Rextur. “It is best not to speak of the fallen king, Master, the arch so near.”

Rextur closed his eyes as his back spasmed under the weight of the sword.
“The Scythe, it is becoming unbearable, Stalt. I feel its anger growing every day.” Rextur turned away from the door, back to the table cringing in its shadow. He lifted a clay jug to his lips and quaffed deep. He handed it to Stalt, and the man drank. “I go now to ply reason. I will find it unwelcome in court,” Rextur said.

He waited as Stalt fastened the heavy cape onto his back, then Rextur strode through the arch.

Darkness swallowed him greedily, biting down hard. His mailed boots rang against the stone below his feet, the hard-packed earth of the tent no longer beneath him. The leather strap that held his sheath groaned a bit under the crippling weight. Rextur clenched his jaw, the outline of a door ahead. He stopped short before it and laid his calloused hand on the slick surface of the wood. He rubbed the door, reassured by the thickness and strength of the portal. He rapped twice upon it and lowered his head.

His eyes hid deep in the cavern of his bangs, and he breathed slowly, his back complaining. “I ask for nothing but guidance. For me and for my king.” His prayer muttered, he looked up as the door creaked open.

The grandeur of the room washed against him like a concussive blast of heat. He stepped in, his eyes sweeping the throne and the men standing around it. Three men still picking at the remains of the slain king, vultures feeding on the power of the throne.

The chancellor, heavy with robes and cords of command and regal bearing. His fat hands wrung above his wide belly, his perspiration glistening across his quivering cheeks. ‘The Might’ some called him. ‘Boy Lover’ the common soldier called him, behind their mugs and helmet visors. His lips peeled back in a sweaty smile when his eye fell on Rextur, revealing long, crooked teeth protruding from blackened gums.

The Edge looked up from behind his great sword handle, the tip digging into the stone floor. His forearms dangling from the crossbar, his long viselike fingers waggling nervously before him. Dark disheveled hair, eyes like a storming sea and a spade-shaped beard, and behind it, a mind sharper than the sword he carried. The king’s premier warrior, The Edge had served the king’s father. Bodyguard to the king, this man by all rights should be dead. Dead beside the king he gave his life defending. But here he stood, nervous under Rextur’s gaze. The man’s restless eyes landed on Rextur’s sword crossed on his back. They snapped to the floor, fear rattling across the stern face.

The Scythe commands his respect. As it should. He fears it. Fear makes a man dangerous.

And behind these two stood Grievous, the high prince of Drine, favored son of the new king. His tree trunk arms crossed his broad chest, his hair combed and oiled to a shine. His long, blazing beard braided and decorated with rings of gold and steel. His smile was an attack, and Rextur ached to answer with his steel. The three men stared at Rextur, the fat chancellor whispering incessantly like a cloud of flies feeding on a corpse.

Rextur’s eyes swung from the three men to the room around him. The throne room of Drine boasted 47 doors, which wrapped the room in a great half-circle before the throne. Rextur stood beneath the threshold of the door of Madness. The screaming faces carved in relief above his head, he did not look upon. This door he had been standing under his entire life. The doorway and the arch connected to it had been carved for him. New stones had been carted in. Great stonemasons had been employed to carve his reputation into the doorframe. He had been the favored warlord of the slain king. Bred and groomed for the door of Madness, the door that would one day open into the throne room of Tienne. But now is not the time. Not with the coming storm looming above us. Give me one year. One year and I will crush them all.

Grievous stepped forward, brushing past the fluttering hands of the chancellor, striding forward, his heavy boots ringing in echoes in the monstrous room. “You are late. You have kept my father waiting all day. Your king. By what authority do you spurn the summons of the king of Drine?”

The axe on Grievous’s back was a slow pondering weapon. Rextur had seen the brute wield it in tournaments. He did not fear the fumbling blade of this upstart prince. Rextur took a step forward, his hand flexing. The Edge stepped before Grievous, shaking his head.

“I speak with the authority of Dis, the devastating god of destruction. He will not treat with you, Grievous. You are beneath him. Stay your blade or Scythe will cleave it in twine. As for your hide, I would not soil my holy blade. I will rip your spine from your body with mine own bare hands.” Rextur heard his words echo through the room. He felt the weight of Scythe ease to nearly nothing, and he smiled.

The chancellor was speaking in hushed tones to Grievous, and The King’s Edge turned to face Rextur. “I would stop you, Madness.” His storming eyes played around Rextur’s hands, then shifted restless to his face.

“That remains unknown between us, Edge. If you would answer that question, I would meet you.” Rextur looked at the great sword in the man’s hands and swallowed hard. Sweat trickled down his back, and he slid his eyes away to a red-faced Grievous and a sweating chancellor. “I have been summoned, and I have answered. The king is not with us, and it seems I have wasted my time. I will return to my camp to see about my preparations.” Rextur turned and heard behind him the patter of slippered feet. He rolled his eyes and lowered his head, keeping his eyes down until he was addressed.

Five men entered the throne room: the king and the elders. If all four elders of Dis were present it could only mean one thing. Rextur cursed. Scythe felt nearly weightless on his back. Rextur shook his head. I will not draw on them unless you force my hand, Great Father. You will have to push me across the floor at them.

“The Madness has graced the throne room with his presence.” A voice, strong and bellowing, filled the room to bursting with power. “When did I call him, Grievous?” the king said.

“First thing this morning, Father,” the prince chimed.

“And now I find him before me on my return from dinner.”

Rextur took a knee, quickly rising. He lifted his gaze to the king. The new king was a giant of a man. Two swords he placed leaning against the arms of his throne, each black and teeming with flies. The blood of his victims stayed on the blades, tacky and bright. His swords have drunk deep tonight. His blond hair hung in long combed tresses. His green irises sat in bloodshot eyes. The crown weighs heavy on him. He will not sit there long. King Trekor of the Stinking Blades seemed to steam in the heat of his anger.

“Tell me why I do not kill you for your arrogance in making me wait.”

“Because you can’t, my liege. Not a man of yours can best my blade.” Rextur lowered his gaze to The Edge, who stared back coldly. “The country follows the god who defends me, my king. To strike at me would be to strike at him. You will not do that. And lastly, your highness, my men would avenge me. I command two hundred legions of Madmen, each legion three thousand strong. They would rip your castle apart if you were to kill me.” Rextur shook his mane from his eyes and settled his gaze on Trekor.

As the king smiled, unease tickled the back of Rextur’s mind. “You are fearless, Madness. You will bring them all to their knees. And you will do it now.” Trekor smiled again, and Rextur felt nauseous. “With the power of the throne and the crown and my two blades, I command you to destroy Tienne’s armies and her people. I command you to eradicate her history and gain me the throne for my son.” His wide hand motioned to Grievous.

“My father built an empire with his great ships,” The Stinking Blades said. “No fleet could stand before him. We have plundered and conquered and gathered riches to our shores, but my father did nothing to expand our nation here on the continent of Perilisc. He did fight that tiny war for Ganamaia. He made plans for the rest, but had not the strength to put those plans into action. With your campaign, I begin my stranglehold on the continent of our home. Take your Madmen and crush my enemies.”

“Respectfully, my king, I ask you to reconsider.”

“Coward!” one of the elders hissed. Rextur only then turned his eyes to the four men cloaked in black robes who stood in line beside the throne. He did not need to see which one had insulted him. He knew that voice and that sentiment well. Angst stared with seething eyes at Rextur stepping forward, his hands flexing like the powerful talons of a raptor. “You bring shame upon your church. I will see you burn for your cowardice.”

The hate behind the words brought his weariness to the forefront, and suddenly Rextur needed sleep badly. He shook his head.

“You were chosen, though I begged my god to see reason,” Angst spat. “I told him you were of a petulant father, a Milk Warrior, treasonous and poisonous. I told my god you would bring shame to our church, and he insisted it be you to bring Tienne to its knees. How long did we train you? How long did we fund your many trips into that country? Searching for weaknesses, you told us, but I knew better. Visiting your family was more like it. Seeing where you were from. You sat at the tables of their noblemen. You studied at their schools and delved into their catacombs, all in the name of Dis, all in the name of studying your enemy. But I knew. I knew what you would do. I knew when you were called upon to make your war, your cowardice would show itself.” Angst spat on the floor, turning to the throne. “Kill him. Order his death. Send your Edge after him. Destroy this charlatan.”

Rextur eased Scythe slowly from its scabbard and took a step forward. Every eye turned to him. Fear stampeded through the throne room, stomping every brave word to dust. Angst recoiled, stepping back behind the other three Elders.

“I will kill every one of you if you make for your weapons. If you order my death, I will cleave your skull in two with a single swipe of Scythe.” Rextur looked down at the great sword, the gray blade emitting black smoke that curled around the weapon like a snake. “I will spare no one. And my legions will devour this nation. I long for Drine’s greatness, but I will be its destruction if you force my hand.”

“This man knows no loyalty,” Angst spat with trembling voice.

“I have been raised with one task in mind. Every lesson I learned was bent toward that one purpose. I will be the death of that country. Do not question my resolve or my loyalty. I have sworn the oath and spilled the blood, but now is not the time to make this war.” Rextur drove the tip of his sword into the flagstones beneath him. With a crunch, the stone gave way, and the sword stood beside its master.

“I carry the Scythe of Dis. I ride his most fearsome bull. I have destroyed in his name and wield his devastation.” Rextur clenched his fist, and the metal gauntlet whined as it crumpled in his hand. “Do not question my devotion. My liege,” Rextur turned to Trekor, “a cataclysm approaches. Events so great will swoop from the sky and devour us if we are not cautious in our endeavors.”

“Heresy, blasphemy,” Angst hissed. “He speaks of the prophecy of his demoness whore. His eye has turned from Dis for knowledge, and his heart is clouded by her nonsense.”

“It is true Shanroa has spoken to me of a disaster. She has warned me of coming events and a stranger walking the world, hungry and powerful. Something approaches, my king, and it may attack our mighty nation. We will need our strength here in our homeland. We will need the Madmen to keep you safe. I beg you, my liege, do not unleash me. Give me a year. One year, and I will bring Tienne to the ground before you. One year is all I ask. Let me bring my men home from the borders of Tienne. Let me prepare them for the coming apocalypse. Let me be your shield in tumultuous times.”

Trekor smiled and shook his head. Rextur’s powerlessness sapped him of his strength, and he lowered his gaze. “You will bring your Madmen to bear against my enemy. You will gut Tienne and crush her armies to pulp beneath your feet. You will seat my son on the throne of that country. And you will begin your march tonight.”

Rextur Cherlot could not raise his eyes to the king. He nodded. “Yes, my liege.”

“You will take my bright boy with you. Let his new nation get a look at him. Let no harm come to him. Grievous, go to the Madness now. He will guard you. Watch that he obeys my commands.”

“I will need an elder to do this thing,” Rextur said. “I choose the Crumbler. He will march beside me and guide me and bless my blade.”

“My king, send me instead,” Angst said. “Let me stand watch over him and ensure your wishes are obeyed.”

“No,” the king said with a chop of his thick hand. “He shall have the Crumbler. I will give him all he needs.”

“I ask one more thing before I go to make your war,” Rextur said.

The king studied him before nodding.

“Give me Treason. With him, I will be invincible. I need his mind. I need his swords.”

“Need?” Grievous said. “I thought you were the Devastation of Dis. I thought you wielded the great Scythe. I thought—”

“Grievous, be silent, men are talking,” King Trekor snapped. Grievous fell silent, his face reddening, veins standing out on his neck. “I will send you Treason. I want rid of him anyway. If death finds him on the field, all the better. He is worthless to me.”

Rextur hid the scoff.

“Go now, blow the horn. Release hell upon Tienne.” Trekor smiled and leaned back in his chair. Rextur turned away from the sight, sickened by the display of his king. He heard Grievous fall in behind him and scowled. He was sending Treason. That was all he would need. Crumbler padded behind them with whispering slippers. Rextur could feel the immense waves of power coming off the man. He sighed. At least it was Crumbler. With him, she might be contained. With Crumbler, it was possible the great wyrm would be destroyed, the Artist could be dealt with. If anything could do it, it would be Crumbler.

Rextur went with heavy heart to begin his slaughter.

When he entered his tent, the sight of Stalt greeted him. The man sat at attention, his battered sword resting in his lap. “What has happened?” Rextur asked.

“There has been an incident,” Stalt said.

Rextur sighed. He said nothing before he pulled a whistle from within his armor on a chain that hung from his neck. Three sharp blasts emitted no sound. He stopped before his tent and saw someone rise from the floor within, a shadow on the tent wall, small and delicate.

Rextur turned his attention to her, and his eyes feasted.

Hair of honey, oiled and small to the face, topped a perfectly muscled body displayed by skin-tight leather stained black, supple and soft. The red scarf she wore could not contain her full lips. Warm brown eyes settled on him, and he felt his soul open for her. He turned his eyes from her to look at the arch, the cot, anything but her. Steeling himself, he turned back, fighting his eyes’ desire to devour her every detail.

From her hip dangled a red fan, her only weapon.

“Sister Death, do you stand ready to bleed Tienne?” Rextur tightened his grip on his voice, forcing it to be calm and measured.

She nodded. What I wouldn’t give to hear her utter one single word. Let it be my name. Rextur nodded in reply. Her lips moved under her scarf. Was that a smile? Did she just smile?

“We move for Tienne tomorrow. As I step across the border, bleed the country.”

She seemed to know he was done with her. Her eyes swept up his body and back down before she turned once, dissipating into smoke.

---