I. Man
“In a realm of chaos there is no striving but towards order. We are born, we destroy ourselves, and then we are born again.”
This is a quote from one of the region's most beloved philosophers, a man by the name of Gielgood Goldenbough, dead these many centuries through the misfortune of being struck by a falling tree during a lightning storm. According to accounts that were sketchy at best, he had been dashing home through the rainy streets from one of his own lectures, this one concerning the spiritual benefits of growing and tending fruit orchards. But whatever the circumstances of his demise, all who respected his doctrines and dogmas agreed that a great man had been taken from them. His teachings, his writings, would be forever considered cornerstones of the region's political architecture.
***
Woodward Cambridge was no student of Goldenbough's. The philosopher's works, in his opinion, had always seemed too tame, too trite, to wield any real influence. But there was one belief he shared with the dead thinker: Where there was order, there was prosperity. No region, large or small, could hope to achieve balance and functionality amongst its people without a proper guidance system in place. No kingdom, mighty or meek, could hope to stand the test of time without the existence of a healthy political machine in its castle.
Cambridge's ruling over his own castle was testament. The servants who worked in it, though small in number, followed a tight regime as they went about their tasks. They were forbidden to take actions outside of their jurisdictions. The laundry ladies were not allowed to polish the furniture. The furniture polisher was not allowed to do any cooking. The cook was not allowed to sweep the steps. And so on and so forth. And while it was true that such tasks would indeed be fixed to the appropriate individuals, in any castle, Cambridge felt that by tethering them to their specific duties he eliminated any chance that one of them might lay blame for an interruption in the order of things upon another. Indeed, each servant was required to place his or her name onto a service parchment before performing any duty. If a stain should ever show up on one of his tunics in the morning, Cambridge would be able to discover exactly who had washed that tunic the night before. Should a mound of dust ever be found beneath any of the castle's many curving, stone steps, Cambridge would have no trouble finding out who had swept those steps so sloppily. And should any of his meals ever be inadequate--the potatoes undercooked, the coffee too strong, the sweet-cake too dry--it would be a simple matter of looking at the service parchment to find out who had done what, and at which time.
Order--yes, order. The castle almost rang with it. Servants came and went, obsequious, fastidious. They knew what was expected of them--indeed, what was demanded of them. They worked with faces devoid of expression, and when they spoke to their master, they did so in low, even tones, displaying fear and respect in equal measure. Only two had been removed over the past year: one for dropping an antique teacup in the kitchen, another for coughing outside the door to get his attention. The latter had been concerned about bats nesting in one of the castle towers, but he had interrupted Cambridge from a particularly pleasant memory about the taste of a young girl's blood. The cough had been annoying--almost impatient. That servant's bones were today drying in a dungeon beneath the castle.
Outside, beyond the moat, things were different. From his bedchamber high in the east wing, Cambridge had a fine view of one of the region's more lush forests. To the right of that forest was a body of water known as Coldfrock Lake. To the left, a road led into a landscape of rolling hills. A full midnight moon shined upon this scene. A light wind whispered. Bracts from a nearby dogwood tumbled through the air. Peace and tranquility seemed to hold court in every shadow, in every splash of moonlight. Yet Cambridge was not fooled. He sipped his tea, gazing at the region with a face that wore no expression, but with eyes reflecting a calm cynicism for the secrets so poorly hidden behind the pretty dalliance of the night. Two hundred years of living in this place had stripped away the masquery.
A sudden knock at the door broke his chain of thought. "Come in," he called moodily.
The door opened. In it stood a tall, lean man in a pressed gray suit. He did not cross the threshold, instead choosing to speak his purpose for the intrusion from the candlelit hallway.
"My apologies, sir," he began, "but there's a disturbance at the southern area of the castle. A large wolf is running loose in the pasture. The animals there are in a panic. There's danger of a stampede."
Cambridge's eyes grew wide. "A wolf?" he asked. The chair gave a squeak as he rose. "How certain are you of this?"
"Near to positive, sir."
"Come in, O'Connor. It's all right; you needn't speak from outside the door."
The man entered, his gait and expression maintaining a balanced dignity that Cambridge had come to appreciate over the many years he had spent under the castle's employ. He had started out as a prophet, reading tarot cards for the amusement of Cambridge’s court. But it soon became apparent he possessed skills in other areas, particularly when it came to leadership. The lord of Coldfrock Castle had eventually promoted him to chief advisor, and from there to the position he held today.
"One of the parapet strollers spotted the beast skulking in the orchard. Its eyes, he said, seemed to be following our stock, as if on the hunt."
"I see. And how long ago was this?"
"Approximately thirty minutes ago, sir. I didn't wish to disturb you with any news that would later prove to be false. I ordered the stroller, along with four of his colleagues, to form a perimeter around the pasture"
Cambridge nodded. "And they are armed with kickshellacs I hope."
"Indeed, sir. With a bit of luck the beast will be trapped and disposed of with very little unpleasantness."
"We'll go down and join the strollers."
"Sir?"
O'Connor's eyes were gleaming in the moonlight, as were the features of his wrinkled, ruddy face. Cambridge did not expect to see fear there, nor did he. The pale beams picked out only two things: concern and, dare Cambridge even consider it, surprise. The latter was unusual, as O'Connor was not a man who wore his emotions publicly. But then again...
"Suppose you were attacked, sir?" he went on. "Injured or even..."
His words trailed off, but Cambridge caught the gist well enough. He smiled at his servant as he threw a light coat over his shoulders. "Attacked and injured. Or even something worse, eh?" He shook his head while walking towards the door. "No, no, O'Connor, I think not. In fact I rather feel the region is trying to prove a point to me tonight, and it needs me alive for that."
"What point, sir?"
Cambridge was still smiling as they stepped into the hall and headed for the stairs. "That there is, in fact, no striving towards order--that there will always be chaos."
***
"I think it's time, O'Connor," he said, once they were at the pasture gate. "We have armies in hiding outside two of the region's major cities, correct? Thorncut and Dalandaniss?"
"That is correct, sir. And according to their reports, neither city is at all fitted for self-defense. In fact their inhabitants seem barely attentive to such things."
"That will change once we're in charge."
His eyes scanned the pasture and rested on a copse of trees some two hundred yards distant. According to one of the strollers, the wolf was cowering inside this copse. No doubt it knew full well it was surrounded--its nose had told it as much.
Thorncut and Dalandaniss were in a similar situation. The first was a port city, medium-sized, on the coast of the Yeetahtan Sea. The second was used as a stop for traders. They were neither safe nor especially clean, these cities. What they lacked in order, however, they more than made up for in arrogance and self-satisfaction. They offended Cambridge's love of arrangement, his passion for foundation. Did they now, like the wolf in the copse, sense, at least in some vague way, the coming demise of their wantonness?
Cambridge doubted it. It had been too long since they had known change; they were too far mired in their own improvisational lifestyle. But oh, how things were going to rumble, and soon. Years of planning had gone into the siege that was about to take place. It was time now to set a match to its fuse and watch the old, cavalier ways of the region be sent to oblivion. It would be ugly business. For awhile, at least, there would be even more chaos for the land. But when the dust settled--when all the fires and the flooding and the corpses of the dissidents had been swept away--there would be plenty of room to rebuild. There would be a church--his church. There would be an altar--his altar. And at last, there would be a bible. A bible of the new order.
"How about the ogres, O'Connor?" he asked, still studying the copse.
"I don't know, sir."
Cambridge looked at the man, unwilling to believe what he'd just heard. "I'm sorry? Could you repeat that, please?"
"I don't know, sir," O'Connor obliged, allowing a trace of penitence to cross his typically featureless expression.
It was this penitence that enabled Cambridge to maintain his temper. "Explain yourself," he demanded.
Just then a shout came from the other side of the pasture. The wolf was making a break for it. At the sight of it, dashing towards the fence on the far side, Cambridge had to gasp in a breath. The beast was heavy and black—a misshapen shadow cast on a wall. A low, angry growl emitted from its throat, as cries of shoot! shoot! came from the strollers on Cambridge's side of the pasture.
The wolf stopped and crouched, as if in hope the high grass would shelter it from danger. It then turned, abandoning this hope, and started running full speed directly at Cambridge.
"Sir!" O'Connor exclaimed.
Cambridge was backing away from the fence, with O'Connor following. The shadow closed in. Two red eyes, furious, desperate, gleamed in the moonlight. A mouth full of white fangs gaped. O'Connor stepped in front of his master, prepared to shield him to the death. One of the strollers fired a shot from his kickshellac and missed. Another cried out that his weapon was jammed. A second shot was fired--again, a miss. The wolf let out a long, triumphant roar, and Cambridge wondered for a moment whether or not the beast might be a giant gorilla running on all fours. But no--he got time to see that it was a dog of some sort, as it leaped into the air to tear him and O'Connor apart. There was a muzzle, dripping with saliva. There was fur, twisted and tangled. There were paws and toenails.
There was also a bullet, fired from one of the kickshellacs, that found its way into the flank of the creature, shattering its ribs, tearing through its lungs. Its roar of triumph turned to agony as it writhed and then crashed into the fence where Cambridge stood.
The sound of hissing, labored breathing followed. Cambridge stepped from behind O'Connor, peering at the dark shape lying in the grass. Distantly, he could hear the strollers approaching. Orders were being shouted, questions asked. Was everyone all right? Was the wolf dead?
"We're fine!" Cambridge yelled, not taking his eyes off the creature. He moved closer, wanting to get a better look.
"Sir you'll be bitten," O'Connor warned.
Cambridge stopped. He was close enough to see as much of the wolf as he wanted to. It was panting hard beneath a crooked fence-post, staring at the moon with draining red eyes.
"You see, O'Connor?" he said with a small, forced smile. "This is chaos." His hand gestured the beast. "This is disorganization. This is destruction. Mindless, whirlwind destruction. And it will not be stopped without an agent. A champion."
"No, sir."
"Tomorrow evening the armies attack. Thorncut and Dalandaniss will burn."
"Yes, sir."
Cambridge's voice lowered; he was still staring at wolf as it released its final breath and lay still. "We'll wait til they've had dinner. Their bellies will be full. They'll be slow. Sluggish."
"Yes, sir."
"Then we'll put out the fires. Clean things up. A new leader will emerge from the rubble." He turned to look at O'Connor. "They'll be better people for it in the end."
"Yes, sir."
By now the strollers who’d fired upon the beast had arrived, along with several others from the castle parapet. This latter party had no business whatsoever with tonight's events; Cambridge would get their names and see that they were punished. For now, however, there was still the wolf--or rather, the wolf's corpse. Cambridge was tempted to have it moved to the dungeon, gutted, and then stuffed as a trophy. But that would never work. The stroller who had shot it would no doubt pause to look at it every day. Pride would swell in his chest over time. He would tell stories to his friends and colleagues--yes, he would do this anyway, but it still irked Cambridge to know he’d have something physical to point at as well.
He asked who it was that shot the wolf. When the man stepped forward, Cambridge congratulated him soberly. He then sent them all back to their duties on the parapet.
"Have it burned in a pyre," he said to O'Connor, when they were alone. "I never want to see it again."
"Very good, sir."
He paused for a moment. "And then you will come inside, to my study, and tell me about the ogres." His eyebrow went up. "Understood?"
"Yes, sir," O'Connor replied, his voice not wavering so much as a jot.
Cambridge looked at the wolf one last time. Tomorrow night the end would begin. With Goldenbough's edict--in a realm of chaos there is no striving but towards order--serving as foundation for the entire movement, Cambridge would take control of the region, city by city, and show it a way of existence it had hitherto never known.
It would be ungrateful at first. There would be uprisings, rebellions. But Cambridge was a patient man. He'd been living in this world for a long time. The rebellions would be squelched, as much by his ability to interpret how the insurgents would feel and do things as by force. In a way, he even looked forward to this part of the game. Because afterward, of course, these very same insurgents (along with the rest of the region) would heap adoration and praise upon his head--or at least the ones left alive would.
Would, would, would. That word flashed in Cambridge's mind, over and over, as he walked back to the castle. The future was coming. A new region. The idea made his thoughts leap from one vision of glory to the next, and his belly churn with anticipation. The future was coming. It would be here soon.
It would, it would, it would.