The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  Garran stood amongst the chaos erupting all around him and stared as armed men charged down the slope and cut savagely into the road crew. The suddenness of the assault froze him in place, and all he could do was watch helplessly as his friends raised axes, picks, and even shorn tree limbs against the raiders.

  Several soldiers guided their mounts between the dropped trees to engage the attackers, but they stood out and made excellent targets for those wielding crossbows. Garran looked on as the guards fell from their horses one after another. His eyes caught a flash of movement coming toward him. He stared dumbfounded as a man in dark leathers raised a sword and was moments away from splitting his head like a melon. An axe flashed in from his left side and buried itself in the man’s face.

  Dominic jerked his axe free and punched Garran in the shoulder. “Snap out of it, you stupid little prick!”

  Garran nodded, tried but failed to mumble his thanks, and tightened his grip on the reaping blade dangling loosely in his hand. He looked back to where he last saw Colin and found him hunkered behind the tree they had been stripping.

  “Colin, are you okay?”

  Colin stood and took a step toward him. “Yeah, Garran, I—”

  A crossbow bolt struck him low in the gut and cut short his words. Colin’s hand flew to the wound, and all he could do was look from it to Garran with an expression of fear and confusion. The boy fell back onto the ground, his lips moving silently as they tried to finish whatever it was he was about to say.

  Garran looked up and saw the killer drop his expended crossbow, pull a short sword from the sheath at his hip, and charge. Garran felt something break loose from deep within him. It was as if his stomach had been holding a raging inferno within his body, and it had just exploded to send fire coursing through his veins. Just as quickly, the flames turned to ice, and a feeling of immense calm washed over him.

  The man still came at him, but it was as if he were charging through water. It was not just the man in front of him moving slowly. Everything around him flowed at a glacial pace. Ahead and to his left he saw Dominic swing his axe at another raider in a languid arc that took several seconds to sunder the man’s ribcage and destroy the heart beneath it. A crossbow quarrel sailed at him with the speed of a hurled snowball. Garran tilted his head to the side and felt the air whisper in his ear with the bolt’s passing.

  He turned, picked up Colin’s reaping blade with his free hand, and ran at the man who was all but frozen in time. Garran buried the reaping blade in his right hand in the man’s gut, spun around, and sank the left one low into his back. He jerked his blades free and charged up the slope toward the thickest knot of intruders.

  Garran was a dervish moving and slashing amongst the men who appeared almost as immobile as the trees towering over them. The only thing fast enough to match his movements were the eyes of those around him, and many of those could do nothing but watch helplessly as death danced within their ranks until it was their turn to fall beneath his flashing blades.

  Zoran watched the beginnings of yet another successful assault from atop his mount a couple of hundred yards up the hill, flanked by two of his lieutenants. His smile turned to consternation when he saw a lone figure flashing between his men and leaving carnage in his wake. It took him a full minute to comprehend what was happening, what the young man must surely be, and the undeniable defeat he represented.

  “Impossible,” the mercenary captain muttered.

  Zoran continued to watch the debacle unfold, praying that luck would rear its ugly head and take down the instrument of death rapidly coming his way. But if luck was taking a part in the battle this day, it had chosen not to side with him.

  Zoran turned to one of his lieutenants. “Sound the retreat.”

  Garran vaguely heard the muffled blare of a bugle from somewhere up the hill. He spotted a small knot of men gazing down upon the battle from horseback and knew they must be the ones leading the assault that had killed one of the few real friends he had in this world. He would not allow them to live to kill another.

  The man he marked as their commander jerked the reins to wheel his horse about, but in the one or two seconds it took him to turn away, Garran had cut the vast distance between them in half. The rider’s spurred boot heels rose and jabbed into the animal’s flanks. The horse’s haunches dipped and flexed to launch itself and its rider away from the battle.

  With a roar of defiant outrage, Garran hurled one of his reaping blades. The cumbersome weapon tumbled end over end with the speed of a loosed arrow. The noise it made as it cut through the air was audible even over the din of battle. The stout blade struck true and buried its eight inches of thick steel in Zoran’s back.

  The impact struck with enough force to lift the mercenary captain out of his saddle and pitch him onto the ground. The remaining officers tried to race away, but Garran launched himself off a tree stump, leapt thirty feet through the air, and dropped a shroud of death over them.

  ***

  Garran stood amongst the carnage, gripping his bloody reaping blade and breathing hard. He heard men walking up behind him and slowly turned. Cyril and several others approached as if he might suddenly turn on them as well. Garran’s mouth moved with a hundred questions, but he was unable to form words. Cyril was saying something, but his voice was lost in the roaring waves crashing against the rocks within his head. Another dam seemed to burst within him, and the world flowed back into motion. Garran’s vision wavered and his knees buckled. Just before blackness descended upon him, he heard Cyril mutter a single word: “transcended.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Garran woke with a gnawing in his belly the likes of which he had never before experienced. It was far worse than the hunger he felt upon regaining consciousness after his fall. The pangs were so intense he felt like vomiting. As his ability for logical thought slowly surfaced with his hunger, Garran admitted the sickness could well be a result of laudanum and alcohol withdrawal as much as deprivation, depending on how long he had been out.

  There were at least a dozen or more men in the infirmary with him, most sporting blood-soaked bandages. A flood of images reminded him of what had brought him to the sick tent. His body trembled as he recalled the strange sensation that had come over him and the gruesome slaughter that followed.

  “Colin!” Garran cried, sat up, and searched the room for his friend.

  Cranston appeared next to his bed in an instant and laid a hand on his shoulder to keep him from bolting from the bed and likely falling flat on his face. “Easy, son.”

  “Where’s Colin?”

  The physic’s face sagged. “I’m sorry, Garran, but he didn’t make it. He took a bolt to the gut and died two days ago.”

  “Two days…” Garran stared at his feet, his mouth agape. “How long have I been out?”

  “It’s been three days since the attack.”

  “That explains why I’m so hungry…or at least I was.”

  “We lost a lot of good men.”

  Garran’s voice was thick with bitterness. “No, we lost one good one and a bunch of pricks I’d gladly trade ten of for Colin.” He took a deep breath and forced down his pain. “What happened to me? Why did I pass out?”

  “I don’t know, but Commander Godfrey seems to know something about your…condition. I’ll go fetch him while I get you something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “Maybe, but you need to eat. You’ve somehow managed to lose at least twenty pounds in the past few days, pounds you didn’t have to spare to begin with. Rest as best you can, and I’ll be back with some food and hopefully answers.”

  Garran slumped back against his bed and stared at the ceiling. He could not believe Colin was gone. It wasn’t fair. Colin was a good person and his friend, even if he treated him like shit sometimes. Had Colin known how much he meant to him? He had to have. He had to have known that his obnoxious and often selfish behavior was just his way and that he really considered him his frien
d. He just had to.

  Cranston returned bearing a tray loaded with food and set it in Garran’s lap. Garran scooted up in his bed to a sitting position and stared at it.

  “Cyril says he won’t come until you’ve eaten, so if you want answers you need to eat whether you feel like it or not.”

  Garran did not want to. He wanted to suffer for letting Colin die and for not being a better friend, but his stomach lacked his self-pity. It grumbled and his mouth filled with saliva at the sight and smell of the food. He finally surrendered to his body’s demands and ate.

  He sank into himself and groaned in satisfaction as he devoured the enormous meal, so much so that he had to stop several times to keep from choking and spewing it across the room. Garran was enjoying a sticky bun, the last bit of his kingly meal, when Cyril entered.

  “We really need to find a better way to sit and talk other than you ending up in the infirmary,” Cyril said.

  Garran dropped the remains of his pastry on the tray. “At least I made it here.”

  Cyril glanced at his feet and nodded. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about Colin. I know he was your friend.”

  “Are you sorry enough to stop taking boys from their homes and putting them in a prison camp to die?”

  Cyril steeled himself against Garran’s bitter and scathing remark. “I do not make the laws nor pressure anyone into giving up their children.”

  “No, you just provide the vehicle for their enslavement.”

  “If you want to find the source of your situation, you need to look back a lot further than when you met me. Your mother explained to me the reasons for sending you off in great detail.”

  “Maybe I did bring this on myself, but what about Colin? What did he do to deserve his fate?”

  “Not everyone deserves the fate they get. You’re right, Colin was a good kid, but fate doesn’t give a damn about good or bad, and it will save you or kick in your teeth on a whim. The same fickle luck that took Colin is the same one that saved my life all those years back. What you need to focus on is what you can control; otherwise you’ll spend your life barking at the wind.”

  “Is what happened to me one of those things?”

  Cyril took a deep breath and flicked his eyes at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I really don’t know hardly anything about it.”

  “But you had a name. I remember you saying transcended. What does that mean?”

  “What do you know about the Hillman War?”

  “Not much. My education is rather spotty. Something about a fight with hill people over farming lands or something.”

  The commander nodded. “That’s pretty much it. About three hundred years ago, Moorwind was an independent principality stretching along the Highland Range. The land along the range was very fertile and produced some of the best crops in the kingdom. Anatolia’s wealth and power were rising fast, but so was its population. King…uh…I forget his name, but it doesn’t matter. Anyway, he decided it would be far more profitable to conquer Moorwind and annex it for Anatolia, so he started the Hillman War.

  “You can imagine this didn’t sit well with the hill folk who were a fiercely independent bunch with the size and courage to stay that way. Have you seen a Hillman? Imagine an entire people all the size of Tye. To make matters worse, some of them were what they called ragers. Ragers went into a psychotic fury and could decimate a platoon of soldiers by themselves. Physics have opened up dead ragers and found their hearts and lungs destroyed by arrows, swords, and spears, yet they kept fighting on. One account claims one was beheaded in battle and killed three more men before he tumbled to the ground. Like a damn giant, sword-wielding chicken.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” Garran asked. “I didn’t feel any rage or psychosis. I was perfectly calm and coherent. Weirdly so.”

  “For a time, it looked like Anatolia bit off more than it could chew. Not only were we not taking the Hillmen’s farmlands, we started to lose some of ours as they pushed us back across our border and beyond. It was about a year into the war when some special soldiers began to emerge within the ranks. They claimed that the world slowed down to a crawl, but what everyone else saw was these men and a rare woman move faster than any human being should be able. A rager’s brutal strength and ferocity wasn’t much good if he couldn’t hit the enemy. With these new fighters, Anatolia surged into Moorwind, forced the Hillmen into the Highland Range, and claimed their lands.”

  “That doesn’t tell me what I am; only what I did.”

  “I can’t really tell you more than that. We began calling those special fighters transcended because some of them claimed that it felt like the spirits of their forefathers came into their bodies, gave them power, and guided their hands to transcend into the most lethal fighting force on the battlefield. I don’t know if any of that is true or just superstition. I’ve never met one nor knew anyone who did. Like any mortal man, the transcended died from old age after the Hillman War, and few were born to replace them.”

  “Am I the only one then?”

  “You’re the only one I ever met, but I know of one other, and I’m going to take you to meet him. If anyone found out I kept a transcended slaving in a work camp they’d hang me for sure.” Cyril laid a hand on Garran’s shoulder. “Son, you just became one of the most special people in all the kingdoms.”

  ***

  It took four days for Garran to recover his strength enough to ride. In those few days, he ate enough food to feed several men for a week. His body ached and was so stiff he could barely move. It felt as if he had compressed a grueling week of work into those ten minutes or so of battle.

  “Are you ready to ride?” Cyril asked as soon as he entered the infirmary.

  “I’ve never ridden a horse before other than a draft animal I borrowed from my logging crew, and that didn’t turn out well. Are you sure we can’t take a wagon?”

  “Wagons are too slow, and I want to hand you off and return here as quickly as I can.”

  “Fine, but if the stupid creature bolts and runs through anyone’s hanging laundry, garden, or chicken pen like last time, it’s your fault not mine.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Cyril already had a bag packed for Garran and strapped onto a horse. Half a dozen soldiers sat mounted and ready to provide Garran with an escort to Leva, the kingdom’s capital. Several workers stood nearby to catch a final glimpse of their hero before he departed.

  Evert broke from the crowd and shook Garran’s hand before he mounted up. “We all owe you big, lad. I’ve never seen anything like what you did, and I wish I never had to, but I’m glad you were here. You take care of yourself.”

  “I will, Evert. Take care of my still.”

  Evert Grinned. “I will. You got fifty or so men still around ready to adopt her and give her a good home.”

  Garran spotted Dominic’s ugly face peeking over the heads of those standing in front of him. “Dominic, you saved my life. I don’t know why you did, but thanks.”

  Dominic twitched his lip. “If it makes you feel any better, I had planned on killing you if it looked as if we were going to win. I just never got the chance after you went all berserk.”

  “Maybe you’ll get another opportunity someday.”

  “It’s what motivates me to get up in the morning—that and getting in line to bang your girlfriend.”

  Garran grinned, turned, and stared into Rose’s blushing face.

  “Garran, please let me talk. I’ve been trying to see you since…since what happened, but I was too embarrassed, and they wouldn’t let me visit you after the attack. I always meant what I said. I know you hate me for what I’ve done, but you are special to me.”

  “What about everyone else, are they special too?”

  “No, of course not. Do you have any idea how many promises men have made me? Do you know what it’s like to only be able to rely on yourself because everyone around you lies to get what they want, only to abandon you when they’re through?”
r />   “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “I prayed you were being honest with your intentions, but other men made promises just like yours only to take what little I had and leave me with nothing. I did the only thing I knew how so I would survive. I really do love you, Garran, even if you can’t love me back.”

  Garran watched a tear trickle down her face. She leaned in and parted her lips invitingly. Garran bent slightly, pursed his lips as they neared hers…and spit in her eye.

  “You can wash that out when you scrub Dominic out of your prick pocket!” Garran shouted at Rose’s fleeing back. “I think there was a booger in it, so flush it good so it doesn’t dry up and scratch your eye!”

  “Damn, son, that was brutal,” Cyril said as Garran climbed atop his mount.

  “If she wants out of here, she’ll have to hitch herself to someone else’s wagon. This one doesn’t take on passengers anymore.”

  CHAPTER 15

  It was a long and unpleasant ride to the capital. Garran was unaccustomed to riding, and his legs felt as though someone had torn them off and reattached them with baling twine. The saddle chafed the inside of his thighs, and his lower back ached. Cyril set a brutal pace, stopping only when it was too dark to ride and setting out again before the sun crested the horizon.

  They rarely spent the night in a town to enjoy the comforts of an inn and a real bed. During one of the few times the end of their riding day coincided with a small speck of civilization, Garran sneaked away to indulge in some drinking and debauchery. Cyril was angrier with him for disappearing than he was with the fact he had to pay Garran’s bill.

  It took them nearly a fortnight to travel from the work camp near Osage to Leva. Garran’s jaw dropped and he could not help but stare in wonder at the sheer number of people crowding the streets. There were more people passing through the city’s outer gates than he had ever seen in one place.