The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  “What is your business here?” said the other.

  “I hoped for an audience with Ganindhra,” he replied. He could not see them, and did not expect to be able to, but he knew there would be several archers amongst the trees with bows drawn, aiming at them.

  “Ganindhra does not speak to uninvited guests,” the first said.

  “Tell him an Emissary has come to see him,” said Granger.

  “An emissary from whom?”

  “Just say, ‘an Emissary’.”

  The jade coloured man was unmoved; his gaze hard and steady for a few heartbeats. Then, he softened.

  “Wait here,” he said before ducking into an opening in the side of the massive tree where two of the mighty roots parted.

  A few moments later, the man came out and said, “Ganindhra will see you.”

  “Stay behind me,” said Granger, turning towards the huge rent in the bole of the tree.

  Kellan followed Granger, into an expansive throne room. He gasped when he saw what sat in the living throne at the centre of the room, for it could not be described as a man.

  Granger approached the throne of Ganindhra. The huge throne extended from the dark recesses above and plunged into the ground like a tree within a tree. Fused to the living wood was a gnarled being, resembling a collection of twisted driftwood more than any other creature. It was bigger than a man but looked to be modelled on one in the roughest sense. It slowly stirred as the two green skinned men took up positions on either side. They looked at each other after a moment, then looked at the twisted creature before they reluctantly left, clearly unhappy to do so.

  “I asked for a little privacy.” The entity finally spoke when Granger and Kellan were alone with it, its voice deep and sonorous. Kellan was standing behind Granger, clutching the back of his shirt and peering around at the throne and what it contained. He felt a stirring within him, like a snake uncoiling from its slumber beneath a rock, when he looked at the creature. A leaden mass that he had carried with him since that awful day that began with the stranger at the river, began to awaken. He heard a distant buzzing, as if a swarm of bees infested the dark recesses above his head, but was sure that the sound came from within him.

  “Thank you,” Granger bowed, “for agreeing to see me.”

  “I was intrigued,” Ganindhra intoned with a rumble.

  “Curious to know if I was who I claimed to be?” Granger asked.

  “Curious to know who would make such a claim.”

  “I mean no disrespect when I tell you that my circumstances have changed of late, as have yours,” Granger said.

  Ganindhra rumbled deeply, its upper half leaning towards them slightly, but unable to do more, anchored as it was to the throne.

  “I would like to speak alone,” said Granger. “Is there somewhere the boy can wait?”

  Ganindhra rumbled again, and then one of the men from outside came into the strange room. He held out a hand to Kellan.

  “It’s fine Kellan, you can go with this man,” said Granger. “These people are our friends.”

  “I want to stay with you,” Kellan complained.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he reassured him, kneeling and ruffling his hair. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

  Kellan reluctantly left with the pale jade coloured man, glancing back as they stepped into the bright sunlight outside. The stirring within settled as he left the tree, but he was still aware of it, now that it had made itself known.

  “You call yourself Emissary,” Ganindhra said.

  “Once,” he replied. “Now I call myself Granger.”

  “But you were never to inhabit these worlds, only observe. Has so much changed?”

  “No,” he replied. “I am exceptional in that.”

  “And what brings you here?”

  “Abaddon is here.”

  Ganindhra’s deeply rutted features went rigid. Slowly, its mouth opened, revealing pale pink gums behind thin lips. “Here?” it said almost too quietly to hear.

  “On this world. Somewhere.”

  “That is impossible. I was there when he fell,” Ganindhra said. “I was among the last standing. We shattered his very being.”

  Granger took a few paces towards the creature. “Tell me what you know of those final moments.”

  Ganindhra laughed, a deep rumbling sound. “But you are an Emissary. You see all,” it mocked.

  “Very well,” said Granger, “You were all but defeated. Abaddon was assured of victory. You had seen your kind destroyed, watched them burned from existence. You and the last standing Gods saw what was in store for you and hurled every last fibre of your selves at your enemy. You knew then that, as a final gambit, it would win the day or fail utterly. Your voices screamed for vengeance and justice; you pitched yourselves into the fray like a mother throws herself at the wolf to save her children, knowing that the chance of success is vanishingly small but that the alternative is too terrible to do nothing.”

  “We defeated him,” Ganindhra, the fallen God growled.

  “You gave too much of yourselves and burned your power away,” Granger replied forcefully.

  “You know nothing! We won the day!” Ganindhra shouted.

  “You are a husk!”

  “Abaddon was defeated!”

  “No!” Granger made a placating gesture, his palms turned down. “He was not.”

  “What?” Ganindhra was barely audible.

  “Abaddon lives,” he said firmly.

  “I saw him fall,” the creature said, almost pleading.

  “You broke him, yes,” Granger agreed. “But even as you yourself fell into your current state, he was able to cling to existence.”

  “But he is broken? Yes?”

  Granger began to pace back and forth, the creature’s eyes locked on his every movement. “Abaddon has all the wit and guile he ever had. His faculty for treachery, if anything, is greater now than before.” He paused. “But his power has been excised from him. It exists still, like a beating heart removed from a living body.”

  “Then what use is it to him?”

  “When Abaddon finds his way to a world such as this one, his power needs to find a mortal soul to inhabit. It resides in its host until such time as it can seize control of that life. It feeds on anger. Rage will give it control and ultimately the power to destroy worlds.”

  “How many?” asked Ganindhra, hesitantly. The revelation was clearly still sinking in.

  “Worlds? I have lost count,” he replied, memories of those he had witnessed filling his thoughts. “We have named his power the Daemon. When it takes control of a mortal being, it reveals its true form and becomes unstoppable.”

  “Kill the mortal,” Ganindhra said, fervour returning to his voice. “Kill the mortal and kill the power. Kill the Daemon.”

  “The Daemon, like its master, is immortal. It simply finds another host.”

  Ganindhra shrunk a little; what passed for shoulders slumped and his head bowed. “Then we are lost. Where is Abaddon now?”

  “I believe him to be in Jendaya.”

  “Jendaya?”

  “The last news I had of him was Jendaya.”

  “And his power? The Daemon?”

  Granger glanced towards the exit, through which the sunlight was now gleaming.

  “You brought it here?” Ganindhra hissed, twisting in his prison throne. “What treachery is this?”

  “This is our only hope,” Granger said quickly as archers appeared through the opening to the outside world, their bows ready.

  “You have doomed us all!”

  “It is this world’s only hope,” Granger said quickly. “Kill us and the Daemon will infect another. We have it contained. Our only hope is to control it.”

  “We tried to control Abaddon once before,” the fallen God sneered. “Look at where it left me.” He gestured towards his body, melded to the living throne.

  “Listen to me and believe me when I tell you that this world will be burned out of t
he heavens,” Granger said firmly, taking slow, deliberate steps towards the fallen God. The archers drew their bows as Kellan was hustled in to stand in front of them, between the exit and Ganindhra. Granger looked at Kellan and smiled reassuringly, then continued more softly. “It does not matter where it is in the world. Here or the bottom of the ocean, it makes no difference. No-one can hide from it. When the Daemon is unleashed, all will perish.” He was aware of the tension in the air, taut as the bowstrings that creaked behind him. “You may kill the host, but the Daemon is immortal. It will find another, right here.”

  “Then we are lost,” said Ganindhra. “What hope is there for us?”

  “I will not accept that,” Granger replied, with steel in his voice.

  Ganindhra held his gaze, unblinking. After a few moments, the archers lowered their weapons and waited. Kellan was standing alone between them and Granger. The man held out his hand, and Kellan nervously took it and stood at Granger’s side to look at the chimera before them.

  “This is Kellan Aemoran,” he said. “And there is always hope.”

  Chapter Seven

  The days wore on and spring gave way to summer in Dashiya. The force that had defended Hadaiti slowly dissipated. Those loyal to their own homelands returned to their provinces to perhaps begin the process of rebellion against a weakened Empire. The news of the defeat would reach the ears of Lords and Noblemen, all of whom would suddenly be entertaining thoughts of ousting the local Governor and creating a throne for themselves. The irony was; that weakening the Empire so had undoubtedly paved the way to rebellion, civil war, claims and counter-claims over rights to rule and yet more bloodshed.

  Scurrilous Blunt cared little for the politics and in-fighting that would follow, but he did feel pity for the commoners, who were more concerned with making ends meet in uncertain times than who received their taxes.

  Wars were fought by the many, on behalf of the few. The many bled, whilst the few counted the cost or gain in coin.

  He counted his coins now, and, not for the first time, wondered if he was any better than those high-born who paid him to kill. The soft clatter of gold on gold banished those thoughts, however.

  King Rashun had been quick to pay the mercenary band, and quicker still to encourage them to stay and spend those coins in Hadaiti. Most of the mercenaries that had joined him for the battle had gone their own way with full purses and stories to tell their grandchildren. The regulars of his band, some thirty soldiers, remained in the Palace awaiting his decision.

  He had enough to keep those remaining in pay for over a year, but that was too long to go without working. Soldiers became slow and dull without regular action and he knew that they would have to move soon. The battle was now some thirty days behind them and they were all getting twitchy. Perhaps some Noble to the west of Kor’Habat would employ him to carve out a little Empire of his own within a weakened Korathea.

  Olimar entered the room, looking concerned.

  “King Rashun has received news, Blunt,” he said as Scurrilous Blunt tossed the last of the coins into one of the small chests.

  “News?” he asked, detecting the uneasy tone in his son’s voice. “What sort of news?”

  “I am not sure what to make of it,” Olimar replied. “It seems that for some weeks now there have been reports of a large flotilla rounding the Jendayan Peninsula, south of Balina.”

  “Jendaya?”

  “It appears that they were hampered by unseasonal storms and forced south again with the loss of some ships, but if the Jendayan Empire is on the move, that could make things interesting for Korathea.”

  “Bloody Jendayans on the move,” Blunt sneered. “If I had a silver mark for every pissed-up fisherman that had seen an invasion fleet crossing the Adorim Sea, I’d buy the bloody Jendayan Empire, and lead the bastard invasion myself.”

  “It could be possible that the Jendayan Empire has heard of our success against Kor’Habat and has seen this as an opportune moment,” Olimar reasoned.

  “No,” Blunt grumbled, thoughtfully. “If they were on the move, they would have started preparations long before the battle itself.”

  “They may have heard about the stripping back of the provincial garrisons,” he offered. “That’s been going on since the winter.”

  “Possibly. Anything other than hearsay?”

  “Nothing official, but this news is weeks old. They would have had time to make repairs by now and relaunch.”

  Blunt sat, thoughtful for a few moments. This was a complication he had not expected. The Jendayan Empire was a big unknown factor. Loose trade links were all that existed between the two continents; he had never seen, let alone met, a Jendayan. If the reports were anything more than the usual piss and wind of Bal Moran fishermen, then they could well be in Balina already.

  If the reports were anything more than piss and wind.

  Granger approached King Rashun’s throne room behind the stocky figure of Scurrilous Blunt. Blunt himself was flanked by his son, Olimar; and Valia, perhaps the most imposing figure of them all.

  Blunt had summoned him an hour ago for this meeting, but he was still none the wiser as to its purpose. Blunt often included Granger in discussions. The mercenary leader always claimed that it was wise to have a friendly historian witnessing events to ensure that he would not be remembered as a ‘complete and total bastard’, as he had put it. Although the way he had said it implied that he did not mind if history painted him a ‘bit of a bastard’.

  They were expected, and the guards pushed open the heavy wooden doors to admit them into the opulent throne room.

  The room glittered. Gold urns encrusted with jewels sat atop marble plinths, and rich tapestries hung on walls leafed with gold and silver. The clattering of their boots on the marble floor was silenced as they crossed onto a thick, luxurious rug. King Rashun himself was not in the ostentatiously bejewelled throne, but at a desk at the side of the room attended by a pair of clerks, offering him papers to sign, and carefully placing the pieces of parchment into various leather folders.

  The King looked up from his paperwork and smiled broadly. Granger knew of such men, always friendly and open, eager to offer any assistance at a moment’s notice, but look into those dark eyes and the constant machinations of self-service became evident. Rashun was always open for business, with his welcoming arms and friendly hand shake, but Granger did not for a moment believe the front to be anything other than pretence.

  He was convinced that Blunt felt the same way. King Rashun was a business partner, and the mercenary did not feel the same need to constantly ingratiate himself to the King. The Band remained in the Palace at the King’s invitation, true, but they also spent their gold in the city, and nothing would please Rashun more than for every coin he had paid to protect the city, to remain in the city.

  “Welcome my friends,” he beamed, standing and shooing his clerks away. “Come in and sit. Wine?”

  He poured a generous measure into a large goblet and offered it to Blunt, who accepted it and downed it in one draught. The King hesitated whilst filling one of the others and stared at Blunt for a second, his smile fixed. Then he continued to pour the other three goblets before refilling Blunt’s.

  Granger accepted the goblet out of courtesy, but had no real desire to drink it; it was too early in the day. They sat in the chairs to which Rashun gestured.

  “Are the rumours true?” Blunt said, getting straight to the point.

  “Jendaya?” The King asked. “It is not the first time that such stories have emerged. Only last year in fact, three trader’s ships rounded the reefs to the south at the same time and the Islanders cried ‘invasion’.”

  “Is this rumour any different? We have heard talk of a vast fleet rounding the northern tip of Jendaya, en route to Bal Mora.”

  Rashun shrugged. “A vast fleet, a few boats, dashed onto the rocks by storms, or simply turned back by a squall. I have heard many rumours, none of which necessarily have any basis in t
ruth.”

  “But?” Valia said, sensing he was withholding something.

  Rashun wrestled with some inner conflict. “But, there have not been any traders from Jendaya in my port for many days now; many days. I assumed that they stayed away because of the approaching Korathean army, but now I am not so sure.”

  “You mean, they have been prevented from travelling here to keep word of the fleet from getting out?” Valia said.

  “Perhaps. That is a big leap to take when we know so little.”

  “You seem untroubled at the prospect of another invading army,” Blunt said.

  “We have no quarrel with Jendaya. We are merely a trade conduit for them to the Eastern Kingdoms. They will not trade directly with each other because of their own histories and superstitions, so we fill the gap. Silks and spices travel west, and glass and precious metals go east.”

  “A profitable arrangement, no doubt,” Blunt said.

  King Rashun shrugged an apology.

  “But if Dashiya is so important to their trade with the Kingdoms across the Ashkelit Ocean,” Olimar said, “Why did they not come to your aid against the Korathean Empire?”

  “Because trade would continue regardless of who was in power here,” Valia said, looking at Rashun, “The Jendayans need a middleman, they don’t care who it is necessarily.”

  King Rashun shrugged again.

  “So,” Blunt said, “it is likely that something is going on in Jendaya. Their traders have kept away. Have you sent any ships the other way?”

  The king looked almost troubled for a moment, before his expression of friendly calm returned. “There have been no ships from beyond the Sabayan Isles for some time.”

  “How much time?” Blunt said.

  “Perhaps seventy days,” Rashun replied.

  “Seventy!” Blunt said.

  “That settles it,” Olimar said, “They must be trying to prevent news spreading. They could not mobilise an army without it being noticed and news travels fast by trader.”

  “Olimar’s right,” said Valia, “there is no other explanation, but we need more information.”