The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  “Who is it?” a querulous voice sounded from inside.

  “Travellers seeking lodgings…” he began

  “No room here I’m afraid,” came the hasty reply. Kellan and Elan exchanged looks and shrugged.

  “Five miles,” Elan said, “in the dark.”

  “The moon is bright, we will manage,” Kellan said. “We’ll get no rest here it would seem.”

  They began to walk down the road again when they heard a whistle. They turned to see a small house with its door open, a wan light leaking into the night. A man was beckoning from the doorway so they trotted over to the house.

  “Come in, quickly boys,” he said, and they stepped past him into the cosy little cottage.

  “Thank you, sir,” Kellan said, “we are looking for lodgings for the night, and to be honest do not relish the five mile walk to Ravenswold.”

  “Ha, you’d have no luck there after dark anyway,” the man said. He was old and slightly bent, with missing teeth, but still moved quickly enough. His grey hair was thin yet well kept, plastered as it was to his pate, and his grip was strong as he shook their hands.

  “I am Franklin,” he introduced himself.

  “Kellan, sir, and my friend Elan,” Kellan said.

  “Lythurian, eh,” said Franklin, “haven’t seen one of yours for many years.”

  “We like to keep to ourselves, sir,” Elan smiled.

  “If only more people would follow your example. World would be a better place. Please sit; where are my manners? I seldom receive guests.” He cleared a pair of chairs of clutter, and motioned for them to sit.

  “Now,” he said, “before you say anything more, I am not an inn. I do not take coin for food or bedding. For one thing, the food is plain, and another, the bedding is hard.” He laughed at his own joke. “But I do have a pile of logs for splitting out there, that I hope I can trust you boys to see to before you leave in the morning. Do we have a deal?”

  The boys looked at one another, nodding. “More than fair,” said Elan.

  “Good, now if you excuse me, I will need to bulk up the pot. You will no doubt be hungry.” Franklin went to the cooking alcove where the stove radiated heat, and rummaged about for some potatoes and salted beef. A half hour later, they sat down to steaming plates of beef and potatoes, with a thin, spicy gravy.

  “Have you boys the head for mead?” he asked.

  “I am not sure,” Kellan said, but the old man was already taking a fired clay jug from the shelf and clattering about on another for cups. When he had gathered three mismatched cups, he filled them and placed them on the table. He finally sat down again and raised his drink.

  “To youth,” he said, and then drank deeply. The boys sipped at the sweet stuff, and made appreciative noises. Then they ate in silence for a while.

  “Now tell me,” Franklin said, as he cleared his plate, “what brings you boys here in these times?”

  Kellan swallowed a mouthful. “Just travelling a little. We thought we would see a bit of the world for a couple of weeks before returning home.”

  “Home? You live in the mountain too?” asked the old man.

  “Yes, it is a long story, but I live in Lythuria too. Not born there as Elan was though,” he replied.

  “Well, you chose a poor time, my friends,” he said sadly.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Elan.

  “You really are cut off up there, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” said Elan

  “Perhaps it’s a good thing. The Empire has imposed a ban on all travel after dark, which explains your friendly welcoming committee. A few weeks back a man got into a bar fight with a Korathean militiaman. Just a brawl over something trivial no doubt, but the militiaman was killed. Accusations began to fly about, talk of open rebellion, you name it.”

  “Rebellion?” Kellan leaned forward.

  “Well, that’s what was said, but in truth it was just two men fighting over a dame or a spilled drink. The local governor has overreacted somewhat, and hanged a few people accused of being dissenters. Of course it didn’t take long for the less reputable businessmen to sow a few seeds about their competitors, or rival suitors to make a well-crafted comment in the right ear and you have a massacre. The Empire is looking for reasons to hang people. Leaving everyone quaking in their boots lest the finger fall on them.”

  “That’s insane,” Elan said in horror.

  “Bright boy; I like you,” Franklin said, “but sanity does not come into it where the Empire is concerned, though you didn’t hear that from me thank you very much. If you want my opinion, you lads should head straight back up that mountain in the morning, and stay there.”

  The following morning, after a night on the floor, with their bedrolls, and a hearty breakfast, they set about splitting the large pile of logs at the back of Franklin’s cottage. A few of the other villagers watched them suspiciously, but left them to their labours. It took them about two hours to work through the pile, and then they said their goodbyes and thanked Franklin for his hospitality.

  They continued down the road, heading for Ravenswold and the tavern they now knew to be there. They arrived before midday and walked into the town, weathering the stares that Elan attracted. There were a lot of stone buildings in Ravenswold, but still a large number of timber structures and the road surface was well cobbled. They made their way to the centre of the small town, passing a few shops, and a small tavern, but continued on to ‘The Raven’s Nest’. The sign outside had a brightly painted picture of a black bird feeding its chicks in a nest of twigs, proclaiming its name.

  It was stone-built with whitewashed walls and small unshuttered windows. It looked welcoming enough, so they entered the common room at the front of the building. A few men sat drinking from mugs, chatting quietly. The murmur died when the boys entered, with the innkeeper looking up in surprise.

  “Well now, I don’t believe I have served a Lythurian in,” he rubbed his chin making thoughtful sounds, “four winters or more.”

  The murmur rose again, but the boys were aware of the eyes on them.

  “What will it be then?” he asked cheerily.

  “Two ales, I suppose,” Kellan said. The innkeeper turned and busied himself pouring two mugs of frothy ale before turning back, and placing them on the tidy bar top.

  “These first two are on the house, on account of the infrequency with which I see your kind” he said to Elan with a smile. Then as the boys reached for the mugs, pulled them away again. “That is of course, if your mothers say it is all right.” The drinkers in ‘The Raven’s Nest’ laughed at the joke, and the innkeeper pushed the drinks back towards the boys with a smug grin.

  “Enjoy,” he said.

  “Thank you sir,” Elan said.

  “I wonder,” said Kellan, “if you might have lodgings for us tonight.”

  “Indeed,” the innkeeper said cheerfully, “though not on the house I’m afraid.”

  “Of course,” he laughed, “thank you for your generosity.” He raised his mug, and then took a swig of the frothy stuff, covering his top lip in foam. It was bitter, but quite pleasant.

  The innkeeper subtly motioned to Kellan to wipe his top lip, which he did with a smile then went to a table in the centre of the room. He took a small pouch of coins from his pocket remembering what Granger had said when he had tossed the pouch to him, “For emergencies. Big and small.”

  With only a little bread left, and a night in the woods the only alternative, this struck Kellan as a small emergency. They enjoyed their first taste of ale, and had another which they drank slowly, watching customers drift in and out of ‘The Raven’s Nest’. A few people spoke to them, striking up conversations spurred by their interest in the Lythurian; people there were friendly and content. The few that did offer advice simply warned them to stay off the roads after dark, and to avoid the militiamen wherever they could.

  They took some time to explore the town. There was not much to see, but h
aving decided to stay there overnight, there was an afternoon to while away and they did not have the stamina to drink until dark. They were walking across the main street when they heard the shout.

  “Militia!” They turned to look down the road, and saw, in the distance, riders approaching. They stood well clear of the road as the horsemen approached. The mounted militiamen were escorting a cart carrying a wooden cage with half a dozen wretched looking men clinging to the slats.

  The convoy halted outside ‘The Raven’s Nest’ and the militiamen all dismounted, save for two, who waited at the side of the cart looking surly. The soldiers swaggered into the inn, and disappeared from view. Kellan recognised the uniforms; the leather armour and blue-green cloaks, and thoughts of his childhood horror came flooding back.

  Elan put a restraining hand on Kellan’s shoulder, sensing the tension in his friend. Thankfully, they had left their longbows in their room at the inn.

  “What is it?” Elan asked.

  “I recognise the uniform, that’s all,” he replied, relaxing a little.

  “From your village?”

  Kellan nodded. “The soldiers who came to Goat’s Pass were dressed in such armour.

  “These will not be the same men,” Elan said needlessly.

  “I know, but still it makes my blood boil.” They looked at the men in the cage, dirty and beaten and clearly thirsty. One of the militiamen that had waited with the cart dismounted and uncorked a bladder of water. He held it temptingly close to the cage until the men reached out with clawing hands. He laughed and splashed a little through the slats a few times, enjoying the anguish of their captives as they tried to wet their tongues on the droplets.

  “That’s inhuman,” Kellan scowled.

  Elan took his arm and pulled him away. “There is nothing we can do,” he said.

  “No-one deserves to be treated like that,” Kellan said as he walked away with his friend, “except for those soldiers themselves.”

  They waited until the soldiers in the inn had refreshed themselves and continued on their way before returning to ‘The Raven’s Nest’.

  There was a subdued silence when they entered this time. Men were staring into their ale as if it had left a bitter taste in their mouths.

  “You did well to stay away from them, lads,” the innkeeper said on seeing them. “That green skin of yours would have attracted unwelcome interest.”

  “Who were they?” Elan asked.

  “Korathean Militia, here to keep the peace,” he said, smiling ruefully.

  “And those caged men, were they rebels?”

  “Who knows, they may as well be.”

  “What will happen to them?” Elan asked

  “They will most likely be taken as far as Firwood. There is a garrison posted there. They will be interrogated for information and most likely hanged,” the innkeeper sighed.

  “But what if they are innocent? What if they have no information to give?” Elan looked sick.

  “Everybody gives information during torture,” one of the customers said from a corner of the room.

  “Now, Roan, the boys don’t need to hear this,” the innkeeper said with a warning tone.

  “You would make things up to stop the pain,” Roan persisted, “tell them your own mother was Queen of the rebellion to make them end it all.”

  “That’s enough Roan, you’ve had your fill of ale today,” the innkeeper told him.

  “Those poor bastards were probably accused by their neighbours just to make the torture end, and they will point the finger at their own children with time. The torturer does not stop until he is sure you have given it all up, and so you keep spilling names, every name you know until they relent long enough to take your head or stretch your neck.”

  “I won’t have this talk in my inn. Get out,” the innkeeper said angrily, leaving the bar to eject Roan.

  “They won’t stop until there is no-one left to accuse,” Roan blustered, “unless we hit back. There are those who are fighting the Empire.” The innkeeper lifted him from his chair as he became more animated, and with the aid of another customer, led him unsteadily to the door. “If you kick a dog it will cower, but we are not dogs, we are men. If we all rise up, they cannot defeat us all. It takes men of courage to defeat tyrants. Stand together!” He was shouting by the time he was ejected.

  “Take him home and put him to bed before he puts a noose around his own neck,” the innkeeper hissed to the other man, then returned to the bar, smoothing his apron.

  No-one mentioned Roan again that evening. Everyone continued as if he had never been there and had that drunken outburst. The boys had another couple of ales, and some dumplings with spiced sausage, before retiring to their beds. They were both feeling ill at ease when they laid their heads down. Even with the ale, it took some time for them to find sleep.

  “In the morning,” Elan said sternly before they slept, “we leave this town and go into the hills and forests. As far away as we can get from people and soldiers.”

  Kellan found it hard to disagree.

  Over the next four days, they tried to forget Ravenswold. Elan got his first deer, on his third attempt, one of the little black deer, and they celebrated with a hearty roast. They salted what they could for storing in their packs, leaving little for the wolves and crows. They found a pool beneath a waterfall where they swam and jumped from the rocks then lay in the sun to warm themselves again. Elan was used to the warm waters of Lythuria, and the icy melt water took him some time to get used to. Kellan pretended that he was used to the chilly water, but in truth, he had also grown accustomed to the steamy water of home, although he did not admit it to his friend.

  They found the ruin that Kellan remembered passing with Granger on his way to Lythuria, and they spent an hour exploring the rubble, hoping to stumble on some great treasure in the ancient building. It had not changed since Kellan had seen it first. The faceless statue still lay broken, staring without eyes at what had once been standing around it.

  “What do you think it was?” Elan asked.

  “Granger says that no-one can remember,” Kellan replied.

  “Look, there are markings on this rock,” Elan said urgently, ducking low behind a huge block of stone. Kellan rushed over.

  “Where?”

  “Here.” Elan pointed at a section of eroded script that Kellan did not recognise

  “I cannot read it. What does it say?”

  “It says,” Elan said intently, screwing up his face. “It says, ‘Kellan Aemoran wets his bed.”

  Elan dodged away before Kellan could grab him, and ran off laughing. They continued on their way.

  Early one morning they were stalking another deer, into their second week away from home, when they heard the voices. It was Kellan’s turn and he was up front when he heard shouts from ahead and slightly down the slope. He moved forward, crouching low and no longer mindful of startling the little deer.

  He gestured for Elan to follow closer, and made his way to a fallen log where he waited. The voices were close; he felt that if he stood up, he would be able to see who was speaking. Elan arrived, looking worried.

  “Soldiers,” he mouthed. Kellan shrugged.

  Kellan slowly stood, using a clump of ivy on the log to cover his face but allow him to watch through the gaps. He was closer than he thought. They were on the very edge of a small secluded settlement of only half a dozen log houses. There were about eight militiamen facing a group of terrified villagers. He recognised the leather armour and blue-green cloaks straight away. The arrogance and swagger of the soldiers was also so very familiar to him. One of them was talking.

  “But this man was found on the road outside of daylight hours,” the soldier said.

  “He is a trapper, he frequently leaves his bed before the sun is fully up,” one of the villagers said defensively.

  “Is that true?” the soldier said, pulling a man into view from behind the horses. The man was clutching the stump of one wrist, his f
ace drawn and pale. “Are you a trapper?”

  The man’s reply was inaudible

  “I have already taken one of your hands to make you talk. Must I take the other?”

  The man spoke again, and Kellan could make out the word ‘trapper’ through the slurred speech.

  Kellan lowered himself behind the log again.

  “There are eight Militiamen,” he whispered, “only two have crossbows.”

  Elan looked dumbly at him.

  “We can take them first, and drop the swordsmen before they can cover the ground between us.”

  Elan looked horrified. He shook his head and made to speak.

  “Elan,” Kellan hissed, “Those people are all going to die. Like those poor wretches in the cage in Ravenswold. Do you want that to happen?”

  He swallowed hard, and shook his head, but his eyes remained bulging in fear. Kellan could feel his anger rising with the bitter memories that were woken in him, and reached for the Calm. It slammed down on his rage, trapping it with cool indifference, reducing the rising buzz in his head to a distant hum. With his senses heightened, he peered over the log again, as he nocked an arrow. As he watched, a young woman stepped out from the log cabin nearest to the group, and raised a drawn bow. The injured man sagged with relief and smiled weakly at the woman, and a momentary look of mutual love and understanding passed between them. For a moment Kellan thought she would kill the soldier, but instead she sent the arrow into the injured man’s heart. Before she could clear another arrow from her hip, two crossbow bolts struck her in the chest and took her from her feet.

  Kellan stood in that moment and drew in a sharp breath.

  Release. The first crossbowman fell.

  Kellan had another arrow nocked before he hit the ground. He drew in a breath.

  Release. The second crossbowman fell as he crouched to crank his crossbow back.

  He had released another arrow to strike one of the scattering swordsmen before Elan rose and fired from behind the log.

  The militiamen were shouting, and as Kellan released another arrow to strike a charging swordsman, they heard more shouts from down the hill.