The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  “Kellan, there are others coming. Run!” Elan shouted at his side. The villagers had scattered into the forest. One of the soldiers had mounted a horse and was urging it away at speed, but Kellan calmly put an arrow in the riders back, and he slumped from the saddle to bounce limply on the ground. The horse continued, rider less.

  Elan dragged at him, pulling him away from the approaching voices. “Kellan!”

  He surfaced from the Calm. It was like plunging his head into cold water as realisation dawned on him and fear and revulsion filled his mind. They ran through the trees until they could no longer breathe, away from the soldiers and the consequences of their intervention. They ran long after the sounds of pursuit had faded and collapsed gasping onto the ground with burning lungs and aching legs.

  “Fate, Kellan,” Elan almost wept. “What have we done?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sliver of land on the horizon was the most wonderful thing that Valia had ever seen. The end of the ordeal was within sight at last.

  They had been at sea for a further two weeks after leaving Kepu with a new mast. Even when the sea was calm, and it seldom was, the deck rolled constantly, churning her belly. Only Truman’s brews kept her going and she grudgingly admitted to herself that she was glad to have him on the voyage.

  She swore to herself again, never to eat another fish as long as she lived. Granger tried hard, she knew that, but there were only so many ways to dress up a halibut. Besides, she had seen what went overboard every day from this ship, and was determined that she would never eat anything that came out of the sea again.

  In readiness for landfall, she put on her light leather armour again. It felt good to wear the cuirass and greaves once more and the bracers on her forearms were reassuringly firm.

  The land grew with painful slowness, with the ship taking the rest of the day to reach the port at Ter’Arbis. The port was thick with ships, and the Captain cursed at the throng of vessels blocking his path. A shouted conversation with a nearby vessel revealed a dire situation. The city was flooded with refugees from Bal Mora, the neighbouring province. The Jendayan invasion was a reality after all.

  They eventually disembarked via another vessel, crossing a precarious wooden gangplank to do so. Blunt left half of his thirty men to watch their cargo and went ashore to gather information.

  The docks were packed with the vacant expressions of shocked refugees, clinging to crying children or treasured belongings. The elderly, infirm and injured lay on litters everywhere they looked, and the murmur of the dispossessed filled the air.

  No new information could be garnered from those on the docks. They were either too busy or too stunned to share their news. They made their way deeper into the city, finding the streets choked with refugees, many sleeping on the bare cobbles, exhausted from their flight. Families clung together, hoarding the few possessions they had been able to carry with them and guarding them jealously.

  They found a large inn, one of few that was not packed to the door, and went inside in the vain hope of finding lodgings and information. Blunt removed the garish red hat as they entered, running his fingers across the green feathers to smooth them. He leant over the bar to speak quietly with the innkeeper.

  The innkeeper laughed. “You’ll not get a room in Ter’Arbis tonight friend, not for love nor gold”

  “How about ale?” Blunt grumbled. “Do you still have ale?”

  “Get it while it lasts gentlemen,” he grinned toothily, “of course, demand being what it is, you will have to excuse the high price.”

  “I see,” Blunt said, “just how high a price?”

  “Two silver marks,” he beamed, clearly doing the mental arithmetic as he counted the mercenaries at Blunt’s back.

  Blunt reached across the bar suddenly and grabbed his collar in a meaty fist, pulling him half over the top. “You profiteering bastard,” he spat, “making good while people suffer. There is an invasion under way. You can take your two silver marks and shove them up your arse until you choke.”

  “Quite right,” a voice came from behind Blunt, “it’s watered too.”

  They all turned to see who had spoken.

  Three men in militia uniforms with their blue-green trim sat at a table, nursing their watered down ale.

  “We are only in this place because my friend Dimas here was desperate for a drink,” he gestured to one of the other men, hunched in ill-fitting leather militia armour, in his mid-fifties, who looked as though he had already had far too much to drink. He had the fair hair and blue eyes of his countrymen, but much of that fair hair was going to grey, and he was in need of a shave.

  “You militiamen?” Blunt asked.

  “Ex,” he replied.

  “What?”

  “Ex militiamen. From Balina, Bal Mora,” he said, “Jendayans over ran the city in hours. Now I find myself unemployed.”

  “Then you should report to the militia here in Ter’Arbis,” Olimar said. “This city will need all the help it can get if the Jendayans move east.”

  “I’m afraid that I am Bal Moran, not Korathean” he said shaking his head. “If the Empire wants to send some Heavy Infantry to retake my home, then I will fight alongside them. But Bal Mora is no longer part of the Empire, and so I am a free man. They stripped the garrison there to its bare bones for their campaign in Hadaiti, and I gather that did not go well for them.”

  Blunt cleared his throat awkwardly, eyes flashing to his companions. “What can you tell us of the invasion? Numbers? Movements? Anything?”

  The drunken man, Dimas, shouted for another ale as he rummaged about his uniform of leather and wool for the coins. The speaker tossed two silver marks onto the table for the serving maid, and he settled down again to await his drink.

  The speaker continued. “They landed about four weeks ago, on the point at Sangier, south of Balina. Easily a hundred thousand, but we saw sails on the horizon so you can be sure that more will follow. They marched on Balina first, driving a mass of refugees before them from the towns and villages they took. The stories those people brought with them confirmed that the Jendayans have not come here for the scenery. Rape and murder is the norm for those who do not swear fealty to their Emperor, and even then…” he left the sentence hanging as Dimas muttered something incomprehensible and took a large swig from his recharged tankard.

  “And after Balina?” Valia asked. “Have they moved beyond the city?”

  “We did not wait to find out,” he replied. “But there are refugees in Ter’Arbis from towns to the east of Balina that we did not pass through, so I think it safe to assume they have moved out into the countryside to expand their conquest.”

  “Are you all that remains of the militia?” Valia asked, running her eyes across the three of them.

  “Oh, no,” he said, “there are a further eighty or so, camped beyond the city walls. We escorted as many refugees as we could gather across the border into Arbis Mora, though I doubt we gave any real protection. People look to a uniform for reassurance, so we gave them that at least.”

  “I thought you were no longer a militiaman,” Olimar said.

  “Oh, I am not,” he replied, “I am a civilian now. I was employed by the provincial governor to keep the peace in Balina as a militiaman. As I say, that province is lost, the governor having fled well ahead of us, back to Kor’Habat. I am a free man now.”

  “Yet you escort refugees?”

  “Free to do as I please. And it pleases me to escort refugees. Yes,” he grinned.

  “And now?”

  His grin remained, but the humour drained from his eyes. “I haven’t got a clue. The men that followed me have their families with them. Those eighty men are swelled by a further four hundred wives, children and elderly folk. I suppose we just keep heading east until Kor’Habat can send the Heavy Infantry to push the Jendayans back.”

  “I would not hold too dearly to that hope,” Blunt said sardonically.

  “I wanted to be a farme
r,” he laughed. “But my father said he would be passing the farm to my elder brother, Rudo. I only joined the militia for the steady wage.”

  “Are you their leader?” Olimar asked.

  “No. As I said, I am a civilian now. They chose to follow me but I don’t give orders.”

  Blunt exhaled thoughtfully

  “Forgive my rudeness,” the ex-militiaman said. “My name is Alano Clemente. This is Emerico Rafel, and the merry one is called Dimas.” The drunken man raised his tankard, struggling to focus on them.

  “Well, Alano,” Blunt said, “do you have any idea where we might find a bed tonight?”

  A few hours later, Blunt and his band of mercenaries followed Alano out of the city gates and into the countryside beyond. The land was mostly cultivated, though pockets of woodland remained, and it was at the edge of one such forest that they saw the camp in the distance. It was not the only one, with refugees gathered in clusters near farm buildings or simply at the roadside.

  Horses had been impossible to buy anywhere in the city, and the best they could do was buy three overpriced handcarts to transport the wine from the ship. The price offered by the wine merchant in the city had been an insult, less than Blunt had paid for it himself, and so they carried it out of the city with them, bumping along awkwardly with the handcarts.

  Dimas was swaying along the dusty road, taking the occasional swig from a wineskin and singing softly to himself when Kellan drew up alongside Alano.

  “It’s Kellan, isn’t it?” he said

  “Yes, you have a good head for names,” he replied.

  “Need it in my line of work. Needed,” he corrected.

  “And what would that be exactly?”

  Alano flinched at the subtle edge in Kellan’s tone. “A keeper of the peace mostly,” he replied.

  “Does it not bother you; being a tool of the Empire?”

  “Should it?” Alano replied without hesitation.

  “That you seem to have gladly thrown in your lot with the Korathean oppressor? Perhaps it should.”

  Alano chuckled. “We merely keep the peace. For the most part we break up bar brawls and chase pickpockets about the markets. We do the jobs that are below the Heavy Infantry. It is civic pride that drives most of us. We leave the ‘oppressing’ to others. The rule of law is not the same as subjugation, and most of us would do our jobs whoever sat in the Governor’s seat.”

  Kellan was thoughtful for a moment.

  “You are Bal Moran?”

  “That I am,” Alano said proudly.

  Kellan nodded as a few pieces of a puzzle he had been struggling with fell into place.

  “I was hoping that you would have information for me.”

  “You can have it if it is mine to share,” he said with a smile.

  “I am looking for a man,” he said, “from some years back now. But he was Governor of the Northlands.”

  Alano whistled through his teeth. “You have a grievance to settle?”

  Kellan was taken aback by the question. “Why do you say that?”

  He shrugged. “Just a feeling,” he said.

  “Well, he would have been Governor there about twelve, thirteen years ago.”

  Alano gave him a sideways glance. “Twelve years ago? That would be,” he screwed up his face in concentration, “Beklis, I think. Yes, Governor Beklis.”

  “Governor Beklis,” he tasted the name.

  “You do have a grievance to settle,” Alano nodded.

  “That I do.”

  “Not surprising, really.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Are you from the Northlands?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then take no offence at what I am about to say,” he said, putting his hands up defensively.

  “Go on,” said Kellan warily.

  “The Northlands are seen among the militias as something of a,” he searched for the word, “low-grade posting. Beklis was not born highly enough to ensure Governorship of a better one, and he took out his frustration on the people around him. The Northlanders. The same goes for the militiamen themselves.

  “It is a harsh environment. Mountainous, freezing in the winter, the whorehouses are thin on the ground and the ale too bitter for most. The empire cannot recruit enough militiamen from the Northlanders themselves, and so are forced to bring in outsiders to do the job. The only people who go to the Northlands have either been low born, pissed on the wrong doorstep, or are plain and simple vicious bastards. Beklis was a combination of all three. He used to travel about with his pet executioner. Mind of a child as I recall. Favoured the ‘necklace’ as a tool, to decapitate his victims.” He laughed. “‘Governor Beklis and his feckless necklacer’, we used to say.”

  “I saw that ‘necklace’ used on my mother,” Kellan said quietly, menace in his voice. He remembered only too well the gleaming, sharp blades of that cruel device.

  Alano stopped and turned to look at him, his face anguished. “I am sorry. I did not mean to make light of your loss.”

  “Where is he now?” Kellan asked evenly.

  “Ara Dasari would be my best guess. That is where most retiring Governors go to, if they do not have family land elsewhere. In fact I would bet a month’s wages that he is there. Ara Dasari.” They resumed walking, Alano watching Kellan warily from the corner of his eye. “The new Governor is no better from what I hear. You see, about thirty years ago, soon after the Northlands were first occupied, there was a small uprising in a group of villages in the far west of the province. It was very embarrassing for the Governor at the time, and it took the Heavy Infantry to retake the area. Since then, the militias have come down hard on any whisper of dissent. That sort of fervour coupled with a general resentment of the Northlands themselves leads to all sorts of nastiness. So it is hardly surprising that you should seek this man out with vengeance in mind.”

  Kellan did not reply.

  They drew close to the camp. A dozen or so of the ex-militiamen, still in their blue-green trimmed leather armour, had gathered to greet them. Their eyes were fixed on the newcomers, and their hands never far from their swords.

  There were two horses tethered in the camp, worth their weight in silver no doubt, as the price of even a half-decent animal was sky high at the moment. Many had been slaughtered for meat by the refugees as the meagre food supplies they had left with ran out. The price of grain was exorbitant too, with merchants turning a tidy profit from the high demand.

  A few dozen oxen and cattle grazed the thin offerings at the roadside under the watchful eyes of the children tasked with keeping them near. The oxen were clearly there to pull the wagons and carts that were set orderly within the camp.

  Emerico, or ‘Rico’ as he asked to be called, was first to reach the camp, and had explained the extra presence by the time the mercenaries reached it themselves.

  Introductions took some time, but the mercenaries were soon settled into their own section of the encampment. They used tarpaulins from their carts to make rudimentary shelters against the tree line, grateful that the weather remained fair.

  Alano was greeted by a woman, who he introduced as his wife, Casilda. She was a head shorter than his six feet or more, and delicate against his well-muscled frame. They shared the same blue eyes and fair hair, although Alano’s was thinning on top.

  “Welcome to the remnants of Bal Mora,” Casilda greeted them from his side.

  “Thank you,” Valia said. “I wish we could say it was good to be here.”

  She nodded sadly. “I know. But we must make the best of things. If not for our sakes, then for the children at least.” Several small children were playing in the camp, chasing each other between tents and giggling. It struck Valia how different these refugees looked compared to the huddled masses in the city. These were people determined to have a hand in their own destiny, not willing to lie low and await rescue from their plight.

  “Are any of them yours?” Valia asked.

  Casild
a shook her head sadly. “No,” she replied, then more cheerfully, “come, you must be hungry.”

  “Indeed,” said Alano, “if Mister Bluntis would care to tap one of those barrels he has carted from the docks, then we shall celebrate our safe deliverance together.”

  Blunt grunted, and signalled to a pair of mercenaries to unload a barrel.

  “I must say, it is good to be by the sea again,” Alano said, sniffing the salt air. “We have been avoiding the coast road, favouring the inland routes from Balina. I am tired of beef and mutton, I must confess. We can finally eat some proper food.”

  “And what would that be?” Valia said with a sinking feeling.

  Alano clapped his hands, rubbing his palms together in expectation. “Fish.”

  There were several large cooking fires around the camp, and the mercenaries had split up to join various family groups to eat with. After their meals, most of the adults gathered around the main fire, which was built up to ward off the evening chill. The children were put to bed in tents or wagons, and slowly the bustle of the camp died down. The wine barrel did not last long with around two hundred willing to partake of Dashiya’s finest.

  Granger had earlier entertained the children with exciting stories of Princes and Dragons, talking rabbits and silly goats. They had listened with rapt fascination to his tales, giggling at his antics and gasping as he painted images in the air before him. Now he was entertaining the adults with upbeat comedies and witty anecdotes. He was careful to select those with happy endings; the last thing they needed was a tragedy to send them to their beds downcast.

  Slowly, people began to slip away from the fire to their own beds as the blaze burned down to a glowing pile of embers. Truman was playing quietly on his lute, a gentle piece that had those remaining relaxing in the glow. Granger was sitting nearby, sipping wine from a cup and listening in to the conversations around him; ever the observer. Valia, Blunt and Olimar were sitting across the fire from the brothers, Foley and Marlon, who were discussing the invasion with Alano and Emerico. Dimas was taking full advantage of the free wine, filling his wineskin from the barrel, and returning to his seat, staring at Elan who was studiously trying to ignore him. A few of the other mercenaries remained too, along with several of the ‘‘Remnants’’ of the militia from Balina.