by B R Crichton
“Hello, Kellan,” she said softly.
He held out his hand and took hers in it, then gently pulled her down to join him on the mound. She sat with her arms around her knees, staring at the pink clouds on the horizon.
“You seem tense,” he said softly.
“You have been distant lately,” she replied.
“I know,” he said fidgeting with the grass under him. “There is something I need to talk about with you.”
“Is it about leaving to fight in some rebellion?” she said, surprising him.
“Has Elan told you then?”
“He mentioned it.”
“And did he tell you why?”
“He said you were a mule-headed fool,” she said.
“That’s not the reason I gave him,” Kellan replied with a sigh.
“But that is the reason, isn’t it?” she turned to look at him.
“You don’t understand,” he began.
“No? Well why don’t you try to explain it to me,” she said hotly.
Kellan sagged. He had spent so much energy trying to justify his reasons, and had hoped Eloya would understand.
“It is my duty to my homeland,” he said eventually.
“A homeland you showed little interest in until you met with that trader,” she said.
“Would you not fight for Lythuria?” he asked.
“I would,” she replied, “and would expect you to fight for Lythuria too. This is your home Kellan, not some far flung land to the south that you have barely seen in ten years. I know that you are not completely happy here, but you need to better yourself, that is what this is really about. You feel demeaned, milking cows for a living.”
He rolled his eyes. Why did everyone think he could find happiness by simply changing his employment? Why was everyone trying to get him to fulfil his potential, when he alone knew his purpose?
“Why can no-one see that I am bound to those lands by birth? I need to join the rebellion for my own sake. I have to live the rest of my life with the decision I make now.”
“Well, that life may not be very long if you try to fight the Empire,” she warned. “Oh, Kellan,” she looked at him lovingly, “why can’t you see that we love you. I love you, and don’t want to see you throw your life away on an impulse.”
“This is not an impulse,” he said. “I have been thinking a long time about this; even before the trader arrived. Do you remember when Elan and I went to the Northlands, two years ago?” She nodded. “Something happened on that trip. I killed some men.” She gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. “They were Korathean Militiamen, and they had already murdered one woman and were about to kill more innocent people. I had no choice.”
“Kellan,” she almost cried, “what is happening to you?”
“I am waking up to what is happening in the world beyond this safe haven,” he replied. “I have too many demons in my mind to sit back and ignore my responsibilities any longer.”
She looked at him with a horrified expression. He reached for her, and she recoiled.
“Eloya,” he said pleadingly.
“No,” she wept, “I don’t know you anymore.”
“Eloya,” he said with more force.
“Leave me alone,” she cried as she ran away from him, sobbing, into the trees. He began to rise, to chase after her, then thought better of it and collapsed onto the grass.
He lay on the grassy mound where the daisies grew thickest, beside the small waterfall and the crystal pool, and his heart cried tears his eyes would not.
His emotions were in turmoil as he lay awake that night. He was utterly convinced that he was justified in his desire to join the struggle in his homeland, and yet everyone he loved had sneered at the very idea. His anger simmered within him, snarling like a beast poised to strike
The hurt cut deeply. To be derided in such a way by those he trusted with his innermost thoughts was almost too much to bear. He felt more alone than any time he could recall in his life, and betrayed by those nearest to him.
He sought the Calm to dull the burning in his heart, and allowed numbness to settle on him. From his dispassionate remove, he saw how insignificant the objections of his friends actually were. His path had been decided, and the protests of others should have no bearing on his actions. He sought their minds among the constellations, and saw the gossamer threads to the Life-force holding them to this world. He saw the dull flicker of vague thoughts within as they slept and dreamed, then turned on his own mind.
He had never looked at his own mind like this before, finding the odd mental twist required more of a challenge than he had expected. He watched his own memories and thoughts bounce across the infinite facets, wrapped in unfeeling serenity and wondered how to make sense of them.
Then, a strange glimmer caught his eye. Below the layers of his own mind there was another level, a new depth he did not recognise. He pushed deeper to more closely inspect this anomaly. The shock of what he saw sent him reeling from the Calm, throwing the deadening hush from his emotions and flooding him with terror.
Within his mind had been a writhing entity like black bees boiling over one another in a formless mass, buzzing fiercely, blacker than pitch and utterly lacking in humanity. The alien presence seemed to be feeding off of him, drawing sustenance from his soul, but that was not the most terrifying thing about it. Trailing from the core of it, and dwarfing the gossamer light of Kellan’s own life with its vastness, was the unbreakable strand of an immortal.
He leapt from his bed and ran into the night. He ran all the way to the great tree, lungs burning when he arrived.
“Ganindhra!” he shouted, as he approached the opening. He expected to be stopped by Lythurian bowmen, but none appeared.
“Ganindhra!” he shouted again as he entered. His voice echoed within the living cavern.
“You have seen it,” the creature said simply, from his throne.
“What is it? What have you done to me?” Kellan almost wept. His fear was like a rope around his guts.
“I have done nothing,” Ganindhra replied simply.
“You know what it is,” he accused the gnarled being, as he felt that entity take shape of purpose, directing its attention at Ganindhra.
“Yes,” he replied, “but I have only sought to give you control over it. No more.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Kellan almost pleaded, on the edge of tears.
Ganindhra leant forwards and beckoned to him. “You are young, and in need of guidance.”
Kellan paced around the creature, but drew no nearer. His fear was slowly being pushed aside by anger; an emotion that was more comfortable to him than he would have liked. “Do you seek to control me too, then?”
“Kellan, sit,” Ganindhra said, but Kellan continued to circle him.
“I will not sit, while you twist your words and play games.” He felt the rage swell and flush away the last vestiges of his earlier horror, and take root in the pit of his stomach with a furious buzzing.
“Embrace the Calm,” Ganindhra urged. “Do not give in to anger. Embrace the Calm and see the facts more clearly.”
“I will not allow you to plant your seeds in my head any longer,” he hissed in reply.
“I implore you, Kellan,” he began.
“No!” Kellan shouted as his rage swelled, its sweetness threatening to overpower him, “No more!”
As he stepped towards Ganindhra, his fists clenched at his sides, the creature recoiled. Perhaps it was the shock of it that shook Kellan from the grip of his anger, but Ganindhra looked genuinely frightened. In all their years of meetings and training, Kellan had only ever known him to be imperturbable and measured in every way. Now as he approached him, seething, the creature quailed, and shrank away from him as though terrified, trying to free himself from the throne, fighting bonds he knew to be unbreakable.
He feared Kellan.
Or feared what lay within him.
He fell back from the panic stri
cken creature, shock and confusion driving his anger down. He backed away towards the opening, with his eyes fixed on Ganindhra.
What lies had he endured these past years?
Who now could he trust?
Without another word, Kellan fled into the night.
Chapter Seventeen
Kiritowa Tui approached the tent of his master. This was not the Emperor he had sworn on the blood of his loved ones to serve, but rather, the one who had beguiled that Emperor. Emperor Hapatu, Most Blessed Ray of the Sun, had given Kiritowa’s new master complete control over the campaign they now pressed on with.
He was not sure that he trusted this man, but the Emperor had been clear with his orders, and Kiritowa’s place was not to doubt the incarnation of the Sun itself. But this outlander had arrived suddenly, and quickly gained the Emperor’s ear with promises of immortality. What need did the Most Blessed Ray of the Sun have for that particular gift; the sun rose every morning, did it not? Though the Emperor’s body may wither, he would be reborn with the sunrise in new flesh that would carry the Most Blessed Ray of the Sun to his rule again.
Had the Priests not found his soul in the body of a new-born babe every time his old flesh had withered, for over a thousand years now? Immortality! The outlander was a conjurer; no more.
For fifteen years, the outlander had been manipulating his Emperor. This invasion was the culmination of those machinations. Rumour had it that the outlander was searching for someone. Or something.
The tent was a huge affair, bigger than most houses of the noble families of Wakatu, the Seat of the Sun. The guards were expecting him, and opened the large flap at his approach. He immediately lowered his eyes. Looking directly at the Emperor was forbidden, lest the gaze of commoners sully his magnificence, and this man had been afforded the same veneration. Men of lesser rank were required to crawl on hands and knees, but Kiritowa Tui was the most senior general in the Empire. Being allowed to remain on his feet should have been an honour, but even lowering his eyes before this charlatan made him seethe. He was seated on a throne, raised up on a dais, richly carpeted, and surrounded by silk cushions.
“What news from the advance parties, General?”
Kiritowa winced at the sound of his master’s voice. It grated like old iron hinges to his ears.
“The advance continues as expected, Lord Abaddon,” he replied. “If anything, easier. Resistance has been surprisingly light.”
“A General should not be surprised by events, it shows a lack of intelligence.”
Kiritowa was sure that Abaddon had chosen the word as an insult, using it in more than just the tactical context.
“Our intelligence allowed for the absence of the Heavy Infantry, Lord Abaddon. The militia, however, proved to be less obdurate than their Korathean rulers.”
“Indeed,” Abaddon said, and Kiritowa could hear the smirk through which the word had been spoken.
The General cleared his throat, and continued. “Reports are still coming in with regards to the battle at Hadaiti, but it would seem that the Korathean army has been greatly reduced in numbers. This would suggest…”
“Yes, Hadaiti,” Abaddon interrupted. “What reports do you have from the battle itself?”
“The battle?” Kiritowa almost looked up in surprise, but caught himself in time to lock his gaze on the rich carpet at his feet.
“The battle,” Abaddon replied from his high seat with a patience adults reserved for children or the slow-witted.
“The Heavy Infantry were beaten back with heavy losses; numbers are…”
“By a force much smaller than their own.”
“It would seem…”
“That your informers are slow, or inept,” Abaddon said with anger in his deep, grating voice. “What stories are being told on the streets of Korathea? What rumours abound in the remains of the Heavy Infantry? Who rose above the rest in battle? Heroes? Villains?” He paused. “Strange occurrences?” The last was spoken slowly, heavy with insinuation.
Not for the first time, Kiritowa felt as though he was working at cross purposes to Abaddon. The man clearly had different ideas about what was tactically important information. Always obsessing with the irrelevant.
What difference did it make who the rumour mills churned out from the battle as hero or villain?
Strange occurrences? This campaign could not be run on the hearsay of illiterate peasants and drunk soldiers.
“I shall press my informants for more detail as Lord Abaddon wishes.”
Abaddon stepped down from the dais as Kiritowa spoke, and slowly made his way to the back of the tent, black silk robes like liquid in the lamplight. Despite himself, the General chanced a glance at the back of Abaddon. He was tall. Far taller than any Jendayan, and even tall for any race on this continent. Kiritowa would barely reach his sternum, but his limbs were so thin that the General could not help but think him feeble. The man’s hairless head was laced with veins that pulsed and flowed with black ichor. As though expecting it, the man half turned his head so that Kiritowa’s hurriedly downcast eyes must surely have been caught by his peripheral vision.
Abaddon only chuckled. He stopped at a large cage, one of two about chest high on his gangly frame and twice as wide, which was draped in heavy rugs to hide what lurked within. Beside it a large silver urn sat, lidded, on a table. Something moved wetly within the cage, and a soft chittering emanated from behind the shroud as Abaddon gently placed his hand on the top. He ran his hand back and forth, almost sensually, as Kiritowa clenched his jaw with distaste.
“I have other servants to do my bidding if you should fail me, General.”
Servants? His bidding!
“That will not be necessary, Lord Abaddon.”
He prayed to the Sun that it would not.
Those abominations should never have been brought here. Whatever has afflicted Abaddon’s flesh, has clearly affected his mind too. Those creatures have been hunted to near extinction for a reason. To pull them from the dark pits again was madness.
Kiritowa kept his counsel. The screams of the last man to show open dissent still stalked him in his nightmares.
“Then go,” Abaddon dismissed him as he lifted the lid from the urn.
The General bowed unnecessarily at Abaddon’s back and turned to leave, catching a glimpse of the raggedly cut meat that was lifted from the silver receptacle. Kiritowa left hurriedly as the excited chittering from the cage grew to fever pitch.
The extra horses were warmly received by the Band when Blunt and Valia returned to the encampment outside Ter’Arbis, but the lack of good news was less welcome. Two days earlier, after even more refugees had tried to find sanctuary in the city, Ter’Arbis had finally burst, and driven on by stories of ever approaching Jendayans, a mass exodus had begun. Alano had decided that it would be best for the women and children to leave too.
His wife, Casilda, had not shed any tears when they parted. He had expected nothing less from his beloved wife. She had suffered so much in her life and known so much heartbreak, that this simple parting could not compare. A weaker person would have broken many times over. But not his Casilda.
The ‘Remnants’ had all said goodbye to their loved ones, knowing that it was for the best, and remained, to a man, to make a stand beside Alano Clemente. That so many chose to remain under his command was a testament to his leadership.
Truman weighed the captured sword in his hand. “I have seen such blades before,” he was saying to Valia, “finely balanced and well made.”
He held it up, sighted down the length of the gently curved edge and grunted approvingly. It was slightly broader than his rapier, with an unadorned pommel below a bound grip long enough for two hands to find purchase, though it was light enough for one.
“The Jendayan Empire has a reputation for producing fine steel. I doubt that this is any exception. A very interesting weapon, but would require a different technique to the rapier,” he said, sheathing it regretfully.
&n
bsp; “Too old to learn new tricks?” Kellan joked, holding out his hands for the captured sword.
“My dear boy, I have forgotten more about swordsmanship than you shall ever know,” Truman retorted, puffing out his chest as Kellan drew the sword and weighed it first in one hand, then two.
Kellan smiled patiently at his friend’s bluster, and tried a few forms with the sword. Defensive stances and attacking poses all felt natural enough with the new weapon, though he would be very interested to learn from a master how to use it properly.
“If you can use it, it’s yours,” Valia said, seeing Kellan’s interest.
“Really?”
“I’ve no room for trinkets in my life, and I’d sooner trust my own steel,” she said, placing her hand on the pommel of her longsword. Truman watched her hand as she caressed the pommel absently for a moment, then he shook his head to break his reverie and changed the subject.
“So it is decided. We are to head north into the Mora Mountains.”
“Alano knows these foothills and forests like the back of his hand,” Valia said. “We can strike at their flanks and retreat into the hills. Harry them all the way into Dasar.”
“And hope the Korathean army has pulled itself together by the time the Jendayans reach Moshet?” Olimar said as he approached. “It is a vain hope.”
“But as our illustrious Historian is wont to remind us,” Truman said with a bow, “‘There is always hope’,”
Olimar laughed without humour. “We leave in one hour.”
Kellan walked with Elan, Granger and Alano, who led his horse on foot into the wooded foothills to the north of Ter’Arbis. They had been travelling for three days now, leaving the chaos of the city behind them. Only Blunt rode his mount, complaining bitterly about his ankles and how they ached when walking on uneven ground. More than once the Band had endured his gripes of how Fate had cursed him with the ankles of an eighty year old woman. He cut an unusual figure, reunited as he was with the garish feathered hat, and drew more than a few whistles from the Mercenaries and ‘Remnants’ alike. Jeers he largely ignored. Since almost the whole of the Band and ‘Remnants’ combined were on foot, it made sense to use the few horses they did have to carry as much of their supplies as possible and lighten the hand carts.