The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  Alano pointed to the crest of a hill, then to a line of trees in the other direction. “From that crest to the coppice, and from the stream to the goat track. That was to be mine. I did tell you that I always wanted to be a farmer.”

  “What stopped you?” Elan asked.

  “A number of things,” he replied sadly. “Casilda and I met before I had finished my Militia training. She was visiting relatives in Balina when we met, and we both knew immediately that we would be together forever. We kept in touch by letter after she returned home, and I visited her at every opportunity. My friends tried to warn me about Arbis Moran women, but I would not be told. It was a constant worry for her family too; her insistence on waiting for this Bal Moran youth with so many would-be suitors nearer to home.

  “Her father owned a mill to the east that he was to gift to his son, my brother-in-law, whilst he would sell off his other investments to pay for the land for Casilda and I. He was not a rich man, but had worked hard all his days, living frugally himself so that his children could have a better life than he had as a youngster.”

  “You remember him fondly,” Elan said, seeing the look of wetness in Alano’s eye as he spoke of his father-in-law.

  “He was a kind man, despite a harsh childhood. He wanted only the best for Casilda and Vico.”

  “Vico? Your brother-in-law?”

  “Yes. Anyway, we waited. I served five years in the Militia as I had agreed, then left. We were married in the springtime, when the apple blossom hung heavy on the trees, and the ground came to life with flushes of growth birthed from the union of seed and soil.” He clutched at the air before him, imagining the soil in his fingers. “I was twenty three. Casilda is only two weeks younger than I; can you believe that? She looks as beautiful and fresh as the day we met.”

  “What happened?” Kellan asked when Alano slipped into a daydream.

  “Vico had run up certain gambling debts with some of the less savoury members of Ter’Arbis’ society. Instead of going to his father for help, he tried to tough it out. They burned the mill as a warning.

  “Casilda’s father was distraught. All he had worked for, up in smoke. Anyway, he sold his remaining assets to clear Vico’s debt with the money lenders, leaving nothing for the land. His fondest wish had been to see his grandchildren playing freely on that farm. It was not to be. Casilda was with child within weeks of our wedding, but the baby slipped away from her. The midwives told her that she would never bear a child. Could not.

  “The sadness killed her father. I re-joined the Militia in Balina, taking Casilda with me, and here we are, churning up the very soil I was meant to farm.”

  “What of Vico?” Kellan asked, appalled.

  Alano shrugged. “I do not know what became of him, though I hope he found peace with himself wherever he is.”

  “You are a very charitable man,” Granger said, speaking for the first time in miles.

  “You are too charitable,” Kellan muttered angrily, “I would have hunted him, and made him pay for what he did”

  “What did he do but take a wrong turn in life?” Alano replied. “We have all made mistakes. The repercussions are seldom proportional to the error. I have my health, my lovely wife; and your company is not unpleasant.” He smiled. “No, I should say that I am blessed.”

  There was a long silence; the gentle thud of booted feet the only sound. It was all so absurd. The silence was only broken when Elan giggled. Then Alano began to laugh too, followed by Kellan. Within moments they were all laughing uncontrollably, attracting bemused looks from the other soldiers.

  “You have a good heart,” Elan managed as his laughter subsided, “but I fear your mind has seen better days.”

  Emirico, who had ridden ahead to scout the woods with two others brought his horse back at an easy canter. Alano composed himself as his fellow militiaman approached. He drew up alongside Alano, and dismounted, calling to Blunt as he did so. Valia and Olimar followed the mercenary leader to join the group as the whole cohort drew to a halt.

  “What news?” Blunt asked.

  “There is a contingent of Arbis Moran Militia a half mile ahead, camped in Mallin.”

  “Who commands them?” Alano asked.

  “The Governor himself. Krennet.”

  Alano groaned and pinched the point between his eyes as though trying to ward off a brewing headache.

  “You know this, Krennet?” Blunt asked.

  “Sadly, yes. Do you not?”

  “By reputation only. I have never had the pleasure.”

  “I know the name, but I have never encountered the man,” Valia said. “Is he likely to be a problem.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “How so?” Blunt pressed him.

  Alano smiled without humour. “Oh you and he are going to get along wonderfully.”

  Somehow, Blunt did not quite believe him.

  “He is expecting us,” Emerico said.

  “Well then, let us not keep the good governor waiting,” Alano said, then trudged away in the direction Emerico had come from.

  The Band, and ‘Remnants’ of the Balina Militia followed Emerico onto a narrow road that wound through the plantation of mixed broad leaf trees. It was the height of summer and the thick canopy of green was only broken occasionally by rays of sunlight, and the air was cool and still.

  Kellan watched Dimas stagger off the track into the trees to relieve himself. The drunk was muttering under his breath all the while, looking more agitated than usual. Kellan slowed to keep an eye on him.

  Dimas was leaning against the tree for a few moments, when Kellan noticed his shoulders judder, and heard a sob escape the man. He was about to go to his aid when one of the ‘Remnants’ went to him and offered him a wineskin. He saw the drunkard take the skin hesitantly, then rub tears from his cheeks before a long knowing look was shared between he and the militiaman.

  Dimas squeezed the other man’s shoulder in gratitude, but the militiaman only nodded with a tight lipped smile and held his gaze as he placed his own hand on Dimas’ shoulder. For a moment, they just stood there looking at each other, and then Dimas uncorked the wineskin and took a long drink. The militiaman walked on.

  “What do you suppose that was all about,” Elan said, startling Kellan from his observations.

  “I really have no idea.”

  Dimas had re-joined the road, and continued his wayward route along it.

  “I hope he keeps his sword sheathed as long as he is that drunk,” Elan muttered.

  “I doubt he could draw it if he tried,” Kellan replied with a snort.

  About an hour later, they came upon a small town; Mallin. A collection of fifty or sixty timber buildings made up the bulk of the settlement, with raised board walks either side of the main central street of hard-packed dirt. The current dry spell had the road dry and dusty, and the footfalls of over a hundred men striding into the town threw up a cloud of reddish-brown that stuck to sweat smeared brows.

  The street was lined with concerned looking residents, a mixture of hope and desperation on their faces. Blunt nodded politely, touching the brim of his hat from time to time.

  Emerico led them to the large building at the far side of what had clearly been a market square in better times. Blunt dismounted and beat the dust from his clothes as best he could before removing his hat and gently blowing the worst from it. He carefully ran his fingers along the green feathers to tidy them, and then set it on his head again.

  He was accompanied into the building by Alano and Emerico, Olimar and Valia, as well as Granger and Truman. Foley lurked at the door with his brother, Marlon. A large number of men in Militia uniforms similar to the ‘Remnants’ had filtered out into the street and sword hilts were fingered wordlessly.

  Blunt found the cool of the building a welcome relief from the heat of the afternoon sun in the street, and was unsurprised to find the Governor relaxing in a large softly furnished chair behind a huge desk. Several militiamen loitered in the cool with
the Governor. He was a thin man, and the massive desk only made him look even more diminutive. He was balding but his brown hair grew thick at the sides, accentuating the hair loss. One of his officers was sharing an urgent, whispered conversation with him. He did not rise.

  “…and what is that thing on his head?” Blunt heard Governor Krennet mutter, before making a show of looking him up and down.

  “And you are?” he said imperiously, addressing Alano.

  “Alano Clemente. You have met Emerico Rafel, and this is…”

  “I know who this is,” Krennet interrupted. “Rank?”

  “None,” Alano said smiling.

  “Again.”

  “None.” His grin, if anything became broader.

  “Yet you wear the uniform of Balina. Am I to believe that you stole those uniforms? You clearly consort with bandits after all.”

  Blunt let the comment go.

  “We are the ‘Remnants’ of the Balina militia.” Alano shrugged. “Since our masters have clearly left us to our fates, I harbour no great loyalty to them. I, like the men with me, am free to choose where I go, with whom, and for what purpose.”

  Governor Krennet sighed and shook his head. He muttered something to one of the officers that stood beside and slightly behind him. The conversation went on for some time, Krennet clearly making a show of ignoring the newcomers.

  “Governor,” Blunt began, “you will no doubt be aware…”

  Without turning his head, Krennet held up an index finger dismissively to silence the newcomer. It took Blunt a heartbeat to cover the space between them. He grabbed the imperious finger and dragged Krennet, yelping, across the desk and onto the floor. Krennet made it easy, throwing his weight in the direction of his attacker to save his finger from damage. Swords cleared their scabbards, Valia and Olimar noticeably more alert than the militiamen in the room. Those nearest their Governor had leapt back in fright when Blunt attacked, aware of his reputation and concerned for their own safety more than Krennet’s.

  Foley and Marlon were through the door too; both the Dasari men had their weapons drawn.

  “Nobody need do anything hasty,” Blunt shouted, a dagger at Krennet’s throat. The Governor whimpered. Blunt’s grip on his finger had reduced him to a puppet, utterly at the whim of the mercenary.

  “Now, I believe I have your full attention,” Blunt continued more quietly.

  “Madman,” Krennet managed. “My men could cut you down at a single word from me.”

  “First,” Blunt replied with a twist that had Krennet drawing in a sharp breath, “You would have to give that order and I do not believe that you are willing to face the consequences.” He twisted the finger painfully for emphasis again. “Second. Even if you did, I don’t rate your men against mine. Now are you willing to pull your head out of your arse and speak with us, or do I have to start removing fingers?”

  Krennet deflated a little as Blunt released the pressure on his finger, and moved the dagger to a safer distance.

  At a nod, his men began to sheath their swords. Valia and her companions did so too, though their hands did not stray far from their hilts.

  “Now,” Blunt said with a wide smile, helping Krennet to his feet and taking in the surroundings, “this is nice, is it not?”

  Kellan sat in the cool of the smaller of the two inns that Mallin supported, the ‘Pride of Mallin’. There was not much room in the town, already having taken most of the contingent of Ter’Arbis Militia; some one hundred and eighty men, and so the town found itself beside a temporary tented settlement of mercenaries and militiamen.

  A few of the soldiers played cards or dice, Arbis Moran and Bal Moran sharing tobacco with each other as well as the mercenaries they now considered their allies. In the days that had passed, the ‘Pride of Mallin’ had become the place to be when evening came. Granger would take on his storytelling role, and entertain the townspeople and soldiers with tales of faraway lands and great heroes. Every story was true, tales from the Great Hall; he only changed the names and places to make them more relevant to his audience. Sometimes, he and Truman would combine their talents, the poet putting music to the tales, with dramatic notes or sombre melodies at the right points to add to the theatrics.

  Truman was playing a quiet tune on his lute in one corner of the common room long before Granger was to call on his services. He was surrounded by half a dozen adoring girls, all giggling shyly as he spoke in hushed tones, laughing roguishly at their attentions.

  The townspeople clung forlornly to the hope that these soldiers would afford them some immunity from the advancing Jendayan force, putting their faith in this rag-tag assortment of men at arms against the unknown of their new foe. Some, of course, could see the reality of the situation, and had left the town with whatever they could carry. The owner of this inn was one such man, not willing to wait and be burned from his home; he had left with his wife and two sons, never looking back.

  Dimas, of course, saw the unmanned bar as an open invitation. He opened a tap and ale foamed into the tankard he held unsteadily to catch the stream. He sniffed at it, and then took a long swallow. Smacking his lips uncertainly, he made his way to Kellan’s table.

  “Is this beer off?” he said, shoving the tankard under Kellan’s nose, and slopping some of the suds onto the table.

  Kellan snapped out of his reverie. “Never been much of an ale man. I would not know.” He dismissed the drunkard absently.

  Dimas just said, “Hmm.” Then he took another long draught before swaying back to the taps.

  It had been two weeks already, and they were all eager for news of the Jendayan advance. The long range scouts were overdue. Blunt had ordered three different groups of three soldiers to travel on foot one, three and five days to the west, then send one of their number back with news whilst the others remained to keep watch. A single horse had been allocated to each group for the messenger to return on. Those at one and three days had sent word of no movement, and had been rotated to provide fresh eyes and ears, but those at five days distant had not returned. Perhaps they had fallen foul of one of the advance Jendayan parties. Two were Krennet’s men; Arbis Moran, and Blunt was therefore more distressed at the loss of the horse, but one was of the Band, Roban Athaniel from Mecia.

  Valia entered the inn and after glancing about the room, sat at Kellan’s table with a disapproving eye on Truman and his gaggle of admirers. He did not notice her coming in, intent on playing a quiet tune with undoubtedly ribald lyrics that had the girls giggling and squealing.

  “How does he do it?” Kellan chuckled.

  Valia grunted. “Preying on those without the wit to see his motives a mile off?”

  Kellan started, and looked hard at Valia. “Are you jealous, Valia?” he teased.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she protested. “I have no intention of ending up a notch on the neck of his lute.”

  “Pardon?”

  “One more conquest,” Valia replied. “You men are all the same; that one, worst of all.” She jabbed a finger in Truman’s direction.

  “Is this ale off?” Dimas appeared at Valia’s side and pushed a mug under her nose.

  “Piss off,” she replied, pushing his hand away roughly.

  For a moment, Dimas stood considering her words, as though trying to decide if she had answered the question or not. Eventually he sniffed at the contents, shook his head and wandered off to drink alone.

  “We’re not all the same,” Kellan said more seriously, a wistful look crossing his face.

  “Really?” She gave him a doubtful look.

  “Besides, they seem more drawn to him.”

  She glared across the room to where Truman entertained the young ladies, oblivious to her angry stare. “I don’t see him chasing them away,” she said stiffly.

  “Perhaps they are music lovers,” Kellan said reasonably, brightening and starting to enjoy himself again.

  She rolled her eyes at that. Anyway, what did it matter to her if those
wide eyed nymphs were tumbled by Truman’s charm? She hated herself for being angry at them.

  Girls could be so stupid. Stupid, stupid Lushara.

  She felt for the pouch at her waist, the one that held the sketch of her resting on a beach, and hated herself even more for reaching for it.

  “Any word on Roban?” she said, hurriedly changing the subject.

  “Not that I have heard.”

  “This waiting is insane,” she said, “We should be getting ensconced in those hills.”

  “What about the people of Mallin?”

  “They should be going east with the rest of the refugees. We cannot protect them here.”

  Kellan was silent.

  “Anyway, Blunt will be here soon,” she said. “He has called a meeting to decide what our next move should be.”

  “Glad I got a seat early then.” Even as Kellan spoke a few soldiers drifted in.

  Elan slipped past Dimas as the drunk offered the newly filled tankard up for inspection.

  “Is this ale off?” But Elan was away before the drunkard finished speaking, and Dimas staggered towards some of the other newcomers.

  Elan’s green skin still drew stares from the militiamen and townsfolk alike, but he had grown used to the looks he got. Perhaps if his people had been less insular, they would not have become the near-mythical beings they had.

  Kellan pulled a stool out from beneath the table for his friend, who nodded his thanks.

  The inn was packed to the door and beyond, into the street where the mixed group of mercenaries and militiamen, too late to gain entry, strained to hear what was being said. Granger watched from a cramped corner of the room, where he stood on a stool to get a better view. Blunt stood on the bar-top addressing the gathered troops, his bright hat laid carefully at his feet. Governor Krennet and Alano Clemente sat on stools in front of the bar, the Governor with a sour look on his face.