by B R Crichton
“Quiet down you bloody rabble!” Blunt shouted, arms raised to calm the babble of the crowd. Dimas was the last to fall silent. A slurred, “Does this smell off?” was heard over the sudden silence before he too went quiet, self-consciously staring into his mug.
“Right,” Blunt continued, “now that you have stopped blathering like washerwomen, I can say my piece. There has still been no word from the long distance scouts we sent two weeks ago, but we know that the Jendayan army cannot be any nearer than three days on horseback; significantly longer on foot. Nevertheless we have decided to evacuate the town of Mallin and make for the shelter of the Mora Mountains to the north, from where we can hit the enemy in fast raids, cut their supply routes and perhaps slow them down to give the Heavy Infantry a chance to pull its thumb out of its arse.”
That drew a chuckle from many of the men there. Kellan wondered how many knew just how much Blunt was responsible for the Korathean Empire’s current impotence.
“Civilians will be advised to leave and head east. I would encourage you all to stay and head north into the Mora Mountains. Any militiamen wishing to leave with the civilians should do so, but your commanders assure me that those of you that stayed up to this point will want to fight, and so I do not expect to see many of you go.” There was a muttered agreement, and heads nodded stoically. “If you were expecting a rousing speech calling you to deeds heroic, think again. There are fewer than three hundred of us against tens, even hundreds of thousands of them, so we cannot take them on directly. We will sneak, and snipe, and attack where they are weakest. Not the deeds of heroes. We will run from fights we cannot be sure of winning, and avoid confrontation that is not on our terms. Those that fall will be left for the crows.
“Above all, you will do as you are bloody well told or you will find that my boot and your bollocks will become intimately acquainted in short order. We leave in two hours. Dismissed.” The babble started up excitedly before Blunt silenced them again. “One other thing. I need three volunteers to find out what happened to the last three scouts we sent out.”
This time he was met with silence.
Kellan raised a hand. “I’ll do it. The boredom is killing me.”
“Count me in,” Foley shouted from across the crowded room.
Elan groaned. “I guess I’m in too. Someone’s got to look after you.”
There was a collective sigh of relief from the room and the militiamen and mercenaries filed out slowly. Dimas was behind the bar filling his mug again. Governor Krennet took up a cup and ambled round behind the bar polishing the tumbler on his shirt. He shooed the drunken man away to get to the tap himself.
“Your man does not know his limit, Clemente,” the Governor said in disgust. “He ought to take more pride in his uniform. Fate, man, do something about his drinking.”
“He is not my man,” Alano replied simply, as Krennet took a mouthful of ale. He gagged, and spluttered, spraying the brown liquid from his mouth, then dry retched painfully. “And do not drink the ale, Governor. I’m afraid it is off.”
Kellan returned to the ‘Pride of Mallin’ with his equipment packed. He carried the Jendayan sword at his hip. A few soldiers lazed in the quiet interior, or played cards with others; the chink and clatter of coins tossed onto the table was the only sound.
Truman was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was entertaining one of those young ladies from earlier in a more intimate setting. The man really did have an enviable gift with women.
Kellan took the opportunity to check over his arrows. Each one was made by his own hand, crafted in the way of the Lythurian fletcher. He checked each point with a gentle pressure from his thumb, and sighted down the fluted shaft, ensuring perfect straightness. He gently smoothed the flights between thumb and forefinger and checked the twine binding the parts together.
He needn’t have bothered; each was in perfect order, but he found the act relaxed him, and focused his mind.
Granger entered and looked pleased to have got Kellan alone. Kellan had hoped to avoid his guardian after volunteering for the scouting task. The fussing and worrying drove him to distraction. He was not a child anymore. Granger sat opposite him and nodded. He lifted one of the arrows from the table and appraised it with his own inexpert eye.
“All ready to go?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes I will be. And no I won’t,” he said.
Granger raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Just answering your next two questions. Yes I will be careful, and no I won’t do anything reckless.”
Granger sighed. “You know why I worry. Don’t you?”
Kellan held his hands up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that. But I will be careful. I promise.”
Granger had given up so much for him, he knew, though would never fully understand how much. He had abandoned his immortality to save Kellan as a child, and that was something Kellan could never get a handle on. He knew that it was also something that he could never repay. How do you give a man back eternity?
Granger accepted the apology with a tight smile. “I am more worried than usual I’m afraid.”
“You think it is Abaddon.”
“This invasion is no coincidence. I am sure that he is here, seeking you.”
“Seeking the Daemon, you mean.”
“You are inextricably linked,” Granger said sadly. “I wish that it were not so.”
“I will have to face him eventually,” Kellan said, a hint of frustration leaking into his voice.
“But it is not a battle you can win. You, are expendable. He will harm you to get at the Daemon, and if he cannot stir you to anger then he can simply kill you and let it take another. Kellan.” He leaned across the table and grasped Kellan’s wrists. “No good can come of this.”
“I am only scouting,” Kellan laughed, trying to make light of the task and reassure Granger.
“You are heading straight towards him, when you should be running the other way.”
“We have had this discussion,” Kellan said firmly, “I will not run any longer.”
“But you cannot win,” Granger said in exasperation.
“Then I…” He was cut off by Foley entering the room, with Elan close behind.
“Message from Blunt,” Foley announced, “and I quote, ‘I’m giving each of you buggers a horse, but if you come back without it, you had better bloody be dead.’”
“Charming,” Kellan replied. “A horse each will have us make good time though.”
“Well, he is keen for news so that we can get out of Mallin as soon as possible; especially now.”
“What do you mean?” Kellan asked.
“Have you had your head in a bucket?” Foley replied. “One of Krennet’s men raped the farrier’s daughter; the whole town is about to lynch the offender.”
“Fate,” Kellan gasped, “What is Krennet doing about it?”
“Nothing,” Elan said, “Says his man swears the girl consented.”
“Will there be a trial?”
“Not likely,” Foley replied. “As Governor, Krennet has the final say, and he is not in any way sympathetic to the farrier’s grievance.”
“But, rape? What is Blunt doing about it?”
“Blunt cannot risk a confrontation with Krennet over it. We cannot afford to lose the Arbis Moran militia over this, so he his holding his tongue, and keeping his fists in his pockets,” Foley said. “He’s not happy about it though. In his opinion a man should never force himself on a woman; he should pay for it like everybody else. ‘There’s a bloody principle at stake’.”
Kellan almost laughed at that. Typical Blunt; just when you thought you saw a glimmer of decency in the man; he could counter it with piece of boorish poor taste.
Kellan gathered his things from the table and made his way outside with his companions. A group of the townspeople had gathered at the door of Krennet’s offices across the square. Krennet himself was standing on the wooden step at the door, addressing the cro
wd. He was flanked by several nervous looking militiamen. A large man, no doubt the farrier in question, was being barely restrained by his friends as he growled his demands at the governor. The farrier was gesturing towards another group of Arbis Moran militiamen, at the centre of which was obviously the accused, smugly safe behind his armed colleagues.
Kellan focused on him. The man was picking at his nails with a narrow knife, glancing up occasionally to look at the townspeople with open disdain. He carried a narrow scar on one cheek that pulled his mouth into an evil grin, which he did not try to disguise. Looking at the man, Kellan knew him to be guilty. His complete lack of contrition or remonstration marked him as culpable. An innocent man would challenge the accusation, protest his virtue, or at least be offended by the allegation. This man deigned to do none of this, smirking from his place of safety, just as those militia had smirked at one another at Goat’s Pass so long ago. The ripped blouse, the men, untouchable in their arrogance of strength and control, taking their pleasure by force.
Kellan felt his anger bubble in his belly, the fierce buzzing within his mind attempting to sweep away his reason, but he caught it in time. He allowed the Calm to settle on him, feeding the rage, but trapping it within to be channelled as and where he saw fit.
But not now.
This smirker would have to wait.
Chapter Eighteen
Beginnings…
The Northlands were Kellan’s home, but there was little appetite for rebellion where he had asked. Innkeepers’ faces went blank when he whispered queries over bar counters, traders turned away when he questioned them, and commoners shut their doors in his face.
It appeared that there was still too much fear in the Northlands to openly discuss dissent among the people and so he fled into Dasar. He crossed the White River and travelled as far south as he had ever been, then continued.
His mind wandered from the purpose he had set out on, and he found himself moving from place to place, always finding new wonders to divert him. A sense of the size of the world began to settle on him and with it the understanding that he knew so little about it.
Life, it seemed, went on in the occupied territories. Many of the more objective citizens cared little for who ruled them. Having their rulers usurped and replaced with others, had little or no impact on their lives. Did it really matter who collected their taxes? However, there was an undercurrent of resentment in many people, if one looked for it. It was apparent that a great many common folk would sooner be ruled by a despot of their own, than a benevolent dictator from outside their borders. Not that the Korathean Empire was in any way benevolent, it was not, and time had not washed away the deep seated feelings of injustice felt by the Dasari people. People talked about rebellion here, albeit in hushed voices, and only ever to acknowledge the existence of such forces, never justifying them.
Kellan reached Moshet, the main city in Dasar, on a wet evening. The late summer rains were relentless and Kellan was only too eager to find a warm dry bed for the night. He had little in the way of money, but had found work here and there on his journey, labouring on farmland and doing odd jobs for landowners and small businesses.
Moshet was the biggest city that Kellan had ever seen. Looking at it from a distance, he wondered if he would need to walk for an hour or more to cross it. It was simpler, and more welcome a thought to find a place within its walls to rest for the night. He had noticed in the weeks that brought him here that people became less friendly, less welcoming, towards strangers the bigger the settlement became. In the small villages, every person he happened to pass would nod a greeting or enquire about his business or health. Here, people watched the path ahead, and did not exchange pleasantries with those about them. It would be impractical to do so; such was the number of people here. It seemed strange to Kellan that the more people were crowded together, the less they were willing to acknowledge it; their interaction became a thing of unwelcome necessity and their gaze turned ever inward.
The inn he walked into, ‘The Old Keg’, was lively with music and conversation. No-one paid him any heed when he entered; a few glances perhaps taking in his striking birthmark, but these were city folk and they had seen it all before. He rented a room, and settled down to a tankard of ale and a meal of roast chicken and potatoes.
He enjoyed the fiddler’s jaunty tunes, and clapped along with the rest of the customers, even though he could not join in with the songs they clearly knew well. Tankards were banged on tables during the more lively tunes and bawdy lyrics were met with roars of laughter.
The two serving maids wove through the drinkers, slapping away hands with practised ease whilst delivering drinks to tables. They teased the revellers with a flick of a skirt or sway of hip, and then eluded their advances. The men in the inn joined in the game, never crossing the unspoken line between fun and assault. The maid with the fuller figure of the two, which she accentuated with her low cut top, delivered another tankard of ale to Kellan, leaning over far more than necessary to display her ample cleavage, and holding the pose for a moment longer than was needed to collect the coins.
Kellan almost managed to keep his eyes fixed on her face, but she smiled and sashayed away as soon as his glance flashed to her bosom.
“Such cruel tantalisation,” someone said, sitting down beside him on the polished bench. “You are not from Moshet.”
“How can you tell?” Kellan said as the man made himself comfortable.
“Because you at least tried to look her in the eye,” he replied, taking a sip from his tarnished metal wine cup, and then smoothing his moustache with a thumb and forefinger. “Believe me, that one would devour you.”
Despite sitting on a wooden bench in a rowdy tavern, the man managed to appear somehow regal, and above the pettiness of the revellers around him. His dress was smart, but not ostentatious. He wore a bright red jacket over a ruffled white shirt, and green trousers with gold brocade.
He was of average height and slender build, with sandy coloured hair and blue-grey eyes. Kellan put his age at around thirty years.
“I was raised to behave like a gentleman,” Kellan said over the music.
“A rare breed in these times,” the man said. “My name is Truman.”
“Kellan,” he replied, and they raised their drinks in salute.
They listened to the music for a few moments.
“What brings you to Moshet?” Truman asked.
“I am just travelling,” he replied. The man eyed him for a while, then shrugged and returned his attention to the fiddler, now standing on a table.
“What about you,” Kellan said, feeling guilty at ending the conversation so curtly. “Are you from Moshet yourself?”
“Oh dear, no,” he laughed as though the very idea was preposterous and ran his thumb and forefinger over his moustaches again, smoothing them over his top lip. “I hail from Mecia, my friend. The home of enlightened thinking. Crucible of the arts and wellspring of scientific ideas.”
Kellan nodded, none the wiser, but pleased to have left the final answer to Truman. He assumed their conversation to be over, a brief exchange of pleasantries between travellers. Then he felt another pang of guilt; he had only been in this city for a day and already their ways were rubbing off on him.
“So, what brings you to Moshet?” he asked.
“I am a poet,” he replied, “although I will play the lute for the entertainment of the rabble.” He motioned to those in the room around them. “The rabble pays. Poetry does not.”
“Do the rabble not enjoy your poetry?” Kellan asked.
“I have found a few discerning crowds willing to give me their ear, but not enough to keep my belly full and a soft bed beneath me,” he replied. “Besides which, I rather like the rabble.” He smiled and took another sip of wine.
“You are well travelled then?” said Kellan.
“I have plied my trade from Eritania to Dashiya, my friend,” he replied, “though I find this city to be the most engaging
.”
“So you will have a good sense of the mood across the Empire,” Kellan said eagerly.
Truman looked hard at him, trying to gauge the thrust of that statement.
“Mood?” he said.
Kellan waved his hand dismissively.
“I have heard stories, that is all,” Kellan said.
“Stories?”
“I met a trader who may have mentioned a certain,” he searched for the word, “discord, in the Empire.”
Truman leant in close. “Your trader friend should keep a tight hold on his words. Speaking of such things in the wrong company is likely to put him in a cell or worse.”
“But it is an open secret that rebellion thrives in the Empire.”
Truman turned away, returning his attention to his wine. “I would say that ‘thrive’ is too strong a word. ‘Exists’ is probably more accurate.”
“Here in Moshet?” he asked, trying to keep a lid on his excitement, but hearing a hint of it in his own voice.
“You seem eager to find trouble on your travels, friend,” Truman said seriously. “You would do well to soak up the culture here, and then move on.”
Kellan was about to reply, when the door burst open, and four enormous men entered. They were dressed in the same clothing; black trousers and jackets with blue-green trim and pale linen shirts. Kellan gaped at them for a moment as the music stopped and a hush fell upon the room.
He had never seen such huge men before. The shortest of them was easily three hands taller than him, and thickset with heavily muscled arms and shoulders.
“I did not tell you to stop playing,” one barked at the fiddle player. “Ale at this table.”
The drinkers at the table he pointed to rose quickly and vacated their chairs as the huge men forced their way in. The music started up again, but this time without the clapping and singing that had accompanied it earlier.