The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  “Who are they?” Kellan whispered.

  “Heavy Infantry,” Truman replied quietly.

  He had heard about the Heavy Infantry, but never seen them in the flesh. The Militiamen that policed the towns and villages tended to be made up of soldiers from the occupied provinces with Korathean lesser nobles commanding.

  But these were the legendary Heavy Infantry. Their size and strength had been unstoppable on the battlefield as they swept across the continent, claiming all for Kor’Habat.

  The serving maid that had waited on Kellan earlier carried a tray to the table. She had no sooner set it down than one of them grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap. She squealed, and kicked her legs but could not escape his grip.

  “You are a fine young thing,” he laughed lasciviously, running one of his massive hands roughly over her breasts. She fought back but this only encouraged them, and they laughed at her struggles.

  “Now gentlemen,” said the ashen faced innkeeper, “that is no way to treat a lady.”

  The soldier held onto her for a moment longer, holding the innkeeper’s gaze as he ran his hand up the girl’s leg and under her skirts to the top of her thigh. Then he let her go. She ran weeping from the soldiers to take refuge behind the innkeeper.

  The soldiers downed their tankards and banged on the table for more.

  This time, the innkeeper himself carried the drinks to them. Several customers left quietly as the fiddler continued to play nervously, and the soldiers laughed at the cringing serving maids.

  “Take them back,” the soldier said, “and let the girl bring them. I should like her to sit with me.”

  The innkeeper hesitated and exchanged a look with the wide-eyed girl, who was shaking her head vigorously. He returned to the bar, and exchanged a few whispered words with her. His tone became more urgent as she shook her head repeatedly, but she eventually steeled herself and took up the tray. All eyes were on her as she walked across the common-room.

  She maintained her serene façade until she had put down the tray, when the soldier dragged her over his knee, and held her there, kicking, with a great hand on her buttock.

  “Can they do this?” Kellan whispered.

  “Who is going to stop them?” Truman replied.

  “Are they above the law? Where are the militiamen?”

  “The militiamen are never going to challenge the Heavy Infantry,” he replied. “Their commanding officer could be informed, and they may or may not be punished, but as for the here and now, our best hope is that they tire of this and move on.”

  “You girl,” shouted one of the other soldiers to the other terrified maid, a girl of no more than fifteen, “I would like some company too.” He had a vicious scar that ran across his nose that pulled the flesh across his face.

  She shook her head, and hid herself behind the innkeeper. The soldier rose and swaggered towards the bar, cuffing the fiddler heavily across the ear to silence him.

  “I said, I want some company,” he repeated, with a menacing grin.

  “Someone should do something,” Kellan whispered.

  Truman gave him a long look, and then said, “Wait here.” He rose and left the inn quietly. As the soldier reached the bar he snatched a tankard from a customer, who backed off, then downed its contents.

  “Come along, sweet cheeks,” he said with an evil grin.

  “Please, we want no trouble here,” the innkeeper pleaded.

  “Who’s looking for trouble?” The soldier cast about innocently. “I am only looking for a little company while I enjoy your fine ale.”

  “Your friends should be company enough,” he replied, sounding braver.

  The scarred soldier leant on the bar. “Well, that is the thing, you see,” he said, “my friends are an ill-mannered bunch with no taste for the finer art of conversation. I would merely like to speak with the girl.”

  “She doesn’t wish to join you at your table,” said one of the more daring customers.

  The soldier turned and glared at those in the room, clenching his fists into great hams of meat.

  “Who said that?” he hissed, the scar twisting his features. There was no answer from the room. “Which of you is the hero?”

  Without waiting for a response, he punched the nearest man in the face, knocking him to the ground where he lay unmoving, with a bloody nose.

  Just then, there was an almighty noise from outside, like a thunderclap, and light flooded in through the windows. The soldiers abandoned their sport, and rushed outside into the street. Another blinding flash was followed almost immediately by an ear splitting bang. The street was rapidly filling with nervous spectators as the inns and houses emptied their occupants into the street.

  A searing ball of light shot skyward from the middle of the street with a shriek before exploding into dozens of lesser flares that burned themselves out as they fell.

  Kellan had never seen anything like it, and from the expressions on the faces around him, neither had the other people that stood gaping at the spectacle.

  Truman appeared at his side, as a series of flashes and bangs filled the street with dancing sparks of every colour.

  “That should provide enough of a diversion to allow the ladies to make themselves scarce,” he said.

  “Was that your doing?” Kellan asked, amazed.

  “Indeed it was,” he replied with a wink.

  “I have never seen the like.”

  “Come,” he said, “we should find a quieter establishment to talk.”

  “But I am staying at ‘The Old Keg’,” he replied as Truman led him away by the elbow.

  “As am I. We can return there in a little while. Once things have settled down.”

  “A little something I bought recently, whilst visiting the Eastern Kingdoms,” Truman explained, when they had settled into a small tavern a few streets away.

  “What was it?” Kellan asked.

  “Something they call an ‘Illumination’,” he said with a gesture, opening both hands in front of his face.

  “How does it work?”

  “I’m not too sure,” Truman replied, “but they did not come cheap.” He paused in thought. “But then, neither does a lady’s virtue.”

  “Well it did the trick, that’s for certain. I have never seen so many people move so quickly,” he laughed. They raised their cups, and then drank their wine.

  “The Eastern Kingdoms?” Kellan asked. “What were you doing there?”

  “I had some business to discuss,” he replied cryptically, “obtaining services that can only be found in the East.”

  “Like your ‘Illuminations’,” Kellan said.

  “Exactly.” Truman smiled. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a lady friend to meet.”

  “More business?”

  “Purely pleasure, I assure you,” he replied, smoothing his moustaches with a thumb and forefinger.

  That night Kellan did not sleep well. He had waited an hour at least before returning to ‘The Old Keg’ to find it almost empty. Thankfully the soldiers had not returned, but the serving maids had left by the back door to be safe, and taken the rest of the night off.

  It angered Kellan that men should force themselves on women as the soldiers had done. There was an image in his mind that refused to abate. That of Tessar Bidean, being thrown to the ground in his childhood home of Goat’s Pass, with her blouse torn and skirts ruffled. The soldier; tightening his belt even as he followed her from the house, and his mother, kneeling in the dust holding a tattered blouse over her own breasts.

  He knew that she had been raped. Knew that, had he been a few minutes earlier, it would have been his mother he saw being thrown, weeping from the house after her own ordeal, and not Tessar Bidean. The sickening knowledge had always been there, but he had managed to suppress it even as it developed with his own maturity.

  He tried not to see her in his mind’s eye, struggling against that most intimate of violations. The fear and humiliation she must have felt
in her last minutes of life was almost too much for Kellan to contemplate.

  Why did men allow other men to get away with such crimes?

  Were they not themselves sons of mothers?

  Worse still was the impotence of his growing anger. He sought the Calm when he felt it surging within like something alive, and dispelled the choking emotions that chased sleep from him. But with the Calm came the clear truth of the events at Goat’s Pass and he knew that when emotion returned it would be with greater ferocity.

  He would have cried if only the tears would come. Instead he harboured a special portion of rage that he allowed to simmer in the back of his mind. Set aside for the day that he would avenge his mother’s violation and death.

  When he slept, his dreams were filled with images of carnal violence.

  The following morning, he left the inn with Truman. The poet told him that he was going to give a reading at a gallery at the palace library. Some of the more refined nobles met there every few months to indulge themselves in the arts.

  Truman carried a slender sword at his hip.

  “You carry a sword?” Kellan said as they left the inn. “I did not realise that poetry was a dangerous pastime.

  “Critics can be quite ferocious in their assessment of my work from time to time,” he replied, “and I find it useful to allow them to believe that I can retaliate with more than simply a sharp tongue.”

  “Are you skilled with it?”

  “I can hold my own,” he replied, smoothing his moustaches.

  “I mean, can you teach me?” Kellan said.

  “You wish to learn the art of fencing?”

  Kellan had never heard it called that before. “I would like to learn swordsmanship. I carry this bow, and am a decent archer but would welcome the chance to learn another form of combat.”

  Truman looked him up and down, gauging his strength. He nodded, and ushered him to a quiet little garden; one of many small parks within the city.

  “This is a rapier,” he said drawing the slender blade with a flourish and offering it to Kellan. “It is not the crude bludgeon used by those too crass to master its techniques.”

  Kellan weighed the weapon in his hand, and made a couple of sweeps through the air with it.

  “You, like I, are not a powerful man,” Truman continued. “However, speed and agility will undo your more powerful opponent if he wields a heavier blade.”

  “Will you teach me?” Kellan asked eagerly. The blade felt good in his hands; the weight and balance of it; the keenness of the edge.

  “I will share my knowledge with you as long as our paths are united,” he replied.

  “When can we start?”

  Truman shrugged. “We have a little time. Why not now?”

  Truman spent the next hour teaching Kellan the basic stances and defensive positions, the importance of footwork and balance, and how to turn defence into attack. Truman used the scabbard to run through various moves as they slowly sparred. Kellan caught on quickly; he was keen to learn, and it was with reluctance that he agreed to end the first lesson.

  As they gathered their possessions to continue on towards the palace, Truman took proper notice of the bow for the first time.

  “Lythurian,” he said. Kellan only nodded. “If there is one thing I know about Lythuria, it is that their bows are custom made to suit the bowman. Is this bow made for you?”

  “It is,” Kellan replied.

  “Then it is a very valuable weapon. The artisan must surely have charged a great deal for it,” Truman said with a sly look.

  “It cost a great deal, yes,” he replied.

  Truman grunted, knowing when a conversation was heading down a dead end alley, and slapped Kellan on the shoulder.

  “This way,” he said with a flourish of his hand. “A new education awaits.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kiritowa Tui ran his hand over the top of his head with its closely cropped hair as he paused outside Lord Abaddon’s tent. His mouth was dry, and try as he might, he could not dispel the tension in his gut. It had been a little over a day since the prisoners had been taken to his tent; two scouts from the east, captured by one of their own advance parties. A third had been killed when the two groups had met in a deep sided gully to the north-east.

  Kiritowa had never been compelled to feel pity for an enemy; ‘Pity not the man yoked by evil delusion, better to sever his bonds with death,’ but the sounds that had come from behind that canvas had made him doubt that tenet.

  And now this summons.

  He was not sure what to expect. Was Lord Abaddon calling him to a similar fate to those wretches, or had the information gleaned from their torture been sufficient to spur him to action?

  Night had fallen, and the red glow from the braziers leaked from the tent flaps like blood from a wound. He dispelled that thought as the flaps were thrown open for him by the guards on duty, and he entered with eyes downcast.

  He could tell immediately that Lord Abaddon was not in his seat, without lifting his gaze. Movement further in alerted him to his position beside the covered cages.

  “Come closer, General,” Abaddon rasped, “and view my handiwork.”

  Kiritowa approached, unsure which unsettled him more; proximity to the gangly man himself or the creatures that moved slickly beneath the heavy rugs in those cages. He obeyed anyway, wordlessly approaching as instructed.

  “See.” Abaddon lifted a pale hand to gesture at a dark recess of the tent. In the dim light, Kiritowa saw the black veined hand that indicated where he was to look, and he hesitantly raised his eyes.

  He felt the blood drain from his face, and forced down the rising bile that threatened to erupt from his throat. Tied spread-eagle across two wooden frames hung the remains of the two enemy scouts. Both had been flayed; their torsos were devoid of skin save for a few ragged strips. Skin hung in bloody tatters as far as their elbows and knees, their limbs having been methodically peeled back strip by strip.

  “My Lord,” Kiritowa began, but did not know what to say any more than that; besides, he did not trust his mouth to open without having his stomach empty itself in Abaddon’s tent.

  Long ribbons of flesh hung on a rail beside a small table holding a collection of gore covered knives and hooks of vicious design. To his horror, one of the figures quivered.

  “My Lord,” he forced himself to say, “this one lives.”

  “Indeed, but his mind is gone. I shall gather no new information from him.” Abaddon sounded almost annoyed at the poor man’s breaking. “However, I believe that one in particular held information enough for my needs.”

  His needs? What of the needs of the Emperor, Most Blessed Ray of the Sun ,and the Empire itself?

  “Were you aware, General,” Abaddon continued, “of a force camped to the north of Ter’Arbis, in a town called Mallin? A force of some three hundred men who aim to harry your flanks and disrupt your supply lines.”

  “I was not, Lord Abaddon,” he replied, “but pockets of resistance are to be expected. With this knowledge I can send a detachment of…”

  “You will do no such thing.”

  Kiritowa swallowed hard as his mind raced, eyes fixed on the floor, unwilling to look at the scouts lest that one should move again.

  “I shall deal with them.”

  “Lord Abaddon, should I not…”

  “There is one among them who has proven himself to be invincible on the battlefield.” Abaddon walked slowly to the nearest cage, via the strips of flesh on the wooden rail. He chose one and lifted it delicately. “One with distinctive facial marks.” He dangled it teasingly over a gap between two of the heavy rugs that concealed the creature held behind the thick bars. An eager chittering emanated from within. “He moves with fluid ease between his enemies.” The ribbon of flesh jerked as he lowered it into the dark pen, but he tugged it gently out again causing the beast to rattle against the bars in a frenzy. “And knows no fear in the face of greater numbers.” At last he
allowed the strip of skin to be pulled from his fingers and a sickening squelching came from the cage. “I will use the Shar to deal with that one.”

  The thought of those things being released was enough for Kiritowa to risk dissent.

  “Three hundred men is no great force, Lord Abaddon,” he said, “and this great warrior they speak of, will be a shadow of what they describe. Please, allow me to deal with them with a detachment of my finest. They will not fail.” Anything but the Shar.

  “And what of the one they say cannot be beaten?”

  “Soldiers exaggerate, Lord Abaddon. Their stories grow in the telling, and half-truths become lies.”

  Abaddon was silent for what seemed an eternity, although only a few heartbeats must have passed.

  “Look at me,” he said at last.

  Kiritowa quailed. “Lord Abaddon, it is forbidden.”

  “Is it not also forbidden to disobey, General?” Abaddon stepped closer, so that a single pace separated them.

  Kiritowa swallowed hard again, although his throat stuck shut from lack of spit. He hesitantly lifted his gaze upward to meet the face so far above his own. The eyes that stared down at him were not like the eyes of any man he had ever seen. Framed by pale flesh that pulsated with veins and capillaries of black beneath parchment-thin skin, the eyes were milky white. He had never seen eyes so completely devoid of colour or character, save for a single, small black pupil that bored into his very soul. He felt his guts shrivel, and his knees weaken under that unnatural gaze.

  “Now tell me, General,” Abaddon’s voice grated menacingly, “would you lie to these eyes?”

  They had only travelled for two days when they saw the first signs of a Jendayan advance. Shortly before they reached the River Mora, and the border with Bal Mora, they saw a large detachment of Jendayan soldiers, perhaps two hundred on foot with a further thirty mounted men. All wore the deep red leather armour described by Blunt and Valia.

  The three men had tethered their horses in a thick coppice, and lay, hidden in the undergrowth at the thicket’s edge, watching the small group march casually along a well beaten track. At their rear, several carts hauled supplies covered in canvas sheets and tied down with thin rope.