The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  “Advance guard,” Foley murmured. “No doubt they will set up camp and establish a safe perimeter for a larger force to follow.”

  “Should one of us return to Mallin with word?” Elan asked quietly.

  Foley shook his head. “We should scout further south to the coast first, to see if there is any sign of a sea-borne advance too. Nothing we can do about either, but it would be nice to know. We also need to know where these settle.”

  “But surely if they advance by sea, they will be in Kor’Habat in a matter of weeks,” Elan said in horror. “What good can we possibly do here?”

  “Not all the way to Kor’Habat,” Foley corrected. “The reefs to the south of the Korathean capital have it sealed off from direct sea-borne assault. The Jendayans would have to capture the Temple Canal first at Ara Dasari, and secure the area around the canal itself. It is a big enough canal to sail an armada through, but no large task to block it either. That canal is the only way into Korathea from the west, unless they march an army through the Lesser Cascus Mountains to the north of the canal, which are too easily defended. No, they will still have to rely on a land based advance to take Kor’Habat, and the Heavy Infantry will not give that ground cheaply.”

  “What’s left of them,” Kellan muttered half to himself.

  “Yes, perhaps we should have gone easier on them,” Foley said with a grimace.

  Kellan only shook his head slowly in response.

  “So why are we watching for a sea-borne advance if we know it cannot work?” Elan asked.

  “They may choose to re-supply by ship. Soldiers can march far quicker than their support. Cooks, farriers, washerwomen, weapon smiths and the sheer bulk of food and material to be shifted, takes a great deal longer by land. They can shift some of that burden to the ships if they choose, but that will make them vulnerable when at anchor.”

  “I never considered you a great tactician, Foley,” Elan said with a mocking smile.

  “Actually,” he replied, “Valia explained it all to me before we left. Made sure we looked for the right things.”

  They waited for the group to pass, then after an hour, made their way stealthily south to the coast. They did not see another person all that day, but the horizon was ragged with sails. They were too far out for an accurate count, but they all agreed that they numbered in the dozens. No doubt they would maintain a safe distance from the shore until the land forces had completed their occupation of Ter’Arbis and the surrounding area. Then they would glide effortlessly east, shadowing the army through Arbis Mora and into Dasar and beyond. Evidently, Valia had suggested that this might be the case to Foley before he left. Now her suspicions had been confirmed

  They followed the coast back to within a few miles of Ter’Arbis, without seeing a soul. They passed abandoned farms and homesteads, ploughs left standing in the fields to rust, livestock set loose from their pens and allowed to wander the land searching for food. Here, a goat nibbled on flowers in a once tidy garden, there, a pig used its snout to uproot turnips from a carefully planted row.

  The tales the Bal Morans had brought with them as they fled must surely have put absolute terror into the hearts of these people. To leave in such haste and leave everything behind must surely be the actions of those resigned to losing all they had in any case, so best to make it away alive.

  The three did little talking on their mission, and it was perhaps this that allowed Kellan’s mind to wallow in thoughts of vengeful satisfaction. The Korathean Empire was crumbling. These Jendayans were snatching away from them what they had themselves stolen from the free peoples of Bal Mora and Arbis Mora so many decades ago. No doubt Mecia and Eritania would be in Jendayan hands shortly, if not already, and all the lands to the east of them would fall too.

  Let the Korathean Tyrants know what it is to be beaten. No number of miseries heaped upon them could be too much.

  Yet, there was also a burning urgency in his heart to be a part of the hammer that smashed the Korathean Empire, to satisfy his own longing for vengeance before only a shadow remained for him to scream his defiance at.

  I am Kellan Aemoran. You murdered my mother. Now know pain! Know sorrow! Know regret!

  He felt his fists clench on the reins of his mount, his jaw aching from his teeth being firmly clamped, and relaxed a little.

  But too many innocents were suffering. To welcome this new invader simply to satisfy his own lust for Korathea’s demise, when they themselves brought so much suffering, was unjustifiable.

  On one hand, seeing the bully getting a bloody nose was sweetness itself; on the other, if that bully was usurped by a worse oppressor, then what had changed?

  He was torn then, between loyalty to his friends, and their joint decision to fight the Jendayans, and ultimately join the Korathian cause; and loyalty to the promises he had made to himself about destroying that same Empire.

  He glanced at Elan, and the sight of his jade-skinned friend reminded him of a different loyalty. In a place called Lythuria, far away in the mountains to the east and the north, was the woman he loved. For just a fleeting moment, he had never felt so far from home.

  Another thought needled him however. What if Granger was right about Abaddon being part of this invasion? Kellan could not hope to win in a confrontation with him, and should he indeed be among the Jendayans, then there was no escape either. This invading force seemed all but unstoppable, and, like a tide, would swamp everything in its path in time. Perhaps Lythuria had always been the place for him to remain. Perhaps the isolation of that enclave would have protected him from a conflict that could only have one outcome. Putting his own selfish whims ahead of the fate of the world suddenly felt reckless and petulant.

  To add to that, last night, as they had camped in the darkness, not willing to light a fire and signal their position, he had felt as though something was closing in on him. His skin had prickled as though a thousand eyes had been watching. Now that feeling returned. He was sure that they were being watched, stalked even, but no signs of pursuers were evident. Except that nagging at the back of his skull, and the itch at the nape of his neck.

  As they turned north east to return to Mallin, he reached for the Calm, and allowed it to settle upon his mind. He pushed out with his mind, sweeping aside the layers of reality, searching for other minds. His companions glowed like white embers, the fragile tendril of light linking them to the point that was all around. He looked further out, pushing the limit of his senses as far as he could, trying to find more. There was something out there. Something wrong.

  His mind slipped across an area to the west, like a blind man’s hand over a bulge of polished steel. He could not penetrate the area. It remained opaque at this distance, but he knew that it was not as it should be.

  As he let the Calm slip away, it was replaced by a deep disquiet. There was nothing so frightening as the danger one could not see, and the itch at the back of his neck only intensified.

  Mallin was being evacuated.

  Even before the return of Kellan, Elan and Foley that morning, the exodus had been set in motion. The townspeople who had remained with the forlorn hope that a few hundred could save their livelihoods from the new enemy, had discarded that dream.

  It was an ordered affair however. A line of carts and wagons filled the main street, with oxen more used to pulling ploughs than people yoked at the head of each. Blunt had purchased the few horses that remained in the town, helped in no small part by those coins held in the public coffers under lock and key in the building used by Governor Krennet. The Governor had complained bitterly at the price demanded by the sellers, but given that those people had to start new lives elsewhere in uncertain times, the silver and gold coins were no great fortune.

  Around forty of the men of Mallin insisted on joining the ragtag army that had gathered loosely behind Blunt. He had refused at first, preferring to keep his force small, agile, and skilled, but relented after some lengthy petition from the man at their head. ‘Babysitting
bloody farmers’, was heard more than once in the discussion, but now they had formally joined his army, taking the single coin he offered as a token of their allegiance to the Band. Of course Krennet still commanded the Ter’Arbis Militia, and Alano Clemente remained the reluctant commander of the Balina ‘Remnants’, but there was a definite sense that Blunt called the shots in the partnership. There was a feeling of relief among those not of the Band that there was at least one at their head with real military credentials and experience.

  With so many people in the main street, Kellan sought the refuge of the ‘Pride of Mallin’. Granger sat talking with Alano and Emerico at a table, drinking from beaten copper cups. A jug and several other cups waited on the table.

  “I assume you found the wine cellar then,” he remarked as he slumped onto a stool at their table.

  “No such luck,” Granger replied, taking a sip. “Water.”

  “And it is early. Even for me,” Alano said. “I am happy to see you safely back with us.”

  “And safely through your debrief with ‘Scurrilous’ Blunt,” Emerico added. “Tell us, at what point did you feel your life was in most jeopardy?”

  Kellan chuckled, that strange feeling of being followed and watched never having fully faded.

  “He is not so bad when you get to know him,” he said. If anything, he often felt that Blunt was afraid of him.

  “Then we will drink to your courage,” said Alano, pouring a stream of what, Kellan was disappointed to note, was indeed water into another copper cup.

  They all took a gulp, and returned their cups to the table.

  “So we all leave soon,” Kellan said when the ensuing silence stretched.

  “As soon as possible,” Emerico confirmed, flicking his fair hair from his eyes, “as soon as the townsfolk are ready. We will escort them east until midday, then head into the hills to dig in and wait.”

  “To be honest,” Alano said, “if we did not leave soon, I fear there would be trouble from some of the townspeople.”

  “Really?” Kellan said, “How so?”

  “That farrier,” Alano reminded him, “has been making all sorts of threats if Krennet does not have his man punished.”

  “The rapist.”

  “The accused,” Alano corrected him. “Jarone is his name.” But Kellan had seen his eyes and had read his guilt like a banner. The ‘smirker’ was the name Kellan had tagged him with.

  “Why won’t Krennet put him on trial? He has the authority.”

  “Bad for morale,” Alano replied. “Even if the verdict were ‘innocent’.”

  “Do you think he is guilty?” Kellan asked.

  Alano held up his hands in mock submission.

  “I am not a judge, but I know what I have heard.”

  “Which is?”

  “That he is bragging amongst his friends about the deed.”

  “Of course he is,” Kellan said knowingly. “His sort always does.”

  “Do not concern yourself with him, Kellan,” Granger said, “he will get his dessert.”

  “Will he? Or will he, like all vicious bastards, simply rise in stature and power until he is beyond judgement?” How did Beklis begin on his road to tyranny? “Where does it end, Granger?”

  The Bal Morans were both silent, staring awkwardly into their cups.

  “There are other battles to fight. That is all I am saying,” Granger said soothingly.

  Kellan stood angrily and downed the contents of the cup before throwing it carelessly, clattering onto the table.

  “No,” he replied, “there is only one battle, and men like that are the enemy.”

  He stormed out, using a measure of the practised Calm to quell the buzzing turmoil in his belly.

  There is only one battle. From the dawn of time there has only been one battle. It started when the first oppressor forced his desires upon those too weak to resist, and has been raging ever since.

  Valia watched Kellan leave from her seat by the window, the clatter of the cup had snapped her from her observations briefly. As he left, she returned her gaze out of the window, to the scene that had been unfolding over the last few minutes.

  Truman was in conversation with a young lady in the narrow gap between the inn and the neighbouring building. She could not hear what was being said, but could occasionally hear their tone of voice, and while they clearly felt sure that they were not being observed, she could see them plainly from her shadowy corner in the ‘Pride of Mallin’; if she angled her seating position just so.

  The poet was smoothing his moustaches as he so frequently did, running his thumb and forefinger across his top lip from beneath his nose, and smiling roguishly. He would laugh softly and make faux signs of embarrassment when she was clearly praising him.

  She for her part, the strumpet, was curling her voluminous hair around a forefinger playfully, and biting her bottom lip through a coy smile that invited so much. She had slapped his chest more than once in mock horror at some lame line or other that he had tried on her, but as her lingering touch on his tunic so plainly stated, there was no need for further seduction.

  A quick tumble before they were parted. No doubt he had already declared his undying love for her, and their parting, whilst heart-breaking, would drive him to seek her out wherever she may be in the world, just as soon as he was finished with his deeds heroic against the advancing horde!

  She almost spat. Love. He spoke of it. It was nothing more than lust dressed in pretty words. Love was an illusion espoused by those trying to coerce the weak-minded.

  The tart was pulling him further into the alleyway. Well, this one knew what she wanted. Valia felt her heart quicken as she realised the real prospect that they would pull each other’s clothes off and go at it right there on the dusty ground. Was there no limit to their perversion?

  But what was this? Truman resisted.

  To the harlot’s clear dismay, Truman was resisting. She drew him closer, pulling his arms around her and forcing his hands onto her buttocks, her mouth seeking his. But he pulled away gently.

  Valia leaned a little closer to the window, but not close enough to be seen, she hoped, and strained her ears. She still could not make out words, but the girl’s voice had taken on a pleading edge, and her lips pouted with hurt she was only half faking.

  Truman continued to speak softly to her, speaking in quiet tones that sought to reassure, but when he lifted her chin tenderly, and kissed her on the forehead and not her hopeful lips, she looked utterly crestfallen.

  A few more quiet words and Truman stalked slowly from the alley and out of view. The girl gathered herself and strutted haughtily the other way. Valia had to duck back to avoid being seen, and she glanced around the inn guiltily to see if she herself had been observed. No-one noticed, and she settled back into her seat.

  Had she just witnessed a moment of gallantry from the poet?

  That strumpet had been offering herself on a gilded platter and yet he had turned her down.

  Perhaps he had a better offer elsewhere of course. Even as she rose, she cursed herself.

  What business is it of mine whose skirts he lifts? And why do I care?

  But she strode out into the street anyway. Truman was nowhere to be seen. She scanned the street for the poet, but he was out of sight already. She spotted Kellan. Perhaps he knew where his friend had gone to. Men always bragged to one another about those things.

  As she approached though, she paused. Kellan was in deep conversation with the farrier she recognised as having a contention with one of Krennet’s men; the one whose daughter had been raped. If it were up to her, Valia would have the bastard strung up, but the Governor was reluctant to act.

  She watched the farrier’s demeanour change as Kellan spoke. The farrier towered above the stooped figure of the younger man, and his balled fists looked set to pummel Kellan at any moment. But Kellan’s words, whatever they were, were having a soothing effect, and slowly the man began to relax. Kellan reached up to place a
hand on the farrier’s shoulder, and they looked intently at each other for some moments, exchanging a few more words.

  Finally, they shook hands, and the man handed Kellan what looked like a delicate kerchief. Kellan pocketed the square of fabric as the Farrier walked slowly away, straight backed and firm of jaw, to his wagon further down the street.

  “Now what was all that about?” she muttered to herself, but before she could ask, Blunt’s voice rang out.

  “Get a move on people! What’s not packed is not worth taking. We’re leaving in half an hour.”

  She dismissed Truman with a disgusted shake of her head as she threw her braid over her shoulder angrily, turning on her heel, then stormed away to collect her belongings. She had to dodge Alano, who had come out of the ‘Pride of Mallin’ to join the dozen or so children in a game of kick-ball. He bowed in apology, and was dispossessed of the small leather ball by a red haired boy with thin legs and knees like knots in string. He made a show of surprise, and then loudly re-joined the fray much to the delight of the children.

  Alano had quickly become very popular with the town’s children, and never seemed to mind their insistence that he join in their games. In fact he sought them out at times, willingly being the ‘blind wolf’, with a scarf over his eyes chasing the shrieking ‘lambs’ about a large circle scratched into the dusty square that they had to remain within. He joined them in footraces up and down the street, always allowing himself to lose by a hair’s breadth, then feigning some old injury to blame for the loss.

  Granger was watching Alano with interest from the door of the inn, and nodded to Valia as she strode by, having seen the near miss.

  “Who will miss the other the most?” he asked.

  “What?” She replied, slowing, her mind already back on that bloody Poet.

  “Only I wonder which of them gets the most out of those games, the children or Alano himself,” Granger said by way of explanation, pointing at Alano as he hefted a giggling child into the air to regain possession of the ball.