The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  “Sangier, as you know, lies south of Balina on the peninsula, and has as large a port as the capital city itself. The Jendayans landed there first, and met little resistance. They burned and slaughtered their way through the city, showing no mercy. Malmotti was singled out as the nearest thing the city had to a leader, since the Governor is based in Balina; and fleeing in any case as soon as word reached him. His family and servants, along with anyone still alive in the city were rounded up and put in large wooden cages upon a pyre built from the city’s own shattered buildings. Piled on top of one another, people crammed into them to bursting, crying out for help. Beaten to within a hair’s breadth of death, Malmotti was forced to watch the fire burn and endure the screams of his people. His family.

  “This was a warning, they said, and sent him on the road to Balina with news of the invasion. He was to spread the word that any who did not swear fealty to Emperor Hapatu of Jendaya would suffer a similar fate. An entire city, slaughtered to make a point, and that man had to watch the cruellest of deaths for his wife and children.

  “He drinks because to be sober is to remember that day, and those memories would drive him insane. The pain he must feel with even the vaguest recollection makes me wince. Do not begrudge him the comfort of a wineskin. He has but one purpose now, and that is to kill anyone Jendayan, and the swordsman within is fighting to get out.”

  “He got out,” Kellan said with a sombre nod of his head. “I have never seen such butchery done in so short a time.”

  “And that is saying something coming from you,” Foley said. Kellan rolled his eyes.

  “Keep him topped up then,” Blunt said, “So long as he fights when we need him to. He can lie there pissing himself all he likes.”

  There was a silence around the fire until Valia shifted forward to throw another lump of wood on the embers. “These Jendayans have to be stopped.”

  “We will all get a chance at the bastards,” Blunt said.

  “There is no better way to die than to fall in battle,” Olimar said seriously.

  “Yes there is,” Foley said with more cheer, “how about quietly in your sleep on your wedding night with your fifth teenage bride?”

  The wineskin was passed around again as they laughed. All except Valia, who shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  “How about you Alano? How would you like to go?” Foley asked

  The Arbis Moran looked thoughtful. “If I was to choose, then it would be after a long and full life, surrounded by my children, grandchildren, and while we’re dreaming, great grandchildren.”

  “How many children have you got?” Foley pressed him.

  Alano looked sadly at the mercenary. “None. It was not to be.” He pursed his lips, then brightened. “But we are dreaming, am I right?”

  There was an awkward silence, despite his upbeat final words.

  “What about you Valia? How would you die, given the choice?” Foley asked, a little quieter.

  “A long time after you, given the choice,” she replied with surly indignation, but she winked after a moment and the mood lifted again.

  “Truman, your turn.”

  “With the kiss of my true love, still sweet on my lips,” he said without hesitation.

  “Give him a kiss Valia,” Foley urged, “see if he keels over.”

  Blunt uncorked a bladder of ‘skull thumper’ as the laughter rose, and Valia was urged to kiss the poet. She began to blush angrily in the firelight. “I would sooner kiss one of the horses,” she said over the clamour, “on the arse.”

  There was more laughter as Truman was slapped roughly on the back, and pushed playfully by those around him. His expression was unreadable.

  “Blunt, how about you?”

  “I would wish to die on the battlefield surrounded by enemies,” he declared. “At least then I would be in the company of decent soldiers, and men of better character.” This brought a great deal of mock indignation and false hurt from the members of the Band. He quietened them with a raised hand and an appeal for calm.

  “Perhaps it is the ‘skull thumper’ talking,” he said, “but if I was to choose a time and a place to die, it would be this.” He gestured around him at his companions. “As I am now; on campaign, in the open air on a still night, with wine,” he eyed the bladder of ‘skull thumper’ doubtfully, “a full belly, and the company of friends.”

  The camp went deathly quiet, and members of the Band exchanged perplexed looks. They had never known Scurrilous Blunt to show such sentiment. They were more accustomed to verbal abuse and the odd well aimed boot.

  Blunt took a swig from the bladder, and grimaced. “No. It’s definitely the ‘skull thumper’ talking.”

  They talked on into the night, and Granger found himself sitting beside Alano, the thin haired man insisting they share the last of a wineskin.

  “I have noticed something about you,” Alano said

  Granger flinched, remembering the look of concern Alano had shot him that morning as he addressed an unseen emissary. He must have appeared insane. “Oh?”

  “You are an observer.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You are a watcher,” Alano said, a little drunk, “you watch people, and write things down in those little books of yours.”

  “I am an historian,” Granger said, relieved.

  “Are you writing the history of this little gathering here?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am. I record events, points of interest in this journey of ours.”

  “This journey?”

  “Life, Alano. I meant life. There is so much happening at any given moment, and it is nearly all forgotten. Only stories and legends remain, but the things that make us who we are, are lost. I am trying to record something of the people here that will be remembered as more than just a simple story.”

  “So you are writing about me too?”

  “Yes, unless you object, I…”

  “No, not at all. I have a favour to ask you though.” Alano leant closer. “When you mention me in your story, would you remember me with a little more hair?”

  Kellan was feeling on edge; the sensation of being hunted had intensified. He summoned the Calm and reached out with his mind from within the cocoon of unruffled serenity.

  There. That place he could not penetrate. Around him the minds of the ragtag army glowed, their tendril links to the Life-force like wisps of smoke in the air. Further out, it was hard to apply physical distances to what he experienced here, but further out was an area of gloom. He pushed against it and it yielded a little, more than last time, but not enough to see within.

  He surfaced into the real world, releasing that emotionless refuge to be assaulted by a myriad feelings; fear, apprehension, confusion, guilt. He looked at Elan, gazing into the embers. Elan followed him because Kellan had asked him to. He had been dragged far from home for a friendship that Kellan was aware had no balance. How painful was the ‘longing’ now? How desperately did Elan want to return to the peace of Lythuria, but held himself back because of Kellan?

  Kellan knew he had to let his friend go. He had no right to drag him into a war, for that was where they were headed again; and Beklis? Kellan could deal with him alone now. Their current campaign would take them east towards Ara Dasari where the coward almost certainly lived, according to Alano.

  But Elan would not return without his friend. Kellan knew that. Elan was as faithful a friend as he could hope for, and would not go home unless they were together. That was a problem, for Kellan was bound to his purpose now, and that might well involve going to war once more; a war that did not seem winnable. Had the Jendayan Empire not invaded, he could well have been content to kill Beklis and return to Lythuria and all it held for him. But to leave the land he had fought to free in the hands of another tyrant was unthinkable.

  There was a storm blowing in from somewhere; the tension was palpable, and he had to ride it out. But should he ride it out here with these forlorn defenders of hope?

  And
the ‘Smirker’, Jarone, and his crime? Well, Kellan had a promise to keep, and would not involve Elan in that.

  Chapter Twenty

  Beginnings…

  The library in Moshet, a vast building set within the walled confines of the palace, was virtually a city in its own right. Within the high walls were small parks with fountains and marble statues of Dasari heroes and past rulers. The mansions of the nobles were dwarfed by the palace itself, a vast structure built layer upon layer, each a little smaller than the one below, and at the top the home of the Dasari Kings and Queens. Now of course home to the governor of Dasar; the royals who had sworn fealty to the Kodistai in Kor’Habat lived in the lower levels alongside minor nobles from Korathea.

  The library itself was a compound of ornate buildings, housing a huge depository of books and scrolls, as well as several galleries of art and engineering. Truman told Kellan that Moshet was the most civilised city outside of Mecia.

  The poetry reading was held in a small auditorium that held a few dozen finely dressed individuals, each with an air of superiority about them that made Kellan’s knuckles itch. They nodded sagely during various readings, and applauded theatrically at the end of each piece. Kellan was determined to stay and hear Truman’s reading, having expressed an interest, but grew tired of the poetry quickly, and slipped from the room for a look around the gallery.

  He ambled through the airy rooms with the sound of his boots echoing in the vaulted ceilings. The statues and paintings that adorned the plinths and walls were impressive indeed, though the names of the heroes they depicted were not known to him.

  The artwork gave way to a museum of sorts with a military theme. There were all manner of crossbows and longbows, battle axes and maces, and little plaques describing each weapon. He scanned over them; there was far too much to take in at once and he was only killing time.

  He came upon a case housing the enormous armour suit worn by the Korathean Heavy Infantry. The chain mail and plate, the full face helmet with the hinged face guard, all polished to a mirror shine and trimmed with blue-green. Kellan doubted that he could even lift the massive sword with both hands, let alone wield it single handed whilst holding the huge shield. The strength of these men must surely be unassailable. It was no wonder that they had swept across the continent, taking control of all the lands west of Kor’Habat so quickly.

  There looked to be no way through the armour for anyone facing such a soldier. How to penetrate the armour before being cleaved in two by that massive curved blade? He wondered. Finding a chink in those defences would be all but impossible.

  Then, in a case not far away, he saw a section of plate, pierced by an arrow. The point was shaped like a diamond, not as broad as the heads he was used to making, but he felt a sense of relief all the same.

  Not so invincible after all.

  He made his way back to the auditorium, and slipped in just as Truman was finishing his reading.

  “So count the leaves as they fall, their passing shall not be mourned.

  But hold for them a place in your memory, and remember them to the seeds that scatter.”

  There was a smattering of applause, and Truman left the podium with a bow. Kellan clapped loudly, aware that he was overcompensating for his absence through the reading.

  Truman stepped down from the low stage, and headed for the edge of the room, where a stocky man emerged from a chair in the shadows. His head was completely shaved and his broad shoulders told of a physical strength lacking in the other spectators. They shook hands as Kellan approached, Truman nodding emphatically to the mumbled questions from the thick-set man.

  “Ah, Kellan,” Truman said looking up at Kellan’s approach, “may I introduce an old friend. Kilarn.”

  Kellan held out his hand with a smile. “Good to meet you, Kilarn,” he said.

  The man grunted in response, shaking Kellan’s hand with a calloused grip.

  “Kilarn is a patron of the arts, are you not?” Truman said.

  “Something like that,” he grumbled.

  “Please excuse us, Kellan,” Truman said politely, “but I have a small business matter to attend to with my friend here. I will join you soon.”

  Kellan left them to their hushed conversation, only hearing a few choice curses from Kilarn regarding the poetry reading. He smiled to himself and wondered what kind of business they were discussing. He knew for sure that Kilarn was no ‘patron of the arts’, but accepted that it was none of his business what they discussed and tried to put it from his mind.

  The stocky, shaven headed man glanced Kellan’s way a few times during the discussion that followed, before exiting via a side door. Truman approached his friend.

  “My apologies,” he said. “My business partner was keen to clear up some issues that have arisen. We can return our attention to the readings now if you like.”

  “Actually,” Kellan said carefully, “I feel I need some fresh air. I may take a walk in the gardens.”

  Truman looked sternly at him, then laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “No matter,” he said, “I am done here anyway. Baerian’s next, and I have no appetite for his morbid subjects. I feel the need for a cup of wine. Shall we?”

  They left the Auditorium and then made their way outside the palace grounds to a small tavern, and celebrated Truman’s success. Though whether it was for his reading or the business transaction, Kellan was not sure.

  Kellan found work in a tannery. He got used to the smell, and the money was most welcome. He and Truman took cheap lodgings in the industrial district of the city. The poet was keen to spend time in the library, or so he said. Kellan noticed his disappearing from time to time, on secret errands he dismissed when questioned about them. He did not pester his friend about his furtive meetings though; the poet’s business was his own. But he did wonder. It was hard to separate the poet’s shady dealings from his illicit liaisons with the many ladies he attracted with his pretty words and seductive music. Kellan had never known a man to be so shameless, and was sure that not all of his conquests were without husbands. This had Truman sneaking about with a grin like a cat in a creamery.

  He bought a sword as soon as he could scrape the money together. An old rapier, from a pawn shop in the less affluent end of the business district. Truman assured him that the blade was of good quality, and spent some time honing the edge and point to return it, some way, to its former glory. The light weapon suited Kellan’s moderate strength, and he spent long hours cleaning the intricate hilt to bring a shine back to the steel. Like his training with the bow, he believed that he should know the weapon intimately.

  Kellan practised with the sword every day. Truman coached him in the parks of Moshet, taking him through the forms and patterns of offence and defence, sparring with lengths of cane bound to their weapons for safety, and always encouraging him with positive words. The air was getting colder as winter set in, and the outdoor training sessions had their breath misting under the broad trees.

  “Have you ever used your sword in anger?” Kellan asked one day.

  “A few times, yes,” he replied.

  “Have you ever killed a man?” Kellan said.

  Truman hesitated. “I do not believe in killing for the sake of it. I am a pacifist by nature, but sometimes a man finds himself pushed so hard that he must defend himself or die. I would never instigate a fight, I prefer to walk away with insults at my back. It can only be a last resort, the sword. As children, we are encouraged not to fight with our fellows, but rather to discuss our differences with civility and understanding. Why should adults behave any differently?”

  “Because they may seek to right a wrong,” Kellan suggested.

  “Then that action will be avenged by the other party, and so it will go on,” Truman said. “We cannot live our lives, ‘tit for tat’. Imagine if today, every person in the world chose to forgive every other for the wrongs that they have committed. Would we not enter an age of peace unprecedented in all
history.”

  “But there would still be those who would force their will upon you,” Kellan said.

  Truman sighed. “I know,” he said, “peace is a dream; but a wonderful one at that.”

  “There can be no peace as long as the Empire goes on expanding,” Kellan said hotly. “Keeping populations under the heel of a boot is no way to instigate forgiveness or understanding.”

  Truman made a quieting gesture. “Beware what you say, Kellan,” he warned, “those words falling on the wrong ears could land you in prison or the hangman’s grip.”

  “But sooner or later, we all need to stand up against evil, or else give in to it utterly,” he replied.

  “There are ways to make a stand against tyranny that do not involve being arrested in a city park for incitement to rebellion,” Truman said softly.

  “So there are ways,” he replied, finally feeling that he was getting the measure of the poet.

  Granger was weary when he reached the edge of Moshet, and settled into the first inn he came across. In the morning he would continue his search.

  He had been following Kellan for the whole summer, and winter was fast approaching as autumn gave way to longer nights and colder winds. He had followed Kellan as soon as he realised the boy had gone. It was only on starting the chase that he realised how much slower he would be than the young man. The body he had come to think of as his own was now in its mid-fifties, and keeping pace with a man of twenty was proving harder by the day.

  Kellan was easy to describe, with his characteristic birthmark, and the trail was never cold as such, just old by the time he found it.

  The pain he felt when thinking of Kellan’s hurt was unbearable. The thought of his boy coming to harm kept him awake at night. He really had come to think of Kellan as a son. Perhaps because he had poured so much of himself into raising the boy, or perhaps because Kellan had always been so open and likeable. Whatever the reason, Granger was determined to find him before he came to harm, and not just for the sake of the world. Because of all the lives he wanted to save, Kellan’s was the most important. He often lost sight of the fact that Kellan’s was one life in millions, but that was the whole point to him. Every one of those millions was just a single life on its own, and Kellan was his to protect.