by B R Crichton
All around him, men fought and died as the creatures tried to break the defence around Kellan. A thought occurred to him; he sheathed his sword and tentatively reached for that tendril of life, linking the creatures to the Life-force. His mind recoiled from the abhorrence there, but he pressed on. With a supreme force of will, he forced the link apart, which wafted away like smoke, receding back to the source in a heartbeat.
The creature was in mid-air when it died, its Life-force severed as it leapt. An exhausted Valia parried it with her last strength, knowing that the next attack would get through. It fell limply to the ground. The remaining creature, tensed its short hind legs to attack. Kellan stepped past the soldiers that had gathered in the centre of the circle, gently pushing a man aside with unhurried ease. Then he stood still, regarding the creature’s tiny arachnid eyes, and raised his hand, palm facing the beast.
“No,” he said quietly, as he severed its link to life with a thought. It lunged in the instant of its death, skidding across the ground in a clatter of stones to lie perfectly still at Kellan’s feet.
He pushed out with his mind, searching for more pockets of shrouded opacity, feeling for flaws in the normally unobstructed place where minds were open to him. He found none, and slowly allowed the Calm to slip from his mind, opening it to the myriad emotions that had been clamouring to distract him. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts, knowing that there would be answers sought.
His companions stood, staring at him, many with blood streaked armour and wounds that oozed wetly. Their expressions were a mixture of shock and fear, anger and confusion.
“Kellan?” Truman said from his position on the ground. “What was that?”
His mind swam as he looked around at the carnage. So many were dead. Corpses littered the quarry, and moans from the wounded were all that filled the silence that followed. He could barely understand what had happened himself. The clarity with which he saw things a few moments ago when wrapped in the calculating reason of the Calm was gone now, replaced with a confusion of emotions knotting his mind in a cat’s cradle of perplexity.
“I…” he began.
“Kellan!” Elan arrived, breathless at his side. “Are you hurt?”
Kellan shook his head dumbly, looking at his hands, turning them over as if unable to believe that he was unmarked, searching his body for injury.
Granger was staring at one of the beasts where it lay, twisted and motionless on the ground. He looked from it to Kellan with a sad expression, but one that carried his support and love. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, jaw firm as Kellan was slowly swamped by those wanting answers.
“What did you do, Kellan?”
“What are they?”
“Why were they trying to kill you?”
“Will there be more?”
“How did you kill them?”
“Why did you not kill them sooner?”
The last was from Marlon. The big Dasari man was cradling the unmoving body of his younger brother, Foley, on the ground. There was a wetness in the eyes of the mercenary that told Kellan that Foley was gone. A gash across his chest from the beast’s claws had gone through armour, flesh and bone, to kill him instantly.
There was nothing he could say. He stumbled dumbly away, without direction, only making it as far as the quarry’s edge, where the unforgiving rock gave way to that small cluster of trees He used the nearest tree to steady himself, and then collapsed to his knees, sobbing.
Why had Ganindhra shown him this gift without telling him how it could be used? Why show a man the way to look upon a being’s link to the Life-force, yet not tell him how dangerous a place it could be? Had the fallen God not known that Kellan would find a way to kill with a thought? Why not warn him? Was it a way to kill Abaddon?
He sat staring at the horizon, until the sun began to rise. By then he had made up his mind.
After Blunt had watched Kellan walk away from the scene of the battle, he began rallying the men. The wounded were treated as best they could, whilst the dead were to be buried in shallow graves at the northern wall of the quarry.
“Have those things cut into as many pieces as you can manage, put them in sacks, and bury them. Each sack in a different hole at least a dozen paces apart,” he ordered.
“They are dead, I assure you,” Granger told him.
“Bollocks. I saw those bastard offspring of a rancid whore pull themselves together before. It won’t happen again. Anyway, what makes you a bloody expert?”
“I have seen these before,” Granger said truthfully, although that was centuries earlier. No need to add that bit however.
“What are they?”
“They are called the Shar,” he said. “They are only found in an area now held by the Jendayan Empire.”
“Shar,” Blunt repeated, Valia and Olimar appearing at his side to hear what Granger might know.
“The Shar were created long ago as a weapon. They are not of this world. They have no place here, and are rightfully persecuted. They were hunted to near extinction many centuries ago, but a few survived, driven into deep caves and sealed in with massive boulders. They have faded into folklore.”
“‘Hunted to near extinction’,” Blunt repeated. “How in the name of buggery were they hunted to near extinction. They are nigh on impossible to kill.”
“Sever the head; if you can.”
“A little late for advice is it not? That bloody Aemoran stopped them, in his own sweet time, but I swear, it was not by any means I am familiar with.” He brandished his sword to illustrate his point.
“You know Kellan has a special gift.”
“Why did he wait so long?” Olimar asked. “They were clearly trying to kill him. Those other poor sods were simply in their way.”
“It is less simple than you may think,” Granger said by way of explanation.
“Really? Well maybe it is simpler than you think,” Blunt said threateningly. “I think that the boy is a liability. We lost…” He looked to his son for confirmation.
“Twenty eight dead, twelve seriously wounded,” Olimar supplied.
“Twenty eight dead soldiers that I needed to fight the bastard Jendayans. Now if he is so bloody special that creatures of legend are crawling out of holes in the ground to kill him, then I think he would be better to stay well away. I appreciate his service this far, and will pay a generous severance fee, but I would rather he pissed off than put this army at risk again!” He turned to storm off before pausing to add, “Put that in your bloody book!”
Olimar left with his father, leaving Valia alone with Granger.
“How is Truman?” he asked.
“He will live, sadly,” she replied, but a tired smile belied the comment.
“Perhaps I can be of use caring for the injured. I am no fighter, but I am sure I could dress a wound.” He had seen it done across many worlds, with every degree of injury sustained. How difficult could it be?
“You should stick to cooking. There have been enough deaths this morning.”
Granger sagged tiredly, rubbing his eyes. “I am sorry about Foley.”
“Yes, I will miss him,” she said sadly.
“He always seemed to be needling you with his jokes. I was not sure how close you were.”
“He was a good friend,” she said with a sad smile. “A joker and a fool; but a good friend all the same.”
“I heard you threaten to kill him on more than one occasion,” Granger observed.
“Yes, but he knew I was just being…prickly.”
“I am sure he did. Just don’t let ‘being prickly’ stand between you and those eager to avoid your barbs.”
Before she could say anything in response, Granger brightened. “Now,” he said, “how about some breakfast?”
She declined. “I could not face food right now. Really, go and help with the wounded if you think you can be of any use.”
“Very well. But remember what I said about those barbs.” Granger left her to her
thoughts.
“I will not allow it,” Krennet insisted. “They are men of the Arbis Moran Militia, and I shall not have them buried in unmarked graves in this place.”
He had drawn himself up to his full height, managing to look down at Blunt as he argued with the mercenary leader. Blunt, for his part, had no need to puff himself up. The Governor was thin, and spindly when compared to the stocky fighter, his saggy paunch the only part that lent any real weight to his meagre frame.
“Then I would welcome you to have them returned to Ter’Arbis for a proper burial,” Blunt replied through clenched teeth.”
“That is a ridiculous suggestion, and you know it.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“That we should at least carry them with us, until a more suitable site is reached.”
“This mountain range extends for over five hundred miles east of here,” Blunt said, incredulous. “Would you have us carry rotting corpses all the length of them, just so that we can dig a deeper hole in Dasar?”
Krennet sniffed. “You may place a lower value on those under your command, Blunt, but I have a greater respect for those fallen under mine.”
It was possible to see the blood rise up Blunt’s thick neck, flooding his face as he seethed with rage. He raised a finger and held it a hair’s breadth from Krennet’s nose. “Now you listen to me you jumped up, arrogant little bastard. I firmly believe that the best of you was left to run down your whore mother’s arse. I would value one of my men above twenty of yours, and furthermore, Governor, the next time you lecture me about men under your command, you had better make damn sure that you have been bastarding commanding them! Not cringing in your tent like some milk fed pup without the balls to face the enemy.
“Now I lost good men today too, but I will be bent over and buggered by the whole Jendayan Empire, before I risk any more of their lives for such a turd-brained errand as carrying dead bodies through these bloody mountains.” Krennet had backed away against the onslaught, but Blunt kept pace, voice raised to a shout, backing him up towards the watching Arbis Moran camp. Not a sword was unsheathed. “Now, we will be leaving this place by midday, and if you care to be among us, I suggest you give the bloody order to start shifting rocks and get your dead underground, or leave them here for the buzzards. Either way, I don’t give a goat’s scraggy arse, but kindly do it without letting me see your pampered little sulking face until such a time as I have killed in anger, or I swear I may just ram my fist so far down your skinny little neck that I can punch you in your inadequate, dried-up bollocks from above. Have we reached a bastarding understanding here?” The veins were proud of Blunt’s neck as he finished with a bellow that almost knocked Krennet from his feet. The Governor gathered as much dignity as he could, and stalked away to his tent, where he remained until midday.
Blunt stormed past Olimar as his son tried to calm him. Valia matched his step.
“It may not be wise to cause a rift in the army,” she said. “We need his men.”
“Save it for someone who cares, Valia,” he replied. “It needed saying.”
“You are probably right, but maybe if we send a few of ours over to help with the graves…”
“Are you insane? To what end?
“Simply a goodwill gesture aimed at his men, not him.”
“He has more than enough men to shift rocks.”
“Yes he does, and it is those men, and not Krennet that we rely on in battle. If they resent us too, then we may lose them when it matters most.”
Blunt stopped, and sagged a little, deflating with a sigh. “Once again, you make good sense, Valia. You do as you think best. Now, where’s my bloody hat?” He grumbled away to his tent, to find his gaudy headwear.
Granger arrived at her side. He had blood on his hands. “Emmelle died. He had lost too much blood.”
“That makes four from the Band,” she sighed. “How is Marlon?”
“Quiet. Insisted on burying Foley himself.”
Valia shook her head. “Those things were after Kellan. Why?”
“Kellan is different. Perhaps they sensed that.” He winced at the half-truth. He knew, now, beyond any doubt that Abaddon was behind the invasion. Sooner or later he would have to tell the truth, but would he be believed?
She eyed him sceptically, sensing the evasion, and then looked away. “How is Truman?”
“His injury will keep him from playing the lute for a few days,” he replied.
“Fate shines a ray of light upon us at last,” she muttered.
“But he is already composing an ode to the heroics of those who stood against the Shar. I believe that you will feature quite prominently in it.”
Valia rolled her eyes. “I cannot wait.”
After more silence, she said, “What will you do now?”
“What do you mean?”
“About Kellan. I am not sure how much longer Blunt will have him here if he draws that sort of trouble.”
“I believe he would cause a whole lot more were he not among friends.”
She looked hard at him again. “For some reason,” she said puzzled, “I believe you when you say that. I will speak to Blunt; he often says things he does not mean in the heat of the moment.”
“Thank you, Valia.”
She looked around at the dejected camp. Weary soldiers were burying their friends in rocky ground. Even the Arbis Morans were getting on with the task despite Krennet’s objections.
“What are we doing here, Granger? What hope do we have?”
“There is always hope, Valia. There is always hope.”
Kellan felt numb looking at those piles of stone, and he was not using the Calm. Seeing them arranged side by side in front of him like that, with such military precision, seemed ludicrous somehow. To think that so many had died, killed by the Shar that had been sent to kill him, was a notion that would not take seat in his mind. The thought flitted about, trying to land but always slipping from the slick, polished armour that he found protecting his consciousness from the terrible truth. He knew that it was so, yet when he attempted to let the knowledge settle, his thoughts fled, like a jittery horse from its bridle.
Perhaps he was protecting himself from the truth. In some way, his mind was refusing to allow the blame to rest where it ought to, to shield him from the guilt that would follow.
Numb.
Not the numbness of the Calm. That was precise and uncluttered. This was soporific.
He joined the back of the column as they left the quarry. Giaco had been scouting ahead with two of the ‘Remnants’ for several hours, leaving Rino to lead them along the path he had taken. The guides confessed that east of the Mathalin, in Dasar, they would themselves be entering into unknown territory, neither of them ever having been that far from home. They knew where the crossing was however, and that is where they were headed now.
To kill with a thought.
Could Kellan reach out now and rip the ‘smirker’s’ link to the Life-force from him? Could he do the same to Beklis? Could he massacre the entire city of Kor’Habat from the comfort of his own thoughts? Lay waste to the Jendayan invaders?
Surely Ganindhra would not knowingly have given him that power. It was more than any one man should have, but in his hands, could it be used for good? Could Ganindhra himself do it?
Something told Kellan that the way he saw that realm of tenuous wisps linking mortals to the Life-force was not exactly the same as how Ganindhra saw it. As far as he knew, there was nobody else with the gift; if there were, surely people would have noticed by now. At some point the power would have been abused, and petty vengeance meted out on whole groups of people. Nations even.
There was a strange impetus he drew from the Daemon; he knew that. In battle, whilst the Daemon raged and buzzed in its restraint, he was driven by it; empowered by it even. There was more to his actions than mere clarity of thought could be responsible for. So surely it was the Daemon that provided the impetus for his most inhuman feat
s.
That thought gave him pause. Was he a slave to it already?
He dismissed the notion. He was Kellan Aemoran. The Daemon would not have him as long as he was able to mute his emotions within the Calm. Without anger, the daemon could not take him. Without rage, the Daemon was a source of power to be directed as Kellan willed. And he would draw on that power as much as it took.
He considered, right then, killing Jarone the ‘smirker’, stealthily with his mind, and being done with it, but that would be too impersonal. His mother had been raped; he had seen the tattered blouse and ruffled skirt. Men had congratulated each other with knowing grins and laughed their crime off with the ease that a cat flicks a fly from its ear. The ‘smirker’ would have to know why he was dieing.
‘I promise you that that man will not see the sunrise in Dasar. I swear that I will find a time and place to end his sorry life and give you some solace.’
Those were the words he had spoken to the farrier before they left Mallin. The man’s fury had struck a chord with Kellan. Why should such crimes go unpunished?
It was late afternoon when they reached the Mathalin River. The rough, red, dusty rock had given way to easier ground over the last hour, and they now followed a track through stunted trees, downwards into the valley.
The path grew steeper and steeper, eventually winding back on itself in a series of short sharp turns to reduce the angle of descent. Deeper in to the valley, the trees grew taller and more assured as the soil became deeper and richer, and soon mighty pines that three men with their hands linked would struggle to encircle were commonplace. As the thunder of the river grew louder, Kellan stared up through the darkening canopy, catching glimpses of their slender tops bowing gracefully in the wind above.
It was just such a pine that would see them across the turbulent waters of the Mathalin. A huge stem had been felled across the river to span the gorge, and then cleaned of its branches. The top surface had been worked, painstakingly, with an adze to give a flat walkway two short strides in width. The adze marks in the centre were worn smooth by countless footfalls, but those at the edges were still rough where travellers had avoided putting their step. On the upriver side, a waterfall plunged from above them, plummeting in a broad curtain into the valley sixty feet below, pounding the waters relentlessly and throwing up a mist that hung in the air like ever shifting ghosts