by B R Crichton
He continued over the noise:
“There once was a girl from Moshet,
whose cellar was terribly wet,
a neighbour stopped by,
to help pump it dry,
and the poor bugger’s pumping her yet!”
He held his hands up, appealing for quiet before launching into another as the hilarity slowly abated.
“A soldier from out of Balina,
had an awfully surly demeanour,
‘til a girl he adored,
offered to polish his sword,
and his weapon has never been cleaner!”
The room erupted again, but this time the laughter died as the customers noticed the soldiers in the doorway. Half a dozen Heavy Infantry, in their black, off duty uniforms with the blue-green trim had entered the tavern.
“Welcome gentlemen.” Truman did not miss a beat. “Please, do come in and join our little party.”
“We were not waiting for your invitation,” one sneered.
They forced their way into the tavern, shoving aside bodies as they did, and the crowd made what space they could in the squeeze.
“You sing songs? Do poetry?” the last soldier asked, towering above Truman. The man had to stoop to keep his head from the ceiling.
“I do indeed,” Truman said, and offered a bow.
“Sing me a song to the glory of the Empire,” he said.
“I am afraid I only know light hearted pieces, for their comedy value rather than their patriotic worth,” Truman apologised.
“Seems our musician friend is not devoted to the Empire; he cares not for our great victories,” the soldier called to his friends, now at the bar.
“Not at all,” Truman said, “I only write songs to raise people’s spirits; write poems to challenge their ideals”
“Then raise my spirits with an account of our past glories. If you love the Empire, then you will know a song or poem that celebrates our brave deeds in the Heavy Infantry.”
Truman took up his lute hesitantly.
“There is only one such poem I know,” he said. “Do you know of the Massacre at Coru?”
“Know of it?” The soldier barked a laugh. “I was there. It was a crushing victory!”
Truman began to pluck the strings, tuning the lute for the next piece. He began to play, with a hauntingly sad melody.
“This poem,” he spoke over the music, “is an account of the aftermath of that great tragedy.”
He played a little longer, the lament in the music hung in the air, lulling the listeners. Then the lute fell silent, the strings ringing their last as he silenced the instrument and began to speak; his voice measured and slow:
“Silence falls o’er Battle’s field,
The thrum and thrum is heard no more,
The songbird’s shrill is far from here,
Pitch ravens are the birds of war.
On flesh, and eye, and guts they feed,
Chaos’ seed has given yield,
Her servants set a platter low,
Upon the ground of Battle’s field
The Artist sets his easel firm,
Upon a mound, above the mud,
Above the churn; above the seethe,
The shattered swords; the guts; the blood.
With ashen face, and jaw set grim,
His eye takes in all that has been,
With pallet washed in shades of hate,
His brush strokes note of Battle’s field.
His brush strokes note of Battle’s field,
Strokes note of anger turned to dust,
Ten thousand hatreds crushed by steel,
Laid low; fell foul to carnage lust.
Each brush-stroke re-enacts the horror,
Thrust and bludgeon, hack and yield,
Each daub of oil, another victim,
A bloodied corpse on Battle’s field.
With shaking hand the Artist stops,
No name upon this piece is writ,
For Battle’s field is Death’s own ground,
Let no name pride its place in it.
The tainted grit of Battle’s field.”
By the time he finished the poem, all six soldiers had gathered around him. Their expressions were like thunderclouds. The one who had spoken was clenching and unclenching massive fists. All but one of them had to stoop slightly under the low ceiling.
“Do you seek to mock me, poet?” he asked angrily. “Do you seek to pour scorn on our achievements?”
“You asked for a testimony to the splendour of war,” Truman replied levelly. “That was it.”
“That was a dirge,” he growled through clenched teeth.
“That is fitting, since the battle produced more corpses than heroes,” Truman replied.
Kellan had been moving through the press of bodies to get closer to his friend, with a familiar stirring within him. He was not sure what he could do when he got there; he had no illuminations to cause a diversion, and only a small belt knife to fight with, but he edged closer all the same. The soldiers were not armed themselves as far as he could see; they were dressed in off duty garb, and only two of them had knives similar to his own visible at their hips.
“I think this one needs a lesson in manners,” the soldier said to his comrades.
“Take him outside and give him a beating,” said one, “and any others that wish to support him. I could do with the elbow room.”
He emphasised his point by pushing away the customers nearest to him, sending them crashing into those behind. Kellan was briefly caught in the crush caused by one of the stumbling men, but freed himself from the press to get nearer. His heart was thudding in his chest. The animal howl of rage at his core was only dampened by the fear he felt at that moment.
Truman was edging towards the door, as the soldiers closed on him. He spread his hands in submission, just as one of them kicked a stool at him. The furniture was broken before it hit, and fell apart when it struck him in the chest.
The soldier lunged and took Truman by the throat with a huge hand and pushed him through the door, heels skittering on the floorboards. The other soldiers followed, and by the time Kellan fought past the press of bodies, they had surrounded Truman in the street.
“Now gentlemen,” the poet was saying, “allow me to appeal to your sense of fair play.”
“You think you can mock us with your pretty words?” one said.
“That was not my intention, I was merely pointing out the hidden costs of battle,” he replied reasonably.
“I think the hidden costs of your poetry are about to catch up with you,” another said.
The men dwarfed Truman, and with them circling him, there was no hope of fleeing. His best hope was for Kellan to divert their attention long enough for Truman to run past them.
“Koratheans!” Kellan shouted as loud as he could, and hurled a piece of broken furniture at the nearest man. The flimsy wood bounced off the back of the soldier. As one they turned to face him, and Truman took his cue to dart between two of them and sprint away down the street.
“Kellan, run!” he shouted as he raced away from the soldiers.
Kellan started to follow, pushing through the spectators that had gathered outside the tavern. The soldiers set off in pursuit of Truman; two in particular were surprisingly fast for their size. He darted down a side street, hoping to split their attackers, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed that two were following him. He hurtled down the narrow lane until he came to a crossroads, where he set off in a direction he considered parallel to Truman’s course. The few people out in the street cheered or gaped at the entertainment running by, but no-one intervened. It started to drizzle, a cold sleet that made the cobbles slick with ice and water.
Despite their size, his pursuers kept him in sight, and he felt his legs begin to tire. He felt for his belt knife, pulling it from its sheath as he turned sharply down another alley. The thrill of the chase gave way to fear when he came to a dead end. He spun, breat
hing heavily, just as the two soldiers rounded the corner.
They slowed their pace, seeing that their prey was trapped, and approached menacingly. They were silhouetted against the weak, orange glow of the lamps in the street behind them, but he could sense their wicked grins.
“What have we got here?” said one, cracking his knuckles in readiness for the beating.
“Nowhere left to run, little rabbit,” said the other, pulling a belt knife that gleamed in the night glow.
“He’s got himself a weapon there,” the first mocked, “better watch he doesn’t gut you.”
“I’m gonna cut off his eggs with his own blade,” the other hissed, drawing nearer.
Kellan’s pounding heart was threatening to leap from his chest when he reached for the Calm, allowing it to push his fear aside, replacing it with cold calculation. The buzzing rage that had risen with his fear was silenced too, and he felt a tinge of regret just before emotion dwindled, that he would not fully taste the sweetness it promised.
The soldier’s approach slowed further in his eye, as he took stock of his situation. Everything became no more than an equation to solve. The slick cobbles, the low light, the icy rain falling in large wet lumps, and approaching soldiers; all mere factors to take into account before producing the desired outcome. He danced away from the first lunge, hearing the threats the soldier spoke, but paying them no heed. With escape cut off, it was fight or die as far as he could tell, and when the second lunge came, he sidestepped easily, driving his short blade upwards in to wrist of his attacker.
The soldier grunted and dropped his knife, momentarily shocked. He grabbed at the wound to stem the flow of blood just as Kellan leapt up and drove the short blade into the back of the man’s neck, severing his spine.
He heard the body hit the ground, but Kellan was already moving quickly across icy cobbles towards the second soldier. The huge man had seen his fellow fall, and howled with rage as he closed the distance between them, with his thick arms spread wide.
Kellan dropped, and slid between the legs of the soldier, slashing his knife across the man’s knee as he glissaded over the slick cobbles. The man shrieked as his leg collapsed under him, tendons severed, and he landed heavily on the ground, trousers wet with blood.
Kellan ran out of the alley, trying to judge where Truman had gone to. He followed the most logical direction and before long heard shouts from up ahead. He still gripped the bloodied knife in his hand as he rounded a corner to see Truman on the ground.
They had caught up with him in an area of warehouses that showed no sign of life at this time of night. One of the soldiers picked him up and slammed a fist into his belly. Truman doubled over, his legs unable to support him, but the soldier held him up effortlessly and threw him to one of the others, who punched him in the ribs.
At the sight of his friend’s bloody face, the rage within him roared like a hurricane, slamming into the wall of the Calm and growing in intensity until Kellan was sure it would break free. The sweetness of it leached through the Calm, giving him a sense of what could be his if he would only release it. His carefully practised containment was rocked by the strength of the surge, threatening to overcome him, buzzing like all the bees in the world bent on escaping the jar he had trapped them in.
He ran at the soldiers, who laughed at the crumpled figure on the wet cobbles between them. The sleet had mingled with the blood, washing the poet’s face with red.
The first one he reached did not even realise that he was there until Kellan was on his back, drawing his knife across the soldier’s throat. As the stricken soldier stumbled forward, Kellan used the momentum to launch himself at the next, colliding with him, wrapping his legs around him for purchase and stabbing with the short blade. The blade may have been short, but Kellan placed the point well, and quickly the soldier stopped trying to grapple with him and instead attempted to push him away. The damage was done, and as the soldier crumpled, Kellan rolled away to avoid the boot of the nearest attacker.
He watched the soldier’s movements, calculating the optimum time to strike as the furious infantryman leapt the groaning body of his comrade, throwing himself at Kellan. Kellan dropped to one side, striking upwards to take the stumbling man in the throat, then spun clear to let him gasp his last on the cold, wet cobbles.
He faced the final soldier. He had lifted Truman by the collar and held a knife to his throat.
“After I spill your lover’s innards on the street, I’m going to take this knife and shove it up your arse.” He screamed the threat, a note of hysteria in his voice.
Kellan brought his hand up, and flicked his wrist as the knife left his grip. It penetrated the soldier’s eye to the hilt. Truman was released as the stunned soldier stumbled back, pawing feebly at the handle protruding from his face.
Kellan could feel the Calm slipping away as he ran at the final soldier. The rage within him shrieked for more, demanding it be sated further. The soldier collapsed easily when he kicked him in the stomach, and he sat looking stunned on the wet cobbles. His head lolled as Kellan punched it. The soldier tried weakly to palm away his attacker with the hilt still protruding obscenely from his socket, but the fury in Kellan kept him striking at the man.
As the soldier collapsed fully, Kellan fell onto the soldier’s chest and put his fingers around the enormous throat, trying to choke the last of the life out of him. The fury swelled, pouring out, and threatening to engulf Kellan. He felt as though he was standing in a torrent, barely avoiding being washed away. But the deluge was getting higher.
It was so sweet. So right.
This anger he had kept locked up for so long would serve now to punish those that thought themselves immune.
He would unleash his fury upon them.
No more would they bully and victimise with impunity.
He felt himself being lost in the rage, dwindling as the lust for blood took over his senses.
The fury rejoiced as he sank beneath its cloying depths, and as he felt his self being swamped, he heard a voice in the distance. A voice from so far away and long ago that Kellan had to struggle to put a name to it.
“Kellan Aemoran,” it said.
The fury urged him to ignore it. He was so close to giving himself fully to it. His vision was red. He did not even know if he still held the soldier’s throat; his body was numb, the deafening, roaring buzz filled his ears
“Kellan Aemoran,” the voice persisted.
The little left of Kellan struggled to make sense of the voice. A certain familiarity needled him, and his curiosity itched to know. With a supreme effort, he forced himself through the fog that had engulfed him, only barely managing to find himself again. The buzzing fury began to dissipate as he felt himself drawing away from the edge of a precipice.
“Kellan?” he heard. As sensation slowly returned to his fingers, he loosened his grip on the dead man’s throat. He looked up into familiar eyes and relief washed over him like ice water.
“Granger?” he said incredulously.
The old man began to weep. “I thought I’d lost you, boy.”
Kellan staggered upright and embraced the man, who wept openly with relief, squeezing Kellan tightly. He sobbed on Kellan’s shoulder, surprising him with the release of emotion.
“I’m all right,” Kellan said numbly, as he took in the fact that he was unharmed, despite what he had just done.
“I am sorry you felt you had to run like you did,” Granger said. “I swear, I will be more understanding in future. Just forgive an old man his protectiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” said Kellan.
A groan behind them broke the spell. Granger released him, wiping his eyes on his cuffs and sniffing. Truman was struggling into a seated position on the wet cobbles, as the drizzle turned to a persistent heavy sleet. He was clutching his ribs and grimacing. He took in the bodies arrayed on the ground about him.
“I think,” he said, wincing at the pain the effort caused, “
we should leave the city before sunrise.”
It was not easy, but Granger and Kellan managed to help Truman back to their lodgings, where they gathered their belongings hurriedly. Truman could barely walk with the pain in his ribs, gasping with every movement.
They had no choice but to flee. It would not take long for the militia to glean enough information from the witnesses, scattered between the tavern where it had all started, through the streets, to the bodies at the end of the trail. The poet would be well known, and Kellan’s birthmark would single him out in an instant.
They needed a way out of the city, quickly, before the gates were shut to seal in the perpetrators while the militia searched. Granger banged on the door of a livery stable near the northern gate until the bleary-eyed owner opened the door to him. He purchased a horse, and an old cart the stable owner used for transporting bales across to one of his other stables near the southern gate. He paid more than they were worth, plus a little extra to buy the man’s silence. He was still not sure if the stable owner would hide their transaction from the militia if they asked, but they would need every chance to get away cleanly.
With Truman and Kellan safely loaded onto the cart with their belongings, they approached West Gate with Granger seated on the box seat at the front. He uncorked a skin of wine and drank deeply, pouring a substantial amount down his chest, staining his shirt.
“Remember what to do,” he hissed as they approached the gate.
A guard rose lazily and wandered across his path, holding a halberd idly across the road. His fellow huddled beside a glowing brazier for warmth.
Granger was singing softly. “But my love has left me, never to return…”
He reined the horse to a halt, just close enough to the soldier to make him jump back.
“Im shorry shir,” he raised a hand in salute, “blasted horse thing, gets more shtubborn every day.”
The guard rolled his eyes.
“Leaving it a bit late to be out on the road. There is no moon tonight, and you have no lanterns,” the soldier said.