The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  Granger cursed silently. He took a swig of wine, and offered the skin to the soldier, who declined with a wave.

  “Mmm?” he replied. “Oh, yes. But this old nag may not be any good at shtopping, she knows her way home, and no mishtake.”

  “He,” said the soldier.

  “Mmm?”

  “She is a gelding,” he said walking around to inspect the contents of the cart.

  Granger cursed himself again.

  “Of course, she is a gelding,” he replied imperiously, “I was there the day he became a she.”

  The soldier let it pass, and tapped the feet of the two prone figures in the cart. Truman and Kellan were face down and partly covered with a tarpaulin. They groaned, though Truman did not have to play act, he had been moaning softly at every little bump in the road.

  “Friends of yours?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” Granger replied, “though I feel they do not hold their liquor so much well as Me. I.”

  “Where have you been drinking tonight?” the militiaman asked as he came back to Granger’s side.

  “The Hunted Boar,” he replied, taking another draw from the wine sack, and belching loudly, then covering his mouth with mock horror.

  “And where do you travel to this cold night?”

  “I wish it were to the armsh of my sweet lover,” he slurred, reeling on the box seat, “but sadly, my wife is neither sweet nor lovely, and her arms will no doubt cuff me about the head when I get home.”

  The soldier laughed at that. “Then you and your horse have something in common. No balls!” The other soldier laughed as well, rubbing his hands together over the coals.

  Granger joined them, raising his wineskin in acknowledgement.

  “Be off with you,” the militiaman said, slapping the horse on the rump.

  Granger struggled to stay upright as the horse lurched forward, and not entirely as part of his routine. He breathed a sigh of relief as they rattled along the packed road, and every mile that they put behind them was a mile further from immediate harm. Soon, he veered off to the north, taking a narrow road that circled the city, in an attempt to confuse the trail, then joined the North road.

  They travelled on through the freezing night, struggling to see the road ahead, as the sleet turned to snow. The horse was becoming cold and exhausted, much as the three passengers were, and so it was with relief that they happened upon a farmhouse. Granger woke the farmer, and after a long conversation at the door of the stone building, they were given permission to overnight in the barn.

  They helped Truman from the cart, and laid him down on some hay, wrapping him as warmly as they could. Between them, Kellan and Granger were able to release the carthorse from its harness, taking mental notes so that they would be able to reattach it in the morning.

  They settled down in the glow of the lamp they had found hanging from the doorpost, preparing themselves for the cold night ahead.

  “There is something you have not told me,” Kellan said once he was sure that Truman was asleep, “about myself.”

  Granger sighed. “Yes. You are right. Ganindhra and I wrangled over this during countless talks and arguments. What to tell you. How much to tell you. Where to begin.”

  “What is it?” he asked. “What have you kept from me?”

  Granger slumped a little and was lost in thought. Eventually, Kellan jarred him from his reverie.

  “It is about that Life-force I saw isn’t it? The other one. The one that is not my own,” he said. “I think I have always known it was there, but never knew how to approach it.”

  Granger nodded, thinking carefully about what he would say next.

  “For you, the story began at the edge of that stream, as a child near Goat’s Pass,” he began at last. “The day you found that stranger on the bank. But the story began long before that. I will begin with the creation of the world.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  “I will tell you the story,” Granger said to the gathered soldiers, “but doubt me at your peril.” This crude camp in the Mora Mountains was a far cry from the splendour of the Great Hall, but he would do his best to do the tale justice.

  He had heard this story and knew it well. The story of the Great Creation, that preceded all others. It was the first in The Book of Lives, penned by Athusilan himself, and the only account in the great book that pre-dated the book itself. Granger took on his role of story teller, puffing out his chest and focussing his mind on the tale. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment then opened them again, glittering with fervour. He took a deep breath before beginning.

  “Before time and space. Before dimension and law. There was only the void. Yet, not so much a void, as that would imply borders; limits; edges. Instead, absolute, profound nothing. And within the emptiness, an infinitesimal point of no size, mass or density, for those are constants that did not exist and were still to come.

  “Yet the point did not truly exist since there was no time, and for anything to be, it must begin and end and time must flow in between. It was an entity unto itself. No mind may contrive to understand it, nor words hope to describe it.

  “It was from this point that the Wave exploded forth, the spherical Wave of Creation that obliterated the nothing, replacing it with space, time and dimension. In its mighty wake, aeons unfolded, gases swirled and coalesced, and matter burned brightly in the new-born heavens, as the new substance danced and pirouetted in great galaxies. The Universe buzzed with energy as stars were born, and collapsed in the flares of supernova. Energy was everywhere in its many kinds, and cohered in pockets of like form.

  “So it was that the Wave touched all planes differently. Sentient pulses were forged by ages into Deities no less imperfect than the heavenly bodies they came to circle, on a plane far removed, only by their difference in energy form. Thought and life were born.

  “The Wave goes on and is pure. Yet that which the Wave creates cannot be so as this would detract from Itself and lessen the truth of Its entirety. Thus Its touch is imperfect, worlds are flawed, laws and Gods, impure since only the Wave is pure. Think not that yours is the only world, nor assume your precepts absolute.

  “There are countless others. This is but one of them…” He stopped, looking at the faces of his audience. They were all silent save for Krennet.

  “This is a sham,” he blustered. “One of my men lies murdered and you spin mythical tales of Gods, and waves. Make sense man, there are no Gods.”

  “That is almost true,” Granger said, having finished the passage he knew by rote, and then began again, this time speaking not from a remembered tale, but piecing together a hundred different stories and putting together a spontaneous summary of events that had brought them all to this point. “You are wrong to dismiss the Gods, though for the most part they are no more. They once abounded. There are many ruins to testify to their existence, once. They were worshipped on this world just as on any other, and they walked the land, and spoke with their people.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Krennet protested. “What purpose does this serve? I did not come here to debate mythical beings with you. Those ruins are from a less enlightened past. Savages who worshipped through ignorance. We know better.”

  “Let him speak,” Blunt warned. “But the good Governor makes a fair argument; get to the point, Historian.”

  “There were many Gods,” Granger continued. “Each presided over several worlds, breathing life into barren places and birthing civilisations. They sowed seeds where they found none, or altered what already existed. Sometimes they shared worlds, and pitted their worshippers against one another like pieces on a board. Many used the lives of mortals for their own petty games, pinning no more importance on them than you would on an insect. But for all the conflict they initiated on the surface of their worlds, they never fought with each other. It was considered unthinkable that the Gods should war directly. With near infinite worlds, there was no need.

  “But, there was one among their num
ber who saw things differently. Abaddon. He grew steadily in power, whilst the others played their games with the mortals beneath them. They did not notice his rise until it was too late. He attacked them directly, destroying that which could not be destroyed. Killing what could not be killed. Immortals.

  “Too late they reacted. Those few that had survived his initial assault banded together to destroy him. That war was fierce. Armies of Angels fought in the heavens, and on the land, whole worlds were consumed in the fires that burned between the two sides and Abaddon swore to destroy all that they had created. The Shar you fought are a remnant of those battles.

  “He was too strong for them. As a final desperate measure, the few remaining Gods poured all that was left of their power into a weapon to destroy Abaddon for good. They knew that they too would almost certainly be annihilated, but they knew that they must save what they had built. Perhaps they had tasted what it meant to be mortal. Perhaps they felt compelled to save their followers.

  “They failed. Abaddon was not killed. He survived, albeit broken by the weapon. Abaddon was separated from his power. He was still immortal, but he needed a mortal body for his power to flourish and bend to his will. We call that power the Daemon.

  “At the moment he knew that he had been struck down, his fury was so great that the Daemon knows only rage. It feeds on it, thrives within it, and ultimately needs it to take control of its mortal host and unleash its full potential.”

  “And when it does?” Blunt asked.

  Granger nodded sadly. “That mortal’s world is destroyed. Abaddon will be able to summon his army from his own realm to annihilate everything. The Shar are the work of Abaddon. Those that linger on this world are remnants of that great war. Piece by piece, life by life, he will undo what his enemies created until no more than a cold barren rock remains. In destroying a world, however, his power is once again cast adrift until it can find a new place to take root and work its evil. The Life-Force of the mortal used to tether the Daemon to Abaddon cannot survive the journey to the next world.”

  “How many worlds?”

  “Destroyed?” Granger said. “Thousands. But he has only just begun. Abaddon, ‘Destroyer of Worlds’ has so much havoc yet to wreak.”

  “Are you telling me that the Daemon is here? On this world.”

  Granger only nodded again.

  “Go on,” Blunt urged, “say it. Where exactly is the Daemon?”

  “It is Kellan Aemoran who carries Abaddon’s power. But he can control his rage, and has so far starved the Daemon of its one greatest need.”

  Krennet applauded slowly. “Bravo, Sir. Bravo,” he jeered. “A better story I have not heard for some time. Painting the boy as the victim in all of this. A master stroke.”

  “It is a tall tale, Granger,” Olimar agreed.

  Elan and Truman stood quietly, digesting what they had heard. So much made sense if they credited Granger’s tale with any truth. Kellan was different, they knew that much, but this explained many things.

  Blunt, who had seen that strange globe of power erupt from Kellan on the ship, casting salt spray and driving rain from him for an instant, before moving with inhuman speed and grace to save the ship, was also given pause for thought.

  And they had all seen the Shar die at a word that night on the mountain.

  Could this story really hold any truth?

  “Why did you not simply kill him?” Olimar asked. “You were close to him, you had his trust. You could have ended this with a merciful blade long ago.”

  “For one thing, the Daemon would have found another host. Killing the carrier does not kill the Daemon, it will leave the dying host and infect the nearest living body; it is not choosy. For another,” Granger’s eyes were wet, “he is my son. I may not have fathered him, but he is my son all the same. What man could kill his son as you suggest? I would have died a thousand times before I would consider that.”

  There was a long silence.

  “If what you say is true,” Valia said, “and I find it hard to believe, then whatever happens to Kellan the Daemon will have its way.”

  “It is inevitable,” Granger replied.

  “So whatever we do, our world is doomed to be destroyed by this Abaddon and his minions,” Valia said. “Whether or not it uses Kellan to break free.”

  Granger nodded. “It has been thus on those other worlds.”

  “How can you claim to know this?” Olimar asked doubtfully. “I have never heard these stories before.”

  “I know because I was once an Emissary.”

  Blunt cocked his head.

  “The Emissaries were created to gather tales of great deeds, to be entered into a compendium, a treasury of the greatest achievements of mortal man, and immortal God. Those stories were entered into the Book of Lives to save them from slipping from memory.”

  “You are saying that you have witnessed these things,” Olimar said sceptically.

  “Witnessed, or heard tell of, yes.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I am almost as old as the Gods themselves.”

  “This is preposterous,” Krennet puffed. “You expect us to believe these things? Gods, Daemons. Destroyers of worlds. And now you claim to be some great high power yourself, old as time and all-seeing.” He laughed bitterly. The others exchanged bemused looks. Perhaps the Historian was insane after all.

  Only Elan looked as though he believed any of it to be true. “Where will he go now?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” Granger sighed. “But I fear that Abaddon is leading the Jendayan army. Kellan may seek to confront him.”

  “He knows then?” Elan asked. “About the Daemon.”

  “He knows.”

  “What can we do to stop him?” Blunt asked.

  Granger shook his head and his voice was no more than a whisper. “I do not know.”

  “Then there is not much we can do. We continue as before and attack where we can as we travel east. If you are a madman or a charlatan, then our worries have not grown. If you speak the truth,” he drew his sword and levelled it at Granger, “then I will not go down without a fight.”

  “As you say,” Truman slapped Granger on the shoulder, trying to lighten the mood, “‘there is always hope’.”

  Granger turned to hold his gaze. “No, my friend. If Kellan does indeed face Abaddon, then all hope is lost.”

  From within the Calm, Kellan could feel the snow on his shoulders melting and soaking into his coat. He could hear the flakes crackle as they turned from ice to water. A cold trickle ran down his spine from his wet hair, chilling his skin. It was the first snow of the winter, which had been inexorably approaching as he travelled east to Ara Dasari. The weeks had seen the leaves go from red and yellow, to brown, and ultimately to fall onto the ground, carpeting the land with a thin mulch.

  Ara Dasari’s proximity to the Adorim Sea tended to keep the winters mild for the city at the mouth of the Temple Canal. Snow did fall, but tended to melt to a dirty slush as soon as it hit the ground. His boots were heavy with it.

  “Beklis,” he said dispassionately.

  The man Kellan had been standing behind for some minutes started. From his seated position at a large desk, he shuffled his chair around to see who had spoken, and found himself looking at the point of a sword.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, and swallowed hard.

  “Governor Beklis,” Kellan said, ignoring the man’s question.

  “That was a long time ago,” he replied, eyes fixed on the blade.

  “Time does not wash away the stains of your life.”

  Beklis’ eyes darted to the rope that Kellan held at his side, then back to the sword. “What is this?”

  “Do you remember a village by the name of ‘Goat’s Pass’?” he asked. “In the Northlands?”

  Beklis gripped the arms of his chair more tightly, and his knuckles went white. “I, am not sure that I do,” he puffed.

  Kellan glanced up at the rafters that sp
anned the room and allowed a few coils of the rope to fall from his grip. Beklis saw the noose at the end, and his eyes widened.

  “Then allow me to refresh your memory,” Kellan said evenly, and flicked the noose over a rafter without lowering the sword. “Innocent men hanged. Women raped and decapitated. Children ripped from their families.”

  Beklis’ eyes narrowed, and his lips moved silently as his memories stirred. “The children were put to work, and well cared for,” he blurted. “No harm came to them.”

  “No harm came to them,” Kellan echoed as the Daemon thrashed and buzzed against the walls of its prison. It promised the sweetness of revenge, but Kellan did not trust himself to allow it in.

  “Please, I was only doing my duty,” Beklis said reasonably. Then his eyes flashed past Kellan, and a glimmer of hope registered on his face.

  Kellan had sensed the approaching servant. He dropped the rope, and without lowering the Jendayan blade, half turned and raised his palm. It was as easy as waving his hand through a tendril of smoke. The servant’s eyes rolled back in his head and the tray he had been carrying clattered to the floor with him. Wine flowed like blood from a silver jug. He knew that he would be racked with guilt over that killing when he released the Calm, but for now, within its sheltered confines, the knowledge that guilt would come was the nearest he came to feeling any emotion.

  “Stand on your chair,” Kellan said quietly.

  “What?” Beklis whispered. He was still staring at the dead eyes of his servant.

  “Stand. If you call out, or try to run, I will gut you.” The matter-of-factness of Kellan’s voice jolted Beklis from his seated position.

  A coward after all.

  Beklis climbed up onto the chair. Seeing the servant killed in that way had drained the last of his resolve. He was weeping quietly, and shaking. Kellan adjusted the rope so that the noose arrived beside Beklis’ head, then tied the other end to the leg of the heavy desk.

  “Please,” Beklis whimpered, as a dark stain bloomed on his trousers.