The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  “Put it on.” Kellan waved the point of his sword at the noose.

  “No,” Beklis whined. His knees were starting to buckle with fear.

  “There is no agony that I can inflict that would truly balance your own suffering with that which you have caused. But if you do not put your own head in that noose, then I may try to find a way to cleanse you with pain.”

  “You do not have to do this,” Beklis managed. “I am wealthy. I can pay you.”

  Kellan pressed the point of his sword into the soft tissue of Beklis’ belly. The terrified man’s legs almost collapsed under him and he grabbed at the noose reflexively for support.

  “Good,” Kellan said. “Now put it around your neck.”

  With trembling hands, and the pressure of the blade on his stomach, Beklis slipped his head through the loop at the end of the rope.

  He had barely done this when Kellan kicked the chair from beneath him.

  The startled yelp was cut short as the rope bit into his neck. Beklis tried frantically to grasp the rope, and support his own weight. He kicked his legs wildly, trying to find something, anything to stand on and release the crushing pressure on his windpipe. The heavy desk remained solidly in place, and tantalisingly out of reach.

  “I want you to know regret,” Kellan said evenly. “I want you to know how it feels when hope fades, and death is your only friend. Lament your life, and the choices you made. You alone brought yourself to this place.”

  Beklis’ scrabbling hands were becoming weaker as they raked at the flesh of his own throat, and his legs were twitching spasmodically. The doomed man’s face was purple, veins bulged in his temples as his mouth worked silently. A pool of urine had gathered at the man’s feet, running from one foot whose soft slipper had been lost. Now there was a stench of faeces in the air too.

  Kellan held the man’s gaze, as spittle foamed through blue lips. When Beklis finally stopped his struggles, and Kellan was sure that he was dead, he turned and left the room. He held onto the Calm all the way down the stairs and out the door of the large house that had been home to Governor Beklis. The snow still fell wetly in heavy clumps, dulling the smell of the sea somewhat. Kellan followed the wide boulevard, full of sullen refugees, west to the edge of the city before he allowed his emotions back into his consciousness.

  The rush of feeling nearly knocked him from his feet as he staggered under the weight of them. He sat heavily in the shelter of a wind beaten pine tree and gasped raggedly. His greatest objective had been achieved, but all he could do was weep. The passing refugees barely noticed him. Just another broken man at the side of the road, lamenting his loss and fearful of the future. They were right, of course.

  Blunt cursed the cold again as he tried to rub some warmth into his feet through damp socks. He pulled his boots on as Olimar approached.

  “The scouts are back from Hillfoot,” he said. “There are more there willing to fight.”

  Blunt grunted, stamping his feet down into the cold damp of his boots. “Any soldiers though?”

  They had been joined by small groups hiding in the mountains since crossing the Mathalin into Dasar. They were mostly farmers and townspeople with nothing left to lose and willing to fight, but they were not soldiers, and Blunt knew that numbers alone were not enough on the battlefield.

  “Militia from Eritania,” Olimar replied. “They have been travelling hard to the North of the Mora Mountains, trying to reach Ara Dasari ahead of the Jendayans.”

  “Everyone is running for Ara Dasari. Let us hope there are enough able bodies to make a difference.”

  “There are also a large number of Northlanders at Hillfoot; it seems that they want part of the action as well.”

  “How many?”

  “Around four hundred militiamen, and twice as many again from the Northlands; the same again of Dasari men. But they speak of an even greater number in Moshet itself. There is talk of mounting a defence of Moshet rather than fleeing all the way to Ara Dasari.”

  “Let me guess: it is the Dasari who wish to defend their main city, and the rest would sooner fall back to the canal where they hope the Heavy Infantry will be waiting.”

  Olimar shrugged non-committally.

  “Perhaps it is time to join a larger force anyway,” Blunt said, nodding thoughtfully. “We will lose the cover of the hills in a day or two, and our numbers have more than doubled since entering Dasar. We cannot skulk about any longer. How soon can we be there?”

  “By midday tomorrow if we leave now.”

  “Well, don’t just bloody stand there then. Let’s get this rabble up and moving.

  Valia fingered the edge of the folded piece of paper in her hand. It was dog eared; well-worn at the edges now after being handled so much. She went to return it to the leather pouch, and then hesitated. It would do no harm to look again.

  She unfolded the sheet carefully to reveal the image it held: A detailed sketch of a beautiful woman in repose beneath a tree, on a beach. Could it really be that anyone saw her that way? The delicate lines of the drawing, and the subtle shading captured a more elegant woman than she saw in herself. She ran a thumb across the callouses of her fingers, flexing them to feel the hardness of her hands; hands toughened by years handling a sword. Her scarred knuckles looked rugged and masculine to her own eye, but on this paper, those scars added to the mystery of the beauty sleeping by the sea.

  It had been so long since she had seen herself as anything other than a warrior, that she had lost sight of her femininity.

  Stupid. Weak woman! Allowing herself to get all starry-eyed again. That fluttering in her belly was a warning. Do not get used again!

  And yet. Truman had seen her at her fiercest. They had fought side by side. Surely he could not see her as a wide eyed, naïve young puppet to bend to his desire.

  Perhaps she had judged him harshly. Perhaps Granger was right to admonish her for being so defensive around Truman. It just came so naturally though, to ward off his advances. She was doing it before she even had time to think. The barbs were there to defend her without having to consider what they meant or how they could wound or hurt.

  Was she so damaged? When Lushara had become Valia, had so much been passed on to her present self? Was her desire to be more than the plaything for men that she was born to be, and her defiance against any possibility of being betrayed again clouding her mind with bitterness?

  She reluctantly folded the page, and returned it to the pouch at her hip, holding the image of her beauty on her person even if she could not allow it into her head.

  She could see Truman, strapping a bag to the side of a horse some distance away. As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned to meet her gaze. His lips twitched in what was almost a smile, but he quickly looked away, returning to his task.

  Perhaps she had been too harsh with him lately. Come to think of it, it had been a long while since he had made any advances at all. The other members of the Band still teased them mercilessly, and she in turn dismissed any notion of tenderness between them, but he had been keeping his distance.

  She should speak to him. Tell him that he should not take her caustic words to heart. She took two strides before Blunt arrived shouting orders.

  “Get your arses sorted out! Get that animal’s load balanced you slack-witted bastard! Stop shivering like a bloody pansy, it’s barely past chilly! Let’s move, before Hillfoot is out of ale.”

  Kellan collected his horse from the stables where he had left it, his mind in turmoil. The killing of Beklis had not given him peace. On the contrary, it filled him with an even more desperate urge to punish someone, anyone, for the position he found himself in. Victory at Hadaiti; what felt like a lifetime ago, had not given him solace. He had been a fool to think that killing Beklis would be any different. Perhaps, he wondered, he needed his enemies. Needed them to focus his anger onto; deflect the blame for his own mistakes onto a hate figure; someone he despised. That servant had not needed to die. Kellan had killed him withou
t thinking. Had the man raised the alarm, then Kellan’s task would remain incomplete, he would have had to return later when security would have been heightened. The poor fool would not have had any idea what was about to happen to him; one moment, he was looking dumbly at his master in distress, then an instant later, without warning; oblivion.

  Kellan told himself that it was Beklis’ fault for putting him in such a position. He even blamed the servant for offering his services to such a man. Damned fool had it coming.

  Nothing eased his conscience.

  He tried something that he had not tried for a long time. He tried to find Eloya’s mind. Only to look at it, draw strength from the knowledge that she was still well. When he had first learned the trick, Ganindhra had told him that one day he would be able to recognise friends across great distances, and touch their thoughts. He longed to tell Eloya everything, to tell her that he was sorry and that he loved her and that above all else he would have wanted to face life’s obstacles together and grow old with her at his side. But he was cursed. Doomed to struggle with a world crushing power within himself that he could never hope to defeat or fully control.

  From within the Calm, he reached out, seeking the bright constellation that was Eloya’s, and finding himself drawn to her as he focused his mind on his memories of her. Her crooked little smile; that childhood image of her with the huge bloom of the honeycup in her hair; their first kiss. The first time they had made love on the grassy mound where the daisies grew thickest, beside the small waterfall and the crystal pool.

  Their fight. Betrayal. Lies.

  His mind recoiled before he could smooth over his thoughts again and resume the search. His mind was like a mountain stream, flowing towards the inevitable sea that was her. He was drawn like a hunter to its prey, a babe to its mother’s breast, a falling star to the horizon.

  And there she was.

  Beautiful.

  It was a great injustice that the very calmness he needed to find this place shielded him from what he knew he would be feeling right then. He knew that he would be overwhelmed with joy at seeing her mind at ease. He sensed a subtle disquiet, but at the same time determination and stubborn resoluteness to go on. That was the girl he loved.

  He knew that he should try to contact her, to lay a thought upon her mind, but he had not tried to do that for many years. He had spoken her name with a thought once, and she had heard, but they were side by side at the time. What might she make of it now?

  He withdrew, allowing the Calm to fall away as he did so, the lingering images stirring his freed emotions.

  It only made him feel more remote.

  Hillfoot was swamped by the army there. The small town would ordinarily be home to about five hundred folk, but an extra two thousand people had gathered. Eritanians, Northlanders and Dasari, shoulder to shoulder; trained militiamen and farmers making a stand together.

  Blunt, and those with him, had been welcomed with open arms. Everyone knew of the infamous ‘Scurrilous’ Blunt now, and news of his more recent exploits had reached Dasar ahead of them.

  The various leaders gathered in the warmth of the Speaker’s house to discuss their plans.

  Captain Erin was of the Dasari Militia, and had been sent from Moshet to gather forces to defend the city. He had found the gathering a few days earlier, and was encouraging them to make for the capital. A man in his middle years, he was clearly passionate about his home city.

  “We must defend the jewel of Dasar from the Jendayan invasion,” he urged. “The wealth of art alone is beyond measure in terms of monetary value let alone cultural significance.”

  “That may be so,” Caspar Gillen of the Eritanian Militia said, “but Ara Dasari is more easily defended, and by the time the Jendayans reach that far, the Heavy Infantry should be at our backs.”

  “The Eritanian is right,” Blunt said, “the walls of Moshet could barely keep the wind out, let alone a full assault.”

  “Moshet has survived a siege in the past; a large proportion of the civilian population believes it can do so again and has opted to remain in the city,” Captain Erin insisted.

  “Then they are fools,” Krennet mumbled.

  “The city has survived a siege in the past,” Captain Erin repeated.

  “But those walls have not been repaired since,” Blunt replied. “Nor was that siege on anywhere near the same scale that awaits.”

  “And it did not survive the siege,” Caspar Gillen added, “The city surrendered.”

  “Be that as it may, there are four thousand militiamen waiting there now under Captain Renald,” Captain Erin said. “With the soldiers here, that number swells to nearly six and a half thousand.”

  “Against many tens of thousands of Jendayans,” Blunt said.

  “But you specialise in tough odds I hear,” Captain Erin smiled.

  “Only when I know that I can win,” he replied.

  “What about you, Northlander?” Caspar Gillen, the Eritanian asked. “Where do you stand?”

  The man, Jan Aedolan, looked as though he had seen too many winters, but his people had chosen him as their leader and was entitled to an opinion.

  “We are here to fight,” he replied simply. “As to where and when, we leave to you military types. I am just a farmer.”

  Alano spoke for the first time. “Then we are the same, my friend. I only ever wanted to be a farmer, and yet I find myself in this uniform.”

  Jan Aedolan nodded slowly, not offering anything else.

  “Moshet is lost,” Krennet said. “Those four thousand men would be better served heading east for the Temple Canal; at least they stand a chance there.”

  “I cannot accept that,” Captain Erin said tersely. “Why give the city away so cheaply? The winter snows will hinder any advance. We should make a stand at Moshet and let the forces at Ara Dasari come to us.”

  “The Canal will be easier to defend,” Blunt said. “The mountains to the north and reefs to the south limit the enemy’s options, and the ferries can be burned. Any other vessel in the water would be an easy target. Moshet can be attacked from all sides. Even with ten thousand men, you would be stretched too thinly along that wall to be effective.”

  Captain Erin sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.

  “Will you at least follow me back to Moshet to speak with Captain Renald?” he said, exasperated.

  “Is there no governor in the city?” Blunt asked.

  Captain Erin shook his head.

  “Governors have a fine instinct for self-preservation.” He flicked a glance at Krennet. “If your governor has fled, then how much hope does the city have?”

  Krennet glared haughtily at Blunt, but held his tongue.

  “Will you come then, and speak with Renald?” Captain Erin persisted.

  They exchanged looks. A series of shrugs and nods were followed by more audible agreement, though none of it over enthusiastic.

  Captain Erin sighed again. “I think it would be best to leave before the snow lies too deep. It will take the better part of three weeks as it is.”

  Further from the coast the snow lay ankle-deep on the ground. Kellan walked, to rest the horse. He had left the main road a few miles from Ara Dasari, and had met a group of exhausted refugees heading east to safety. He had laughed out loud when they told him that they would be safe within the boundary of the Temple Canal. Kor’Habat would shield them from harm. If only they knew that the man they had been speaking to would bring about all of their deaths one way or another. Would they have been so free with their talk then?

  After that he could not look at any more of those faces, eyes wide with relief at their deliverance. No Canal was wide enough or any army big enough to save them. And they feared the Jendayans! That Empire was as good as dust, just like every other Empire, Kingdom, Tribe and family. Kellan could feel the Daemon stirring. It knew that he was fallible. It only had to bide its time and he would make a mistake, an error in judgement; an un
wary fit of pique and it would take him. He could feel it coiled to strike, buzzing expectantly like a waiting swarm of locusts, eager to devour.

  He had thought seriously about returning to Lythuria, to Eloya and his life there, if she would have him. Perhaps Ganindhra could steer him onto a safer path. Perhaps he should never have left.

  All pointless questions. The fate of the world was sealed.

  The only question was; when?

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Beginnings…

  It took the best part of three months to reach the foot of the great cliff beneath Lythuria. The white waters fell in a ribbon, stretching the length of the face and crashing onto the rocks below, throwing up a cloud of mist. Beyond, the un-scaled peaks of the Greater Cascus reared, their tops hidden from view in a ceiling of cloud.

  Truman had recovered steadily through the journey as they headed north, and was now nearly fully fit. Granger had been keen to let him remain at any one of the villages they passed through. It would have broken up the group, making them less fitting of any descriptions offered by searching militiamen. As it happened, they were unhindered on their journey. In truth, Truman was desperate to see Lythuria for himself, and would not pass on this opportunity to accompany Kellan.

  The snow hindered them in the final two weeks, until they were forcing their way through thigh deep drifts to reach the steps cut into the mountain.

  The steps themselves were covered with snow, but the powder was not slippery, as ice would have been, and did not impede them overly. As they got higher, the heat of the fires, deep underground; the fires that kept Lythuria in perpetual warmth, thawed the steps fully.

  Kellan felt a huge surge of relief on reaching the rim of the huge bowl. The mental strain he had endured had him feeling brittle and stretched. The peace he felt on seeing the tranquil Groves and forests, the undulating landscape so full of life, was indescribable.

  He had not felt surprise when Granger had told him about the Daemon within him. He had always known, since that day as a child beside the river, that something loathsome had taken seat. He felt the presence in him constantly, like a caged beast prowling within; pacing the confines of its barred prison, waiting for the opportunity to escape. It buzzed like a hornets’ nest. Ganindhra had given him the ability to suppress it within the emotionless Calm he used to better control himself, and having lived for so long with it already, the knowledge added little to the fear he already felt.