by B R Crichton
Truman had seen few men so broken by war and all its evils as Dimas, and the hatred the man had for Jendayans was rabid in its ferocity. A skilled swordsman, Dimas was like a whirlwind in the few skirmishes he had been involved in with the Jendayans. Yet the storm and crashing waves of his rage gave way to the still waters of a placid pond, in a few heartbeats, when the butchering was done and he could return to his drinking. Such a shattered soul could have no future.
Granger had become withdrawn lately; taking every opportunity to write in his journals, and seldom even sharing a story around the camp fire any more. He clearly missed Kellan and had buried himself in those books to busy his mind.
Elan tried to remain positive, sharing jokes with Truman, but in less guarded moments, Truman caught the jade-skinned man looking longingly in the direction of home. He still had a hope that Kellan would return to them and they could go home together.
Granger and Elan had known Kellan since he was a boy; far longer than Truman had, yet he felt a sadness too through his bond with Kellan. It must have been far worse for them.
They could not have been more than twenty minutes from North Gate, when Valia stopped at the edge of the road. She had been glancing at the approaching storm too, but now she stared hard as it neared, squeezing her braid with both hands as she so often did when nervous or angry.
“We had better get a move on,” he urged. “We do not want to be caught out in that.”
“What do you see, Truman?” she replied without shifting her focus as the soldiers trudged past their backs.
“I see a bloody great storm about to dump a great deal of snow on my already frozen head.”
“Look harder.”
He stared into the wind at the approaching grey haze of the storm. “Like I said; a lot of snow.”
“No, you are not looking properly. Look at the ground. There.” She pointed.
“What is it?”
“Do you see it?”
“I see, something.”
“Movement,” she whispered.
Truman squinted harder. “What is that?”
“Fate!” She hissed. “They are using the storm to cover their approach! Blunt!”
A trick of the swirling wind lifted a bank of falling snow to reveal a sea of movement, before dropping the curtain again to hide the advancing army. They blended in well with the snow, from this distance he could not make out numbers, but there must have been thousands.
Orders were being barked. They had to reach the city to raise the alarm before the storm arrived with more than just biting winds to contend with.
“Perhaps they have seen them too,” Truman shouted to Valia hopefully as she started to run.
“Look,” she shouted, pointing ahead, “North Gate is open. They may have closed the West Gate against the storm, but they are not ready. The Jendayans will walk right in with the blizzard.
They ran for all they were worth. Blunt sent riders, galloping ahead to warn the city, and he himself rode ahead, cursing.
It was an audacious move, marching in with the storm. No-one attacked in a blizzard, and the city defenders would be huddled around fires and warming themselves with bowls of soup.
His legs ached and his lungs burned as he entered the city, but Truman kept running towards West Gate. The closer he got, the more frantic were the movements of the city militia. The defences were hurriedly being organised, archers scrambled to the walls and barricades were hastily erected in the streets around West Gate. Somewhere in the distance, he heard Blunt, cursing as he shouted his orders and the storm towered over the city.
The first few flakes of snow reached Truman just moments before the first volley of arrows arrived.
Chapter Twenty Six
Beginnings…
Granger met Kellan on the road to see Ganindhra, just as the young man had asked. Ganindhra had been reluctant to see Kellan since his return from Moshet, choosing instead to use the historian to bring news of his daily progress. But now Kellan was insistent on meeting with them both.
They entered the dim, living cavern, green eyes regarding them as they did so. Ganindhra rumbled softly as they approached, his eyes wary. Kellan gave a low bow.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” He came right out with the question, startling Granger.
“Kellan,” he began, but the young man cut him off with a sharp look.
“Is this all a game to you? Do you enjoy toying with our lives?” Ganindhra only grumbled deeply in response. “Granger told me everything, you know. Of course you do, you and he have spent a great deal of time meddling with the lives of others it seems.”
“Kellan!” Granger said sternly. The boy was being rude, and worse than that, unfair. He and Ganindhra had the fate of the world as well as the welfare of Kellan in the forefront of their minds at all times.
“I know what you are. What you were,” he continued regardless. “Even now you consider yourself all powerful, manipulating us mere mortals for your own amusement. But I know now why you fear me, or rather, what you fear I may become.”
“Then the burden of that knowledge should, in time, instil a measure of understanding of what we have tried to do, and why we have done it.” Ganindhra said slowly.
“Then why did you hide it from me? All your lies…”
“I never once lied to you!” Ganindhra boomed, cutting him off.
“Half-truths, then,” Kellan replied. “If I had known what I was dealing with, I may not have almost lost myself in Moshet.”
“You were a child when you came here,” Ganindhra said. “Would you have me tell a child that he holds the key to the destruction of the world? Can you imagine the terror you would have felt at that? I gave you the tools to control your anger, and with it, the ability to starve the Daemon of that which it craves. If there was a better way, then I would very much like to hear it.”
“You could have told me when I was older,” Kellan said quietly.
Ganindhra sighed deeply, slumping in the throne that bound him to the living central pillar within the tree. “Do you know how old I am Kellan?” he said sadly. Kellan shook his head slowly. “My memory fades daily. I am less than I was, that is for certain, and so very different from your kind.”
“Ganindhra is older than the world itself,” Granger added. “He has watched the birth and death of a million civilisations, built new lands and watched lives played out billions of times. A mortal life is the briefest spark to him; a blink of the eye, over almost before it begins.”
“And for more than three thousand years, I have been trapped here,” Ganindhra continued. “Ever since Abaddon rose against us, I have been trying to reinvent myself. I created this People you call Lythurian with my last real power. I have been learning about them ever since that day, forced by circumstance to learn their frailties and try to understand the minds of mortals. And now, I am to learn humility for myself.
“I am sorry, Kellan. I never meant for you to feel betrayed, but I am still like a child in your world. Forgive my imperfections; I am trying to learn.”
“As am I,” Granger said. “You, Kellan, have been longer on this world than I have. In fact you are eight years older than me.” He smiled. Kellan looked contemplative. “I had a great deal of knowledge when I arrived here, and little emotional experience to deal with it.”
Kellan laughed quietly, shaking his head. “What must Fate be thinking, putting the destiny of the world in our hands?” he said.
Granger knew that Kellan had called this meeting to make an important announcement. He knew well just what it would be too, and was prepared for it, despite the feeling of dread in his stomach.
“You know that I will not stay here my whole life, just waiting to die so that the Daemon can pass to another for you to control,” he said.
“I know,” Granger replied.
“Truman has offered me a route into the rebellion,” he said, “I must take it.”
“I know.” His reply surprised Kellan.
“We have been expecting this,” Ganindhra said. “Not so bad at understanding you after all.”
“That is why I am coming with you,” Granger said with a tired smile.
“What?” Kellan gaped.
“I am an Emissary,” he said, then shrugged. “Perhaps ‘historian’ would be better. Nevertheless, I must be there for the greatest story this world has ever known. I should be there for you, Kellan.” He placed a hand on Kellan’s shoulder, pressing his lips together in a tight smile.
“Then how could I refuse your company?” Kellan embraced him. “What hope is there for us?”
“There is always hope, Kellan. There is always hope.”
They lay together on the ground, on the grassy mound where the daisies grew thickest, beside the small waterfall and the crystal pool. Their fingers were entwined tenderly, and Eloya lazily caressed his wrist with her lips, sending shivers up his arm.
The trees of the Grove grew tall around their secret place; the trees had long outlived the men and women they had borne.
“I was thinking about the trees,” he said.
“What about them,” she replied, her voice distant.
“The way they remain long after their fruit is gone.”
“Fruit?” she giggled. “Are you calling me a fruit?”
“Sorry. Poor choice of words.”
“I will let you make it up to me,” she said with a devilish smile and a wink. He smiled back.
“What I mean is; they are a legacy of sorts. When you are gone, your tree will still continue to grow, and you will be remembered for it.” She rolled over and placed her chin on her chest so that she looked up at him seriously.
“You want to leave a legacy?” she said.
“What will I be remembered for when I am gone, Eloya?” he said.
“You will be remembered,” she assured him.
He sighed, trying to grasp the right words. “I mean, I need to do something to be remembered for. You know why I left.”
“I know why you said you left. But Kellan, you can be happy here without going away and risking your life.” She was on the brink of saying more, but bit her lip instead.
“What would you say if I was to go away again for a while?”
She sat up quickly, her face a thundercloud. “Are you serious?”
“I never got a chance to clear my head,” he said calmly. “There is so much I need to do. There is so much to see. When the world is a safer place, I could take you to see the cities of the South. I have never seen the sea.”
“Then wait for the world to be a safer place and we can go together,” she pleaded.
“You know I need to be a part of it,” he said. “You have your legacy here. I need mine out there, in a free world.”
She hesitated, as if attempting to resolve some inner turmoil. Then she reached out and caressed his birth-marked face with a delicate hand. “You also have a legacy here.”
He looked at her curiously. “It’s not the same,” he started to say.
“Marry me,” she said quickly, as though casting the words out into the world before they could slink away into the unreachable recesses of her heart, unsaid.
“What?” he replied weakly, too shocked by those two simple words to formulate a better answer.
“It is time you settled down,” she continued, emboldened now. “You know that my father has offered you a job with real prospects. You should accept his offer.”
Kellan groaned. His head fell back onto the soft grass and he laughed without humour.
She slapped his chest. “Don’t laugh at me. Don’t you love me?”
“Of course I love you,” he said quickly, “but we have our whole lives to get married and have ‘prospects’.”
“And don’t mock me either. What about children?”
Kellan barked a laugh. “Children? I am too young to have children.” He was not sure he ever wanted to have them. What if they were tainted by the Daemon? How could he even contemplate bringing children into a world on the brink of disaster? “There are too many things I want to do with my life before getting tied down by children,” he said dismissively.
“Or tied down by a wife,” she added with a wounded look.
“That’s not what I meant.” Kellan rolled over and put his back to her.
“Then what exactly do you mean, Kellan?” she said angrily. “You say that you love me, but you do not want to be with me.”
“Of course I want to be with you,” he cast back over his shoulder.
“Then marry me. People are talking.”
“What? Who? Talking about what?” He rolled over to face her.
“About us,” she averted her eyes.
“What are they saying?”
She did not answer, but her eyes were moist with tears.
“Let them talk,” he said. “I don’t care.”
“I care,” she pleaded.
“I will not let a few wagging tongues change my mind,” he said hotly.
“You can’t leave.”
“I can, and I will. You do not control me.” There was real anger in his tone. He knew that he was being unfair, but he had put up with enough of other people’s strings about him. He reached for the Calm, almost by reflex, to silence the growing buzz of the Daemon. “Only I can decide what is best for me.”
Kellan stood up.
“Wait,” she said quickly; then hesitated as though wrestling with some inner dilemma. “I need you to stay.”
“And I need to go,” he said firmly.
He turned his back on her and walked away. He could hear her cries, but they slid from the icy barrier without touching his soul. The Calm protected him from the empathy and guilt that vied for his attention, allowing his mind to focus on his singular goal.
“Don’t you love me?” she pleaded, tears streaming freely from her eyes. But he was numb. “Kellan!” she wailed.
He walked away from her through the trees as she called his name with growing distress, through great, racking sobs as she sat on the ground. She put her hands on her belly, tenderly at first, as though protecting something there, but then began clawing at the soft flesh beneath her clothes. She screamed after him until her throat was raw. Eventually she stopped, and curled into a tight ball of misery; crying on the grassy mound where the daisies grew thickest, beside the small waterfall and the crystal pool.
The following morning they made to leave. Kellan hoped not to see Eloya. He had hardly slept at all that night for thinking about their final words. There had been no way to make her understand.
Truman and Granger walked with him along the cobbled road leading to the rim and the steps that lead to the rest of the world.
“Kellan!” he heard from behind. It was Elan. His heart sank; no doubt he was bringing some final pleading message from his sister. He did not want to have to send his friend away, or worse still, part with an argument between them.
Then he saw that Elan was carrying a backpack, and his bow was slung across his back.
“Kellan, wait,” he panted as he arrived. “I am coming with you.”
“Are you mad? What will your father do when he finds out?”
“He already knows. Said he’d tell mother when I’m well away.” He winced at that guiltily.
Kellan looked at Truman, who shrugged. “The struggle needs every willing arm to lend its weight to the cause,” he said.
“Besides,” Elan said, still catching his breath, “someone has to look after you. Keep you out of trouble.”
“Well, if you’re sure you can keep up,” he replied. He nearly asked about Eloya, but clamped down on the unasked question.
“Always wanted to see the sea,” he said.
“Then we’ll see it together,” Kellan shook his hand firmly and slapped him on the shoulder with a grin.
They looked back just as they reached the rim. The verdant forests and Groves were coming to life with birdsong and the buzzing of insects. A humid mist clung to the su
rface of Topaz, barely shrouding the reflection of the great peaks of the Greater Cascus Mountains that held Lythuria in their bosom. The sun struck the snowy peaks, stark against the dawn sky. Then they turned as one and left the shelter of that haven and made their way into the cold, harsh Northlands, and for the first time in his life, Kellan knew he was heading in the right direction. His destiny beckoned like a lover’s soft call and a strange sense of relief began to pervade his mind.
Everything would be all right.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The bodies of the dead and dying lay everywhere.
The attack on Moshet had come suddenly and unexpectedly. Thousands of Jendayans had advanced within an approaching snow storm to take the city with a surprise assault. Camouflaged in their pale grey cloaks, they blended into the oncoming blizzard, but they were spotted just in time to make a difference.
The defenders had weathered the volleys of arrows that had signalled the start of the battle, and now they defended the walls themselves.
Elan had taken position above West Gate with the other archers along the ramparts to each side of a weathered barbican. His green skin was only of passing interest to those engaged with more immediate concerns. The ramparts passed through the barbican via a large wooden door on Elan’s side, and he could only assume the same for the other. The room within was occupied by more archers firing through arrow loops at anyone below that came into their field of view.
He helped himself to the plentiful supply of arrows they had. They were far cruder than those he would make for himself, but at such ranges it made no difference, and he would not waste those that he had crafted. The ground below boiled with invaders, trying to set up ladders and attacking the gate directly. The snow had been churned into a muddy slush, becoming bloodier by the minute as the archers rained death from above. Snow swirled in gusts, obscuring his view for seconds at a time and spoiling his aim.