Kestrel slept fitfully, and was relieved when Canyon awoke him to take the final watch of the night.
He rose from his spot as Canyon went to silently join the other imps. Kestrel walked to the front door, and looked out upon the empty street outside, then carefully stepped across the threshold to stand in the dark emptiness.
He looked up, and saw the full moon, wearing a deep red color as it descended in the western sky, and it reminded him of the comet he had seen during the summer. “Corrant,” he said softly, speaking haltingly in the language of the gnomes, “you’re the one who showed me the comet, and you’re the one whose people I will perhaps visit on this journey. I hope you are going to protect us on this quest,” he pleaded, then stood silently, hoping that the god of the gnomes would assure him that everything was going to work out.
“What words were those?” Kestrel was startled by the question behind him, and whirled to see Moorin standing behind him. “I didn’t recognize the language you spoke.”
“That was the language of the gnomes,” Kestrel replied. “I was just speaking to the god of the gnomes, but really I was speaking to myself, I guess. And you, it turns out,” he gave a half a smile.
“We’re going to be okay, Kestrel, don’t worry,” Moorin placed a comforting hand on Kestrel’s shoulder. “We’re almost out of the city now. You’ve come here and you’ve rescued Hiram, you’ve rescued me, and you’ve rescued the water bag. All right here under the noses of the lords of Uniontown, in their own yard. You’ve done a great thing.”
“We’re not safe yet,” Kestrel disagreed. “And even once we get back north to Graylee and Seafare, we still won’t have won. We’ll only have escaped to keep fighting, I’m afraid. There’s a fearful power that opposes us. I feel a part of it eating away inside me, and it scares me.”
“You’re strong Kestrel, the greatest warrior I’ve ever seen, and you’ve won against every challenge you’ve faced. I still can’t believe you were swallowed by a sea monster and exploded out of it alive!” Moorin said. “You have my faith, my total and complete faith.”
“But not your love?” Kestrel shrewdly asked.
Moorin paused. “Let’s not talk of that, please. I don’t know what answer I can give.”
“If you loved me,” Kestrel began, then paused. “Never mind. I understand, and I hope you know that no matter what, I will protect you and insure your safety.”
“I never doubted it Kestrel. I’ll never doubt your resolve or your ability. Thank you for all you’ve done, for how far you’ve come, for me,” she said, and then there was a long stretch of silence.
“Go get some more rest,” Kestrel said at last. “I’m going to walk around the house, and we’ll be leaving after sunrise, so get the last bit of sleep while you can.”
“Kestrel,” Moorin reached out one more time. “I just want you to know that you deserve to be loved. I wish it came naturally for me. Picco’s such a lucky woman,” she said, then turned and went back into the dark interior of the house.
Kestrel stepped off the stoop and went around the corner of the building, examining the surroundings for any signs of patrols, criminals, or other danger. The building seemed peaceful, and he returned to the front, then went inside and sat in the front room, looking over the sleeping group of refugees.
The alien energy was within him, trying to influence him, making an effort to take over control of his will. He could feel it search for the anger and alienation within his soul, the elements it could feed upon and build strength upon. He was making an effort to avoid any negative feelings, even when he heard Moorin tell him she didn’t love him, even when he found that he couldn’t make a simple, direct escape back to the lands on the north shore of the Inner Seas, to the nations that were now free of Viathin control.
Kestrel sighed and said a silent prayer to Kai, asking for peace and success, then looked around and felt the energy subside as its efforts were thwarted by his prayer. He felt fear, as he considered the prospect of the energy of the Viathins’ god continuing to reside within him, constantly attacking him and eventually defeating him.
He rose and walked over to where the skin of water of Decimindion lay, and he picked it up. With a quiet twist he opened the spout and raised the water skin above his head, then opened his mouth.
The water flowed invisibly in the darkness of the room, and he felt its moist chill enter his mouth. He swallowed, then drank another mouthful, and swallowed again, and drank a third mouthful, before he lowered the skin and placed the cork back in the opening.
The invasive evil power sat deep within him, quiescent, but still in place, despite the water. He felt a sense of smugness, as though the energy was laughing at him, holding him in disdain as though he were a simple child trying an ill-considered trick to accomplish an impossible task. The water of Decimindion had failed to drive the energy out of him, though for the present Kestrel felt a stronger sense of the ability to control his anger.
Kestrel gently placed the skin back on the floor, as his back slid down the wall until he was seated again in the chilly darkness, feeling a loneliness more profound than he had ever felt before. Moorin had admitted she did not love him, the water had proven incapable of driving away the evil that resided within him, the journey ahead was long, dangerous, and unknown, and he saw no shining end ahead.
Have hope, Kestrel my love, he heard Kere’s voice suddenly whisper, and he felt the enemy power inside flip with anger at the intrusion of the goddess into its domain. The ill-considered reaction of the enemy, as much as the words of Kere, did truly raise his hopes.
An hour later he saw the horizon begin to brighten, and he knew that the next day of their adventure was about to begin.
Chapter 15 – The Terrible Power Within
Two hours later everyone was awake, and ready to begin the day’s journey. Lake led them out of the house, and through a number of roads that zigzagged block-by-block towards the southwest, until they came to the valley of a small river, just as they left the dense settlement of Uniontown’s suburbs.
They stopped at a market on the outskirts of the city, one where the selection of food stuffs was scanty, and Kestrel’s dwindling supply of coins taken from the Lakeview money changer didn’t purchase a great deal of food. And then they were on the road.
The Dangueax River soon came into view from the road, and guided their journey through the countryside. The river was much smaller than the Gamble River in Uniontown. It was large enough for small boats to navigate, but not large enough to carry commercial shipping, spanning only twenty yards of width for most of the time that Kestrel could see it.
Sunshine peered down upon them through high, thin clouds, and despite a brisk breeze, Kestrel felt warm as they walked along, their pace a leisurely one that was suited to Hierodule’s condition. There were scattered small farms along the way, but only one village that they passed through at midday. Beyond the village they passed more farmsteads, but they all appeared to be abandoned and uncared for.
“The masters of the land forced all people to leave this region,” Lake explained. “And they completely burned and cut down the entire Southern Forest that used to grow between the river and the mountains. No one is allowed in this area except their patrols,” his voice was heavy with emotion as he spoke.
Kestrel was silent as they traveled along, introspective and lonely. Moorin and Lake traveled as a pair, Hiram and Hierodule traveled as a pair, the imps flew high overhead, and Kestrel ranged about, going in front and behind as a scout. He thought about the energy within him, and the cruelty that it sought to find within him and sought to unleash through him. There was a native part of him, a dark corner of his soul, that the temple power found to be kindred, and Kestrel was troubled that there was anything at all within him that was compatible with the cruelty he had acquired. It had always been there in the recesses of his spirit, but seldom had it risen to more than minor acts of meanness. Yet now, the potential existed for him to engage in horrifi
c activity, and he feared that he would be provoked somehow, somewhere, in a way that would unleash the evil as had happened at the docks.
Rain began to fall as they walked, and the whole group was miserable. They had no cloaks or slickers to protect them from the steady drizzle, and their spirits drooped.
“Kestrel friend,” a very wet Stillwater came down from the sky to see Kestrel, shivering and dripping large drops of water as he approached, “there is a patrol of ten men or more ahead of you, coming towards you. We cannot see them clearly in the rain, but they appear to be soldiers.”
“Thank you Stillwater,” Kestrel replied. “Is there a place where we can hide nearby?”
“There is a lane on the right, just on the knoll, and a shed at the end of the lane,” the imp replied.
“Everyone, there is a patrol coming. Stillwater says there is a shed on the right. Everyone get in the shed and hide there until the patrol is past,” Kestrel spoke loudly.
They moved as quickly as they could towards the lane, then followed it towards the shadowy structure out in the middle of the field. The shack was small, without a door, and the roof had collapsed in one corner.
“Everyone stay here,” Kestrel ordered the other four as they wearily slumped into sodden figures that squatted down to rest. “I’ll go watch to make sure the patrol doesn’t see us.” He carried his bow and arrows and knife with him as he trotted back down the lane to the soggy road.
The muddy footprints of his small band were clearly visible on the road, already filling with small puddles of rain water amidst the squelchy slop that the road had become, and Kestrel contemplated the clear evidence of his group’s passage. He hadn’t seen the patrol yet to know how thoroughly they were examining the road in the rain, but the footprints would be hard to miss if the patrol had any degree of alertness at all.
He pulled his bow off his shoulder, expecting the worse, and found his expectations met; the bow and the string were wet through and through. Kestrel knew that the weapon would have limited use for long range shots, despite its divine accuracy, with such conditions. Lucretia sat on his hip however, and he knew that he could rely on the knife under any conditions to pick off opponents one by one, if he was given enough time.
And there remained the possibility of using the divine energy if he had to, in a case of extreme desperation. There were no innocent bystanders nearby to be wounded, he reluctantly told himself, if he did resort to the use of the power, and if it was co-opted once again by the evil that lurked within him.
Kestrel took a position in the empty field that bordered both the road and the lane to the shed. There were no trees, but he lay on his stomach in the sloppy mud, behind scraggly bushes, hiding as best he could in the dim visibility of the rain, and watched the patrol approach. There were a dozen soldiers slogging doggedly through the rain, their heads down, oblivious to anything but the rain that fell on them and the road in front of them.
Kestrel watched them. He felt rivulets of muddy water running through his clothes, making him even more uncomfortable and dissatisfied as he tried to remain motionless. The patrol approached slowly, walking in a group down the slight hill that rose near the lane’s intersection with the road. As Kestrel held his breath, the patrol reached the point where the lane branched off to the side, and they kept walking, their own footsteps falling atop the prints left earlier by Hiram and Hierodule, Lake and Moorin and Kestrel.
A hundred yards beyond the lane, the patrol suddenly stopped. They stood still, and Kestrel vaguely heard the sound of their voices speaking indistinctly, then the group shifted as they all gathered around and bent low to peer at the ground.
Kestrel drew Lucretia from his hip and sent the knife flying. There was no doubt that the tracks of his group had been detected, and he decided to start his assault. He rose to his knees and pulled his bow off his back; even though the string was wet it was worth the effort of a shot to see if he could hit the target.
He felt his fingers slipping on the string, and he readjusted his hold, then drew the string far back and took his time to sight through the rain at the cluster of figures on the road. One of them toppled over from Lucretia’s arrival and strike, and the others gathered around Kestrel’s first victim as he released his arrow.
“Lucretia, return,” he called, and waited for the knife to return, as he watched the flight of the arrow.
Despite the elements and their impact on his weapon, the arrow’s trajectory was true, and another member of the patrol fell to the ground. Heads rose, swiveling around, trying to find the source of their attacker, as Kestrel held his hand out and gripped the returning knife.
Two of the dozen men were dead, and at the distance that separated Kestrel from the patrol, he figured that he could easily kill at least six more with arrows before the guards got near enough to threaten him. With his elven speed and his enchanted knife, the last of the patrol would also eventually fall to him.
But a dark something within him was not satisfied. That small part of him, the angry, tired corner that had fought too many battles and suffered too many injuries and seen too much destruction, was not satisfied with the prudent plan. It wanted to engage and fight up close, so that his enemies could see him and fear him.
And the evil energy from the temple encouraged that corner of his soul. The energy offered assistance, an assurance that his ability to fight in hand -to-hand, up-close combat, would be enhanced. He would be invincible, and would have the satisfaction of killing the patrol members with his own bare hands.
He stood up and screamed a primal, guttural challenge. A part of him told him to stop, the greater part of him wanted to prevent the aggressive assault, but it was overpowered by the exertions of the temple energy, that seized control of his will through the primitive part of him that wanted to wreak revenge through violence.
Kestrel dropped his bow, and threw his knife as he screamed and began to run towards the patrol on the road. The members of the patrol began to draw their swords, and began to spread out, then turned in shock as one of them fell from the knife. When they turned back they were startled by how much closer Kestrel had drawn, his figure becoming clearer through the rain.
He recalled the knife and threw it again, then arrived amidst the small group of remaining guard members. And the energy took over, leaving a part of Kestrel as an uninvolved, terrified observer, while his limbs flailed – sending his fists and feet striking men viciously, flashing in past unprepared defenses, knocking men to the swampy ground as he twirled and attacked more. He didn’t stop, even when all the members of the guard were down, bloodily using their own swords against them, until he knew that all of them were dead.
And then the energy dissipated; it withdrew back inside of him, reclaiming its unassailable seat within his soul, and watching with satisfaction as he stood dumbfounded in the middle of the terrible scene.
Kestrel’s face was pale, and he stood stock still, feeling the heavy rain washing the blood and mud off of his body. He felt small tears leak from the corners of his eyes, immediately mingled with the rain from above. He felt used; he felt out-of-control, unable to be the person he wanted to be, and no longer able to know that he could control himself to do what he wanted to do.
For several minutes he stood still, and just let his body grow cold and stiff in the rain, until he heard a voice call his name, and he turned to see a figure approaching through the rain. The sky was dark overhead, and a ribbon of red behind him showed that the sun was setting, and the rain clouds were coming to an end. The rain was lighter, he realized, only the drizzling last vestiges of the storm that he had fought in.
“Kestrel,” Lake called as he approached. The elf’s steps grew slower as he drew nearer, and saw the massacre that surrounded Kestrel.
“Are you okay, Kestrel?” Lake asked.
“No,” Kestrel spoke the single word.
“Can I help? Do you need help to get back to the shack?” Lake asked.
Kestrel hesitated.
“Gather up any supply bags you can find, and take them back to the others, then leave me alone,” he answered in a voice that invited no answer.
Lake looked with distaste at the butchered, sodden corpses, then gingerly began to lift packs off the shoulders of the bodies closest to him.
“When will you come back to us?” Lake asked when he had a half dozen packs slung over both shoulders.
“I don’t know; I don’t know if I’ll ever come back from this,” Kestrel said in a hollow voice.
“Kestrel, are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to stay here with you?” Lake tried to be helpful.
“Just go back to the others. I’ll be there soon. We’ll plan to spend the night in the shack, and then move on in the morning,” Kestrel told the other elf. He waited until he heard the footsteps of his companion departing from the scene, then he bent and began to pull the bodies of his victims off the road, trying to hide them in the brush and weeds in the abandoned fields that lined the road. He stopped to pull the cloaks off of five of the dead guards when he had all the bodies out of sight, picked up more of the packs that carried supplies, and by the time darkness fell he walked slowly back to the shack where the others were waiting.
There were low voices speaking as he approached the small building, but they all fell silent as Kestrel entered the building.
“Come in Kestrel, get dry,” Moorin told him, watching water drip off him by the light of a small lantern that must have come from one of the packs. She stood and stepped over to him, offering to help him unload his goods. He handed her the extra packs he had retrieved, then dropped the cloaks he had brought back.
The Inner Seas Kingdoms: 05 - Journey to Uniontown Page 22
