The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  “I do not represent my people,” Elan said softly.

  “Mercenary!” Merat spat.

  “Free man,” he replied.

  “Sound the retreat,” Valia said.

  “What?” said Merat

  “You heard me,” Valia said.

  Merat looked her up and down, taking in her imposing physique. “You have the look of Shol’Hara about you.”

  “And you have the look of defeat about you, Hatar,” Foley said cheerfully.

  Merat stiffened and Valia gave a quieting gesture to her fellow mercenary.

  “Sound the retreat, and leave with an army worth taking back to Kor’Habat,” said Valia softly. “To pursue this further would be insane.”

  “Our victory is assured, even if you kill me. Every man who fights for the Empire would gladly give his life, and I am no different.”

  “That was never in any doubt,” Valia said with evident sincerity, “but consider the cost. You have stripped the provincial garrisons to their bare bones to assemble this army. Already there will be murmurs amongst the would-be revolutionaries in every province. The only thing that stops those murmurs becoming a shout is the knowledge that the garrisons will swell in number again, and those dissenters would be punished. Should you be defeated, news will travel quickly of the demise of the Heavy Infantry of the Empire and those garrisons will not withstand the full scale rebellion that will follow. Without the threat of these troops to cow them, the provinces will oust the Empire.

  “Even if you press on for victory; a victory that I will grant you is likely in the end, your numbers will be so diminished that full scale rebellion may happen anyway. The Engineers will burn their machines and make for the docks and their waiting boats long before you break through, so you will not even have the knowledge of their weapons as a prize. Fight on and the Empire is lost. Retreat now and you may yet save it. Return to your Kodistai, and tell him that his Empire has found its extent. Go no further.”

  “The time for negotiating has passed,” he replied, “and you declined the offer of a bloodless solution. Why do you come to me now to talk?”

  “You demanded that a Kingdom surrender itself to you. That is hardly a negotiation, Hatar.”

  “Surrender or fall. It is a fair choice,” he said

  “And I believe you face a similar choice,” she said. “Retreat with honour intact, or limp away with the shadow of an army to defend your newly expanded Empire. A wolf will not pursue a prey if it fears being injured; it may return to its cubs without meat that day, but it will hunt again.”

  Merat looked down the gentle slope to the battlefield. He had seen his Infantry beaten back time and again by volleys of massive bolts, and watched as the columns to the rear were constantly barraged with boulders from the catapults. His cavalry was dead or useless, and the archers had taken unacceptable losses even before they had fired an effective volley themselves.

  “Sound the retreat,” Valia urged “Blunt will not fire on them if they withdraw. He has sworn it to me.”

  “Scurrilous Blunt,” Merat sneered. “Why should I trust the word of a hire-sword?”

  “Because he has no reason to lie,” she reasoned.

  “Valia,” said Foley.

  She turned to Foley, and he nodded in the direction of the battlefield. She looked, but could barely believe her eyes.

  Stumbling up the slope, covered head to toe in blood and gore, and clutching the ragged stub of a shattered sword in his right hand, Kellan Aemoran had reached the enemy command. He looked fit to drop, his eyes wide and staring and legs unsteady beneath him.

  She gestured for Foley to go to him. The last thing they needed now was Kellan wading into this situation in that strange, vacant state he fell into in battle. He would be impossible to reason with.

  Perhaps it was the inescapable truth of what Valia had said. Perhaps it was the sight of so many thousands of his proud men lying broken on the ground. Or perhaps it was the sight of a single man, unarmoured, bloodied but still standing after fighting his way through the biggest army ever fielded, that forced his decision.

  “Sound the retreat.” Merat ordered.

  The words settled like lead in his belly.

  “Kellan,” Foley was sitting with Kellan’s head in his lap after catching his fall. “Kellan, we’ve won.”

  Kellan forced his mind to the surface; then blackness took him.

  Chapter Four

  Beginnings…

  Banished. Alone. Mortal.

  He travelled northwards through farmland and a few small villages, deep in thought, coming to terms with his fate. It was unreal to him that he should find himself living the life of a mortal man. It felt so unjust dumping him here with no understanding of day to day existence. The first time he slept, was on a bedroll under a tree. He had walked for the whole day and well through the evening before fatigue had forced him to rest. The ache in his legs and feet had steadily grown in intensity until he could not fight it any longer, but the feeling of relief when he lay back on that thick blanket was like nothing he had ever known. His muscles had buzzed gently as blood returned to exhausted limbs and sleep crept up on him like a fog.

  He had dreamed, too: images of empty halls, running down empty passages, racing against time, but when he had woken, cold and a little stiff in the dawn light, the images had fled.

  How do mortals cope with waking from a dream? How do they separate their real lives from those tricks of the mind?

  His respect for the people of the Many Worlds was growing by the day. They suffered so much and yet achieved so many things. Hunger, pain, sadness, weariness, thirst; all daily trials they took in their stride and, despite them, got on with life. He had observed these things countless times, was aware of the order of life but he did not really know them. Like a child, he had so much to learn.

  Alongside that glorious feeling of finally lying down after a long day’s travel, his favourite discovery was eating. The few foods he had with him were simple, but his mouth watered thinking about those flat breads and cheeses when his stomach growled. He had also been given some fruit from a friendly farmer in return for his help returning a spilt load of hay onto a cart.

  Apples! Sweet and sharp. Crunchy texture that released quenching mouthfuls of juice when chewed. He vowed to try every food in the world in the time given to him, however long that might be.

  For aeons he had inhabited the form of a man, the form the Gods had chosen, but for reasons unknown to him those functions necessary for life here in this world were not needed where he had been. They had seen and heard as Emissaries, but now this was raw experience. Food had been eaten and wine drunk, but they had only been going through the motions and no pleasure was taken from those acts. He wondered why these sensations had been withheld from his kind.

  Not now, though. He was in a world of sensation and feeling.

  On the fifth day, his food ran out. He had found a town where he ventured into an inn called ‘The Granger’s Rest’. It was evening, just after sunset, and the common room was full of farmhands and labourers, drinking to their day’s efforts.

  He made his way past the long tables of rough wood to the bar, where he planned to offer the innkeeper a day’s work for some food to see him on his way. He had not thought to take money from the family he had left, and probably would not have even if the thought had entered his mind. He could not have taken their money too.

  “Good evening, kind sir,” he began.

  “Evening,” the innkeeper replied, wiping the bar top. “What will it be?”

  “I wondered if I might offer my services in return for some food?” he said.

  The innkeeper stared at him through his thick beard. “Services?” he said flatly.

  “Indeed. I can turn my hand to most things,” he lied.

  “Well,” the innkeeper raised his voice so that the other customers could hear, “looks like we have another scrounger tonight gentlemen. Here to drink my ale and eat my fare, and be
gone before the sun rises.”

  This was met with laughter from the gathered drinkers.

  “Not at all, sir,” the Emissary protested. “I am an honest man and only ask that I may earn your hospitality. I am travelling north, looking for a boy.”

  “A boy, eh?” he shouted. “You should be heading west to Mecia, they can provide you with a boy from what I hear of their tastes.”

  The bar erupted with laughter. He was not sure he got the joke but laughed nervously with them.

  “My nephew,” he lied again. “He is orphaned and I need to find him. To raise him.”

  “Out,” the innkeeper dismissed him. “Out. I’ll not have beggars or free loaders in ‘The Granger’s Rest’.”

  He turned to leave and headed for the door through jeers and laughter.

  “Spin a better tale next time stranger,” the innkeeper shouted, laughing along with his customers.

  He stopped at the open door.

  Spin a better tale? Spin a better tale, indeed!

  “A tale you say,” he said without turning. “A tale to grip your imagination? A tale to make you laugh? A tale to make you cry? I can tell tales that would freeze your heart with fear, or lift your soul to fly with the eagle.” He turned and slowly walked back into the inn.

  This was what he knew, and even as he spoke a feeling of belonging rested on him. With his gift he could find a place in the land of mortals.

  “Perhaps the story of Landrick’s rise and fall? I could tell of the greatness of the Empires of Sylastrus or the simple sorrow of the Lark Hunter’s Lament.” He stepped onto an empty chair and then the long table beside it. No-one protested as they fell silent, watching his every move. “But tonight the sun set the colour of blood, and that puts me in mind of a man whose hunger for power and lust for control plunged a land into an era of bitter conflict. Sit back, stout fellows, and hear the tale of Arrick’s Crown of Bones.”

  He held them, spellbound for the night. He told stories of lands they had never heard of, as well as tales of their own kings and queens long dead. He had them spraying ale from their mouths with laughter, and saw tears in the eyes of the roughest of them. They stayed in the inn beyond their usual hour and drank the landlord’s ale, unwilling to leave without one more story; one more tale of bravery or hopeless courage. He strode the length of the table, and back again regaling the gathered men with stories, his body and face equal tools of artistic impression, taking them with him through distance and time to paint pictures they could not have otherwise imagined.

  It was as if he was in the Great Hall again, walking the table and entertaining his peers while Athusilan kept pace with his quill and the ‘Book of Lives’.

  The innkeeper was more than grateful since his takings were trebled for that evening. He fed the storyteller, and gave him a room for the night, inviting him to stay a further night if only he would keep the customers rapt, and drinking.

  The Emissary took his first bath. He had not realised how badly he needed one until he sat in the hot soapy water and saw the dirt slough off. Another new experience, and a welcome one. He washed his clothes in the tub with him and hung them over the warm air pipe, which drew heat from the kitchen fire below, to dry. Then he went to bed. Sleep came quickly then, because earlier that evening he had discovered ale.

  He moved from town to village to town as he headed into the Northlands. Wherever he found an inn or tavern he plied his trade, telling stories to delight the drinkers. He learned which stories worked best and read the mood in every establishment to best choose which tale to tell.

  In return, landlords and landladies fed him and gave him lodgings. He earned a few silver marks here and there as well, which he used to replace his simple clothing with stouter fabrics more suited to the northern climate, and sturdy boots. He reached and crossed the White River, after which settlements became markedly more sparse and smaller when he did come upon one.

  At every place he enquired about the orphan boy, with the blemish on the left of his face, but no-one knew anything about him. A name was mentioned more and more the further north he travelled however; Sister Anna’s Orphanage.

  He came to the orphanage as the autumn was touching the leaves of the trees, turning them golden. It was within a large village known as Larchwood, a settlement built on its trade in timber, and unsurprisingly, built almost entirely from, timber. There were very few stone buildings here, only chimneys and the blacksmith’s shop were stone built.

  ‘Sister Anna’s’ was situated near the middle of the village, beside a general store. A few children, too young to be Kellan were playing on the porch, and two of the older boys were applying a coat of bitumen to the exterior timber walls. He walked up to the large two-storied house and rang the bell outside. The toddlers ignored him, engrossed as they were in their play.

  A few moments later, a woman of middle years opened the door. She wore her hair in a bun, a few wayward strands hung loosely over her temples, and she was rubbing her floury hands on her apron. Behind her there was a clamour of children’s voices.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Sister Anna?” he enquired.

  “No.” She shook her head and smiled softly, “Sister Anna died before I was born. This place bears her name though, and her work goes on.”

  “I see, I am sorry.” he continued, “I understand you take in strays and orphaned children.”

  “In these times there are many orphans.” She sighed. “More arrive every week and we have not the space to house them, nor the money to feed them. A few local people have taken children into their own homes, the older ones who can work find lodgings easily.”

  “You do an admirable job, Miss…” he floundered.

  “Jessy,” she replied. “My name is Jessy.”

  “Jessy, I had hoped you knew the whereabouts of a young boy, about eight years old, with a birthmark on his face.” He indicated using his finger on his left cheek.

  She regarded him for a moment. “And you would be?”

  “I am the boy’s uncle,” he lied. “Sadly my brother and his wife were killed and he is my only blood relative left. Do you know where he is?”

  “Come in, sir,” she said.

  She shut the door behind him. The room within was full of dozens of children, playing in groups or solely occupied by some game or other. She wove her way effortlessly through the throng and wordlessly led him up the stairs. They came to an open door and entered a small room with four double bunks crammed in. Clearly every bed had an occupant at one time or another, but only one boy was in the room at present. He sat with his back to the door, cross-legged on an upper bunk, staring out the unshuttered window.

  “He was brought to us by a woodcutter, six weeks ago now. He was covered in cuts and bruises and very near dead. I did what I could with the help of our Elders and his body recovered, but his mind…” She shook her head. “He hasn’t uttered a word. We call him Josh”

  He walked around to look at the boy’s face and instantly recognised him as Kellan Aemoran, the boy he had rescued; the boy with the Daemon within him.

  “His name is Kellan,” he said softly, trying to look into the boy’s unfocused eyes.

  “Kellan,” she said, as if this somehow made sense now.

  “Kellan?” he said softly taking the boy’s hand. “Can you hear me?”

  The boy just sat and stared.

  “He has been like this since coming here,” said Jessy.

  “Has he shown any signs of anger with the other children?” he asked.

  “No, nothing,” she replied, confused. “As I said, he has been like this since he arrived.”

  He sighed. “That is good.”

  “Will you be taking him with you?” she asked, taking him somewhat by surprise.

  “What? Oh, yes of course. If I may,” he said.

  “You are his uncle, of course,” she said. “He should be with family.”

  It came to him that this woman was only too glad to
be rid of the child. The bed would be needed by another, and no doubt she did not know what to do with him otherwise. She had not even asked his name.

  He put his hand to the child’s face and turned it gently to meet his gaze.

  Suddenly, Kellan’s eyes focused on him, widened in surprise then the boy gasped a huge ragged lungful of air as if breaking through to the surface after a long time underwater. He fixed the man before him with a wild-eyed look, searching for something familiar.

  “That is all well then,” said Jessy, clearly relieved, and eager to pass this burden on.

  They went next door to the general store and bought new clothes and a bedroll for Kellan, and enough food for a few days. He returned to the orphanage before leaving the village and gave Jessy what was left of his silver. She accepted the coins gratefully and assured him that the children appreciated it, and then she wished them both well.

  He knew where he was headed now and took the road east, knowing that they would leave the road in a day or two and see no more villages. The boy appeared physically strong, and held his hand as they walked down the hard packed road.

  He spoke to the boy about the places he had been so far, not wanting to walk in silence. He told Kellan some of the more light hearted tales he knew, trying to draw him out of his shell. Since the episode in the room, the boy had been silent and withdrawn. Finally, he spoke.

  “What is your name?” he asked, cutting off a story in mid flow.

  “My name?” he replied.

  “Yes, you know my name. Kellan. What is your name?”

  He was not sure what to say. He thought of the wretched woman and her sons near Moshet. That woman had called him Bartram, but he felt he could not keep that name. It felt somehow wrong to take a man’s name as well as his body. He wished he could have explained to that bereaved family that their loved one was gone and an imposter resided in the shell they recognised.

  He could not use that name.

  “Everyone has a name,” the boy persisted.

  He thought back to that first inn, where he had found a niche telling stories to the drinkers and travellers there. The place where, for the first time his feet felt firmly on the ground and his existence here was real, and less terrible than he had feared. What had that place been called?