HE WHO FIGHTS

by Mike Morris

  Jefferson chuckled, seeing Rane's confusion. "I know. I don't look quite the same." He waved his hand, his scar bright in the torchlight. "The magic had its side effects that weren't quite so bad for me. Even I don't recognise myself these days if I dare look in a mirror."

  Rane forced a smile, the fake one he'd worn when he thought death waited with the next sunrise. "I'm just happy to be here. It's been a long road." The words were starting to feel more like lies every time he said them.

  Jefferson slipped his arm around Rane's shoulder, turned him back towards the stairs. "Come, let's get some hot food inside you and we can talk. There's lots I need to tell you — what we've learned. The world's falling into darkness and trying to drag us down with it."

  With Isaiah, Gregor and the Lord General's Legionnaires following on behind, the two men headed back down towards the Great Hall, Rane's opportunity for some rest disappeared with each step they took.

  Jefferson led the procession back down the stairs to the great hall. Soldiers were scattered around various tables, eating and drinking but all fell silent as the men entered the room and quickly stood to attention when they spotted Jefferson. The old man waved them back down without a word and guided Rane to a corner table. The others sat elsewhere, leaving the two men to talk with some privacy.

  "You look tired, Nathaniel. I'm sorry I couldn't let you get some rest first but I was too excited to see you when I'd heard you'd finally arrived." Jefferson paused while some bread was placed on a table. He gestured to the food. "Please eat, I can prattle on regardless. They'll be more food coming soon enough."

  "Thank you, Sir. It's a been a long journey." Rane tore off a chunk of warm bread.

  "Please don't 'Sir' me. You're not in the ranks anymore. It's Henry now."

  Rane nearly choked on his bread. "I'm not sure I can do that, Sir. You'll always be my commanding officer."

  "Ah, well at least try, eh?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  Jefferson chuckled but let it pass. "I hear you brought Myri with you. How is she? I haven't looked in on her yet."

  "Her sword's pretty black but she's not turned yet. She's holding on. I think."

  "You don't sound so sure."

  "I don't know. I hope so. We met some pilgrims on the road. We were pursuing Marcus Shaw — he'd turned, killed a lot of people and kidnapped three of the pilgrims' children."

  "Oh Marcus." Jefferson's gaze drifted away for a moment. "The transformation is a horrible thing. We've lost too many because of it."

  "We followed him into the Dead Lands. Got two of the kids back and killed him but afterwards... The priest was from the church of Odason."

  "Ah. And this priest knew you were Legionnaires?"

  "Fia. Her name was... is Fia. She knew we were heading here and said she was going to report us to the church at Napolin. She could be only a couple of days from reaching there as we speak."

  "Could be?"

  "The first night after we left them, Myri was supposed to be on watch but she disappeared, took her horse. I fear she went back to silence Fia and the others."

  "Ah. But you don't know?"

  "She's been so close to the edge that I couldn't ask. I didn't want to destroy what was left if I was wrong. I don't want to believe she did, but I still have doubts."

  "Well, she's here and we can look after her now. And if the Inquisition turns up with an army on our door, we'll know your fears were for nothing." He smiled as if it was of no importance.

  "I wish I'd come with better news for you, Sir."

  "These are the days we find ourselves in, Nathaniel." Jefferson sighed. "My heart bleeds with the news of every life lost. I’d hoped for so many more to heed the call and return but only a tenth of our numbers have made it."

  "It's not easy getting here. Apart from the arrest warrants, we’ve encountered Bracke and Valkryn on the road. They seem to be coming from everywhere."

  Jefferson leaned back in his chair. "I’m afraid the war's starting again. Heras’ sent her creatures out to seek us specifically. She knows we’re her biggest threat to victory.”

  “But how?”

  “The demons are drawn to our swords — the magic in them — and I fear they won’t stop until we’re all dead. They even come to the walls, trying to get into the castle. You'll hear our men shooting them from the walls or occasionally we go out and kill them by hand." Jefferson paused, looked around at the room at the other Legionnaires, before returning his attention to Rane.

  “Do you know where they’re coming from?”

  “I have men out searching but we’re making slow progress. The arrest warrants make our movements difficult. And we’re not the only ones working abroad.”

  Rane leaned closer. “Who else?”

  "The Rastaks are back. From what we’ve discovered, Mogai didn’t die on the Plains. He made it back to Rastak and has been rebuilding his army. A few of my spies have made it over the mountains to see what he’s up to but few have returned so our information is patchy.”

  “Is he going to reinvade?”

  “No doubt. No doubt. But he’s learned his lessons from the last time. He has agents of his own out in the five nations poisoning crops, contaminating drinking wells, causing unrest — forcing people to move from their homes, generally causing chaos. Weakening us.”

  Rane remembered the shantytowns around Candra, the pilgrims and their tales of their devastated crops. Suddenly a lot of things started to make sense. “Surely we’re not letting them get away with it?”

  “We are for now. We’ve got enough problems with the Legionnaires undergoing the transformation and the bloody arrest warrants. Things will be different when everyone is settled once more."

  Rane shook his head. "I've not heard anything of this."

  Jefferson shrugged. "Why should you? It's hardly information for the general public to know. If the truth got out, they'd be mass hysteria. It's bad enough the world is hunting our brothers-in-arms."

  "How long before Mogai attacks with his army?" asked Rane.

  "I wish I knew. By the Gods, I wish I knew. All we can do is be ready for when that moment comes."

  "Why aren't the five nations doing something about this?"

  "They don't believe it. I tried telling them but they wouldn’t listen. Just because we won the last war, they think the threat is gone. They saw me as some raving mad man. And when the transformations started — well, it was all the excuse they needed to dismiss my warnings." Jefferson waved a hand. "The fault's ours — we should have invaded Rastak and finished the job. Put the whole country to the sword instead of being satisfied with killing their army."

  "But isn’t that what the Rastaks want to do to us?" replied Rane, shocked at the severity of the Lord General's words.

  "What other option is there? Build a wall to keep them out? Or wait till they are strong enough to attack us openly once more?"

  "But a whole nation..."

  "...Should be accountable for the actions of its leaders. For what is done to serve their religion." Jefferson fixed his eye on Rane, as daring him to contradict.

  "Sir, when can you remove the curse from Myri and I?" asked Rane, changing the subject.

  "We try not to call it a curse here."

  Rane was confused. "Why wouldn't you call it a curse?"

  A plate of roast chicken appeared on the table. "Ah, perfect. Just what I needed." Jefferson smiled at the servant, a young girl from Nortlund going by her shock of near-white hair. Once she returned to the kitchens, he turned his attention to Rane. "And you? How are you? Have you felt any changes?"

  "I get urges. The sword needs blood. Makes me want to kill." Rane pulled Kibon off his back and placed it on the table. "I've tried not to use it but the demon attacks left me with no choice."

  "Do you mind if I see the blade?" Jefferson's voice was quiet, almost impossible to hear over the noise in the great hall.

  The question threw Rane for a moment. But Jefferson was his commanding officer and h
e had come to Orska for the old man's help. He pushed his discomfort to one side. "Certainly." He slipped Kibon free from its sheath.

  Jefferson leaned forward as if drawn by some invisible power to the sword. His hand went to touch it but Jefferson stopped himself. "Such a beautiful weapon. The steel has hardly coloured at all. Just some specks here and there. I would have expected more. You were one of our best."

  "I was living with my wife in an isolated part of Ascalonia so I never had any reason to draw my weapon."

  The Lord General looked up, eyes wide and bright. "Your wife? Is she..."

  "She's dead, Sir. Killed when bounty hunters came looking for me, to claim the reward."

  Jefferson reached out and clasped Rane's hand. "I'm so sorry, my boy. Really I am. War is a ghastly thing. It claims so many innocents."

  "I thought we'd won the war, Sir."

  Jefferson squeezed Rane's hand once, twice. "Not yet, but we will."

  Someone approached from behind Rane, attracting Jefferson's attention. Rane didn't look to see who it was, presuming that if it were a friend they'd say hello of their own accord. Jefferson acknowledged their unspoken message and stood up. Rane followed suit.

  "I'm afraid something else demands my attention but we'll speak more in the morning. Now eat and sleep — there's still lots left to do and I need you fighting fit." Jefferson shook Rane's hand once more. "I'm so happy you're here."

  "Thank you, Sir. It means a lot to me."

  "I'll see you in the morning."

  Rane watched Jefferson leave and then sat back down at the table. He picked at the chicken but he'd lost his appetite. Kibon lay on the table, unsheathed once more. For some reason he was almost scared to put it back in its scabbard. He had to force himself to do it. The sword fought him every inch until Kibon was covered once more. Thank the Gods, he was at Orska. Resisting Kibon was getting harder and harder by the day.

  He yawned, his tiredness weighing him down, desperate for bed. He looked for Isaiah, hoping he could show him where his bed was. The sentry was sitting with Gregor at another table. Both were studying Rane, and for a heartbeat he felt like a prisoner under scrutiny. Rane rubbed his face, trying to wake himself up. The lack of sleep was making him paranoid. He was safe and back with the Legion.

  30

  The next morning, Rane stood on the wall, looking out over the hills to the north-east in the direction of Napolin. Fia and the pilgrims would reach the city soon — if they were still alive.

  Two sentries stood watch further along the battlements. With their immaculate Legion uniforms, swords on back, and shaved heads, they didn't have the look of retired veterans but of troops used to living on the front line. In his worn, borrowed clothes, Rane looked out of place but he hadn't come back to join a new war. Or had he?

  He wanted justice for Kara, for himself. He wanted to be cured. But if the Rastaks were on the verge of returning, where did that leave him? Would he stay and fight with Jefferson and the others. He’d no other place to go after all.

  Kibon knew the answer. The thought of war, of a multitude of enemies to fight, was what it was made for. It sang with joy at the thought. But now Rane was back at Orska, the weight of the sword had lifted slightly. That pull in his chest dragging him north was gone. Instead, he could feel the promise of violence around him, taste the excitement on the sea breeze. He was a killer, the voice at the back of his head reminded him, and killers need war. And he’d found one.

  "How are you feeling today?"

  Rane jumped at the sound of the voice, turned and saw Isaiah walking towards him.

  "Fine. Still a bit out of sorts," replied Rane. "It was a hard journey here."

  "There are no easy miles anywhere." The Legionnaire stopped beside Rane, snorted up the phlegm in the back of his throat and then spat over the battlements.

  "How's Myri?"

  "She's all right. Safe."

  "I'll go look in on her soon."

  Isaiah shook his head. "Nah. Don't think that's a good idea. She's not the only one down there. Best you leave her alone for now. She's got people who know what they're doing looking after her. All you'll do is complicate things."

  "I'm not some wet nose who doesn't know his arse from his elbow," replied Rane, feeling the first flush of anger. "Myri's been through a lot with me. I want to make sure she's well."

  "You will. In time." Isaiah stared Rane in the eye, daring to him to continue to argue.

  "We've got company," called out one of the nearby sentries, a Souskan, pointing out to the hills. "Couple of Bracke."

  "Fucking demons," said Isaiah, but didn't bother to look over his shoulder at what was approaching. He kept his eyes on Rane.

  Rane followed the sentry's directions and spotted a pair of Bracke, as big as any he'd encountered on his journey, making their way towards the castle, slinking down between the rocks and scrubs.

  The second sentry was a tall Ascalonian woman with blonde stubble covering her scalp. It took Rane a moment or two to place her face as he watched her bring her rifle to bear on the approaching demons.

  "Is that Simone?" asked Rane. Finally a familiar face. Finally another Legionnaire at Orska he could call a friend.

  This time Isaiah looked. "Yeah, she's been here about a month."

  Simone aimed her rifle at the Bracke, waited for them to come closer to the castle. Five hundred feet was too far for her weapon to hit anything without sheer luck guiding the bullet.

  The Bracke took their time, sniffing the ground, sniffing the air, and using the rocks for cover. Four hundred feet, still too far. Simone settled the rifle butt into her shoulder as they came within three hundred and fifty feet, her index finger resting to the side of the trigger. Her form was perfect. Rane didn't need to be close to tell her breathing was under control — deep and steady.

  Her finger slipped around the trigger when the Bracke closed the gap to three hundred feet. Ambitious for a rifle but not impossible.

  Overhead, the crows swooped and soared on the wind, eager for their next meal.

  The demon dogs crept towards the castle, unaware death had its eye on them.

  Simone pulled the trigger.

  The hammer hit the primer, ignited the gunpowder. There was the crack as the bullet flew from the barrel, exiting with a puff of blue grey smoke.

  A second later, one of the Bracke's jerked its head as the bullet struck its eyeball and it collapsed to the ground. The other Bracke ran, back towards the hills, but there was no escape. Arrows chased it, shot by the Legionnaire with Simone, and by others on the wall. It covered a mere twenty yards before it fell, peppered with arrows.

  The crows shrieked their approval as they flew down to dine.

  Isaiah yawned. "Looks like the excitement's over for the morning. Let's get something to eat."

  "I'm just going to say hello to Simone," replied Rane but Isaiah put his hand up to stop him.

  "Best leave that till later," said the Legionnaire. "She's on duty still."

  "I'm not going to interfere with her doing her job."

  "The Lord General's requested any civilians restrict their movements to their rooms, the mess hall and the main courtyard."

  "A civilian? For the Gods' sake, I've done enough for the Legion not to be called that."

  Isaiah looked him up and down. "Wearing that sword doesn't make you one of us again. When you're wearing the uniform, then we can talk."

  "Now listen..."

  "No. Unless you want to be in a cell next to your friend, you listen." Isaiah stepped closer. "This isn't some sort of holiday camp. This is a military base and we run it properly. Now that means you go where we say you can go and you don't go where we tell you not to. And if you see any old 'comrades' and you want to have a chat with them, you wait till they’re off fucking duty. Do I make myself understood?"

  Rane stared back, boiling inside, the urge to fight bitter in his mouth. Kibon itched on his back, pressing down on him, demanding to be drawn. It smelled blood �
�� wanted blood. Isaiah deserved to be cut down — as did anyone else foolish enough to stand in his way. His breathing sped up as blood rushed through, readying him to fight. His hand flexed, eager for Kibon's hilt.

  He glanced over the man's shoulder, saw Simone and the Souskan watching, their weapons ready. The hackles on his neck told him others were behind him waiting to see what he did next. But just like the Bracke, they saw Rane as the enemy.

  No. No. This wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't right.

  Rane forced a smile onto his face. "Sure thing. You've made yourself perfectly clear."

  Isaiah's mouth twitched, as if disappointed the matter hadn't come to violence.

  "I'll leave you to your duties," added Rane. He nodded past Isaiah towards the exit from the battlements. "May I?"

  Isaiah stepped to one side to allow Rane to pass. Simone and the Souskan tracked him as he made his way to the door and Rane knew he had no ally in his old friend. With each step, there was a part of Rane that expected an arrow or a bullet in the back. He was almost surprised when he stepped through the door into the darkness of the tower that he hadn't been shot. His heart hammered away as he tried to calm himself. Tried to make sense of what had happened. Kibon howled in frustration. There were enemies to fight. Why had Rane run away? He had the power. It was the others that should fear him.

  He slumped against the wall, shaking. Logic and emotion warred inside. It was the sword making him feel this way. It had to be. Isaiah was Legion. Just following orders. By the Gods, he needed the curse lifted. Before he went mad. Before the taint took hold.

  He forced himself down the stairs, legs weak, holding onto the wall for dear life. He sucked in air but none seemed to reach his lungs. Sweat broke out on his forehead as the stairwell closed in on him.

  Rane staggered out onto his floor, found his room, fell through the door. He pulled Kibon off his back and threw it across the room. He dropped to the floor, grateful for the cold stone against his burning skin.