The Rage Within Read online

  The Rage Within

  B. R. CRICHTON

  Copyright © 2013 B. R. Crichton

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Spiffingcovers.com

  DEDICATION

  To Lesley - for always believing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the proofreaders; Lesley, Helen, Jo and Marion.

  Prologue

  Tell me the lives of a thousand Heroes

  Sing me the Souls of an army lost

  Dance me the hearts of enraptured lovers

  Lest their tales be forgot to the mists of the past

  So it is written on the walls of that place; etched into the stone by the Gods themselves. But their presence has not been felt in those halls for so very long. So, you may ask why we persist as we have done for all this time. The answer I suppose lies in our very nature; our reason for being.

  I could attempt an analogy: that of a blacksmith beating iron upon his anvil or a sculptor carving form and texture into the marble block because that is their purpose, but it fails to explain why we are still gathering these tales. Any artisan would cease his labours when the task was complete or his commission fulfilled, but we have no such end in sight.

  For we are the Emissaries.

  We observe the Many Worlds our creators forged in the heavenly fires, and follow the lives we feel drawn to. These are the rulers and heroes, lovers and scoundrels that shine from among the fibres of the great tapestry of all creation. We tell of their lives and loves, joys and woes, victories and defeats, and with this telling afford them something akin to immortality, albeit a pale shadow of that particular curse.

  Our stories are recorded by the greatest archivist of them all; Athusilan.

  Athusilan, with his ‘Book of Lives’, whose inked quill has laid to parchment the deeds of more men and women than there are pebbles upon a beach. Athusilan, who has transcribed their efforts upon the page with a sure and steady hand, storing them in the flourish of word and phrase, yet has not lived a single moment in all his long, long existence. Instead, sucking at the teat of Man’s endeavour and revelling in His pain and anguish, for from these lowest of places can spring the greatest realizations of the most futile of hopes, or from those dark recesses of mortal mind, deeper and darker lows are plumbed. For stories great in the telling lie therein.

  Listen to me; I ramble on as though I were still amongst them, as though they still counted me as one of their own… as though I had not been cast out for having a care.

  You think me bitter?

  You would be wrong. For I have truly lived.

  Chapter One

  Beginnings…

  Kellan had always been a small boy, and slightly stooped. This only aggravated his lowly position in the social hierarchy of the boys in his village. The Northlands bred tall, rangy boys, athletic and confident. He was a hand shorter than his peers and thin with it. And then of course there was the birthmark which covered much of the left side of his face, a dark blotch running from his brow to the bottom of his cheek, from nose to ear. He had never got used to the teasing this drew, but though he was low in stature and weaker than the other boys, he was determined.

  “You take that back, Dolmar,” he shouted at the bully, his little fists clenched, white knuckled. Dolmar was a year older at nine winters, and Kellan’s chief tormentor.

  “Ha ha, fish face,” Dolmar sang back, not for the first time. They had been fishing in one of the many small streams around the village, when Dolmar had hooked a small trout with a characteristic dark stain across the left side of its head. Not unusual, but more than enough of an excuse to poke fun at little Kellan.

  “I said, take it back,” he yelled again.

  “Fish face, fish face, fish face!” The trout wriggled in his grip and slipped free. Dolmar fumbled to catch it again as it thrashed in the shallows and Kellan was upon him. He caught the bigger boy under the ribs with a bony shoulder and they both crashed into the ankle deep water.

  “Get him Dolmar,” the other boys urged. “Smash him.”

  They wrestled in the stream, its waters icy even on this summer’s day, until, inevitably, Dolmar got the upper hand and was able to get to his feet first. He punched Kellan on the nose as he tried to get up, knocking him back onto the stony stream bed. Kellan stayed down, holding his bloodied nose. His eyes stung as pain flowered across his face, but he refused to let the tears come freely. Not in front of the others. Dolmar was still standing over him when one of the other boys shouted.

  “Look!”

  Kellan was too busy nursing his wounded face to pay much attention, but the others all stared in the same direction, across the stream.

  “Who is it?” he heard one of them say. His ears still rang from the pounding in his chest and the blow he had received, but he could tell fear when he heard it.

  “He looks strange.”

  “Hello?” Dolmar called nervously. Kellan, now forgotten, rolled over in the shallow water to see a figure at the edge of the tree line on the other side of the narrow waterway. He blinked away his tears and got up as far as his knees to regard the stranger. He looked like a grown man but was short, a good three hands shorter than a Northlander man. His skin was darker too, and his eyes were odd, turned down at the edges. He looked exhausted, breathing hard and staring around with the wild eyed look of something hunted. The man was bleeding from several cuts that looked bad; swollen and infected. His clothes were tattered and stained, but those areas that were intact were of an unusual ornate weave that Kellan had never seen before.

  “Hello,” Dolmar said again, but this time a little more hesitant.

  The man sagged a little as his gaze finally came to rest on them. Then he fell to his hands and knees, muttering something in a language Kellan had never heard before; a strange sing-song sound, interspersed with sobs that racked his whole body.

  “Let’s go,” Kellan heard from behind him. “I’ll get Father.”

  The boys all fled in the direction of the village, leaving Kellan alone with the stranger. He heard their hurried footsteps dwindle into the distance as he stared. The man looked pitiful, not frightening, and Kellan felt a surge of pride that he alone had not run away. He rose from his knees and started to slowly wade across the knee deep stream when the man whipped his head up and shouted something unintelligible, terror etched into his face. Kellan stopped and raised his hands.

  “It’s all right sir,” he said softly. “I’m just a boy.” He immediately felt foolish for saying it. Of course he was just a child, but the fear in the man’s eyes caused Kellan to cast about for reassurances. He continued across the stream until he came to the other side and stood, ankle deep in the clear water. Now he was close enough to smell the stranger, he realised that the cuts on his arms and legs were indeed infected. He had smelled a badly infected wound once before, on a sheep. His pa, Jaim, had explained to him that the poor animal was beyond help and the kindest thing would be to kill it. Jaim had cut its throat, and Kellan had watched as the blood flowed from the scrabbling animal until it finally laid still, the coarse wool soaked in scarlet.

  Jaim had said that it was a mercy. Kellan looked at the wretched man and wondered if he was beyond help too. He was weeping feebly now, as he slumped onto the ground and rolled onto his back.

  “Where do you come from?” Kellan asked. The man just wept quietly, shaking his head slowly. The smell was really bad.

  “I’m sure they’ll bring help,” he offered, “Elder Milasar knows all about herbs and remedies; she once fixed Arim’s broken arm, and when there is a fever in the village, she brings us all a special brew to drink. I don’t like it much but mother says to take it because Elder Milasar has lived through more hard winters, and more bad fevers t
han anyone in the village.”

  He stopped, feeling a little silly for rambling, but it covered his nervousness. The man was just staring up into the sky now, not focusing on anything at all, and all the time muttering in that strange language. Kellan edged closer, not sure if it was safe to touch him. Surely the others would bring help soon, it was not far to the village and his friends could run fast.

  “Sir?” The man was all but silent as Kellan leaned over him. He whimpered softly, with his eyes screwed shut as though to close out the world around him.

  Suddenly the stranger struck out, catching Kellan a glancing blow on the shoulder. There was no force behind it but it startled him into falling back. The man thrashed, on his back, his eyes open but unfocused, then white foam began to ooze from between his tightly clenched teeth and run across his cheeks. As suddenly as it had started the fit ceased, and the man lay still on the damp ground.

  Kellan was crying softly now, above all else wishing that he was not alone with the stranger, but not willing to leave him either.

  “Sir?” He swallowed hard and steeled himself. “Sir?” He approached the man again and saw that he was utterly still. He crouched beside the stranger and leant over to listen for breath. A final sigh escaped the body and as Kellan watched, every sinew went slack and every muscle relaxed. He bent closer and looked into the dead eyes, curiosity getting the better of his fear. He had never seen a dead body before. He stared at the strange eyes with their down turned edges and dark brown irises. Both pupils were wide now.

  Then he saw a flash of movement within the right eye. He thought at first it must have been the reflection of a bird overhead, but when he looked up, the sky was clear. He looked down again and saw more movement within the eyes, dark motes lazily meandering within but growing in number and speed. He sat transfixed as the flecks turned into a swarm, and a sound like a deep buzzing began to emanate from the dead man. The body began to spasm, as though still alive, and fighting against itself. Before he could cry out the body bounced from the ground, shuddering as ten thousand points of darkness burst from the skin, shredding what was left of the clothing and leaving the flesh in tatters. The swarm boiled in the air above the broken body before engulfing Kellan.

  The buzzing had become a roar in a heartbeat. Kellan tried to cry out, but his mouth filled with the deadening swarm as they poured down his throat. He felt them bore into his skin all over his body, entering his ears, nose, and anus, burning as they did so. He was completely swamped, and convinced that he was about to die; terror gripped his gut even as it burned with the swarming intruders.

  He was only aware that he had stumbled back into the stream when the noise abruptly stopped. He was lying on his back, his bladder still emptying itself into his already sodden trousers. He gasped, and tried to cry out again, but his throat was parched. He splashed water into his mouth and immediately began to franticly scrub his whole body. His clothes were shredded, hanging in ribbons from his arms and legs, but amazingly his skin was unmarked by the swarm. The memory of the burning pain across his entire body was still fresh in his mind as he ran his hands over his abdomen and limbs, searching for marks or damage. He chanced a quick glance at the remains of the man, unrecognisable now, and his stomach heaved. He got to his feet and sprinted away towards the village.

  Kellan’s home, the village of Goat’s Pass, was situated in a flat bottomed hanging valley in the lower reaches of the Greater Cascus Mountains. It was among the highest of settlements in the Northlands, only made habitable by its sheltered aspect. The ‘goat pass’ of its title was the narrow break in the otherwise unforgiving landscape that led to the wide expanse of flatland originally only accessed for grazing, but now settled and farmed by Kellan’s people. Fewer than 200 people called Goat’s Pass home, and trade with the other small villages lower down the slopes was vital.

  For the most part, rugged sheep grazed the valley’s stony edges amongst the stunted pines and scrubby heather, but the shallow soil was fertile enough to grow sufficient millet to see out the long winters here. Mutton, wool and cheese were the main goods traded with the other villages, in exchange for vegetables and tools. It was summer here now and the pressure was on to grow and store and prepare for the cold, dark times to follow.

  He knew as soon as he reached the edge of the tree line, where grey, rocky ground gave way to brown soil, that something was wrong. The fields were empty; an abandoned hoe lay in a furrow beside the young grain plants. Steel in these parts was a valuable commodity, not something to be left to rust in the field. The women should have been tending the crops, but where were they? The menfolk, he knew, had gone through the pass and down the slopes to where the trees grew taller to gather firewood. The pack ponies would then bring it up in bundles strapped to their sides, walking to and fro, up and down the slope along the worn road. They were unloaded in the village by the older boys before returning to the men below in a well-practised routine. The men would not return until sundown, several hours from now.

  Kellan squinted into the low sun towards the collection of houses, seeking signs of life, but finding none. He knew that from the road he would be able to see straight into the village square and so made his way around the edge of the field to the dusty track. He began to hear voices coming from within the village, some shouts and what sounded like crying. His heart pounded and he altered his course to approach the buildings through the field and hide behind a pig pen to try and see what was happening.

  He was on the verge of tears again. All he wanted was his mother. His fight with Dolmar was long forgotten and the terrifying event with the stranger would be hard to explain, but the warmth of a mother’s embrace could heal many ills and calm him even better than one of Elder Milasar’s brews. He reached the pen and hunkered down behind it. The pigs rooted in the mud regardless of him. From here Kellan could hear, if not see, what was happening in the square much better and could make out words. He could also hear weeping, and a raised voice that had an unusual accent.

  He spied a wood pile to his right, where the older boys must have unloaded the ponies, and crawled over to it. When he had them between himself and the buildings, he climbed carefully up the large heap, taking care not to set the stack tumbling. From his vantage point, his head poking over the top, he could see between two houses into much of the square. He gasped.

  Soldiers!

  Perhaps thirty soldiers stood in the square, some with swords unsheathed, others with bows half drawn and pointing at the gathered crowd. It appeared the whole village was corralled at the front of the village hall.

  The soldiers wore leather armour, and all had long blue-green cloaks thrown back over their shoulders to free their arms. There were horses too in blue-green livery, but all of the soldiers were dismounted, except for one, who sat upon his horse imperiously, with his back to Kellan addressing the crowd. Kellan shifted his position to gain a better view, and his stomach clenched with fear. Kneeling in the dust, with two other women, was his mother!

  All had torn blouses, held in place by trembling hands; their skirts too, were dusty and ripped. Then a door burst open from the Bidean family house and Tessar Bidean was cast out onto the steps and into the dust. She was weeping openly and trying to pull her tattered blouse over her naked breasts as she stumbled from the house. Two laughing soldiers emerged from behind her, one still buckling his trousers and grinning as he strode out into the square. He grabbed Tessar Bidean by the hair and hauled her over to the other kneeling women. Kellan’s mother, the nearest, held out a hand for comfort. Tessar took it gratefully and for a moment they looked into each other’s eyes, gently shaking their heads and crying.

  A pair of older boys from the villagers made a move to intervene and there was a general shout and jostle among the crowd, but the soldiers tightened their bowstrings a little more and swords were raised to quieten the people. Kellan slipped back down the pile to the ground and crept around the back of the nearest house. He slid on his belly to the corner of the
building, then under the front porch where he could see clearly through the wooden boards. From this low vantage, he was afforded a clear view of the whole square. He could see his mother better now. Her face was caked in dust and tears. She clasped her tattered blouse high on her neck, and stared at the ground in front of her. Half a dozen children sat crying on a cart, hands bound behind their backs. He saw too that the villagers comprised of the young and the old, and women. The older boys and men were mostly out collecting firewood to store for the winter or trading in other villages and towns. Few remained here, and they were no match for thirty heavily armed soldiers.

  The crowd had settled, and the mounted man continued to speak. It was clear to Kellan now that, from his position at the front of the crowd, Elder Harman was pleading with the soldier. The mounted man dismissed Elder Harman’s pleas.

  “Nevertheless, Northlander,” he uttered the second word as though it tasted foul in his mouth, “the law is clear on this matter.”

  “Please, I beg you, has there not been punishment enough?” said Harman.

  “You know the law as well as I do.” The soldier dismissed him. “Where there is rebellion it will be crushed.”

  “They were merely gathering wood. The winters here are long, and without adequate supplies…”

  “You,” the soldier interrupted, “choose to live up here,” he looked at the surrounding mountains, “like animals,” he muttered the last softly.

  “It is our home,” said Harman in a placating manner.

  “Then understand that dissension will be met with force. For too long you have huddled in your mountain refuges, plotting against the Empire, attacking our trade routes and running for the cover of the high land.”