The Rage Within Read online

  “I cannot tell what drove me to it,” he replied, “for I do not know. I only know that I felt a compulsion to act that I could not ignore.”

  Athusilan lifted his ice-blue eyes to meet the Emissary’s and looked intently at him.

  “Compulsion?” he repeated.

  “It is not a thing that I can easily explain,” the Emissary continued, “but there was something within the boy that had to be saved.”

  “Something within? The Daemon is within that child. You know what that means for their world. They are lost. There is nothing left to save but their stories. We are entrusted, by the Gods themselves to carry this out.” Athusilan’s quill still hovered between the page and ink pot.

  The Emissary bowed his head in thought for a moment. “The Gods are no more,” he said slowly. “The Many Worlds fall one after the other and are turned to dust. I question our purpose.”

  The Hall had been silent before, but now the quiet boomed as every Emissary froze at his words. Athusilan’s only reaction was a slight widening of his eyes. “You question our purpose?”

  “Up until the moment I reached for that boy I was utterly true to the gathering of stories. But tell me this: when the Many Worlds have all vanished and we are alone, what will you write in that book then? Will the final chapter tell of our loneliness for the rest of eternity, or will it document our last days as the Daemon is unleashed upon us too?”

  “If there is an End of Times, then we should be there to add it to the chronicles. If the Daemon itself devours this place then I shall pass with ink on my quill, and my duty fulfilled.” Athusilan spoke quietly with a cast iron conviction.

  “Again,” the Emissary said, “up until that moment, we were in complete agreement. Something has changed. I felt it then, and am convinced of it now. The Book of Lives is an account of the greatest achievements of the Gods’ finest creation, the Many Worlds. The Gods are lost and their creation is being devoured one piece at a time. There must be more.”

  Athusilan looked at the page before him and slowly shook his head, “There is no precedent. I cannot be asked to judge you, an immortal. I am a chronicler, no more. It falls to your fellow Emissaries to decide your fate, but I fear you have lost their trust.” His quill continued to the ink pot, then came down upon the page and continued the flowing script as though it had never ceased. The audience was over.

  “There is always hope,” he replied.

  The Emissary turned to face his peers.

  He awoke in a bed, with an indescribable feeling of alien-ness permeating his body. The bed was hard, a thin mattress on a wooden pallet he guessed. There was a gentle sound of weeping. Slowly he opened his eyes to a wan light. He saw wooden rafters overhead. A candle burned beside him. He felt an odd pressure in his chest, slowly growing in intensity as he rolled his head sleepily on the lumpy pillow. A woman knelt beside the bed with her head in her hands, sobbing softly.

  The urgency in his chest grew, becoming intolerable. Suddenly, not of his own volition, he drew in a ragged gasp, flooding his lungs with air. The woman staggered back, falling onto the bare floorboards as he held that breath for a few sweet seconds.

  Breathe!

  As his lungs took over and drew successive gulps of air over his parched tongue, the woman screamed. He heard the clatter of footsteps, and then the door burst open into the room. He was breathing heavily with panic and fear as he tried to get up, but his body was slow to respond and punished him with horrid sensations that hampered his efforts.

  Pain!

  The woman, a plain faced redhead of middle age gaped at him, wide eyed, as he forced himself up onto his elbows. Strong arms pushed him back onto the bed.

  “Father?” He heard a voice beside him.

  “How is this possible?” Another voice.

  “A miracle!” A woman’s voice.

  A rough hand felt his wrist as he lay trying to orient himself.

  “His heart beats strongly.”

  “Wha…” he tried to speak.

  “Quick, some water,” the nearest voice said.

  A cup was placed to his lips and tipped up as a strong hand held his head back. He spluttered as the water ran down his throat, but again, after a few attempts his body took over, and reflexively swallowed some water. Then he was laid back onto the bed. There was an awful tightness in his chest and gnawing hollowness in his belly.

  Fear?

  His mind slowly caught up with events.

  Banishment! Mortality!

  He sat at a simple wooden table with the woman from earlier and two young men, broad shouldered, concern etched into their faces. The woman had a hand laid on his, squeezing gently from time to time, and trembling a little.

  “You have had a terrible fever, my love,” she said, “You are bound to be confused. We thought we had lost you. You were gone for some minutes.”

  He stared at the table, unwilling to meet their gazes. He was assailed by all manner of unnamed emotions. How these simple people functioned at all with so much internal turmoil was beyond him.

  “Father?” one of the young men said, “what do you remember? Please try.”

  He only shook his head. What cruelty to involve these poor people. Giving them to believe their loved one had been returned to them, when he was merely a husk, carrying the remains of a once immortal being.

  “Do you remember your boys?” she said, encouraging him. “Simeon and Darred?” The young men nodded eagerly at him.

  “What do you remember?” the first repeated.

  “I am sorry, good people, but your husband, your father, is dead.”

  She squeezed his hand tighter and spoke as to a child. “Don’t be silly now, my love. You will feel better soon. A nice meal and some rest and you will be right as rain again.”

  “Would you care for a walk outside, Father?” asked the other youngster. “Seeing the farm might jog your memory, and the fresh air might…”

  He shook his head. They sat in awkward silence while the woman got up and dished up a plate of steaming stew with chunky bread and placed it in front of him. He must have been hungry because he wolfed it down. He ate a second helping, which brought smiles to the watchers’ faces.

  “Not lost your appetite then, Father,” said a son. Simeon, he thought. It was an amazing sensation, eating this simple stew. He had never eaten through hunger, only as a social function with his fellows in the Great Hall. This was something completely new and he felt a thrill of relief with every swallow. How could the simplest of everyday functions bring about so much pleasure, and what else had he been missing?

  At the end of his meal, he felt a new emotion, perhaps guilt at enjoying the meal so much while his hosts worried. He would learn all these feelings with time, like a child he would learn through experience. But there were more pressing matters to attend to.

  “I should leave you to your mourning,” said the Emissary. “I would be grateful for some items though.”

  And so he left them. He packed a bag while the poor woman watched, wringing her hands and trying to get him to stay. Some spare clothes, food that would keep for a few days, a simple knife, tinderbox and a shaving kit.

  “From Simeon,” she said, “Last Nameday. Remember?”

  He took it and gently opened the case, touched the razor and strop, and looked at his new face in the little mirror. He touched the unfamiliar features, tracing their contours. The weathered features of a man accustomed to long periods outdoors stared back through brown eyes. His hair was still dark, though greying at the temples.

  “How old was I that day?” he asked.

  “Forty two. We have been married for more than half that.” she replied. “Bartram, try to remember.”

  “I am not that man,” he said.

  Then he walked out of the house and did not look back.

  Fate had placed him in Dasar, a little way north of the main city of Moshet. He knew that he would have to travel north towards the White River and cross into the Northlands to
find the boy he had saved. Nothing was more important now than finding that child and sheltering him from harm.

  He felt so alone and vulnerable at that moment, walking from that house into a damned land. Fragile and mortal, and so naïve to the real ways of this world. Having watched men for so long, following their every deed, he had no real notion of how to be a man in the real, as he now thought of it.

  Following the road ahead would take him to the town of Hillfoot, then onwards to the White River, then to begin the search in earnest. He tried not to think of the size of the task ahead of him, and how futile his intentions were.

  But there was always hope.

  Chapter Three

  Dashiya. The last Kingdom yet to fall to the Korathean Empire - on this continent, at least. After that, perhaps the Eastern Kingdoms would be next, across the Ashkelit Ocean, or the Jendayan Empire to the south-west across the Adorim Sea. The Northern Steppes of the Hetai Nomads could have their independence, not that those savages had any idea of the greatness of the Empire. Let them have their ice blasted wasteland. For now, however, Dashiya was about to fall. ‘To the glory of the Empire’.

  Merat Fol’Ashar, the great Korathean General; or Hatar, as the rank was known, rode out to inspect his command. From his mount he looked at the amassed soldiers, nodding to a few as he did so. Their gleaming armour was trimmed with the blue-green worn by all Korathean soldiers, although only Merat wore a cloak; the Infantry did not need that hindrance on the battlefield.

  He was fifty two last Nameday and looked forward to retirement in glorious victory. He had already received the highest honours possible in the Korathean Empire, but sealing this final victory would ensure his place in history. His name would be sung down the ages in ballad and song as the man who finally crushed the last vestiges of resistance on the Korathean continent.

  Most Heavy Infantry came from the breeder camps in Kor’Habat, but he had joined at sixteen from a farming family. Unusually strong and quick witted, he had risen through the ranks rapidly, achieving Hatar at only thirty four. He was greatly respected by the ranks within the Heavy Infantry, themselves the pride of the Korathean army. They were enormous men; every one bred for battle and trained from childhood. They were feared wherever they were known.

  The breeder camps in Kor’Habat used the best stock from the Heavy Infantry and put them to the Harami, women chosen for their own physical strength and size. This was a centuries old tradition, and the result was a subset within Korathean society, the members of which were on a different physical scale to everyone else. The greatest thing that a Haram could do was bear a son for the Empire. Within the complex of breeder camps, Shol’Hara, a whole community existed purely to fuel the military might of the Korathean Empire. Merat himself had sired several children within Shol’Hara, thus ensuring the future of his bloodline.

  His head was shaved but for a topknot which signified his rank, and he ran a coarse hand over his scalp as he approached the main body of the army. The rebels they had driven back this far had proven resilient and more than a little adept on the battlefield, but they had been using hit and run tactics, fighting small battles as and when it suited them, using the terrain to their advantage. He respected them for it; even admired their courage, but would not hesitate to crush them now.

  He had them cornered, of course; had driven them deep into the Kingdom of Dashiya, right up to the capital, Hadaiti, and pushed their backs against the hellish sands of the Stygian desert. They had no choice but to fight an open battle now. No tree cover; only minor hills; and no rivers. This was where the Heavy Infantry excelled. Their heavy armour and huge strength could stifle an enemy.

  Hatar Merat Fol’Ashar surveyed the ranks of men before him. Sixty thousand Heavy Infantry, some twelve thousand archers, and eight thousand mounted cavalry made up his vast army. Their breath steamed in the chill of the spring morning, hanging like mist in the still air. The leader of the Empire, the Kodistai, had given him full control of the greatest army ever assembled on a single battlefield. This was to be a crushing victory leaving no doubt as to who ruled this continent. No quarter would be given. He felt a pang of regret that this great journey was coming to an end. He had enjoyed the game played with those that he had pursued these last years, but the time for sport was over.

  He expected resistance. His scouts had brought news of deals being struck with the Eastern Kingdoms, and war engines being built by their artisans. Everyone had heard tell of the Eastern Kingdoms’ fabled war engines, and how they could crush men like insects, but Merat preferred to deal with the reality of flesh, bone and steel, not fantastical tales and implausible figments. The mercenary band led by ‘Scurrilous’ Blunt would no doubt give a fair account of themselves, but against such odds? It was no secret that the merchant ruler of Dashiya had employed the hire-sword to lead the defence of Hadaiti. His people were traders, not men of battle.

  Then there were the rumours of the ‘man who was not a man’, the Northlander with the mark on his face, who killed at will.

  Again, Merat knew how stories grew in the telling and wondered how this man would stack up against the finest soldiers ever known. He wondered if, in the telling, he would be remembered as being twenty feet tall, with eyes of fire and breath that scoured the land. He smiled at that.

  Despite these few minor concerns, eighty thousand men could not fail to defeat a ragtag army of some twenty thousand. The Heavy Infantry were accustomed to defeating greater numbers than their own, so he could be quite confident of victory.

  Merat gave the order to advance, and the first of the pipers began to play their merry tune at the head of the army. Others joined, and on the same note the army, as one, began to advance. The ground shook beneath their feet. Merat took a letter from his tunic. It was traditional to sue for peace before any battle, and this was no different. A messenger had been sent with demands and conditions for surrender. The demands, penned by Merat himself, had ended by stating that they were outnumbered four to one by the largest force ever assembled, the Korathean army held the relative high ground and that the Heavy Infantry had never lost a battle in which they held the greater number. Scrawled over this letter in coarse script he read the words:

  Imagine your embarrassment.

  Scurrilous Blunt no doubt. He chuckled at the courage of such a statement again, and not for the first time felt more than a little admiration for these men laughing in the face of death. For when the hour came, they would all die.

  The army came to a halt looking down the gentle slope at the assembled rebels, a mixed bag of mercenaries, Dashiyans and assorted groups of other dissenters from the provinces within the Korathean Empire. Mecians, Kylyptians, Bal Morans, Arbis Morans, Dasaris, Pashwaris, the lot. At the head of the foremost centre column of the vast Korathean force, two infantrymen looked ahead, their helmet visors up.

  “I am told you are retiring soon, Jaled,” said the younger of the two. “I wondered if you were struggling to keep up with the rest of us.”

  Jaled grinned, “This will be my last outing, right enough Sorrel. No doubt you will miss my guidance. I, for one, will not miss the mud.”

  “Well, it would appear that we will all be given a break from the mud soon enough. This rabble will not stand, and then I fear it will be a quiet life in a provincial garrison, nipping rebellion in the bud,” said Sorrel.

  “Worried that those fractious villagers will be too much for you to handle?” Jaled teased.

  “I think not,” Sorrel replied with a laugh. “Anyway, what will you fill your days with?”

  “I have given the best part of twenty years to the Infantry, but I feel my talents would be put to better use elsewhere in my service to the Empire,” Jaled said cryptically.

  Sorrel eyed him suspiciously, “What are you up to, old man?”

  Jaled leaned closer and glanced around conspiratorially. “It seems the Empire considers me to be of sufficient pedigree to be put to a few of those Harami wenches in Shol’Hara,” he
said softly.

  “Careful,” Sorrel warned, turning to him. “My mother was one of those Harami wenches.”

  “As was mine,” Jaled replied, “but still, tell me you’re not jealous. ‘To the glory of the Empire’, my boy. ‘To the glory of the Empire’.”

  Sorrel smiled despite himself, “All right, just a bit jealous. But to be honest, I prefer my women a little more,” he paused, “dainty.”

  Jaled made a face of mock horror. “A skinny waif of a thing over a fine, full bodied Haram? Are you sure it isn’t boys you prefer?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a fuller body from time to time, but…”

  “But you’re afraid they might break you, is that it? Jaled joked.

  “Shh.” Sorrel silenced his friend and nodded towards the plain between the two armies. A lone figure was walking towards them. A man, probably. He was unhurried, almost casual as he closed the distance between them.

  “Unarmoured,” muttered Jaled. “No doubt coming to concede the battle.”

  The figure slowed roughly midway between the armies, four hundred yards from the front of the Infantry column, and stopped. The soldiers squinted at the distant figure. As they watched, the figure took an arrow from a quiver and nocked it in a longbow, then slowly drew the bowstring back.

  The figure released the arrow. Jaled and Sorrel exchanged bemused looks, and looked back at the already retreating figure, sauntering back to his own lines.

  The arrow struck Jaled in the throat, an impossible shot, piercing the flexible mail that bridged the breastplate and helmet face guard. Sorrel stared in disbelief at the arrowhead protruding from the back of his fellow’s neck and recognised it as a broad tipped arrow, not one suitable for piercing armour. A pair of finger widths higher or lower, and the arrow would have skidded off plate. He stared at the retreating man, lowering his visor even as he heard visors being lowered all around him. Jaled fell slowly to the ground.