-XIV-
His Burden

White-hot rage bolted through the man, blotting out all else. He was used to things getting done when he said so, even if nothing was done with the snap of fingers. Many times it was his hands that did the labor, and so he had no reason to complain. He took comfort in the stick in his hand, as if he was siphoning all his anger into it. His mouth relaxed into a smile, and he laid a hand atop one of his top generals on the shoulder as he passed by them. One of the worker-boys who was walking by dropped a bag of weaponry, and the discordant sound of steel striking stone struck out. The man felt his temper flare out again, but somehow he shockingly managed to withdraw and keep himself in check, biting off a barking insult. Still, he could not hold back the full range of his emotion. “Fool,” he murmured unconsciously as he went on. The stick seemed to drain him of strength; by the time he reached the tent, he looked as tired as an elderly man, eyelids drooping and back hunched, yet holding himself with a quiet dignity.

He threw back the tent flap and entered. The first thing he saw was one of his rangers seated at a chair, his hands formed in a steeple and resting atop a table. “Jambo,” the man greeted, motioning to the empty chair opposite him. Janhas sat down smoothly. “You might have heard the vague details that concern the fate of the—”

“I heard,” Janhas ground out harshly, “that my dear Naurd was unsuccessful in getting such a simple task done. A mere boy, who did not even know how to use a sword, slew three of my men on his own, including Asmon, one of my fellow Foux’s students. The latter died by what my general described as, ‘an uneventful rockslide that surprisingly occurred mere moments after the boy uttered some gibberish, possibly a curse.’ One of the boulders smote Naurd Foux, knocking him out and allowing the boy time to escape with three other captives, including his girlfriend who should have rightfully drowned to death. When Naurd awoke he instantly dispatched one group of ten men, two of whom were later slain and the rest of the team who were unable to locate the escaped prisoners. He also sent out a larger group of twenty men who did not return at all.” Jambo glared expectantly at the ranger, who squirmed uncomfortably.

“Well, that is the general story. You see—”

“I do see,” Janhas interrupted again. “I had forgotten not to underestimate the old man and his disciples. After the series of catastrophes that amount to nothing, I cannot describe these four runaways in any other manner.” He glanced disinterestedly at the man in front of him. “Do you have anything to add, or am I free to leave?”

“Well, I…” blabbered the ranger, who looked as if he needed some time to choose his words carefully, then glanced at the man before him and thought better. “It is uncanny that you should sum up my report in that way. I am new here, but I can see that the men respect you. I would just like to know one thing, then. What is that foolish stick you carry around with you everywhere? None of us know much about your background, how you grew up, but they say you grew up in the wild. I am not calling you barbaric, but they say you have a cruel, insincere mindset. They speak of you being sadistic on several accounts, one of which you told a man who disobeyed you to cut himself deeply with his sword, and then drink his own blood until he vomited.”

An awkward silence stretched forth, until finally Janhas got out of his seat, drawing out a knife from around his belt. He began to run it smoothly along his palm, as if sharpening it. “Are you an archer?” he asked softly.

“Why…yes,” the ranger answered, confused.

“Hold out your bow-hand.”

The man paled, but after a few moments he complied and stretched out a trembling hand. Janhas pressed the proffered hand onto the table with his own hand, and swiftly cut down on the base of the man’s thumb. The ranger screamed a high-pitched noise that did not have the least bit of effect on the man before him. The knife sliced wholly through skin and bone, resulting in separating the thumb that lay motionless on the table, inches from its hand from where moments before it had been joined. Rivulets of blood poured out of the stump where the knife’s edge had gone through in a steady stream. The ranger desperately tried to withdraw his hand, and Jambo relented. Tears streamed down the bowman’s cheek as he clutched his wounded hand in misery, staring at the red liquid that seemed to go on in an endless stream. He sobbed, both in pain and loss. “Why?” he croaked.

“You wanted to know if I was sadistic,” Janhas said simply, and walked out of the tent without another word. There was one of his men standing outside, his face a gauntly white. Jambo suspected the man had peeked inside. “Fetch a medic to fix him up, and then relieve him of his position,” he ordered, and strolled away. He wandered around his camp aimlessly for a little while, stick in hand. He did not feel remorse at what he had done; it was not within him. But he did feel regret, that what had he done was perhaps rash. He went to the tent of his second-in-command, Leston, who was like a father to him. He asked if he could come in, and instantly the voice inside greeted him and he was invited in.

A man of about forty years who was bald at the crown but had golden hair with grey streaks at the sides of his head stood up. “Ah, the great master visits me again.”

Janhas waved him off, then asked, “Do you think I am mad, Les?”

Leston paused, taken by surprise as he considered the question at length. He shook his head firmly. “Not at all. In fact, you are one of the sanest men I know.”

“Do you think I am overly impulsive?”

Leston was quiet, looking speechless. “Well, it’s all just a matter of how you look at it….”

Janhas blocked out the rest of the words. He felt sunken. “I hurt a man today, Les,” he began. “I hurt him and he did nothing except express his curiosity. But he insulted me, Leston. The moment he mentioned my stick I felt cold-blooded anger race through me like wildfire. I thought, who is he to judge me? If ever a man was to judge me, let him judge me by my deeds, my ambition, my mind, not by what I carry around, what kind of friends I have, or what kind of person I am.”

The middle-aged man was silent once again.

Jambo studied his stick curiously, as if fascinated by it. He began to turn it over, studying the grains of wood and the circular patterns on it. “Would you like to know how I came by this?”

“No, my friend. That is your own secret, yours by right and thereby yours to keep.”

Janhas nodded, as if he had expected that answer. He ran his fingers over the rough, uneven surface of the stick unconsciously, thinking about the confused looks on his messengers’ faces when he had first given the order. What does he want with the old man, anyway? That is what they must have been thinking. He sighed, and looked at his second-in-command. “Then would you like to know why I chase after that old man?”

Leston’s eyes lowered, and he nodded.

“Back in the days when I was young, I had only my older sister to protect me. Our parents had been diseased and died. She had short, dull blonde hair, a sharp contrast from my fiery-red. She was not pretty in any certain light, but she had this aura of confidence that inspired me. I can still remember the ragged, tattered clothes we were in our village, our rotten teeth, our long, overgrown fingernails, and the stench we gave off that came from not having a bath for years. My sister used to forage for us both, finding scraps of food that the richer, well-off people had thrown away. We were so lean that our bones showed through our skin. I didn’t think we’d survive much longer, and I was around eight years of age, not that I knew exactly how old I was.

“Along came a man who was as old as you are now, Leston, into our village. He carried no weapons when he came; back then there was no reason to fear anything, because the beasts had not arrived yet. It was as safe as it would get, until five years later—it was the calm before the storm. He was walking down the alleyways when he spotted me and my sister. His eyes met mine, and they held a sparkle in them. I felt as if he could see inside me. He pulled out food, like bread, and water from his bag and handed them to us. He handed us new clothes, and took us with us and rented us an inn, where we could bathe and rest. It was such a relief, and it was such kindness that I shall never forget. But even I knew enough common sense that for all this he would want something in return, something in payment. I was right.

“He told me his name, ‘Dean’. I had a feeling he had made that up on the spot, but I accepted it without argument. I knew too well how it was to keep secrets; I had constantly lied to many adult townsfolk when they had asked me where my mommy and daddy were, or where I lived. Dean then told me about warders, how they had hidden abilities within them but were usually normal people who had no idea what they were—like me. He then reminded me of my debt to him, and I eagerly consented to be his student. He told me then where we would meet to train, and made me swear not to tell anyone, not even my sister, and then he left. The next morning I went to that place he had arranged, and he made me exercise and spar with him until I was breathing so hard it pained, and I was hurting all over. I didn’t 

care; for the first time in my life, I understood the prideful feeling of achieving something, rather than the desperate scrambling to survive. Before I left, he told me the next place we would meet, and I went back to my inn where I made up a lie for my sister as to where I had been. This went on for a long time, until I was in my late teens. We never met at the same location and we met at random intervals, sometimes twice a day and other times once a week. I never asked any questions. I was too grateful, and now I realize that that was my one greatest flaw.

“Thus it came to pass…the beasts’ appearance, the Non-King’s valiant defeat, and the fall of all the great cities and human settlements. For some reason they did not attack our tiny village. Maybe they considered it insignificant, with its shoddy houses, dim-witted peasants, and a typical hierarchical society. But soon small packs of beasts began patrolling the outskirts of our village, all around us. Most hunters gave up their job, since it was unsafe to hunt, and those that would roam around the grounds foraging for berries and such edibles soon withdrew. One day me and my sister were showing Dean the outskirts in plain daylight, for we all knew the only real dangerous time was when it grew dark. My sister ran ahead to explore and show him new things and Dean and me hung back. We thought it was safe. We were fools.

“A pair of beasts suddenly came out from the sides of a group of rocks which was near my sister, where we had never thought to look. The most curious thing was, they were walking, not running with mindless fervor at her. My sister screamed out loud in horror, and my heart began to beat quickly. I thought Dean should draw his sword and attack them or something, because I knew him well enough to realize he was more than capable of such a feat. Instead he just stood there, staring with this stupid look on his face that I have never forgotten, even to this day. One of the beasts let out what seemed like a throaty bark, and my sister almost fainted. She started to scream even louder, sending a chill through my bones. If Dean was not to be trusted, then I would help her! I made to draw my sword, but he held me back with his arms. I gave him a look of amazement, but there was that same dull, incomprehensive look on his face. The two beasts ran at my sister suddenly, their lethal fangs dripping with their saliva, their mouths wide open as if they were about to take a huge bite out of something. I tried to push Dean apart with something close to panic, but he was as strong as iron. I might as well have tried to move a brick wall.

“He made me watch her die, Les. Right before my very eyes, I saw her ripped and torn apart, her flesh and skin strewn in the air in great, big chunks. I saw her bones cracking like wood, her limbs being rent apart, her body being eviscerated. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it, such a fascinating, gruesome sight it was. He made me watch her die. To watch someone you hold dearer than life being destroyed like that, and not by disease or by natural causes, but by such cruel intentions…such memories stick with you forever and haunt your worst nightmares. I will never forgive him for that, Les. But more importantly, I wanted to ask why he had held me back. I wanted to ask why he let an innocent person die in that way. But before I could ask anything, he left me. I thought the beasts would come after me too, but the strangest thing is, they didn’t. They just gave me this look of utter indifference, and then they just sat there. I didn’t know what to do. I ran away, of course. I ran away to our village, and never once returned back to that dreadful place. I was a wreck for many months. I have torn my hair out trying 

to figure out why Dean let it happen that way. I have had many sleepless nights because I lay awake sobbing, wanting only to know one, single thing, why did he do what he did.” Janhas stopped, and looked sorrowfully at the man who was like a father to him. He pumped his hand into a fist. “And that is why I hunt after the old man, Les. I do not intend to harm him, but I must know the truth.” He pounded his fist on the table, knocking his second-in-command out of whatever he had been thinking.

“I…I never knew,” Leston admitted, his voice low as if they were being overheard. He bent his head low and did not say any more.

Janhas stared blankly into space for a while, and then got up and left the tent, his mind cut open as painful memories threatened to burst apart the chains that held them. He had shared his story for the first time with the only man who understood him, and it had brought him the same, old grief and sadness just by thinking about it. For a split second he saw himself as others might see him, a half-crazed madman who had nothing going for him and a gnarled, twisted stick in hand. Then he shook his head in misery, and balled his hand into a fist. He would make that old man pay for all his lies and for all the times he had failed to tell him the things he desperately needed to know. Janhas entered his tent, tired and spent. He propped his stick against the wall and lay awake on his wooden makeshift bed, a crude drawing of his sister that he himself had done on the ceiling above him. He stared at it and smiled, noting the crooked lines of her mouth pursed tight, her serious, intent gaze penetrating through him. It was only a messy, childish drawing, yet to him it held more meaning than life. He kept studying it as if, if he willed it the picture would materialize and his sister would come back from the dead. Without meaning to, he dozed off.

He awoke to the sound of the soft scraping of a material with a rough texture against one with a smooth one. He rubbed his eyes as he got up, remembering the duties he had, the orders he had to assign. He walked a few paces and absently reached for his stick with glancing at where he had laid it, but he touched empty air. Confused and surprised, he looked at the wall to find that there was nothing leaning against it. He was suddenly filled with a sense of loss similar to when he had lost his sister, and a growing anger to whoever had touched it. He would murder them, he would mutilate them…he stormed out of his tent and headed for the guard in the corner a few paces away, whose job was to look conspicuous and take note of who entered and left his tent. “Did you see anyone who came into my tent while I was sleeping?” Janhas said quickly.

The guard looked bewildered, and then slowly nodded his head. “One of the messengers of your general, Ault, went in, apparently wanting to tell you something, but he left rather quickly, because you say you were asleep. And the water-boy came, who left the bottle on your desk.”

“It was Ault!” sputtered Janhas, unable to believe it himself. Why would one of his most trusted generals betray him? “Get him here, where is—”

“Negative, sir. General Ault left camp a day ago with his men to scout. He could not have done it. He’ll be back soon. “

Jambo felt relief surge through him. He had to quit being so presuming. It had to be the water-boy, then. Not that he would be a water-boy much longer. When he was done with this kid, he would not even be alive. He would beat the pulp of the lad, until blood soaked over all parts of his body and his scream tore through the air as loud as one being tortured would. Thankfully the guard told him the directions to the boy’s tent without being told, and he left for there, hurrying as fast as he could. He had the terrible feeling something had gone wrong. His stomach twisted, and he felt that dread feeling of restlessness mixed with rage and fear. He quickened his pace when he heard a voice scream out in anguish from inside the tent. Janhas pushed apart the flap to the entrance with a terrified fervor, and saw the scene in front of him unfold.

The boy stood rooted to the spot in the center, his arms extended and unmoving as if frozen. In both his hands he held the harmless-looking wooden piece, and his eyes were dull, empty. His mouth was hanging open stupidly, and a dribble of saliva drooled from it. Janhas acted quickly, diving at the still figure. The boy fell over as he was hit, soundlessly landing on the ground. The stick flew from his grasp, clattering onto the floor and rolling over a few times before it came to a stop. Janhas had fallen over himself, and landed half on top of the boy. He eased himself up and picked it up, and turned around to look at the water-boy. There were heavy sweat beads on the youth’s forehead, his eyes were open and blinking wildly, and his lips were quivering. “You insolent…” began Janhas angrily, holding up his stick threateningly, but then put it down again. What right had he to harm a boy who had done the same mistake as him? “It’s my burden,” he said finally, dangerously. His face darkened and without another word he turned and left the tent.

The guard who he had talked to earlier stood up as Janhas passed him. “Shall we have him killed, Jambo, for this theft? Or shall we have him expelled from—“

“Assign him to a different tent,” Janhas replied evenly.

The guard had a stupefied, disbelieving look on his face. “But….”

“Just do it!” Janhas hadn’t realized he was screaming until the words came out. “And leave me alone. Let me be. No more questions or you will be the one without a job, do you understand me?” The man gave him a blanched look, and then nodded weakly and went off. Janhas let out his breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. He was tapped on his shoulder, and he turned around to find a sharp-looking girl who was about a foot shorter than him, and looked to be in her early teens. “Yes?” he said.

“It’s General Ault, sir,” the girl said timidly. “He has arrived, and he’s being held in the medic’s tent. That was the message.”

The medic’s tent? His mind raced. What would he be doing there? Unless he was— He shook off the thought, thanked the messenger, gave her a coin and sent her off, and made for the tent where the wounded men were kept. When he arrived there, he was shown the ward, and in that room he saw many familiar faces lying on beds—there was Cian, Stiantus, Aris, and many others that he watched Ault 

train. Finally he saw the man himself, Kles Ault, sitting on his own bed. His clothes were in rags, as if they had been torn apart into pieces by something, but he looked healthy and untouched for the most part, and his skin was unmarred. Janhas walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever happened to you, Ault?”

Kles had a feverish look on him, and his eyes were rounded. “Beasts,” he said. “They chased after us. They run damned fast, those god-cursed creatures. We killed most of them, but I ordered a retreat because I had too few men at my disposal. Nearly all of us made it back in one piece, but that’s not to say they didn’t give us a hard time. We had to run so fast that we thought our hearts would get torn apart by exhaustion, and our legs would fall apart. The trees slowed them down, thank god for whoever is watching over us. If they had been able to run in a straight line, we’d be dead men right now.” He shook his head at the thought.

Janhas tapped a finger thoughtfully on his chin. “How many? And if they were on your tail, why aren’t they here now?”

“About five,” replied Ault. “We managed to shake them off by splitting up our party and taking lots of wild turns, but despite that we lost quite a few men. As to why they aren’t here right now, that is why I called you here. They might show up any moment. I’ll give them that, they aren’t as stupid as they look. They’re the most intelligent creatures I’ve seen. Why do you think we are losing?”

Janhas considered this knowledge quickly, his soldier’s mind coming up with the inevitable plan. He glanced at the tray a few feet away from where his general lay that was filled with fresh shirts and pants. He picked up a pair of them and threw it at Ault. “Get some clothes on, and then meet me outside. If it’s a battle they want, then we’ll be more than glad than to give it to them. We’ll give ‘em hell.”

He left the medic’s tent and headed over to a tower in the center of his camp that had a man who was sitting on a chair at the top and was snoring, with a trumpet on the top of his lap. Janhas went near the tower, and then shouted for the man on the top. The snoring grew deeper, and Janhas swore and cupped his hands together and shouted once more. “Yehaun Foud!” The man asleep in the tower awoke and looked around as if he had no idea where he was or what he was doing. “Blow the trumpet!” urged Janhas. Yehaun nodded once, and then picked up the instrument on his lips and held it to his lips. A loud, sonorous voice traveled all throughout the camp, causing many men with swords in hands to come running out of tents and other places. They had that fearful but determined and obedient look on their faces that soldiers usually had. Janhas waved his hand so everyone could see him, and shouted for his generals. His generals were all warders that Janhas himself had personally trained, using Dean’s lessons to teach them.

They in turn began shouting at their underlings, gathering them into organized positions. Everything erupted into chaos for a few moments, but finally men stood in troop formations facing their leader, their weapons drawn. Janhas caught sight of Ault arriving from where he had come from, signaling to his men to line up and standing in front of them facing him. Janhas took a deep breath. He felt pairs of 

hundred eyes trained on him, intent on obeying whatever words came out of his words. He paused to take a moment to think about what he was going to say, then opened his mouth and let them out.

Whatever he had been about to say was drowned out by the sound of rough feet plodding on earth simultaneously, one after another like hail in a hailstorm, and heavy breathing that was slow and drawn out. Right then the figure of an animal with bloodshot eyes, and a lean, grey hide came into the clearing, but it did not run at them, surprisingly enough. It just stood there, pawing the ground and looking around at them. The men were quiet for the most part, except for nervous shuffling, but Janhas felt rage build up within him. These were the filthy animals that had attacked and murdered his sister while he had watched. He felt the words come out of his throat before he could think. “Go get it! Slaughter the wretched beast! Splay its filth-infested blood all over its dead body!”

His men roared in agreement, and then charged forward at the beast. They slashed their swords and axes at it, the majority of them scraping harmlessly against its tough hide, but one of his generals twirled his blade like a professional, bring it down like a javelin to spear through its skull, instantly killing it. The other men cheered, but it was short-lived as eight more came running out of the cover, four from each side. One of the beasts unhinged its jaw and tore into a soldier’s chest, its sharp claws tearing at the same place. Blood and intestines flowed out as the man screamed out agonizingly, his sword falling from his grasp as he fell on his knees and finally face forward. Another beast stood up on two legs momentarily, balancing it for long enough that it managed to sink each set of claws into two men who were standing side-by-side, and they groaned and fell over clutching their bleeding abdomen. The rest of the men shuffled, terrified and desperate for leadership. Janhas ran as fast as he could, and before anyone could do anything, he swung his stick at the animal. It did not slip off like the others’ weapons did, but instantly cut through deep like a knife slicing through butter, carving the area between its shoulders down its lower back. It slumped down, but in that short span of time another three men had been slain by the other beasts. “Defend yourself, fools!” he screamed out loud, not in an encouraging tone but a commanding one. It seemed to have some effect because some of the men perked up, determination in their eyes as they blocked a particularly lethal strike. But despite the warning, another one of them was picked off. “Corner them! Gang up on them! This is not just a fight, this is a fight to survive and save your lives! And for Gaelyrun’s sake, use any advantage you’re given—are you men, or are you brainless maggots?”

The soldiers with who had stood with a dumbfounded faces seemed animated again as they moved to dodge and hack at their enemies’ dense bodies. One of them, a thin-looking man with a goatee, swung his axe at an oncoming beast’s face, hacking off a sliver of its elongated nose and spraying a few drops of silver blood. The beast, in response, widened its jaw to an impossible degree and lunged forward, catching the handle of the axe near the tip. It bit down deeply, and a sickening sound of metal being twisted was heard, and suddenly the head of the axe broke off, leaving a stick-shaped weapon at the soldier’s disposal. The man quickly thrust it at his foe, intending to spear through its open mouth but instead missing slightly and making a small dent on the side of its neck. The beast growled and picked up its paw, and then caught the metal stick and pulled at it, flexing it as if it was plastic. The man, disgusted, threw away the bent weapon and swiftly drew a dagger out of his pocket that he used as a last resort. 

He leaned forward and thrust it at the animal’s skull, but it ducked cunningly and he struck empty air. It charged forward with lightning-quick intensity, its fangs rending a large portion of flesh from his chest. He fell on his back, and it came above him, straddling him as if it was going to feed on him. He reached up and slid his dagger smoothly into the beast’s lower front, and they both collapsed, dying and having fallen on each other.

The soldiers fought as fiercely as they could, but their enemies simply moved too fast, attacked too viciously. Janhas yelled and his generals began moving to the fore, filling in the gaps and rending through the beast hides that were tougher than metal with relative ease. Kles Ault wrung his blade as if it was a thing made of water, slashing and hacking at an unsuspecting beast with such swift motions that it grew blurry and flexible, spilling the strange-colored blood all over the green grass. The terrified soldier who had nearly been a dead, mutilated corpse muttered a quiet ‘thank you’, and Ault nodded his head. A beast leapt five feet in the air behind him, gouging a large part of his back neck’s skin off and calling him to fall on one knee with the force of the impact. With an experienced and practiced motion, he twisted his body and gripped his sword sideways, and then swiftly moved his bent, flexed elbows outwards, ripping a huge gash in the animal’s underbelly. A few yards away from him, separated by live figures that were clashing and locked in battle, Janhas caught sight at him. “My god, Ault!” he exclaimed. Instead of screaming for his general’s help, he drew a knife from his pocket and then swerved around at sent it spinning from his grasp. It flew in the direction of a kneeling medic, shearing off a couple of strands of the man’s dark hair and landing a few feet behind him. The medic swore and looked up, meeting his eyes. “Get him help!” Janhas shouted, pointing in the direction of Ault. The man seemed to understand, and nodded quickly.

All around him murdered bodies were littered like trash, and the screams of the dying were the haunting, eerie sounds that completed the horror of the battle. Nearby Janhas saw eight men surrounding the last beast, dodging, sidestepping and all beating repeatedly at its forehead until it let out a pitiful moan, shaking its head in hurt. A soldier brought his axe down, and the sharp edge finally penetrated its thick skull, and stuck there. The others began to cheer, then looked around them and their faces turned grim again. The grey blood of the beasts mixed with the dark-red of men, forming a violent pink hue. Men with limbs cut off and fingers missing all stood side-by-side their comrades and turned to their generals, who in turn turned to Janhas. In times like these, its assuring to have leaders, thought Janhas, storing the information away for later. He felt everyone’s eyes on him, as if waiting for him to say something. What do they expect—A ‘good job’ and a pat on the back? Well they aren’t going to get it. “Numbers,” he shouted, and he was surprised to find that his voice was hoarse. His generals nodded, and each of them counted up the soldiers under their command. Then one by one they reported the total, ‘twenty-one’, ‘sixteen’, and so forth.

Janhas’s mind quickly summed up the numbers, and he nodded. “Eighty-one,” he said out loud, in a disappointed tone. “I was expecting more. This battle was a disgrace; next time, anyone who has their mouths hanging open and are standing still stupidly will be taken care of by me…personally.” He hissed the last word, and waved his hand tiredly, dismissing them.

“Eighty-one,” he said to himself as he walked back to his tent to rest, squeezing his stick so tight that his hands hurt. “Ault was right. No wonder we’re losing.”