The Spirit of Revenge

“Revenge is but a confession of pain.”

–Latin proverb

D
ust rose high off the plains as fifty riders galloped over the countryside of Kaanos. An autumn wind blew from the north, sending ripples through the blonde grass. It was near sunset, the skies stained scarlet with the blood of the dying day. Their horses were flecked with foam and sweat, yet the soldiers did not cease their fierce gallop until their leader threw up a hand. At once, the riders slowed to a standstill at the crest of a hill.

Below them lay a city swathed in sunlight, its thatched roofs glistening bullions in the dusk. The soldiers whipped their reins and guided their mounts down the hill. They soon reached the cobble road that split the town in half and followed it deeper into the sea of buildings. The crowds of people split as the riders tore through the city and came to a stop at the town square.

Hundreds gathered around them, quickly filling the court. An old man pushed through the crowds and approached the beleaguered soldiers. “What is it, Cain?” He asked.

“The Arzecs,” the man at the head of the column replied, “They’re here…” With this, the crowd was instantly silenced.

“This cannot be.” The old man’s brow furled, sending wrinkles cascading over his dark seamed face.

“I’m afraid so,” Cain continued, “over a thousand troops march upon us as we speak. They’ll be here by sunrise.”

“Are we to receive any aid?”

The soldier closed his eyes behind his helmet. “These are the Arzecs we have been tracking for weeks. They have been on the march to the capital until now, and in his fear, the King has ordered all troops to the capital. We are alone in this fight.”

The old man shook his head. “Then we have little time.” He turned and raised his arms to the crowd of silent onlookers.

“Behold, people of Andaurel, the Arzecs descend upon us! For four hundred years, the world has fought against the tyrant Abaddon! We have battled his armies for four centuries, seeking freedom from his ruthless genocide! We have sacrificed too many lives and shed too much blood! This ends now!” The crowds cheered.

“We have the chance to do so within these next few hours! All able-bodied men gather your arms and await further instruction at the north road. Citizens, leave behind all you do not need and wait for an armed escort to the capital, Dun Ara. Tonight we fight for our very survival, unaided and alone…”

The courtyard was now empty. The crowds had long since left, unwilling to leave their homes behind and even more unwilling to face what lay before them.

The soldier named Cain removed his helmet. He was tall and strongly built. He had clearly been in the sun so long that his skin was baked nearly as dark as his eyes. He wore heavy leather armor and a brown fauld that swayed about his knees as he walked.

The old man approached him. He stopped at Cain’s side and clapped him on the shoulder. He gazed off through the buildings and brushed the mane of silver hair from his eyes before speaking. “This war against Abaddon has been dragging on for over four hundred years. I have fought its battles since I was your age. I was certain I would see its end. But now…I’m not so sure.”

Cain ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. “I’m not so sure even I will, Grend. I don’t even understand half of what’s going on.”

Grend fingered his graying beard in thought. “You will come to understand soon enough. I take leave of you now; I must prepare our men for the fight at hand. Go and speak with your wife, I’m sure she is eager to see you.”

“Aye,” Cain replied. He shook Grend’s hand and walked across the court before turning down a side road. He weaved his way through the crowds of panicked citizens and wagons piled high with possessions.

He soon came to a stop at one of the many windowless daub homes and stepped inside. The warmth of a hearth’s fire quickly met him as he stepped into the main room. Shelves covered with pottery and cookware lined the walls, and a large table filled most of the room.

A woman in dark linens was packing a rucksack, her back to him. He closed the door and she turned, eyes lit with surprise. She bound across the room and embraced him firmly.

“Cain! I’ve missed you so much…” She said near tears.

Cain kissed her warmly on the forehead and brushed the russet hair from her face. “I missed you too, Eileen.”

“You’ve been gone for six months, fighting. I was beginning to think you’d never come back…or worse.”

Cain kissed her again and turned from her. He unbuckled a long sword from his belt and set it beside his bow on the table.

“Alas, it’s the war that brings me back. Some of Abaddon’s forces we’ve been tracking have begun a march for Andaurel. They will be here by nightfall.”

His wife nodded. “So I’ve heard. You promised you would set aside the sword when our baby is born…”

“How is our child?” He reached forward and rested a hand on her swollen stomach.

“He kicks. He has his father’s strength.”

“And hopefully his mother’s brains,” Cain laughed. “You think it’s a boy?”

“I know it is,” she smiled softly.

Cain stepped toward her and held her arms firmly. He looked deep into her vivid eyes, struggling to form his next words. “This war has taken everything from me, my parents, my childhood, my sanity. This war against Abaddon has lasted for four centuries, and I do not see its end in sight. I am tired of fighting when it matters not in the end. Every day I long to feel your hand in mine, but only the warmth of spilt blood do I find in them. I promise you, Eileen, that when our son is born, I will leave this path of bloodshed and take your hand forever in mine.”