CHAPTER IX - The Casualty of Murder
Only a single week had passed since our conversation — too soon it faded away, and I continued to live in ignorant bliss, full of youthful questions and an innocent longing for life. Raymond was a virtuous man in every measure; a shining example of the nobility of the human heart. I envied his peaceful demeanor and his wisdom, which shone in every word he said. He made me feel like a child again, but in a positive way. I felt sheltered. We never mentioned our talk in the woods. I dropped a couple of hints that I wished to know more, but whenever I did, his eyes took on a sorrowful gleam and I knew better than to strike at the dent in his armor.
I remember it was a Sunday. Raymond had sent me to the brook to draw our supply of water for the day while he prepared fish for lunch. Perhaps I was too slow in getting the buckets of water, for the scent of cooking fish attracted not only beasts of the animal sort, but human as well.
I felt a chill when I came within viewing distance of his cabin, as if someone had passed over my grave, though as yet I saw nothing out of the ordinary. For a moment my mind recalled an image of a lord in dirty armor, his skin sickly, and then the vision ended. A keenly dire feeling filled my heart with mortal dread, but I dismissed my fears because I saw no evidence to validate them. The smoking chimney gave a pleasant smell, and I approached rapidly, bearing a log over my shoulders from which two water buckets hung. I carefully kicked the door open, and then stared, mouth agape, at the sight which confirmed all my fears.
Two armed men sat at his table. I remember their faces as if they were carved on my soul in blood. As they ate the fish which Raymond had cooked, a spear rested, leaning on the table within reach of the man sitting opposite to me. His hair was black and his face dirty, his palms covered in some fabric: I don’t know if they were bandaged or gloved. I can’t forget his face or the chestnut brown mass of hair which belonged to his friend. He sat with his back to me, his club of carved wood lying on the table right next to his right hand. A third bandit minded the cooking pot; he was dark-haired as well, perhaps a brother to the first man. But what struck me the most was not the sight of the bandits, but Raymond’s dead body laying at the cook’s feet. His head was cleaved — probably by his own axe, and his insides littered the floor. None of the bandits seemed to care; they had been eating as if nothing extraordinary had happened until I came.
“Hey, you!” The black-haired one roared, and grabbed hold of his spear as he stood up abruptly. I dropped the log with the buckets to the floor, stunned. The chestnut brown-haired man turned and grabbed his club. I managed to see his face for only a brief moment before I took a long step backwards and slammed the door shut with all my might. I heard the spear-head strike the door and didn’t wait for what was to come next, but ran with all my might away from the cabin, into the woods. The three gave chase like hounds, obviously in better shape than I. Yet I was running for my life and so did not tire or slow for all the world.
I ran straight for the brook, trying to zigzag my way between trees to make chasing me as difficult as possible. I looked to the ground only for brief glances. My feet moved so fast that I could scarcely see them at all, only feel the earth beneath me. As soon as I reached the brook I bounced across the bank to the other side, hid behind a tree, and prayed that the bandits would think I had continued on, swimming.
The sound of the running water masked the sound of my labored breath, or perhaps the bandits were dimwits. Regardless of the cause, they strayed in their chase and sought me elsewhere.
I waited until it grew dark, standing motionless with my back to a tree. My thoughts at first were too frightened to be coherent, but they became clearer as I calmed down. I thought of the bandits’ faces, memorizing their every feature. I would not forget those faces, I swore to myself, so help me God.
As I carved their images into my memory, I imagined what sweet vengeance would be like, fantasizing unlikely situations in which I would kill them all after making them suffer first. At last I forced my mind to stop its idle fantasies and focus, knowing I would make sure that those who had killed Raymond would pay, pay dearly with their lives.
Raymond had been a saint; a true saint — one who was kind and good-hearted. When he had helped me, it wasn’t because of a selfish desire that I would pay him back for his kindness. He hadn’t even expected God to repay him his kindness. Raymond’s sole motivation for his actions had been the nobility of his soul. I wasn’t so noble, however, and my fist clenched; I wanted his killers’ blood splattered — I wanted them to suffer horribly and die in agony.
It was then that I prayed, under the moonlight, in the dark of night, for God to grant me justice, to grant me vengeance. I didn’t know how to pray anymore — I couldn’t remember, so I spoke from my heart, baring my soul to He who remained silent.
“God…God …” I called out in pain, as silently as I could “Grant me vengeance, please, oh Almighty God of the Heavens Above, He who hears the voices of his people,” I continued after taking a deep breath. “Hear me!” I exclaimed.
“A great wrong — a great wrong, has been done. A righteous man has been slain, murdered!” I cried in pleading tones.
“Raymond o’ the Brooks; he was murdered by three bandits. Murderers!” I called.
“Oh please, Lord of Hosts, grant me this prayer; help me strike them down,” I pleaded.
“I’ll not rest until justice has come to pass ... this I swear! This I swear!” I called more softly in agony. It was only after many minutes had passed that I collected myself and found the strength to rise. A raging spirit was alive in me now as never before. It brought me strength and comfort, where before had been weakness and fear. It caused me to spring to life with determined motion, where before I had been numb and insecure. This vow was my passion, my only passion.
So it was that my memories returned, one after another racing backwards through time. I whimpered in fear as I now remembered the fire-trap and the flash of light. Ivar’s monstrous glare as he roared at me to leave filled me with a mournful anger. Then my memories brought me forward to the fight against the rebels, and again there was nothing but sadness there. I was angry at myself, and disappointed. There was so much I could have done differently, so many possible outcomes and I brought down the worst upon myself. My rage raced on, unstoppable as a tornado, tearing across my heart and soul. I remembered the fights then, and clenched and unclenched my fists in recollected anger. Then Ivar once more: a vision of an honorable man. Though he had cast me away, oh how I wronged him. My thoughts next lingered on the bittersweet memory of Ingrid. I even whispered her name to the wind. I had so much in the life I left behind. Why did I leave it all behind?
Next I remembered my parents, and the ship which had brought us from Jerusalem to Drentwych on the coast of Britain. My memories ended with a vision of my older brother moving to the rhythm of the wind, hanging from his neck, his head in an awkward position. I shunned away from that memory, for it was too much for me to bear, and the guilt which accompanied it threatened to shatter my resolve. Why all my memories were tainted by hatred, malcontent, and rage, I know not. But whatever sadness, longing, or even joy I dared remember was overshadowed by this great hate that now engulfed my life. I fed the infernos and was nourished by them. Hatred gave me the strength and resolve I needed for the grim task I had set before me. My path was laid bare before me, paved in violence every step of the way. This is who I am.
I reached the military camp in Over Hampton at the break of dawn. I smiled, pleased to see that the fighting had subsided and was forgotten. I asked a soldier where the clerk who enlists men into service resided and made my way in grim determination to his barrack. He sat in a room very close to the cells where the surviving rebels now resided. I took satisfaction in hearing the moans of those rebels who had been captured by the army. I could not forgive nor forget how they had nearly ended my life, and I was not enlightened enough to consider them more than enemies now. They were the same brand of scum as the soldiers surrounding me. They were human. I had only to pick sides. I knocked on the door and entered quickly.
The room had been dark when I crossed the threshold —only a lonely light shone from a single candle. A clerk in gray robes sat upon a heavy oak chair, an open book before him, still writing with the feather in his hand as I entered the room. For a moment I envisioned him as a demon, writing down the names of the souls he would take with him to the underworld. Only his blue eyes shone in the light of the flame.
“So you want to sign in for service,” he asked in a rasping voice, and coughed, raising his shiny eyes from his book to look into mine.
“Aye, I’d like to be a soldier,” I answered nervously. There was a nearly invisible shift in his expression, a tiny smile that was nearly obfuscated. In my paranoia I almost imagined he had been waiting there for me. I banished that thought, however, since it was impossible.
“Sign here, then,” he said, turning his book over to me and showing me with his finger where to place my mark with the writing-feather. I tried to banish the impression in my head that I was surrendering my soul. I nervously moved a shaking hand to scribble my name when his cold fingers closed around my hand, preventing me from signing.
“If you’re not sure, don’t sign,” he said in a voice that sent shivers down my spine.
“I’m sure,” I replied, my face growing harder.
“If you say so, young man,” he replied.
“You don’t seem convinced,” I told him.
“You’re not the type to join the army,” he said dismissively.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because the army has only bloodshed to offer you. I am giving you a chance to choose a different fate,” he answered.
“Be that as it may, I still wish to sign,” I replied.
“Why?” He asked bluntly.
“Because in Drentwych, I had been nothing; a boy relying on the kindness of others. I spent my days living either on the bitter grace shown to me by those who did not care for me, or outside in dark places where the scum of the earth roam,” I said, trying to convince myself as well as him.
“And you think a soldier’s life will elevate you?” He asked, smiling a crooked smile as if challenging my resolve.
“Yes, it will give me the chance to be my own man, to carve out my own fate. It will give me a sense of purpose and something useful to do with my time rather than waste it dreaming,” I said.
“Dreaming, young man?” He was growing interested in my odd confession.
“Yes, dreaming. I hate dreaming. I dreamt of a better life for myself, but I can’t have what I wished for. I wanted a good wife and perhaps to raise my own family someday, but she’ll never be mine and the only thing I’m good for now is fighting,” I said.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” he replied.
“I just want a second chance, so let me sign and halt the questions,” I growled.
“I’ll halt my questions when you cease lying. Why are you really ready to sign your life away?” He asked, and I wondered if this demon could truly gaze into my soul.
“Vengeance, alright! I want to take bloody vengeance against bandits who murdered my father. I want to kill them and the rest of their kind! I want to make the world a better place by disposing of the scum in it,” I said angrily, certain that I now would be sent away or tossed in the dungeons.
“Very good, the army always needs good men!” He replied and clapped his hands together as he spoke. “Sign here,” he continued, and pointed to the place I was to put my mark. It was only when that the feather was touching the parchment that I recalled that I did not know how to write in his language.
“I can’t write more than a few letters,” I said in shame, and handed him back the pen. I had no idea that in Barbaria, very few people could spell even a single letter.
“Why didn’t you say so, then,” he said, and took the feather from me. “What’s your name?” He asked.
“Raymond of Drentwych,” I replied, and he signed the name which I took for my own from that day forward, in homage.
“Transporto lemma ut Abyssus, son,” he said as he dismissed me.
“What?”
“Send ‘em to Hell!”
I left his room with the dire feeling that someone had just stepped on my grave. In an odd way, though this man sent shivers down my spine, I felt I’d found in him a kindred spirit. There was a dark passion about him, full of malcontent and hatred of his life. One lost soul can always spot another of the same nature.
Just before I was sent off to the fortress of Wist Hill to be trained I heard the most alarming news. They found the enlister’s body — with his throat slit, stuffed in a closet. Luckily I wasn’t a suspect. I mourned for him, though. Enlisters usually get paid for every head they enlist, and it was mighty kind and thoughtful of him to try to turn me away. I was young, after all, and eager and strong. Exactly the kind of man the army wanted.
I arrived at the fortress of Wist Hill once again and there I was trained. Luckily for me, most of the trainers were different men than those who had been there my previous sojourn, and the one trainer who recognized me couldn’t remember my name. I was eager to get back into fighting shape so that I could take revenge. Perhaps it was my grim determination or perhaps the shortage of soldiers after the rebellion that prompted the army to provide better training now. This time I was trained properly in the use of both sword and spear. Three months passed, as if they were a single day. I asked to be stationed at Over Hampton and was granted my request. Thus I became a soldier there once more, this time under a different name and with true purpose.
Present day...
Just before the dawn, Jaunee took the elevator with Daina. As they descended, Daina thought to herself just how small Jaunee was; like a miniature woman. Hard to believe this petite little person was a thousand-year-old witch — the smartest person on earth. Daina walked first, bent and turned the key to open the glass doors. Jaunee was preoccupied with examining Daina's bum to notice any snipers outside. They descended the stairs together, shaking hands as they parted. Daina went back inside, and took the elevator to the basement floor where her car waited. Meanwhile Jaunee turned left, to go to her bike where someone was waiting. Taking three steps she noticed too late that something was wrong with the road blockade. A hail of bullets was fired at her all at once from Anti-Material rifles and machine guns. She was literally flung against a wall on her left by the powerful kinetic impact of these high-powered rounds. No person could survive being shot by an armor-piercing. 50 cal BMG round, and Jaunee was shot by a few dozens. Yet they did not tear her apart as they would a human being.
A towering figure, two meters tall, brown-haired and wearing a Biker's leather jacket ran towards Jaunee, oblivious to the danger.
“Mother!” He cried in a heavy voice devoid of human emotion. The Strike Teams were loading magazines as they watched this towering giant flailing his arms about, running towards his mother, who lay in a pool of her own blood. The sickening sound of a human skull exploding attracted the attention of a Sniper, who turned to see his friend drop dead, his brain splattered all over the roof. The Giant was shooting silently from the wrist. The sniper screamed at the radio, and the shooting began again.
“Mother!” The figure cried again, as he lay on top of her shallow-breathing form, shielding her with his body. The bullets tore his clothes and flesh apart, to reveal a metallic form beneath. Achilles retaliated, firing from an internal mechanism. Two more deaths convinced the soldiers to drop down and take cover.
“Achilles, run!” Jaunee said feebly, as her flesh begun turning to stone. And Achilles ran as fast as he could, carrying his mother; he knew this story was over for him but he had to get mother to safety.
“She's got a fucking Terminator!” The Snipers screamed over the radio.
“No way, man! It was probably just some armor!” replied the Commander.
“Are you fucking kidding me! I shot him in the head like three times, and I'm telling you, this ain't human,” replied the Sniper.
“You fucking moron, of-course he's not human; his mother is a monster and so is he. Now pack your gear, we're leaving!” He said.
“Delta team in position,” was heard over another radio. Sparks were flying from Achilles’ internal mechanism, and he received damage reports from every part of his body; both his biotic and synthetic parts were all ruptured and bleeding. He was heating up inside; his micro power-plant's cooling system was damaged. How did they pierce his graphene subdermal armor? Achilles didn’t know. It was only a matter of time now before he ceased to be. Achilles broke the door of the Azrieli Towers, and hid Jaunee where he could. If protection of mother was not his primary goal, he would have killed all of them and more much sooner. Jaunee built Achilles to survive. She could not bear children, so she built one. Her perfect son, a machine.
Ten minutes later large army forces surrounded Achilles as he left the towers. They opened fire on what they thought was a terrorist and he exploded. The media reported a suicide bomber was intercepted by Israeli soldiers and his belt detonated. Luckily no-one was hurt.
"For mother." Were the last words he said as he combusted from the inside while being shot with a hail of bullets. And he wondered: do machines have souls...something that has never before crossed his mind. An hour later life resumed their normal course. The bus stations were packed with people going to work, and traffic was a mess as it always is at these hours. The news repeated a story about a terrorist bomber, but the Israelis were used to these kind of stories, and everyone signed a sign of relief hearing no citizen or young soldier was hurt.
A floweriest discovered an ivory statue of an angel with her wings folded cloaking herself. She took the statue and used it as a mannequin to display her bouquets.
