by Ulff Lehmann
“Liam,” Erin said.
The calm in her voice brought him about. He could barely see his sister, or Beggar. Had he gone that far? “Don’t come closer,” he cautioned.
“I won’t, Ethain said he’ll protect us.”
“Who?” Then he saw a greater shadow detach itself from the waterfall behind Erin. It placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned forward.
“Don’t worry. All will be well, lad.” The stranger’s face, was it pale? No, it had to be a trick of the moonlight. Putting index finger against index finger, and thumb against thumb, the man made the orb of Lesganagh, and Liam felt better.
Maybe the Lord of Sun and War had sent Ethain to save them! He hurried to his sister’s side. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“Think nothing of it, lad, it’s just a happy coincidence we met, that’s all,” the man replied, and turned Erin about. “Let’s go, you look cold. Are you hungry?”
“Aye,” his little sister said. She sounded as if she were sleepwalking. They had been on their feet for a long time; she probably was just tired.
“Yea,” he said.
“There’s a fire and some sweetcakes waiting for you,” Ethain said as he led them deeper into the ruins.
“Sweetcakes, yummy,” Erin mumbled.
His stomach growled; sweetcakes did sound good. They rounded another bend, one that looked like the molten wall that had covered the body. This time he saw the relief more clearly. Here a family was buried! “What is this place?”
Without turning, Ethain said, “Honas Graigh, capital of Gathran.”
Liam wanted to ask more, but was distracted by a choir which seemed to be singing from up ahead. Now he also saw the flicker of flames. When they had passed another hunk of molten stone, he saw the fire. Even though it looked small, it illuminated a wall that seemed to have been sunk into the floor. Before this wall the flames danced… with shadows! It looked as if motes of light spun around flecks of darkness.
Impossible. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but the motes of light remained, as did the obsidian sparks. The song, something was wrong about it. The closer they came the more distorted the music sounded. Wailing, hushed whispers, screeches, and forming a delicate counterpoint to the deep, somewhat distorted voice of a second man.
“And this is the Aerant C’lain.”
Liam wanted to run, get away from the two. He had to get Erin to safety! Da would be angry! The pair frightened him. His little sister walked alongside Ethain toward the fire, Beggar at her side.
“Welcome back, brother,” the one standing with his back to the flames said. “This is the best you could find?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. They are frightened enough, it seems.”
“And the dog will cause even more trouble,” Ethain said.
Beggar! Beggar! Liam tried to scream, yell, drive the mastiff into action, but his father’s trusted canine remained as still as Erin. Erin! No! Leave her be! Why couldn’t he scream? Why didn’t she run away?
“You’re the older, the honor is yours,” Ethain said and bowed. “Ganaedor, do it.”
The other man’s hand flashed forward. The boy thought he saw long claws at the tip of the man’s fingers. Then blood spurted forth from Beggar’s throat.
As the dog’s life ended in slowly ceasing gasps and whines, Liam thought he saw something else leaving the mastiff’s body. The red liquid flowed, first in a gush, then dwindling to a slow dribble, and with this surge came—he wasn’t at all sure—Beggar’s silhouette. The blood-shrouded reflection looked frantic. It seemed to growl. Was this the dog’s soul? It bared its fangs, and the shine it had possessed just a moment ago vanished in darkness. Then the shadow shot for the roiling dance of struggling flecks, and immediately the luminescence of the dancing column dimmed.
“You take the girl, brother,” he said, holding the dog at arm’s length as it bled out.
“And the high honors to you,” Ethain said, as he reached for Erin’s throat. One hand held her by the neck, while the other, with similar claws, slashed over her jugular.
Liam wanted to holler, rage, scream, but no sound escaped his lips; he could hardly breathe. He wanted to turn his head, but his neck wouldn’t move. His eyes remained open, and tears ran down his cheeks as he saw his baby sister bleed to death.
Again, the same thing he had seen with Beggar’s spirit happened. Erin’s soul, however, was more willful, dancing, snarling, and glaring with hate. For a moment it seemed her inner light would not be overwhelmed by shadows. Liam prayed she would go to the Bailey Majestic. Fear and weariness won the struggle, and Erin’s spirit was swallowed by darkness, leaping for the column. Again, the dancing flecks lost some of their sheen. A voice inside tried to convince him this was all a bad dream, but as Ethain flung Erin’s lifeless body away even that hopeful voice died.
The older, Ganaedor, walked toward him. Liam tried to run, put one foot before the other, get away, but like his eyes, neck, and voice his legs did not obey. As if he was taking a kitten, the man picked him up by the neck and carried him toward the screaming and howling motes of darkness and light. “Soon the soulward will fall,” Ganaedor said as he slashed his claws across Liam’s throat.
CHAPTER 2
The glow of the hooded lamp was enough to illuminate the book that the Hand was reading. This was the second time he had entered the house. Considering how scrupulous other merchants were regarding their property, the Hendard family estate was almost too easy to get into. The Hand didn’t mind.
Initially he had wanted to confuse the two servants the timber merchant employed, but when he discovered that the man owned a sizable library he decided against the prank. Instead, he had begun to peruse the books standing in vast shelves in what he called the reading room.
That no other thief had hit the building before was surprising, especially if one considered the wealth lining the walls of this room. Maybe there was no market for books. He didn’t know if Hendard owned jewelry, nor did he care, books were enough for him.
The Hand cast another glance around the room with its massive steeloak shelves, a brass chandelier, and the two other comfortable armchairs, before he returned to “Gathran: Rise and Decline of the Elves.” Books like this had been popular before he’d been born, and given that few people knew what had really happened to the forest folk, the theories penned by some idiot proved vastly amusing.
“Sure, the gods called them back,” he muttered, shaking his head. He was just about to adjust the lamp’s glow yet again when he heard a noise.
It wasn’t loud, not the groaning of the wooden stair or the creaking of hinges badly in need of an oiling. It sounded as if someone was trying to undo a window-latch with a piece of wire. A little scraping, the rattle as the metal noose was placed around the handle. To him it sounded like some apprentice was trying a bit too hard. Maybe there was a market for books, he concluded. Not that it mattered. The Hand fished around his belt pouch, a task made all the more difficult by the gloves, until he found a piece of string long enough to use as a bookmark. Let them wonder, he thought, barely able to suppress a chuckle. Then he put the tome back into its shelf and extinguished the light.
By now the other burglar had, judging from the sounds, managed to get into the house. He glanced out the window. Who in his right mind would try to steal from a place this close to dawn?
Sure, the stars were still shining, but beyond the tiled roofs of Dunthiochagh he could already see their light dimming. Good thing the burglar had made his entrance now; otherwise the rising sun would have caught him. He strained his hearing; the other thief was in the kitchen of all places.
The Hendards’ pantry was well stocked, but nothing of worth was stashed there. Sure, the honeyed pastries were good—let the servants wonder how the plate got into the reading room—but of all the places to look for valuables, the kitchen was the last. There were still a few pastries left. He grinned and plopped another one into his mouth. Then he was out th
e window, booted toes finding purchase in the crevices between the quarry stones of the outer wall. He closed the window, pulled down the wire that shut the locking mechanism, and climbed down.
As he reached the ground, the Hand caught a glimpse of the other burglar. The boy seemed to be still trying to make up his mind which way to go. Poor sod. He was just about to head for the street when he heard the tread of heavy boots on cobblestone. A mischievous grin crept onto his face. Idiots had to be punished, he decided, and searched the ground for a pebble.
The watchmen were close now. His sooty face and black clothes hid him well, even in this false dawn, so he didn’t worry about being seen, but the sound of a stone splintering through glass would catch the guards’ attention. He found a suitable piece of rock and threw.
The moment the pane of glass shattered the Hand shuffled off, his boots making nary a sound. But stealth was hardly needed, already one of the guardsmen whistled for more watchmen to join them, while the other ran for the merchant’s house. He almost made it into Cherkont Street when he heard the clattering of horseshoes on stone.
Riders? Why the Scales would they send riders after a burglar? Then he realized that the sounds were receding, the horseman was heading north, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The quick respite was over all too soon. Another pair of watchmen strolled up Cherkont from the west. The Hand grimaced, and sped onward. It wouldn’t do to be caught in a burglar’s attire in this street of well-to-do citizens. Not even the most daring of thieves got into trouble here. Cherkont Street was almost a town unto itself, with so many former warriors and their families living in houses surrounded by gardens and high shrubs. The people here didn’t wait for the Watch and a Lawspeaker; they judged you then and there.
He could hide in one of the gardens, maybe. Now dawn was upon him, and for once he cursed the clear sky. What was that? The door of the timber-framed building next to the shrub where he hid stood ajar. Should he? Yes! He abandoned his hiding place and slipped in, leaving just a crack open lest the sound of the lock alert the inhabitants or the watchmen.
He waited and listened as the footsteps came closer.
“Maybe it attracts just peaceful folk,” one of the guards muttered.
“What was that?” the other asked.
“Oh, you know, Cherkont being that quiet and all. Maybe it’s because only peaceful folk live here.”
The other chuckled. “There are more than enough warriors—former warriors mind you—living here, and I doubt you can call them a peaceful lot. Rather, I’d say because of so many people living there who know their weapons, any mugger would be insane to try anything.”
The guy was right.
Both men stopped, right in front of the house, and spoke: “We hail thee Lord of Sun and War, may thy light greet us every morning.”
A prayer now? He hardly dared to breathe.
“Think they’d kick us out if they knew of our little prayer each morning?” the first one said.
“More than half the lads do it, boy,” the other replied.
“But the priests of Eanaigh say Lesganagh’s evil.”
What was this? Couldn’t they have their philosophical discussion away from here?
“Evil, shmevil. All I know is that the sun warms us, makes the crops grow, and that a Chosen of Lesganagh is Baron Duasonh's friend.” There was a short pause, then the man continued, “Listen, lad, would you want the sun to stop shining every day? I know I don’t. Ever been up north? Bloody cold in the winter, sun barely comes up. With no sun at all, how could man or beast survive?”
The Hand knew if this went on the house’s inhabitants would catch him. Maybe he could slip out back. He turned, and for the first time took in his surroundings.
There wasn’t much to see, a small hallway, two doors leading to some rooms and a stairway up to the second floor. Nothing unusual… except. He swallowed.
There were bloody footprints and handprints on floor, stairs, and the door opposite him at the end of the corridor. Murder? Here in Cherkont? If he left now the watchmen would catch him, and think him the killer. What if the murderer was still here?
He saw that the footprints went up and grew fainter. Morbid curiosity got a hold of him and he inched toward the rear door. The tang of a butcher’s shop permeated the air the closer he got to the room.
What had happened here? He pushed open the portal and stared.
The next thing he knew was that he was on his knees, vomiting. Little details burned into his mind. A severed finger, a tuft of hair, the shards of a wine bottle. Someone else had thrown up next to the fireplace. He stood, his knees shaking badly, and retched again. If the watch caught him he would be hanged as a killer, he was certain. Escape! There wasn’t much else on his mind. He gingerly stepped past the gore but almost slipped on… was this part of a victim’s gut?
The window opened without complaint and although he was out, the odor of death persisted. Every inch of him urged him to run, but whoever had been killed here deserved justice, deserved that the butcher paid for this brutality. The adjourning shrub was near; there even was a small stable for one or two horses. Had the killer stolen a horse as well? He didn’t care. Looking at the charnel house one last time, he made up his mind and turned around. Glass shattered as he smashed the window, and without further thought he rushed through the shrubbery into the next plot, past the house, and into the next lane.
Later that week, the Hand heard people say that only one person had been murdered in Cherkont Street, and he knew no matter how much he drank, the image of that room would never leave him.
CHAPTER 3
Twenty-eighth of Leaves, 1475 K.C.
The strip of land between the fields to Ean’s left and the orchards to his right was their favorite battleground. Usually he and Pudgy weren’t fighting alone; it wasn’t much fun attacking or defending against an enemy army of one. This Trannday, however, the other children were on the village square. Neither Ean nor Pudgy wanted to join the people of Carlgh in gawking at wares or haggling over some item or other.
Gawking was for children, and neither of them could be bothered with children’s stuff. They were grown-ups. “Almost grown-ups,” Ean’s father always said, but to him the meager year until he came of age didn’t matter.
The game of the day was “Ambush,” and now it was his turn to patrol the footpath that ran north from their village, past Oak-Hill to where Little Stream joined Old Stream. Of course, the path went on, but aside from grassy knolls there was nothing there. Farther north, so old Jasper said, lay Chanastardh. Ean was still wondering about how far away Chanastardh really was, when Pudgy stomped through a bunch of ferns he had been hiding behind, screaming “Ambush!”
They spent a few moments trading blows with wooden swords; then Pudgy halted his assault and looked past Ean’s shoulder. For a moment, he thought his friend was trying to fool him, but when Pudgy continued to stare, he finally turned his head and saw the shepherd. He looked even gaunter than the last time.
“He’s got a beard,” Pudgy remarked.
“Yea,” Ean said.
The shepherd walked along the path, his boots still wet from fording Old Stream; on his back he carried a massive pack. Now he saw them and halted, stood up straight, slammed his right fist against his chest and smiled.
They dropped their weapons, waved, and grinned. Ean, who considered himself far more courageous than Pudgy, walked toward the shepherd, hoping to be the first child ever to exchange words with this man, and to tell that tale to their friends. Closing within a few yards of him, he saw the shepherd’s features revert to his well-known sorrowful gaze, his eyes drifting toward Carlgh. He thought better of his plan, stopped, unwilling to disturb him.
The shepherd walked on.
After a few moments, Pudgy joined him. “Did you see that?” Ean exclaimed. “He almost talked to me.”
The younger boy shook his head. “Nah, he don’t talk to nobody much.”
“But didn’t you see him s
mile?”
“Something’s changed, eh?” Pudgy suggested.
Ean’s curiosity still nagging, he led the way, and the two lads followed the shepherd into town.
Today was market day in Carlgh, like every month’s Trannday for as long as people could remember. On any other day, the younger boys would flock like proverbial sheep to old Jasper the guardsman to listen to his tales, but not on a Trannday like this. Traders came to the small town to sell cloth, pottery, animals, fruit and vegetables, to joke with old friends and haggle with their customers. Children played in the narrow lanes, dodging adult’s legs, and peeking into the booths. Adults tried to move out of their offspring’s way as they went about their business.
Ean really didn’t care that it was the last market day before the coming of winter; there was adventure to be had. But his experienced eye noticed the lack of merchants traveling north to Chanastardh or south to Danastaer’s capital, Harail. Normally the village was bursting with traders who traveled the Old Elven Road that gave direct access to Harail and Chanastardh’s capital, but today he found the market’s appeal strangely lacking.
The absence of Chanastardhian merchants was quite obvious; although he recognized a few familiar faces from Harail, native traders were not as strongly present either.
The two ignored this as they followed the shepherd to the merchant he regularly dealt with, keeping a safe distance. They saw him smile again. Something really had changed. Usually the man’s face was blank.
Ean pointed out how the shepherd moved. “Think he’s a warrior?”
Pudgy chuckled. “He’s a shepherd, fool.”
“Yea, but before that.”
“Your ma told ya to quit dreamin’, didn’t she?” Pudgy glanced at his friend, a skeptical look on his face.
“Aye,” admitted Ean, crestfallen.
“Then quit. He’s a sheep herder, nothin’ more!”
They stopped arguing when they saw the shepherd nod a greeting, this time at Pudgy’s older sister who crossed his way as she headed to the Boar and Bustard.
