by Ulff Lehmann
“Cumaill,” Jathain protested. “Nerran isn’t available. Decisions have to be made in his absence.”
Kildanor couldn’t deny the noble’s logic, but based on his suspicions he doubted Duasonh’s cousin gave his orders in the best interest of Higher Cherkont and Boughaighr.
“Regarding that thief you caught,” the gaunt man went on. “I demand his immediate execution. He broke into my office, the gods only know if he wanted to spy, and if he actually succeeded.”
The Chosen didn’t like the man, but he had to admit this accusation was a very nicely performed ruse. Even he might have bought it, hadn’t he been the one who had organized young Garinad’s entry into the Palace in the first place. “We found nothing on him,” Kildanor said, keeping his face as emotionless as a Deathmask.
“I’ll have him interrogated by Upholder Coimharrin tomorrow,” Duasonh added. Before Jathain could interject, the Baron went on, “So, what orders did you dispatch to the forts?”
Jathain’s orders sounded plausible, but as Kildanor looked at the other men’s faces, he saw Cumaill’s features darken ever so slightly. Braigh frowned, perhaps because of his lack of knowledge of anything military. If the Caretaker suspected Jathain of treason, this frown could mean anything.
When Jathain had completed his report, Duasonh rose. “That’ll be all for today. Cousin, see to it that the patrols are tripled, we wouldn’t want anyone getting into the Palace again. Also, double the watch around the gates.”
Jathain bowed, and muttered, “As you wish.” Then the noble stalked out the room.
When the door had closed behind his relative, Cumaill turned to Kildanor. “I want you to guard our intrepid thief.” The Chosen nodded.
To Braigh, Duasonh said, “You know Gail Caslin?”
The Caretaker nodded after a moment’s hesitation. “She is one of Nerran’s riders, isn’t she?”
“Aye,” the Baron replied. “Find her and bring her to me.”
CHAPTER 10
Despite the cold, Drangar refused to hurry. He took his time, avoided the dirt road that wound its way through the hills of Higher Cherkont, kept to the Flannardh, and only headed south when he deemed he was farther west than Camlanh. As chance would have it, he encountered no one and saw only the occasional fisherman trying his luck on the banks of the river. He avoided those as well. It seemed best to stay clear of people.
At the end of the eleventh day, the dark clouds that had remained to the east finally caught up with him. It was still too warm for snow, even this close to the Shadowpeaks, and he was loath to camp in the torrent that was bound to come down.
The memory of his journey through the area two years before was a blur; he recalled only the desire to flee. A rather new sign by the path took him by surprise. He didn’t remember an inn being here, but then he barely recalled anything, especially not landmarks.
“Am I doing the right thing?” Drangar muttered as he dismounted. The building didn’t look that inviting. He could tell that over the past few years the structure had seen only the barest minimum of repairs. Was he fleeing again? Was it right for him to do so? Kerral’s words still rung in his mind and part of him longed for battle. Maybe it would have been better to defend his home. It hadn’t been Carlgh, and the only place he’d called home, aside from the Eye, was Dunthiochagh. To him both were gone now.
Tying Hiljarr to a pole, he looked around in a vain attempt to discern how many people stayed here tonight. Since the wind and thunder covered most sounds, nothing could be heard from either inn or stables.
The shutters were closed for the night, but the light that escaped the slits of door and shutters showed the Sparrow Inn was still open. The sign “Welcome Weary Traveler” from a few hundred yards down the path had left its impression; there were a few other travelers in the common room.
He ignored the stares. From the smell in the room, he guessed they were serving some sort of roast. Not bothering to shut the door, Drangar looked at the balding innkeeper who stood behind the bar wiping a tankard with a rag as grimy as his apron. “Stables open?”
The man nodded. “Somethin’ t’eat?”
“Roast, bread, and a mug of milk.” Again, he ignored the stares, and turned to head out. “Got a free bed?”
“Aye,” the innkeeper replied.
“I take it.”
“Two coppers a night.”
Drangar nodded and left the taproom. Outside, he untied Hiljarr’s rein, and led the horse to the stable. Dog followed. The charger trotted into the one free box, and Drangar removed saddle and bags, tossed the containers into a corner, and hung the saddle over a bar. Filling the trough with oat and scattering some hay about the chamber, his thoughts returned to the looming threat.
War. He knew war would come eventually, it always had, but he hadn’t anticipated that the herald of this conflict would be connected to his past. He shook his head, tried to keep the resurging memories at bay. “Why can’t I leave it all behind?” he growled, choking back tears.
Dog barked.
Because it is your past and you have to deal with it.
“No, I don’t.”
He had grown used to the voice in his head. It was like a constant reminder nagging inside whenever he tried to force his memories back.
You have to remember, and you have to deal with it.
“No!” Abruptly he turned around, grabbed his pack and sword, and closed the gate. Neither Hiljarr nor Dog would mind spending one night in a confined space. He headed back toward the inn. “I don’t want to remember. It just hurts.”
The noises inside the taproom led his thoughts to other matters. The customers had returned to their conversations as the first moment of idle curiosity about the lone traveler had passed. Now, as he entered again, sheathed bastard sword in hand, his pack thrown across his right shoulder, some of the patrons halted their conversations to size him up. He gave them no thought.
Despite the already crowded room, Drangar discovered an empty, shadowy table and headed for it. He sat down, back against the wall, his weapon placed for easy reach next to him. The weariness of his journey so far had not dulled his instincts. Strangely enough, much like his sharpening of the knife, he felt calmer as he waited for his food and observed the people who occupied the other tables.
From the look of their clothes most of the men and women came from the south, probably from Dunthiochagh or even the capital. Some appeared to be merchants, while others were either guardsmen or warriors. Drangar withdrew deeper into the shadows, not willing to meet another of his former ”friends”. Encountering Kerral had stirred up enough bad memories. He had no desire for more.
Some of the warriors talked about battles they had fought, boasting about their heroics, about the enemies they had slain. Drangar let out the breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding. More cattle to the slaughter.
Listening to the glorification of self-proclaimed dragon slayers was tiring business, he realized. There were only so many hardheads one could endure, and it wasn’t long before he found himself growing restless. Without thinking, Drangar reached over, unsheathed his sword, and fished for the whetstone inside his belt pouch. He ran the stone up and down one side of the blade several times; then repeated the process at the other side of the edge. People always assumed the weapon had cost a fortune, and in a way, it had. People always thought in terms of money, but the dwarves cared not for wealth. They wanted dedication, honesty, not greed and pride. In a world so dominated by the latter, those who lusted after such artwork were disappointed to find out their money was useless. Legend had it that the stone-lords had supplied the gods with arms to battle the dragons and now that he thought about it, he realized that even after sitting grimy for two years in its sheath, there was not a spot of rust on the metal. Even the fullers were pristine.
His doubt concerning a return to Dunthiochagh and standing trial for his crime evaporated as he let the whetstone glide down the sword’s opposite edge.
S
omeone was humming an old war song, the tune’s rhythm accentuated by the swish of the sharpening stone. For a moment Drangar was unsure who or rather why he heard the humming at all. Then he realized it was him.
The room had fallen silent. He looked up from the sword, his hand halted in mid-stroke as he beheld an entire room of people, their faces scrunched up in either concern or fear. In the back, half-covered by a door that presumably led to the kitchen, he made out the innkeeper holding a butcher’s knife and looking fearful.
Only then did he grasp how threatening his behavior must seem. Was that embarrassment? His face felt hot, and he managed a weak grin, feeling rather stupid. Sharpening four feet of tempered steel inside an inn was definitely not a common sight. “Sorry,” he mumbled and slid the sword back into its sheath. There were still cautious glances thrown his way, but the barely suppressed worry was gone.
“One does not go about sharpening one’s weapon inside a bleeding inn!” he growled. “Idiot!” He had lived alone far too long.
Despite the embarrassing incident, things quickly returned to normal, although the patrons heading for their rooms gave him a wide berth, something Drangar didn’t mind at all. Finally, his long wait was rewarded. A young, snub-nosed woman with dark brown hair, hardly of age, walked to his table and set down a tray laden with a huge chunk of roast, a tankard of milk, and some slices of bread. Her bright brown eyes shone at him as he said, “Thank you,” and gave her two silver-leaves. “One is for you, the other for the publican, tell him I mean no harm.” For a moment, she stared at the two coins then darted back into the kitchen.
Drangar ran both his hands down his face. The girl’s shining brown eyes reminded him of…
He shook his head, raked his fingers through his tresses, and bound the hair with a strip of leather he fished out of his pocket. “No! I must not remember. Never! The past is past!”
Fiercely, he began shoving bread into his mouth, gulped it down with milk, and then checked the roast. It was edible, barely. He breathed deeply, this would have to do. Right at this moment the would-be warriors raised their voices in a marching song. Soon the entire tavern joined the tune.
Groaning inwardly, Drangar resigned himself to eat despite the noise that surrounded him. Hearing a song he knew so well, made it so much harder to push back memories and sharpening his sword, or any other blade, wasn’t an option.
The singing became louder, bolder. Some of the would-be warriors began to stomp their feet in rhythm, others slammed half-full tankards onto tables. Although Drangar tried to ignore them and eat his supper in peace, he found his toes tapping along with the general merrymaking. “Gods, is every part of me bound to war?” he mumbled, his mouth full of bread and roast.
Soon the room quieted down to its former level of muttered conversations. From time to time he couldn’t help but listen to the talk of his fellow travelers, and what he heard confirmed that his decision to leave was a good one. It seemed as if the kingdom’s army was in such disarray and poor training that all the Chanastardhians had to do to win the war was to appear before Harail’s walls. Though it was none of his concern, he wished Kerral the best of luck against a foe that was superior in numbers, training, arms, and readiness. In silence he finished his supper, grabbed a lit candle, and went to bed. He didn’t care about the strange looks the other guests threw his way as he crossed the room and headed up the far stairs.
For the ridiculously low amount the room had cost Drangar had expected nothing fancier than a straw mattress on a squeaky wooden frame, but this was worse, not that he cared much. He dropped his gear into one corner of the room and locked the door. Then, too tired to check the bedding, he blew out the candle and lay down, immediately regretting his decision.
The stench was terrible. He had been in mud-holes that smelled better. His senses recoiled from the tang of sweat and urine, paired with something he really didn’t want to know about. As matters were, he didn’t care enough to walk to the innkeeper and demand his money back, or at least fresh linen.
Despite the smell, sleep came quickly, and as he drifted off into a deep slumber he again saw the maid’s brown eyes.
Hesmera’s eyes…
This wasn’t a banquet. This wasn’t even the huge hall.
He is alone. Lost. In a dark corridor. Unseen hands grasp his boots, his trousers. Voices, hideous and hoarse, call out his name, echoing in a wind that reeks of death. Fear. Never before has he been so afraid. His shirt is soaking wet. It sticks to his body as the voices cling to his soul.
Drangar… Drangar…
“No!” he howls, turning around, stepping on invisible arms, crushing them. He shakes his legs, forcing the grasping hands away. Still, the clawing goes on.
The hands are everywhere. They claw at his hair, his beard, his legs, and his face. No matter what he does, they always come back. He twists and turns, crushes more hands beneath his boots. To no avail.
Fighting down panic, he rushes forward, and halts again. The hands hold him in place. Something moves beneath his shirt. He rips the cloth away and gazes at the maggots that are wiggling over his sweat-soaked body.
Frantically, he tries to brush them away. They dig into his flesh, eating away his body. His fingernails claw away his skin as he tries to reach the maggots inside.
Then he hears her voice. Calling him, pleading to him.
“Hesmera!” His clothes soaked with sweat, Drangar sat up.
Her eyes.
Her voice.
Tears welled up in his eyes. “Forgive me, my heart. Please forgive me,” he whispered. Viciously, he wiped the tears away and looked out the window. Dawn was near and he got up. Grasping his pack, he gave his body a casual check for insects larger than fleas. There were none.
He opened the door, descended the squeaking stairs, and left the building in search of a basin of water. His busy quest was accompanied by the sound of the first birds. He wistfully thought their song was a welcome, but why would any creature sing for him? Finally, he found a horse trough that had definitely seen better days. Then again, so had he. He cleared the grub and leaves out of the makeshift bathtub and then proceeded to fill the thing with water from the well. This wash, although part of his ritual, was necessary; the bed’s stench penetrated everything. He dropped his pack and, with a pang of regret, removed his leather pants and linen shirt and tossed them away. They landed in a distant shrub.
Better the thicket than the rest of his stuff, Drangar thought as he slid into the chilly water. He suppressed a howl and began to clean his body methodically.
At least some things he had learned as a child were useful; he remembered how his knowledge of dialects had helped him on his travels, and the knowledge of water and soap had prevented many a disease.
As with so many things in the past fourteen years, his childhood was something he tried not to remember. But that was as vain an attempt as trying to forget…
He plunged into the cold wet.
After long, painful moments of washing he emerged from the water, feeling much better. He bent down to fetch some cloth to dry himself when he heard a rustle in the leaves.
Stopping in mid-motion, he strained to hear.
Nothing.
“Nerves,” he muttered and went back to his pack. He heard the rustle again. Followed by giggles.
Grinning, he straightened and said, “Early, isn’t it?”
“You’re n-n-n-naked,” a female voice stuttered, accompanied by more giggles.
He frowned. “So?”
“It ain’t proper t’ see a man n-n-n-naked,” said the voice.
It took him a moment to realize the absurdity of the situation. “Then stop looking.”
There were more giggles.
Drangar shrugged and resumed dressing himself, ignoring his audience. He laced up his shirt, pulled on his trousers, and slipped into his boots. “I’m done, happy?” he said at the shrub the girls were hiding in.
Out of the thicket came three young women. One o
f them he recognized as the maid. He remembered her dark hair, but her brown eyes were burned into his mind. Hesmera’s eyes. The well-known sorrow gripped him again. He growled, causing the girls to step back. Trying to hide his pain, he forced a smile. “You have nothing better to do?” he mumbled, as he regarded his audience. The young women approached again.
They seemed to be about the same age and, judging by their clothes, were daughters of locals.
He sized them up and smiled. “Morning.” He nodded. “No chores to do?”
The giggles abated.
The redhead of the group stepped forward. “No chores to do yet, sir.”
Drangar smirked. “Instead you peep at washing men?”
“It was unintentional,” the redhead replied.
“Too long for it not to be on purpose.”
The girls blushed and giggled again.
Drangar shook his head, grabbed his pack, and headed back to the awakening inn. “Don’t make it a habit.”
When he reached his room, he stuffed his belongings into his backpack. The girls forgotten, he busied himself with his pack. As he pulled out his knife to shave, something tender touched the back of his hand. Frowning, he looked into the container. Something stringy stood out from the backside. Drangar took a closer look and saw a silk patch sewn to the leather. His frown deepening, he grasped the patch. Its touch felt soft to the skin, but it wasn’t what had brushed his hands a few heartbeats ago. Finally, he removed the patch and looked at it.
In his hand were not only silk, but also a braid of black hair and a small piece of parchment.
He remembered. Her hair.
“No,” he moaned.
His hands shook as he pulled the parchment from beneath the braid and opened it.
He remembered the writing. Her tender, loving hand.
Before he could even begin to read, he wiped away the tears from his eyes. “Why now? I don’t want to remember.”
But now the spell had been cast and he couldn’t take his eyes from the note, her note.
Beloved, remember what we promised each other the day we first went into battle together? That if one of us should die the other will have something to remind him of the person gone. You gave me your lucky charm. I didn’t have anything then. But now I do.
