by Ulff Lehmann
“Of?”
“You and your kind.”
“The priests and paladins were never my kind.” This flash of insight was as confusing for Kildanor as it seemed for Braigh.
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Speak plainly, priest!” the Chosen demanded.
“Give me a moment, please.”
Kildanor snorted, shook his head, and let his gaze return to the city, wishing he was out there hunting. In this, he had to admit grudgingly, Braigh had been correct. They had done a lot, and there were fresher combatants than themselves, or anyone else who had liberated the Palace. In Dunthiochagh, Jathain’s followers were few, compared to the people who had tried to gain control of Castle Duasonh. How he hated to agree with a priest of Eanaigh, especially Braigh. It angered him to see this man fight alongside him and guard his back, even as he treated the wounded.
More than that, he hated to see this bigoted man wield the power of his goddess with a certainty that astonished him. Too much was unresolved between the Chosen and Eanaigh’s church, too many years of suspicion and hatred on both sides. And…
“Fear,” he whispered. He turned to find Braigh with his eyes closed. “You fear us.”
Braigh blinked and looked at him. “Aye… the fervor with which your brethren fought, with which you still fight, it is frightening.”
“And your healing words are not?” Kildanor looked at him, incredulous. “You fight with as much zeal as any of the true priests of Lesganagh.”
“Aye. Yet there was a difference, and I now see what might have caused the church to turn against your faith in the past.”
“And that be?”
“Fear of your power, the power Lesganagh granted your priests.”
“Everyone else stood back during the Demon War!” Kildanor grew furious. “Who else was willing to fight? Your church was more worried about crops and the wounded, not at beating back a threat that made the Heir War seem insignificant.”
“We all have our duties,” Braigh said, his confusion showing.
“Yet now you are out here, bashing in skulls by the score.”
“I did what needed to be done,” Braigh said with a quivering voice.
“And Lesganagh’s priests did not when the demons fell upon us?” snarled the Chosen.
“I see that now,” the priest whispered. “I see that now.”
Kildanor watched as Braigh turned and staggered away. He shook his head in wonder, surprised at how a battle could lead to new insights. To him, Braigh had always been a devout, some would say zealous, follower of Eanaigh. That he was high in the goddess’s favor was evident by his ability to perform healing miracles, whereas clergy members who outranked Braigh could pray all they wished and still receive none of Eanaigh’s blessings. Kildanor knew Braigh was not responsible for the Cleansing some thirty years ago, but the priest believed the tenets the church’s elders put forth. Yet despite his naiveté, Braigh had found the ear of his goddess, and she answered his prayers.
“Maybe he wakes up now,” the Chosen muttered. He looked to the noon sun. “It’s past time your wife’s followers see the truth.” He nodded his head in reverence. “I hail thee, Lord of Sun and War. Sometimes thy paths aren’t as straight as we believe them to be.”
The repeated sound of wood smacking on wood turned his attention away from the sun. Until now he hadn’t paid attention to most sounds, but these intrigued him. He walked down a flight of stairs and crossed the outer bailey. The sounds were closer now, but none of the nearby warriors seemed concerned. Despite his desire to chide the men and women, he ignored their lack of interest. The enemy had been defeated and everyone who could still put one foot before the other without falling asleep was doing their duty.
After he had left the inner gate behind he saw the unfolding spectacle, which had already drawn a small audience. A Sword-Captain was teaching that pickpocket Garinad how to use a sword, and judging by the sweat that drenched young Garinad’s clothes, they had been at it for a while.
“How’s the boy holding up, captain?” Kildanor asked as he approached.
The pair stopped the melee, and the Sword-Captain turned and saluted. “Lord Kildanor, sir. Lord Duasonh commanded me to train him.”
“And how is he holding up?” He looked from the woman to young Garinad who barely stood upright, huffing and puffing.
“If he’s of a mind, he does well enough, sir,” the woman replied, her voice tinted with a slight Kalduuhnean accent.
“Good, keep at it, but don't let your other duties lag, there’s more to do here than train this boy.”
The Sword-Captain snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”
“Then get back to your duties, woman,” the Chosen said with a wink. “We still have some rebels in the city.”
The steady tattoo of shod hooves beating pavement, made Kildanor turn his head. For a moment he thought yet another rider-less horse had made his way back to the stables, but when he looked closer, he saw a figure slumped across the steed’s neck. He hardly recognized Gail Caslin, and with renewed vigor hurried toward the skittish charger.
“Fetch Braigh!” he commanded the nearest warrior. The reins were in his hand before the guard sprinted for the keep. “Ho, boy,” the Chosen said, trying to calm the nervous beast.
The rider stirred, barely. She looked up, seemed to recognize him, and said in a strained voice, “Tried to find the old fool, Sunsword.”
Kildanor’s head snapped up when he heard the formal title used only by members of Lesganagh’s clergy. He had heard rumors that there were Lesganaghists among Nerran’s riders, but he had never known who they were. Secrecy was of utmost importance in this time of persecution. “What happened?”
“Got ambushed. City guards. Took a couple with me, but made it out just barely. They’re after the Paladin. Find him, Sunsword. You have to find him!”
“I will,” he replied.
Braigh stumbled back into the inner bailey. He looked wearier than before, but the sight of the badly wounded woman brought forth his last reserves.
“Take good care of her,” Kildanor said.
A warrior ran up to him, saluted and said, “Lord Jathain has fled the city, sir.”
“Anyone after him?” he asked distractedly. Yes, Jathain was a major concern, but he had Nerran to worry about now as well.
“Some of the Riders volunteered, sir.”
“Then get to the Horse-Mistress’s altar and make an offering to her so that she will bless them,” Kildanor ordered. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to the gods. Nerran’s Riders were without doubt the best for such a chase.
“Already done, sir.”
“Then why do you bother me with this?” he snapped.
“No one is to disturb Baron Duasonh, sir, and my captain told me to report, sir.”
For a moment Kildanor was lost for words. Who would be foolish enough to forbid Cumaill from seeing his people and giving orders? He looked at Braigh and knew the answer. The man was a priest of Eanaigh, practicality in matters of war and politics came as natural to him as flying came to a rock. “I’ll tell him,” he growled.
CHAPTER 15
Why? This question had haunted Drangar the entire day. Ever since leaving the inn, he’d pondered this one question. Why?
Could it be coincidence that first Kerral, then a lock of Hesmera’s hair swept into his life, making obsolete the attempts to rid himself of his past? Both forced him to remember. He longed to forget, but no matter what he did, it never vanished completely. Now, even as he tried to force the past away again, he headed straight toward it.
Dunthiochagh. Their house. He couldn’t forget. Everything was burned into his mind, his memory, haunting his sleep and every waking moment. He had to find forgiveness… and judgment.
Looking at the horizon, he realized he could either ride on through the night or find shelter from the rain that was bound to come forth from the looming clouds. The animals had been on the road for the entir
e day, and though he could have pushed Hiljarr farther, knowing the charger could easily manage the additional stress, he decided against it. Besides, here in Shadow-Pass, without light, the only thing that was certain, if he carried on, was that Hiljarr was bound to stumble and break something. The horse was too much a part of his life to deserve such an end. Even though he rode to meet his past, he didn’t want to live in it again. He had changed.
Some, he thought grimly, caressing the jet-black lock of hair he had stuffed into his shirt, into the pocket right above the heart.
With a growl he brought Hiljarr to a stop, jumped out of the saddle, and removed it. Before them was a small cave, high enough to let a full-grown man stand upright and deep enough to allow a medium sized cart in, too. A small stopover provided by merchants for travelers. “This’ll do,” Drangar muttered, while he gathered brushwood to use as a mattress. Someone had forgotten to restock the usual commodities. Like firewood. He laid his old winter cloak onto the makeshift-bed, added a blanket, and managed a weak smile, satisfied.
After Hiljarr was fed and tied to the hook in the wall, he ate some cold meat and bread for supper, leaving the bones for Dog. When he was done, he wrapped himself into the blanket and lay down to sleep.
Hesmera. As always, her name was there, brushing against his sleepy consciousness. It caressed him, threatened to trigger his memory until slumber claimed him.
He remembers the music. Slowly the cymbals prepare the audience for the dancers’ great entry, and then they finally come into the grand chamber, like a second sunrise. Beaming at her, he refills both their glasses with wine as excellent as the supper.
Gracefully gliding across the floor, the dancers join the music, which caresses them, encouraging them to wilder, and more enraptured moves. Arching left and right, the rhythm guides their way, leads their steps, moves their bodies.
The drums pick up the pace, are followed by the harps and cymbals, until the crescendo of sounds reaches its climax. He smiles at her, heated by the sweating bodies of the now departing dancers.
She isn’t there.
The room isn’t there.
He is alone. Turning left and right, he tries to get his bearings. His vision blurs as if he is weeping. Something wet runs down his cheeks, gathers in his moustache, and then drips onto his lips. A coppery taste. Blood.
He hears screams and low moans, echoing through the darkened corridor, beckoning him. He feels a cold breeze touching his hot skin, chilling it to the point where he shivers uncontrollably. Calm, he tells himself. Stay calm.
But he can't.
Now voices can be heard from within the walls, screaming at him. “You are cursed! Cursed!”
“No!” he yells, running heedlessly in one direction, not caring where it leads, trying to escape the voices.
“Cursed!”
Running! I must keep running! His breath thunders in his lungs and his heartbeat roars through his ears, but he can still hear them, following him, taunting him. “You can't touch me! Nothing can!” he shouts.
“Cursed!”
Cursed.
Incorporeal hands grasp at his legs, clutching his pants, tearing his flesh. He screams, his voice echoes through the corridor but the hands keep clawing, tearing his legs to shreds. He fingers for his sword, but instead pulls at something wet, flexible.
Another tug. He screams. Pain in his gut!
A look.
His guts are in his hand, both crawling with maggots. He shrieks, scratches his own flesh, realizing that the larvae are under his skin, eating him alive.
“Cursed!”
He hears her voice, her tender voice screaming in terror. Slashing his sword to the left and right he fights his way toward her. Hold out, my love, I’m coming!
There are no foes, no sword, and no corridor.
He is standing in a great chamber, surrounded by rotting dancers who feast on a corpse. He looks more closely at the corpse, dreading what he will see. Her hair is black. What remains of her skin is pale as only death can make it. On her left hand the golden ring he has given her when he asked her to marry him.
A gigantic figure stands behind her, grinning at him the toothless grin of death. “Join the feast, the main course is rather delicious.”
“No!” he shouts, drawing his sword. All he can hear now are her screams, her plea for help, her cries to him.
Viciously he drives the sword home, slashing at the monstrosity. The fury inside him extinguishes all sense, all reason.
He wants to kill this monster.
Again and again he hacks at the beast, and finally when all that remains is a withered torso and a neck connecting it to the head, he defiantly screams at the fiend, raises his sword in a wide arc and beheads her…
“No!” Drangar all but stood on his makeshift bed before he collapsed again. He could smell her perfume intermingled with blood and looked at his sword.
Peacefully lay the blade, wrapped within the rough skin of a goat next to his saddlebags, a vengeful reminder of the deed. He looked at the weapon, felt madness fueled by fear, anger, and regret rise inside him.
“I have seen what I’ve done again and again. I am tired of you, tired of the blood on my hands. Cursed weapon! I’m going to atone for my deed!” he shouted at the sword. “But I don’t need you to remind me any longer!”
As if the piece of metal was ready to escape, Drangar jumped it, grabbed the hilt, and unsheathed it. “Time to go.”
Raising his sword, he looked at Dog. She seemed sad, as if to say, “No, you’re doing the wrong thing.” But at this moment it felt like the only thing that was right, the only thing he could do.
Silently, with every ounce of strength he possessed he swung the weapon onto the cold, uncaring stone. The sound of steel on rock reverberated through the cave, up Drangar’s arms and down his spine, but the dwarf-forged blade showed not a scratch. “Bloody mountains,” he snarled, and swung at the stone again. The result was the same. Nothing happened.
Utterly frustrated, he tossed the blade aside. “I hope some bastard has more luck with you than I!”
Dog padded over to the sword, put a paw on its hilt, and looked at him reproachfully. “I’m tired of this thing, can’t you see that?” Drangar complained. “Even without it my nights are full of nightmares.” He rubbed his eyes and fell to his knees, as if pleading with the canine. “Can’t you see it’s already bad enough for me as it is? I just want to be free of the pain!”
No one can escape bad memories.
“Oh, and what am I supposed to do?”
Live with them.
“I don’t want to,” Drangar said, and turned to move on. Tomorrow noon he would reach Dunthiochagh.
CHAPTER 16
Nerran! He should have remembered before the Rider had brought news. He should have remembered the moment young Garinad had enumerated the actions preceding any uprising! A fresh surge of energy coursed through his body. Kildanor ran across the inner bailey toward the stables. Dodging the busy guardsmen, he looked for a stable hand. After a few moments he discovered one. The lad helped with the disposal of corpses.
“You! Garranth! Ready my horse! Immediately!” he hollered across the courtyard as he continued toward the Palace.
“At once, Lord Kildanor,” the youth replied, but he was already through the gate.
Many had seen him up and about throughout the night, and he surprised them now as they stepped quickly out of his way. He ignored their stares as he rushed down the hall to the grand stairway that led to the second floor. He bumped into a maid who was too slow to step out of his way. While the young woman stammered apologies, he righted himself, pulled the lass back to her feet, and was on his way again.
He was at Duasonh’s room a few heartbeats later, and ground to a halt. The two guards left and right of the door crossed their short spears to block his passage.
“Terribly sorry, sir. Baron’s resting and the priest said he isn’t to be disturbed,” the taller one said.
&n
bsp; “Let me pass,” panted the Chosen.
“No one may pass, except on Caretaker Braigh’s explicit order, sir.”
“I have no time for this,” Kildanor growled, grasped the spears by their shafts, and pushed weapons and bearers aside. The two could only watch in stunned surprise when he let go and opened the door. Some people, it seemed, still knew nothing of him.
“You’re supposed to be at rest, Cumaill,” Kildanor said when he saw his friend hunched over a pile of parchments, with more of them littered around his bed.
The Baron looked up and yawned. “Could you?”
He shook his head. “No, and you damn well know it.”
“You see my point. I couldn’t stand Braigh fussing over me and ordering me to stay put while my warriors were fighting Jathain’s goons.”
“You did your share of hurt early on,” Kildanor smirked. He pointed toward the papers. “What are these?”
“All of what could be saved from Jathain’s rooms. Damn bastard decided to put his place to the torch before he fled.”
“I heard he escaped—Nerran’s Riders are on his tail—but nothing about the fire. Then again, I was busy cleaning up after your beloved cousin.”
“Rub it in, I beg you.” Duasonh shook his head.
Kildanor slumped against the wall. “Sorry, didn’t mean to let this weigh on you even more.” He hesitated. “After all…”
“You know how the betrayal of your own blood feels, I know, old friend.”
Ethain. Ganaedor. Even after ninety-six years the hurt of their treason stung as if it had happened moments ago. He forced the memories aside. “I’m off to find Nerran.”
“Caslin didn’t find him?”
“Almost got killed by Jathain’s creatures,” Kildanor replied. “Do you know how many in our garrisons were not recruited by Nerran?”
“No, but judging by how many turned against us here, it’s likely he will have his men in the fortresses as well.”
“We need him back and weeding out the good from the bad in the castles. Despite Jathain having lost here, if he manages to find Nerran before we do, our fortresses will be in Chanastardhian hands with close to no battle.”
