Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  Duasonh cast his friend a tired smile. “It’s good that you’re here. Thank you.”

  “Wish me luck,” Kildanor said and hurried out.

  When he returned to the inner bailey his horse, Dawntreader, stood ready. Sensing his rider’s tension, the stallion’s capricious temper grew even worse. Dawntreader danced on the spot, pulled on the reins the stable boy clung to and neighed impatiently.

  Kildanor approached his steed and took hold of the reins. “Calm,” he whispered. The horse quieted immediately. “Thanks, lad,” the Chosen muttered as he mounted, turned his charger around and guided Dawntreader out of the Palace at a light trot.

  He reached Trade Road and urged Dawntreader north. Since the uprising, the streets had become unusually empty. People were afraid to be caught in the middle of skirmishes and stayed at home. Only patrols of Duasonh’s warriors marched the streets, and those moved aside the moment they heard horseshoes on cobblestone.

  Jathain’s assassins already had a head start, but he knew the aging warrior hadn’t lost his guile. On his hunting trips Nerran insisted on traveling alone. The only thing that worked for the Paladin now was his erratic track through the Shadowpeaks. It also worked against Kildanor; he had to rely on chance to find him.

  He reached the North Gate, and, once outside, he dug his spurs into Dawntreader’s flanks and galloped toward the shattered silhouette of the Shadowpeaks.

  Now with Dunthiochagh behind him, Kildanor finally had the time to reflect on last night’s events. The traces were still evident on his surcoat and armor. There had been no time to change, not that he cared. Appearances were for people who had nothing else to prove their worth. Jathain had been the only one from Duasonh’s inner circle who had favored opulent clothes, a perfect example for clothes not making a man.

  Jathain! Kildanor gritted his teeth. He missed the old days, before the ban. Back then the appointed of Lesganagh were like the purifying sun, they had acted without mercy to do what needed to be done. Jathain would have died years ago. So would have the king. With all their actions being scrutinized by the other faiths, how could any Chosen do what was necessary?

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. Times, like people, changed.

  The sight of the wizard-wrought scars that marred the foothills of the Shadowpeaks was the first reminder of that terrible time almost one hundred years ago. Since then nature had tried to reclaim the ground lost to the battle magic that the Phoenix Wizards had unleashed. In some places Kildanor saw shrubs and ferns clinging to remnants of once rich soil that the Wizards’ spells had blasted away. Those parts of terrain that had survived the spell-battles had suffered under the lack of snowfall in the mountains itself.

  Several centuries ago the Phoenix Wizards had enchanted their stronghold and its surroundings to maintain a spring-like climate even in the depths of winter. Then, when Wizard fought Wizard during the Heir War, some spell-battle had caused the entire mountain range to suffer from the enchantment.

  Now that the last remnants of snow had melted a few decades ago, dark rainclouds enveloped the shattered mountaintops. The steady drizzle only vanished during the hottest summer days. The farmlands surrounding the Shadowpeaks began to vanish into an ever-increasing marshland. Beyond and between the foothills, the Shadowmarshes surrounded the mountains, and no matter how hard people worked to drain parts of the bog, the rain did its part to ravage more and more habitable land. Given time, the bog would claim Dunthiochagh.

  “We should have left some of them alive,” Kildanor muttered as he guided his horse across one of the many stilted pathways that crisscrossed the marshland on each side of the Shadowpeaks.

  At dusk he halted, dismounted, and knelt, facing west. It was time for the evening prayer. Last night he hardly had the time for worship; Lesganagh understood. During the Demon War none of the Chosen had found a moment of quiet to recite the traditional rites at the appropriate times. Some things were more important.

  Although it was urgent to get to Nerran before Jathain’s henchmen tracked him down, Kildanor doubted the aging warrior would be easy to find. Nerran’s hunts took him across the entire range; he had no clear pattern, nor any preferred area.

  Maybe Lesganagh would grant him insight. He bowed his head and formed Lesganagh’s orb with hands, fingers and thumbs touching. “I hail thee, Lord of Sun and War. Thy day hast ended, thy light almost spent on us, as thou follow thy path along the sky. I beg thy blessing for the coming dark ‘ere I see thy light again in the coming morn. Grant me sight to find my friend, guide my hand to slay my foes, and bless my heart with courage, to do what needs to be done. Thine is the light, the tide and woes of war.”

  In silence he remained on the floor until the sun had vanished beyond the horizon. Finally, he stood, looked to the cloud covered mountains, and returned to his horse. As he mounted, he heard the distant bleating of a few mountain goats.

  “Might I be so lucky?” Kildanor whispered as he drew his sword and led his mount toward the Shadowpeaks.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was well past midnight when Kildanor found the expertly concealed fire in a cave some distance away from Shadow Pass. A slight smirk played around the Chosen’s lips as he crawled closer. Whoever this traveler was, he had enough sense to camp off the usual hunters’ trails, and a casual observer might have missed the flicker of flames shining through a dense thornleaf. But Kildanor was no casual observer.

  He hoped this was Nerran’s doing, although he wouldn’t mind finding a handful of Jathain’s assassins.

  There was no sign of a horse, although the stable boys had assured him the aging warrior had taken his favorite gelding with him when he left a week ago. Nerran must have left it at a secure meadow. He inched closer, intent on the campfire. Now he heard the crackling of flames; the scent of burnt wood was heavy.

  He reached the thornleaf without a sound. Preparing to stand up, he caught sight of two men stepping into the light. Neither of them was hooded, but the crest of Dunthiochagh was boldly on their tabards. He sank back to the ground in one smooth motion, dagger drawn. Unsheathing a sword soundlessly in such confines was nigh impossible.

  A heavy hand on his shoulder startled him. Kildanor whirled around only to have his mouth covered by another hand.

  “Stop squirming like a newlywed maiden, lad,” a harsh voice grated into his ear.

  The hand left his mouth. “Nerran, you bastard!” Kildanor hissed.

  “My mother never denied having a dalliance with our steward.” The aging warrior sounded exhausted.

  “Good to see you alive enough to spread your wit.”

  “Better my wit than my guts,” Nerran grumbled. He motioned to the cave. “The curs have been following me for a day.”

  “Only two?” Kildanor scoffed.

  “Only two left.”

  The Chosen nodded. “Let’s finish this then.”

  “Leave one alive, I want to find out who sent the Demonspawn.”

  “No need,” Kildanor said. He was on his feet and down the slope to the cave before Nerran heaved himself through the thornleaf, cursing and sputtering.

  The old man’s ruckus sufficiently alerted the two assassins who turned to face Nerran, realizing too late that the real threat came from him. Before they could correct their error, the Chosen’s dagger already stuck from one man’s neck. The traitor went down in a gurgle, spending his life’s last few breaths drowning in his own blood.

  Kildanor whirled around and unsheathed his sword. As he approached the warrior, Nerran slammed into the man from the left, his sword leading the way. The blade punctured the breadth of the would-be-killer, and Nerran’s rush smashed both of them onto the floor.

  “What a mess,” Kildanor remarked.

  Nerran straightened himself and tried to wipe his leather tunic clear of blood. “You should see the other eight.”

  “Don’t tell me you defeated them all with your sword?”

  “Stones are a nice thing, and available in abun
dance in a mountain range, lad,” Nerran said and was about to continue their banter when Kildanor straightened.

  “Something wrong?”

  The Chosen’s frown twisted into a mask of fury. “Demonology!”

  “Did you prepare the circle?” the leader of the hooded men asked as he returned to the clearing.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. To your positions, lay low, wait for him. We need him alive.”

  The four, cloaked figures acknowledged and vanished into the darkness. “We won't fail,” he muttered and hurried off into the slowly rising dusk, away from the circle.

  “Damn those nightmares,” Drangar growled and rubbed a hand across his face. Stifling a yawn, he rode deeper into Shadow Valley. He had broken camp too early and left the cave without restocking its supplies. Now, the only choice for him was to continue through the night, braving the gorge that split the Shadow Peak Mountains ever since the Phoenix Wizards had fought their last battle of the Heir War from the highest mountaintops. Their pace was maddeningly slow, and with the little light the moon shone into the cleft even this seemed dangerous.

  Sometimes he appreciated the lessons he had received as a boy. How naive had he been, thinking he could be a hero, a brave knight who rode into battle with his lady waiting for him.

  “Look, what I’ve become, Hiljarr,” he said; the horse’s reply was a snort. “I know, I’m just a run-down mercenary turned shepherd who killed the woman he loved… and they say I‘m blessed by Lesganagh.” He guided the charger’s steps between two large boulders that seemed to guard this stretch of the Valley. “Cursed is more like it.”

  Dog barked. Ambush! The word was as clear in his mind as any he had heard the nights and days before.

  Drangar whirled around in his saddle, reaching for his sword. Too late he remembered he had thrown it away. Thoughts racing, he searched for options, reviving skills that had long lain dormant. He had learned to survive, even ambushes like this one.

  It was almost dark; they could not get a good shot at him, he had to provide them with a small target.

  Letting go of Hiljarr’s reins, Drangar slid off the saddle and dashed into the shadow of the rocks. Hiljarr, his own senses still attuned to the dangers of combat, reared once, and trotted back the way they had come, Dog at his side.

  In this instant a light flared up in the dark, illuminating the Valley, revealing the running mercenary.

  Duck! He couldn’t tell if it was the voice or himself giving the commands.

  He threw himself to the ground as an arrow whistled over his head, hitting the rock in front of him.

  Get up! Move!

  Rolling to his left, he found his footing and zigzagged over the rubble, more arrows hitting the gravel behind.

  The light vanished, leaving behind a glaring residue. Drangar blinked, tried to get his bearings.

  The sky went bright and blinded him again. Instinctively he dove to the right, praying for shelter. An arrow dug into his thigh. Suppressing a yell, Drangar limped on.

  Another arrow pierced his shoulder. This time he screamed, in frustration rather than pain.

  His moves were slower now. His legs leaden, he turned his head to the right, slowly, as if drunk.

  Poison!

  Then all went dark.

  “Are you certain?” Nerran frowned at him.

  Kildanor scoffed, his eyes cold. “Aye. You forget that I fought in the Demon War. This is a sacrifice!”

  “It could be other magic,” Baron Duasonh’s advisor tried to reason.

  “I fought Danachamain’s forces! I fought Demonologists! Don’t presume I don't know how this vile sorcery feels.”

  Nerran raised his hands to ward off the Chosen’s anger. “Easy, lad, I trust your judgment.”

  Kildanor began to reply when the mountains east of them lit up in a glaring light. When the illumination vanished, the Chosen was already sprinting toward the gorge. Whatever had happened there, he would not suffer a Demonologist to live. Never again would the likes of Danachamain seek to destroy mankind. Nerran’s hissed warning fell on deaf ears; he could not help Ethain and Ganaedor, but he would do all in his power to save anyone the Demonologists tried to kill.

  He hesitated. Something felt different, but there was no time to contemplate. When another blaze illuminated Shadow Valley, Kildanor hurried on.

  He reached the rocky lip of an outcrop overlooking the gorge that magic had ripped into the Shadowpeaks, and caught sight of a single man valiantly dodging arrows shot by hidden archers. A few heartbeats later the man was hit. Another arrow found him. A howling scream pierced the air, and the man staggered on, his movements sluggish.

  The man went down.

  Instead of disappearing, the light remained strong over the valley, revealing several black robed figures coming out of their hiding-places to charge the stricken man. One of them drew a sword and stabbed the fallen, piercing his back. The other four picked him up and hurried off.

  Dreading what would happen if the Demonologists finished their sacrifice, Kildanor hurried down the mountain, avoiding the few pits that dotted his path. Finally, after a long jog down the peak, he came to the valley floor, searching for traces of the attackers.

  Nothing.

  He could sense, stronger than before, the vile magic that Danachamain had released on the world. Throwing all caution aside he dashed toward its source, not bothering to wait on Nerran. A man was to be sacrificed to summon a demon. This gave Kildanor all the speed he needed. Like Death himself he smashed into the warlocks, hacking left and right, ignoring the painful sting of the enchantments the wizards had lain out in a circle. Before they realized they were under attack, the first dropped dead. Before his body hit the ground, flames burst forth, engulfing the carcass. The other four put up more resistance.

  Kildanor whirled around, facing two of them. The other two were to his left and right.

  At first, they attacked in unison, forcing the Chosen to defend himself, just barely. He blocked and dodged, using his opponents’ weapons against them. To no avail.

  The men were also trained as warriors, he realized, hard-pressed to parry one attack while anticipating three more. Just in time he brought up his sword and blocked. Steel rang on steel. From the rim of his vision, he saw the one to the left relaxing his guard to bring down a vicious two-handed swing.

  Using this opening to his advantage, Kildanor released the hidden spring blade in his left boot and kicked at the assailant, hitting him in the throat. The man keeled over, blood gushing from his neck. He, too, went up in flames.

  The other three, seeing their leader go down, did something unexpected. Instead of running away, they charged. Kildanor ducked one blow, brought up his blade, and impaled his opponent. At the same instant the blade hit home, the Chosen dropped to the floor and kicked away the legs of another attacker. He jumped up, shoving the man’s now burning body off his blade. “Surrender or die!” he wheezed and faced the last two Demonologists.

  They looked at each other, shook their heads, and slashed at their still breathing victim. Disgusted, Kildanor finished them off, not waiting for them to go up in flames.

  The next instant he was at the stranger’s side. The man was still breathing. Raggedly, but breathing nonetheless. Resilient. He bent over the man as his eyes fluttered open. Having experienced the demise of hundreds of comrades, he was familiar with the look of death in a man’s eyes but this one actually looked peaceful. Through the bloody mask of his face, he looked up, drew a ragged breath, coughed blood, and stared at the symbol that hung from Kildanor’s neck.

  “Lesganagh,” he whispered then smiled. “Hesmera, I’m coming.”

  “Damn!” Kildanor let go of his sword and looked from the burnt remains of the man’s attackers to their victim’s corpse. “Is this what…?”

  Nerran who came up behind him, breathing as heavily as an aging warhorse, interrupted him. The older warrior eyed the scene before him and cast a frowning glance in his direction.r />
  “Who in the blazes is that?” He pointed at the disemboweled man Kildanor knelt next to. “And what are those?” He nodded toward the piles of ashes.

  “Victim of Demonologists,” Kildanor spat. “His killers.”

  “Demonologists?”

  “Aye.”

  Nerran looked at the corpse’s face. “I'll be damned.”

  “What?” Kildanor was surprised at Nerran’s astonishment.

  “That’s Drangar Ralgon.”

  “Who?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Eleventh of Chill, 1475 K.C.

  She gazed down into the pool of water and saw herself reflected in its glimmering surface. Even now, after all the endless years, she looked young.

  “Who am I?”

  There were at least a dozen answers that sprang to her mind, each of them dissatisfying. She had been so many things through the ages and none of them caught all of her. Her deeds were apparent throughout the world, much like those of the gods but she was no deity, and neither did she want to be counted among them. Human or elf, either of them would describe her as a being of shining beauty, bright as the sun, and they would be closer to the truth than they could ever realize.

  She interrupted her musings when she felt the spirit descend to her cave, and pulled up her cowl.

  “Greetings, child of Lliania,” she said.

  “And greetings to you, Lightbringer.” The spirit’s countenance resembled the woman it had been before her death. One of the few that had grasped the hand she had offered.

  “Am I truly a child of Lliania?” the spirit asked

  “Always the same dance,” Lightbringer sighed.

  “And if so, why does my goddess not want me at her side?” Lightbringer said, her voice suddenly that of the ghost. “Are the gods real? This would be your next question. You always ask, although you do know my reply, child.” She smirked at the luminescent, translucent being that floated before her.