Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  Still, he wondered if things could have been different. Not that it mattered now. The time was drawing near and it was his duty, his entire order’s duty, to eliminate the threat Drangar Ralchanh was. No matter how he might have decided in the past, the outcome would have been the same.

  Something about the caverns was different. He saw that the entire complex had been added to a shallow outer grotto. Somebody had carved out these winding tunnels and rooms. Creeping forward, he strained his hearing for the shuffling of feet, the mutter of guards, anything that could pose a threat. The only sound he could discern was a chant.

  He shook his head, dismissed the scene. Remembering how all this had begun would not undo it, it would not prevent what had to be done. Far too often had he tried to search the past for answers, always reaching the same conclusion. There was no other way. He replaced the picture, closed the drawer, and stood. Dalgor would have to be briefed.

  CHAPTER 30

  Dragoncrest Castle was unlike any stronghold along the road to Harail. That much Jesgar could tell even from a distance. The deep gorge southeast of the Castle had given it its name. Legend had it that before man or elf walked the world the gods had fought each other, creating the realms in the process. It was said that Dragon’s Crest, as the gorge was called, had been created when Lesganagh, God of War and Sun, and Eanaigh, Goddess of Health and Fertility, had battled an unspeakable foe. Jesgar knew the tales surrounding the Dragon’s Crest, but seeing the gorge he wondered who in his right mind would call the ravine a crest.

  The legend was different now; the Priests of Eanaigh claimed their goddess had won by herself, and the few remaining followers of Lesganagh knew better than to shout out their knowledge.

  “Why is it called Dragon’s Crest?” he wondered aloud.

  Fynbar, another of the Riders, laughed.

  Briog said, “He’s starting to think.”

  “Give him some credit, lads. He is trying,” Nerran said. His deep voice shut the others up. “Well, Fynbar, why is it called Dragon’s Crest?” Now the other Riders made fun of the confused look on Fynbar’s face. “Come, lad, it isn’t that hard.” Jesgar heard Nerran add in a mutter, “If you can think that is.”

  When the younger rider did not reply, Briog cut in. “There’s an old elven tale that dragons once used this place as a graveyard.” Jesgar cast him a disbelieving look. “It’s true, mate. Well, the tale is anyway, whether dragons really came to rest here, no one knows. Some went down there to look for bones, but all they found was gravel and more rocks.”

  “Aye, lad,” Nerran added, “there’s nothing down there but rocks and more rocks.” He nodded to Jesgar. “Besides, there’s a fortress to inspect.”

  The third day in the saddle was not as bad as Jesgar had feared, mainly because he hardly felt anything from his lower back down, aside from his legs still being there and following his commands. That was about it. Once, shortly before noon, he had wanted to relieve himself, and when he pulled down his breeches he discovered the insides of his thighs were raw, pus-oozing meat. The riders had mocked his embarrassment and pain, and it was Briog who had handed him an ointment that was supposed to close the wounds. The occasional sting on his thighs and his crotch indicated that the salve was doing something.

  Now he looked at Dragoncrest Castle. It was barely noon and aside from the imposing walls that towered above the gorge, he saw several banners flapping in the wind. At first sight he thought everything was in order, but when he took a closer look, he saw that the main flagpole did not hold the colors of Boughaighr and Higher Cherkont, but the royal sword and stallion. Baron Duasonh’s flag was flying beneath it, and there were other banners upon the other towers as well.

  Nerran must have seen it as well, since the old warrior muttered, “Scales, what’s this?”

  Fynbar, whose eyesight was even better than Jesgar’s, said, “There’re other ornaments on the battlements as well.” He fell silent and stared at the castle. “Damn,” he added, “they hung a bunch of corpses to rot.”

  “And here I thought they’d put their laundry out to dry,” Gavyn remarked. The others snorted in amusement.

  Briog guided his horse next to Jesgar’s. “Legs feeling any better?” he asked, eyes remaining on Dragoncrest.

  “A little; still hurts though.” Jesgar wasn’t sure what else to say. He couldn’t complain, didn’t want to complain. They were toughened by years on the road, and he feared the journey back.

  “You need to get rid of those pants,” Briog said, nodding at his cramped legs. “The shit will never heal if the seam keeps digging into your legs.” He must have seen Jesgar’s despair, and added, “They’ll have something in the castle, don’t fret.”

  “Garinad!” Nerran’s booming voice halted their conversation. Jesgar looked up, his eyes wandered along the path the older man was pointing. “What do you make of this?”

  At first Jesgar was uncertain what Nerran meant, but then he discerned a feature unlike any he had seen on the castles so far. Part of the outer wall, which in itself was breathtaking with its massive slabs of stone lined along to form a perfect square, seemed almost liquid. Here the rock had been fused together by… something. He stared at the section. Nothing, not even the hottest forge fire, could melt stone. As they came closer, Jesgar grew more confused. The wall itself was taller than even Dunthiochagh’s, but unlike any wall he’d ever seen, this one was not made of many cubes of stone. The slabs were huge. From what he could tell no part of the curtain walls, aside from the gatehouse, was built in the usual fashion. It looked as if giants had placed immense blocks of stone next to each other and then cut away ramparts, battlements, towers.

  “Shut your mouth or a bird’ll nest there,” Fynbar said to the amusement of everyone else. Jesgar did as he was told, his eyes still lingering on the towering fortress.

  “Don’t ask who built this,” Nerran finally said.

  Jesgar blinked and looked at the warrior. “What happened there?” He pointed at the glass.

  “The weakest part of the bugger, if you can call five yards of solid stone with another foot or so of glass weak,” Nerran muttered. “Dragons did that,” he added, “during the Heir War. No clue why they wanted to burn through the wall, though. The place has been here for much longer than anyone can remember, lad. Even the elves have no idea who built it. Giants? The gods? All we know is that it took dragon fire to hurt the wall some. The Chanastardhians will smash their heads against it and won’t achieve anything.”

  Jesgar was about to ask about siege engines when they reached the moat. Except that there was none, Dragoncrest was built on a spire of stone that sprang from the depths of the gorge.

  “Damnation!” he hissed.

  Nerran must have heard his oath; the warrior chuckled and said, “That’s what I said when I first saw this thing.”

  They closed in on the chasm surrounding Dragoncrest when a voice challenged them. “Who are you? And what do you want?” a woman shouted from the gatehouse.

  Now Jesgar saw the corpses clearly, hanging from the battlements. From this distance—it wasn’t that far, maybe twenty yards—it was apparent that they’d been dead for at least a few days. The stone was free from excrements, so none of them had been alive when they were draped alongside the barricade. He was so busy staring at the bodies; he almost missed Nerran’s reply.

  “The name is Nerran, friend and advisor to Baron Cumaill Duasonh. You best lower that bloody bridge now, lass!”

  The older man sounded angry, and when Jesgar chanced a quick look, he saw Nerran’s eyes pinch and his jaw muscles spasm. He couldn’t see a Chanastardhian banner, and nothing about the place indicated the enemy had taken the citadel, but, he reminded himself, he wasn’t truly experienced in anything regarding war.

  “One can enter, the rest stays outside!” the voice from the gatehouse shouted.

  At this Nerran barked a harsh laughter and replied, “You really think any of us is that bloody stupid? Let me talk to warle
ader Loarne Dowell at once!”

  “Warleader Dowell isn’t in command any longer, sir!” Nerran’s features darkened, and Jesgar could only guess at what went on in the man’s head.

  Something caught his attention, and while he continued listening to the shouted exchange Jesgar stared at one of the corpses. He thought he remembered the features. Of course, he couldn’t be certain; the last time he had seen the man it had been at a distance, but it was possible.

  “And who replaced him?” Nerran shouted.

  “General Kerral of the Royal Army, sir,” the warrior stated. Then she added a moment later, “A Caretaker Kieran wants to send you his regards.”

  “Ah, they made it,” Briog said.

  “So, what’s keeping you, lass? Fetch your general.”

  “That’s Jathain,” Jesgar muttered; now he was sure.

  “Say what?” Nerran asked, as he turned to look at him.

  Jesgar pointed at the corpse. “That’s Jathain, sir.”

  He saw Nerran’s gaze following his finger. The older man scowled, squeezed his eyes almost shut; then he frowned. “You sure?”

  “I think so, sir.” He didn’t know what else to say, from this distance matching the horrid, eyeless features of the corpse to the Jathain Duasonh he knew was difficult. He had always prided himself with a good memory for faces, could even tell if two people were related by merely looking at them, but those feats had always been performed from a few feet away. This was ten times that distance.

  “Are you certain?” Nerran asked again.

  “As certain as can be from here, given the circumstances that the man dangling there is dead, milord,” he replied. He wanted to say more, but a shout from Dragoncrest interrupted their little conversation.

  “The general wants to know your business!”

  Nerran snorted derisively and replied, “I want to ascertain that Dragoncrest has not fallen to the enemy! Deny me entrance, I will assume you are traitors even with the King’s colors and the banners of House Duasonh flying above you.”

  “If they were traitors, Kieran and the others would hardly be alive,” Briog remarked.

  “They might have interrogated then executed them,” one of the female Riders, Diorbail, said.

  “And we might end up being here for them to practice their archery,” Edmonh, another Rider, said.

  “Don’t give them ideas,” Gavyn added.

  Their banter was interrupted when the massive oaken drawbridge creaked down. Nerran dismounted, but motioned them to remain in their saddles. “No need for all of us to be shot down, eh lads?” he said drily and walked toward the place where the massive wooden beams would rest on the soil.

  The drawbridge came lower and Jesgar saw a lone figure standing its foot. Once the man might have been dressed in fine armor and surcoat, but now it seemed the man had seen more than his share of fighting and forced marches. General Kerral, he guessed judging by the royal crest on the fastener of his cloak, was a tall man with short blond hair. As the bridge touched ground, the general walked halfway and waited.

  “If you want to talk, come,” General Kerral said, his voice and eyes alert despite his apparent weariness.

  Nerran complied and moved across the other half of the bridge toward the warrior. None of them could discern a word that was said, and before long Jesgar focused again on the body he suspected to be Jathain’s. Prolonged examination from a distance yielded little extra insight. There was only a small trace of blood on each, and that could have either come from birds pecking at the flesh or from a cut to something beyond Jesgar’s line of sight. He couldn’t tell, and neither could any of the Riders. With the walls being well over twenty yards high, the bodies, even with the rope they hung from, were still ten yards above them.

  “I hope I get some rest,” Jesgar muttered, closing his eyes. “I can’t go on.”

  As if on cue he heard the others’ horses moving. He opened his eyes and saw the Riders crossing the bridge. Briog turned and said, “Come on, you can sleep inside!”

  Glad and relieved, he nudged his horse onward. He had barely reached the middle of the drawbridge when his head began to feel as if wrapped in wool. The clatter of horseshoes, the flapping of the banners, everything except his breath sounded muffled, and the world felt far away. Inside the fortress, Jesgar dismounted, teeth clenched against the reemerging pain, and stood next to the others for a brief moment. He wobbled, felt his balance and conscience fading, and was barely aware of being carried somewhere. “I guess your ointment isn’t really helping,” he heard someone say. Then everything went black.

  Bright-Eyes wasn’t sure what he could accomplish on his own. At first the idea had seemed like a perfect plan, but now, after scurrying through the ruins of Honas Graigh for the better part of two days, he scolded himself. He could have gone back to the Aerant C’lain, but the memory of feeling helpless and terrorized was strong. There wasn’t anyone to help him make up his mind and as he scampered through the city he regretted severing the connection with Lloreanthoran. Sure, there were reasons for being angry at the elf, but—and he wasn’t really sure about it—Bright-Eyes had not been left behind on purpose. So many things had been abandoned during the exodus, most of it looted by humans. Had Lloreanthoran also forgotten about him? The more he thought about it as he wandered through the ruins, the more he came to the conclusion this was the case.

  Lloreanthoran had lost so much during the Wizard War. Aureenal and Lilanthias, mate and offspring, both had died a few years before the exodus, so now that he thought about it, it was likely Lloreanthoran had been so preoccupied with their deaths and his duty to the city he had forgotten his familiar. The thought did not calm Bright-Eyes’ anger, but it tempered his feelings. He also considered the haste with which the elves had left.

  “I should contact the old geezer,” the squirrel said aloud, scratching his nose. “He’ll need my help.”

  Bright-Eyes hurried back to the mirror across the once white-marbled baths that were now overgrown with ferns, the stones’ seams cracked by roots and shrubs and trees. When an overanxious fox tried to make a meal of him, Bright-Eyes released some of the pent-up anger and frustration in a blur of motion and violence, much to the canine’s yelping surprise. He let the predator live, and the beast scampered away, tail between legs, howling pitifully.

  “That’ll teach him,” he grumbled and resumed his trek. The trip across Honas Graigh was faster than traveling along its outskirts, but his small legs could only carry him as fast as an elf or human on a slow stroll. By nightfall he reached the ruins of Lloreanthoran’s home.

  He retrieved the mirror and quickly went through the motions to activate its magic. A few moments passed then the elven wizard’s face shimmered into being. “Greetings, again, old friend.”

  “Listen,” Bright-Eyes began. He felt uncomfortable with the words he was about to say. “I’m not good with apologies, you know that, and I’m still pretty angry about the entire affair, but let bygones be bygones, all right?”

  Lloreanthoran sniggered. “Aye, you aren’t… good with apologies that is. But I appreciate the sentiment. Where shall we meet?”

  He thought for a moment, and when he couldn’t find the answer he said, “I don’t know where your blasted bridge began, so I’ve no idea where you’ll be.”

  “I’m already in the woods,” the wizard said. “Quite a way to Honas Graigh still, but if memory serves I think I’m about a day’s march from the old steeloak.”

  “We’ll meet there then,” he replied. “In a day.”

  “Very well.”

  The connection was severed, and Bright-Eyes stowed the mirror away. He was of half a mind to carry the artifact with him, but the looking glass was too bulky. In the end he put it in a hollow that had once served Lloreanthoran and his family as wine storage. Then he was off, heading for the steeloak.

  CHAPTER 31

  Fifteenth of Chill, 1475 K.C.

  Urgraith Mireynh, High General of the armies of
Chanastardh, looked up as the door to his office opened and a black-and-red-clad man entered. “What is it?”

  “The Chosen have ambushed another warband, sir,” the youth said.

  “Thank you, Caluan.” The High General nodded, “Dismissed.”

  After the door had closed, Mireynh returned to the maps spread on his table. All went as planned; even the resistance of the Chosen had he foreseen. He would deal with them soon enough.

  They only counted a score or so, and even though reputedly the best warriors known, they had weaknesses and they could be killed; the torturer had proved that.

  He despised such crude methods, although he admitted it sometimes was necessary to use them. The torture and succeeding death of the three fighters had been to no avail, other than the surrender of Danastaer’s pitiful king. The traitors had done their job well.

  The enemy’s army was in such disarray that the conquest had been faster than he had anticipated. Remnants of the Danastaerian army were still afoot, but even those would surrender in time.

  Having a large number of foes still roaming the countryside disturbed him a little. Their tactics were surprising, and their leader was as lucky as he was ingenious. This Danastaerian general had already caused enough trouble to force battle plans to be changed. At one point he even saw some of his own tactics used against him, effectively, and that bothered him more than the losses. Maybe his adversary had learned the art of war from him. He wasn’t worried, though. The enemy was all but routed, and there remained now only Boughaighr and Higher Cherkont, which could take longer, for Cumaill Duasonh had a reputation for being rather independent.

  He looked at a map, calculating the time it took the main body of his troops to reach Dunthiochagh. Ten days, if all went well, but before they could lay siege to the city, they still had to deal with the garrisons. More wasted time. They needed to make haste, for winter was approaching fast.