Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  The traitor in Duasonh’s staff might be true to his word and deliver Dunthiochagh’s garrisons, he thought, anger rising.

  He hated traitors. When King Drammoch had informed him about the sources at the Danastaerian court and in Duasonh’s staff, he had wanted to quit, not that he could. Traitors were without honor, and so he had received the permission to deal with them as soon as the conquest was over, arguing that a traitor could betray his new master. The king had agreed. Nevertheless, he hated using them.

  He consulted the maps for a short while, then stood and walked to the door. The chamber had been some Danastaerian King’s office, and Mireynh had to admit that even though the current king was a sick fool, someone must have had some taste for furniture. Maybe one of the king’s ancestors had ordered this chamber to be furnished.

  He passed his armor, hung on an oaken rack. Casually his fingers traced the ornamentation that decorated the breastplate. He had owned this armor for half his life, a trophy of his first successful campaign some thirty years ago. Back then he had led his mercenaries from victory to victory, from hoardes of riches to even greater wealth. The High General smiled, remembering his past.

  The armor was a piece of art. Sturdy as any plate-armor ever made, it was covered with symbols and knots of ancient making. Flowers were entwined with swords, while those again were knotted into fine lines that spun the metal from left to right, back to front. It wasn’t dwarven; he had paid a horrendous sum to find that out. It was merely finely crafted steel he still had to carry to the blacksmith and pay even more money to get it fixed.

  Now? He carried it around unwilling to part with it, unable to wear it any longer. He felt lazy and fat. A typical warlord who let others do the work. He missed fighting but now it wasn’t merely his growing belly that prevented him wearing armor, but also his back.

  At first, he had thought it just another injury to mend and be done with. The healers had told him after endless visits his was the disease of old age, a hindrance many elder people suffered. Many elder people…

  Grimly he shook his head. His back had also betrayed him. “Dammit,” he cursed, opening the door.

  His two black-clad guards snapped to attention, eyes forward. They accompanied him without a hint of emotion. So far none of them had deemed it necessary to interfere in his decisions, but he was certain they would act if any of his orders went against their masters’ wishes. Yes, he knew what they were. Bodyguards acted differently. These men and women were watchdogs, they reported all his dealings to Herascor, and should he ignore an order they would slay him, but only after showing him his wife and children one last time.

  Mireynh grunted. He had made war before these two lasses were a glint in their parents’ eyes; he knew what he was doing. Why this veiled threat?

  It didn’t matter, he decided. As long as he did as ordered, it would be all right. At least they had the decency to leave his chambers when he went to bed.

  Ignoring the two women, he headed down the long corridor straight toward the castle’s main-hall; time for another meeting. The guards stepped into place behind him and followed at an appropriate distance.

  Left, right, left. Thankfully he could still walk without a cane.

  As he approached the huge double-doors the two warriors guarding it opened the portal, saluted and stood at attention again. The General grimaced. Chanastardhians knew etiquette if nothing else.

  The army was powerful, but lacked the discipline he was used to. There were no deserters, only muggers and rapists and their warleaders weren’t much better. These nobles were as dedicated as mastiffs, and just as fierce when it came to tearing out each other’s throats. How he enjoyed this. Inbred incompetence and infighting were hallmarks of Chanastardh’s aristocracy; he had higher hopes for this army, his army. With that warrior woman from one of the lesser Houses that King Drammoch had ordered to join his army, a woman that truly knew warfare, he’d soon have at least one true warrior at his side.

  At least the backstabbing idiots he had to deal with until she arrived obeyed his orders.

  Now they rose from their chairs, showing as much initiative as a wooden crate. He nodded to the assembly as he walked to the large chair at the far end. “Good evening lords and ladies.”

  “Evening, sir,” the warleaders said, and waited for him to sit.

  There were times when he wished for a less disciplined but more creative staff, like some of the fellows who had served with him years ago. Maybe this new woman, Cirrain, sent to him from Herascor, would prove more helpful. He remembered some of the individuals he had trained or commanded. A handful of them would be worth ten score of this bunch. Forcing his face to mask his amusement, he sat down and watched as the nobles collapsed into their chairs. He saw their confused looks and let his jaw muscles relax.

  Clearing his throat, he looked around the assembly. “Well, so far the campaign’s proceeding as planned. Our new objectives: Higher Cherkont and Boughaighr. You know Baron Duasonh is far more independent than the other nobles; comes from the longevity of his House, I reckon. He swats aside orders as easily as he would a fly, and although we have a traitor in his midst, I fear from now on we will meet more resistance.”

  One of them raised his hand. “Sir, won’t the freeborn and villeins resent us?”

  The High General shook his head. “As our esteemed King said before me; people are like cattle, dumb and uncaring. They don’t care to whom they pay their taxes. The person that could stop us is Cumaill Duasonh.” He wondered why his subordinates wanted him to think for them. Some faces lit up with understanding. These people were nobles in blood, but decades of complacency had made them soft, turned their brains into peas. Urgraith Mireynh had seen commoners more noble than this group of Chanastardh’s elite.

  “Sir, what shall be done about the Chosen attacking our patrols?”

  Mireynh looked at the warleader. The blonde woman was new, and, he noted with some pleasure, had a fiercer look in her eyes than the rest of the nobles. Was this the Cirrain woman? “They will be dealt with. However, since the Chosen are a small group, it will be nigh impossible for them to stop every single patrol we have out there. As for stopping our forces in general, I doubt that even they can accomplish that. Does this answer your question?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He looked around, eyeing the bored warleaders. “I take it you have received your orders?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you know that most of our warriors have already left for Higher Cherkont. Get your personal warbands moving. I want you to reach Duasonh’s foremost outpost, Dragoncrest Castle, within two days.”

  Without any further comment the nobles stood and hurried out, to Mireynh’s surprise. Only the fierce looking woman remained seated. He eyed her curiously. “You don't, by any chance, have any marching orders? Lady … do I know you?”

  “Anneijhan of House Cirrain, sir. No, sir, I don’t. I arrived here this morning, and haven’t been permitted to see you until now,” she answered.

  Despite his backache, Mireynh stood quickly. “What?”

  “Your warleaders, and guards, deemed it improper for a mere second born daughter to have a private audience with the High General, sir.”

  “Why, then, are you here?” he asked, inwardly cursing his watchdogs and bloated nobles’ heads. Already he liked this woman, and he could guess why her peers might not want her in direct contact with him.

  Anneijhan of House Cirrain smiled. “I am here by the King’s order. Your captains could prevent my seeing you with a load of bureaucratic bullshit, but they couldn’t deny me this. It is my right!” He saw she wanted to say more and motioned her to continue. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  Mireynh nodded. He hadn’t heard this question in a long time; none of the others had ever wanted to overstep the lines of protocol. This woman was, as he had expected, from a different breed. “Granted.”

  “I don’t trust those buffoons, sir.”

&n
bsp; “Excuse me?” he wondered if he had heard correctly. “What was that?”

  “I don’t trust those warleaders of yours and the people who serve them, sir.” Anne looked at the door, scowling.

  Frowning, but grinning inwardly, Urgraith Mireynh said, “How dare you insult my most … most trusted leaders?”

  Seeing through his ruse, she replied, “Well, sir, I know them. Even though I hail from a lesser House I have met your trusted nobles before, and I know of their feuds.” She continued, “I hail from Chirnath, sir, one of the…”

  “I know where Chirnath is and what is happening there. Please spare me the details.”

  The woman gave a curt nod. “My family has been dealing with the barbarian intruders for decades now; we know war.” He really liked this woman. “But we also know the petty feuds between our noble allies from the south. It’s a small miracle they haven’t already continued their vendettas here.”

  She looked at him as if expecting a harsh remark, but he gave her a concerned frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they hail from different noble houses that over the years have had more than one disagreement over taxes, cattle … you name it, sir.”

  “Does the King know about this?” He scratched his beard.

  “I don’t think he cares, sir.”

  Slowly he walked the length of the table. “I thank you for the information, Lady Cirrain. As for your assignment, consider yourself a member of my personal staff. I need people with combat experience.”

  She straightened, “Yes, sir!”

  “Dismissed!”

  She saluted, turned, and strode out. Urgraith Mireynh waited and watched her until the door was locked again. Then he slammed his fists onto the table and glared at the banners of the various Chanastardhian Houses that decorated the walls. “Damn those nobles!” he cursed.

  CHAPTER 32

  The trip through the magical tunnel that connected Graigh D’nar with the forest of Gathran was uneventful, and thankfully short. Now that he had a destination, other than the Aerant C’lain, Lloreanthoran knew which way to go. His journey was as much a hike as it was a trip into his past. Here, now he preferred walking over magic, wanted to enjoy his old home.

  The vast chaos that was nature delighted him, and even though his memory was by no means bad, he had forgotten how it felt to tread on real soil, to listen to real whispers of the wind making its way through branches and shrubs.

  How foolish they had been.

  Leaving nature behind had been, in his opinion, the gravest mistake the elves of Gathran had ever made. Many argued against it, saying that teaching mankind magic was worse, but seeing the power and strength that pulsed through the living forest, Lloreanthoran knew the elves had been wrong.

  For the first time in many years he was at ease, and he sat down beneath a tree, dropping his meager belongings next to him on the leaf-covered ground. His senses gathered more and more fleeting impressions of his surroundings, and he was certain the elves had to return. Others of his kin still lived beneath the real sky, still enjoyed the warming rays of the sun, and shivered when winter held the land in its icy grasp. He closed his eyes and inhaled, taking in the scent of the moist earth. Distant thunder and the sounds of animals strolling through the underbrush reminded him of the life his people had so carelessly thrown away. He understood the reason to leave the shattered lands, but instead of the change he had hoped the new existence would bring, living beyond the Veil of Dreams had not changed the ways of his people.

  Slowly, he drifted into sleep. The rumbling thunder, the whispering wind, and the forest animals that skittered through the underbrush sang him a lullaby.

  When the last tendrils of consciousness drifted closer to restful slumber, something changed. At first his lulled senses didn’t register the muted sounds. Then, with a start, he was aware of it, the air grew colder, wind and thunder had seemingly ceased to exist and it felt as if a shadow surrounded him. Lloreanthoran sat up and stared into the growing gloom. Something dark—wrong—had just passed him. Its presence was so strong that the last remnants of autumn were immediately wiped away. The few leaves that still clung to their branches were withered and dark, decayed. Patches of grass had lost their color and the cold that permeated the air was not born of night drawing close. What disturbed him most was the silence.

  Lloreanthoran shuddered, searched for the direction of the shade’s origin. Alarmed, the elf realized that the shade’s path had come from the vicinity of Honas Graigh and his sudden urge to investigate his old hometown was suppressed immediately by the knowledge that he would go there after he met with Bright-Eyes. He and the squirrel would be more of a force than he alone. He was looking forward to have his companion at his side again.

  Sleep forgotten, he retrieved his pack and continued his march to the place where he and Bright Eyes were supposed to meet, to the place where he had transformed the squirrel into his familiar.

  As he moved through the forest his thoughts wandered back to the Lightbringer. What had Julathaen said? That she had found a new pawn to move about. He didn’t feel like a pawn, but then, he guessed, a pawn never felt as if it was moved. Of course, he knew the legends, myths rather, regarding Lightbringer. The elves had shaken off the yoke of their oppressors with her help; some revered her almost as much as they did the gods. And who could blame them? Where the gods had stood aside and let things proceed, the Lightbringer had been the one to take matters into her own hands and free the slaves. The Lightbringer… part of him still wanted to piss himself and fall to his knees and grovel. He didn’t know where this urge came from, but it was there, always lingering. Was this part of his slave heritage?

  Certain she would contact him sooner or later, Lloreanthoran went on. He had barely walked a few yards when he felt the presence; he wasn’t sure if this was the same shade as before. Its chill came from a direction different than the first, but it traveled, he felt, toward the same goal. Frowning, he halted, whispering a prayer to Lleeanthar, Goddess of Insight and Wisdom. As always, she remained silent.

  Finally, after standing in the clearing for quite a while, he continued his walk.

  The answer would present itself as soon as he truly knew how to put his question into precise words.

  As he moved deeper into the woods he came across broken trees, some ruined by the ravages of time, others evidence of the Heir War. A few were rotting beneath the pale light of the moon that shone through the thinning roof of red and brown leaves, illuminating the carcasses of trees that slowly returned to the soil from which they had sprouted. Others, dead as well, were more bizarre. Strangely twisted statues of stone and soot that human magic had killed in the most horrible way. These statues were surrounded by dead soil that no amount of time could heal.

  Indeed, the magic the humans had learned from the elves was terrible, but only because of the way they had twisted it to their own needs. Although mankind’s magic had been to some degree more powerful than their elven counterparts, it had also been their undoing. In some places the effects of the Wizards’ magic would remain a silent testimony to the war.

  His walk continued for a long while, but finally Lloreanthoran halted beneath a mighty steeloak. The surroundings had changed over the centuries but the mage remembered the meeting place. Here the little squirrel had attempted to steal nuts from his pouch. Smiling at the memory, the elf turned around and gazed at the tree. It was a witness, a millennium old watcher over the forest, one of the last of the first ones. Its bark was cracked in places, and its leaves had already fallen to the ground. Still, it was a majestic sight, a god guarding his followers. Standing as high as two hundred feet, the tree loomed over the others, silently watching the forest and its inhabitants.

  Lloreanthoran gazed up the tree and knew he was home, and no sooner had that thought crossed his mind than Bright-Eyes popped out of one of the lower branches.

  “I thought you’d never come,” the mammal said.

  “As endearing as ev
er,” he replied. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Who said I was sleeping? I haven’t slept properly ever since you sent me into that human wizard’s lair!” Bright-Eyes snapped. “I still see his eyes glaring down at me!”

  “You still bear that grudge?”

  “No, I don’t. I just pointed out that I still can’t sleep properly… After all, I defeated him” The squirrel descended the tree, jumping onto the mage’s shoulder.

  “No, you didn’t,” the wizard corrected. “I did.”

  “Without my help you wouldn’t have! I defeated him!”

  “Well, let’s settle on ‘we defeated him’,” Lloreanthoran laughed. “Shall we rest here?” he looked to the place he had used as a camp before.

  “Unless you want to walk all the way to Honas Graigh tonight. And I could do with a fire also. Awfully cold here.”

  That question settled, the wizard dropped his pack to the ground and summoned a comfortable bed and a fire, and soon the two companions drifted off into sleep.

  By the time the sun rose over the treetops, elf and squirrel were already on their way. Again, he walked.

  “Shouldn’t we get there quickly?” Bright-Eyes complained.

  “Next, you’ll want me to run through the forest in haste,” the mage said.

  “Great, now you show you are truly an elf.”

  Lloreanthoran turned his head. “I’ve been away so long; I need to walk for a while. Get reacquainted with the forest.”

  That shut the squirrel up, but the wizard increased his pace. As he walked the two shared past anecdotes, but soon Bright-Eyes remarked how tarnished everything became in hindsight.

  “Indeed,” Lloreanthoran said after a few moments of silence, “we had some very great adventures back then, but…” He fell silent, gazing at the path ahead.

  “But what?” the familiar looked down from a branch a couple of yards above.