by Ulff Lehmann
“No!” he wailed again, wishing his voice could push death away from the friend, hoping he could undo his mistake. Like his wife and daughter, death was all that remained. His lament changed nothing.
Finally, after he could cry no more, the pain subsided and was replaced by an emptiness he hadn’t felt since the Heir War. He was miserable, but reminded himself of the familiar’s sacrifice. A sacrifice that had saved his life so he could continue. Lloreanthoran looked at the Aerant C’lain and then back at the squirrel’s corpse.
“Thank you, dear friend,” he whispered as he picked up the squirrel. “Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for giving me the chance to do what must be done.”
Again, tears welled up but he forced them back, blinking fiercely. Many of his fellow elves would scorn him for such a display of affection, wouldn’t understand his love for the dead animal. Then again, his race had declined in such a way that he despised them in return. Bright-Eyes had been there for him when he had grieved for his family. They had fought alongside each other, defeating the horrors of the Heir War, relying on the other’s strength, and repressing the other’s weaknesses. Now, his last real friend was gone, killed by his inability to see beyond the mindstorm’s perversions.
A last time he gazed at the lifeless body. “Farewell, old and dear friend,” he muttered. “Farewell.” With those last words he muttered a quick incantation and the squirrel’s corpse rose into the air. At first the flicker of flames that danced over the tiny body was almost imperceptible; a light red-yellow hue trailed the red fur. It looked like the last heartbeat before the sun made its way over a fog-shrouded horizon, glimmering softly. Then the flames engulfed the tiny body, roaring toward the heavens for a brief moment, and then vanished, leaving nothing behind.
Determined, the wizard then confronted the Aerant C’lain. Wrapping himself in the most powerful protection-spells mortals had ever created, using every ward he could think of, he started for the chamber’s low-lying entrance to end the terror.
As he entered, Lloreanthoran felt the onrush of dark souls trying to penetrate his wards, but they held. Now, after his fatal error outside, he was ready. Prepared to strike back and fight off any hostile power that might threaten to destroy his spirit. Slight flickers of light danced around him, showing where the shades of the Chamber tried to penetrate his shields, but the souls were held at bay.
“I should have set these wards earlier,” he growled, the words as much scorn for his own lack of thoughtfulness as a reminder that he was the only being alive in the Aerant C’lain. The lights continued to flicker around him, but the onslaught lessened with every step he took down the stairs.
When he reached the end of the stairwell the ghastly attackers disappeared. He was alone, standing in a darkness that even his heightened elven sight could not penetrate. With a flick of his wrist he summoned a mage-light, which immediately rose to the ceiling.
The room was empty.
Lloreanthoran frowned, anger, and despair boiling up. “Damn!” he cursed, and fell silent. From the corner of his eye he detected movement. A trickle of dust slithered across the floor, making its way to the abandoned spot where years ago the Stone of Blood, the portal to the Realm of Demons, had stood. The mage tracked the flow of the dust with his eyes. He observed the motes of whirling, slithering ashes—he now realized what it was—meander toward the abandoned spot. More rivulets of ashes were crawling in the same direction.
They were everywhere.
“What is this?” he whispered, his shock of finding the Chamber empty, although expected, was replaced by curious dread.
More and more tiny streams joined the others, piling themselves up in the Stone’s empty resting-spot. A silent whisper arose from the walls, chanting something he could not at first identify.
The more ashes gathered in the middle, the louder the voices became. Some whispered, “Rise!” others joined them, urging with another word “Danachamain!” The sounds grew compelling, forcing him to join in the chant. Ashes trickled in from every opening, crawling like a horde of maddened ants toward the center.
“Rise, Danachamain!”
Desperately, Lloreanthoran fought to keep his senses together, struggled against the urge to join the ghastly choir. More ashes made their way to the pile that grew constantly.
“Rise, Danachamain! Rise!”
He felt magic being wrenched from his surroundings. This made him find new focus. Keeping his barriers and wards erect, supporting them with magical energy he channeled from pools only the most powerful wizards could access.
“Rise, Danachamain! Rise!”
His every sense reeled against the onslaught of voices and perverted magical energy that penetrated the Aerant C’lain. Trembling, Lloreanthoran fell to his knees, staring wide-eyed at the trails of ashes that slowly ebbed away. It was as if the gathering came to an end.
“Rise!”
The ash-motes circled around each other, spiraling, dancing, and performing an eerie ballet of things past, joining each other in a dance of death. Lloreanthoran gasped, trying to discern a pattern, as he sensed yet another increase in power.
“Danachamain!”
While ashes danced with and circled around each other, motes of light, as dark as any the elf had ever seen before appeared, and joined the shuffle. Now the chanting voices were supported by a low hum that rose from the depths of the darkness. Lloreanthoran cringed in fear; despair threatened to overwhelm him.
“Rise!”
Out of the chaos rose a figure, and with every turn of ashes and light it gained more substance: a human.
“Danachamain!”
“Arise!”
CHAPTER 34
Sixteenth of Chill, 1475 K.C.
Now was the time. Kildanor refused to say his goodbyes. Cumaill was busy arranging new warbands, Nerran was still out inspecting the fortresses, and even though he had seen a lot of Braigh during the past few days, he didn’t yet consider the Caretaker that much of a friend to warrant a farewell.
Of course, he intended to return, but what the Chosen planned to do was slightly more dangerous than a trip to The Shadowpeaks. Besides, he was certain Cumaill would balk at their goal. Yet it had to be done.
At the ring of the evening gong, he rode Dawntreader to the western gate. By horse the journey from Dunthiochagh to Harail took five days, but Kildanor made it in moments. When the last rays of Lesganagh‘s glowing orb crossed the horizon, he guided his mount onto the light of his deity and reached the glade north of the capital in a few heartbeats. He hadn’t been this close to Harail in years, and neither had he been in much contact with his fellow Chosen. Now, as his horse departed the beam of light, he saw the grim and determined faces of his brethren.
There were no enthusiastic smiles, no warm welcomes. Everyone knew Chanastardh’s invasion posed more of a danger than just the loss of land. They all felt it. Someone in Chanastardh wanted to get to Dragoncrest and aside from the Chosen, only the king knew where to find the exact place.
“Has he spoken?” he came right to the heart of the matter.
Orkeanas shook his head. “No.”
“So, we can still prevent him being interrogated.”
“Aye.”
“Let’s get to it then,” Kildanor growled.
They waited until nightfall, twenty-two silent figures lurking in the shade of nearby trees. Kildanor didn’t miss the conversation; ever since he had been exiled from the capital he had barely spoken to the others. There was no need. He had been the one to speak out against Lerainh’s brutal pleasures, had intervened when he couldn’t stand the monarch’s perversions any longer. Had he killed the king, he would have done so with a smile.
Kildanor glanced at his companions, twenty-one as they had been ever since the Demon War. Many of them hadn’t even been born when Danachamain had led that fatal expedition to Honas Graigh. Of the first Chosen, only Orkeanas and he were left.
Ethain. Ganaedor. The names flashed through his mind
like the strike of a whip. Traitors, both of them. They had been with Danachamain when he discovered the means to release the demons onto the world. “Bloody fools,” he muttered.
In a way he was glad to have been banished from Harail, seeing his fellow Chosen always reminded him of the two who made their order incomplete. Lesganagh had made twenty-four champions and guardians, and any one would be replaced upon death.
Ethain and Ganaedor were still alive, if one could call their existence living.
“Memories?” Orkeanas’s voice broke his reverie.
“Aye.”
“Too many bad ones,” the First of the Chosen said.
“They always are,” Kildanor replied.
“We never considered the consequences when we accepted The Call.”
“Aye.”
“Sometimes it seems unbearable, but what can we do? We are Chosen. For good or bad, we are the guardians.”
“The dead are the lucky ones; they have no more burdens to bear.” Kildanor glanced at the rising moon and lowered his head in silent reverence.
“We all have a choice,” Orkeanas said, his voice barely a whisper. “We are the choices we make.” When Kildanor remained silent, he went on. “The two that are missing made their choice as well. You can't blame yourself still.”
“Why not? I promised to look out for them.”
“Danachamain asked you to stay behind; he wanted to make sure King Halmond was safe.”
“Danachamain.” Kildanor’s voice was dripping with venom.
“We don’t know what happened in Honas Graigh; he may have been a victim as well. But that is in the past, and now we must keep to our duty.”
Kildanor smirked, as he drew his sword and stroked the blade with his gloved hand. “I could’ve spared us all this inconvenience years ago.”
Orkeanas rose angrily. “What do you want to hear? You know there is no heir!”
Kildanor stood as well, just as furious as his companion. “Since when is politics something we are meant to dabble in? Our mandate is the safe-keeping of the Hold!” he said acidly.
“And that can best be…”
“…accomplished by backing a monarch,” finished Kildanor, the sentence all too well known to him. “Spare me the platitudes. It was in our power to avoid all this by ridding the throne of one unworthy of living! Lerainh brought this nonsense about us all.”
“By being weak?”
“By surrounding himself with idiots who danced to his tune!”
“What are you saying?” Orkeanas snarled.
By now the other twenty Chosen paid attention to the two oldest of their group arguing.
“You damn well know what I am saying! You!” he glared at them. “All of you! Have failed to act, have become as guilty of the Chanastardhian invasion as the warlords who indulged themselves in whatever nonsense instead of listening to what every single bird sang from the trees by this summer!”
“We aren’t rulers,” Orkeanas snapped.
“No, but guardians should have some authority over the area they are protecting.”
“Damn you, Kildanor, we all agreed that this was the way to go! We did not want to rule this country.”
“That was when Halmond was king. His grandson should never have ascended the throne, being the monster that he is! Now, we run around and try to gather the pieces of the mess we created. In the future, choose your paths more wisely!”
“Is that all?” Orkeanas hissed.
“I have nothing more to say, let’s get this done. I am needed back in Dunthiochagh.” He stood and headed for the passageway he knew existed in the dark of the woods.
“You are needed here!” barked Orkeanas.
Kildanor whirled around. “I do my duty, better than any one of you, so don’t tell me where I am needed. With Cumaill Duasonh the Hold is safer than it was with Lerainh!”
Orkeanas shook his head and looked to the ground. “What has become of us, old friend?”
“People with a mission,” Kildanor growled and turned toward the entrance. “Let’s finish this.”
Anne Cirrain looked about her quarters and was unsure what to think. This was certainly not what she had expected life in the Chanastardhian army to be. Yes, there were routines, drills for the forces still gathered in Harail, but she wasn’t part of anything. Even though High General Mireynh had attached her to his staff, she had nothing to do. It felt as if Mireynh wanted her to stay away from any planning. Which in itself was odd, for Anne felt that the general appreciated what little advice she had been able to give. Still, she was on her own most of the time, and she was bored.
The sound of a gong signaled the warleaders who still remained in the royal palace that supper was being served, and she decided that even the company of the southern noblemen lowlifes was preferable to another evening of solitude. As she headed out of her room, Anne thought briefly about changing from her leathers into something more suitable. Then she reminded herself that her father’s stable boys would be suitably attired for the company of nobles she was to sup with. “Double-tongued, inbred bastards,” she muttered and walked down the stairs toward the great hall that served as the mess hall.
When she entered, she was surprised to see the room almost empty. Still more troops had left Harail, and of the few noblemen that remained Anne knew none. “Good evening,” she said, walking toward the table.
“Ah, the Lady Cirrain graces us with her presence,” High General Mireynh, whom she had not noticed, said.
“Milord,” she replied with a curt nod. “Lords,” she said to the others, who mumbled their greetings and resumed their conversations.
“I’ve good news, Cirrain,” Mireynh waved her to his side.
She sat and looked at the general. “Yes?”
“You’re to remain with my staff,” he said, and leaned toward her, continuing in a whisper, “you know more of warfare than most of these buffoons, and you can also enlighten me regarding the qualities of the various nobles.” He raised his mug, and a servant rushed forward to fill it. “I take it you prefer ale to wine also?” he asked loudly.
“I do,” Anne replied, and ignored the hushed talk that arose because of her statement. “Wine is quicker to dim one’s senses, and you never know when wits come in handy,” she added with a smirk.
Her statement was greeted with angry silence from her peers, but Mireynh burst out in howling laughter. “Indeed, indeed,” he said, guffawing.
The servant filled her mug and retreated. “And a few more people regard me with scorn,” she muttered into her ale before she drank deeply.
“Say,” a noble sneered down the table at her, “Lady Cirrain. Isn’t it true that you people from up north are more alike the beasts you are supposed to fight?”
Anne put down her mug, wiped the foam from her lips, and smiled. “If more alike them means that we can fight, yes, I guess we are similar,” she said, as she put food on her plate.
“What do you mean by that?” the man continued, his sneer gone. “Do you mean that you fight better than us from the south?”
“Why do you bother asking questions you already have the answers for?” Anne cut a chunk off a haunch of beef.
“Do you insult me and mine?” the man continued.
If Mireynh was paying attention, she couldn’t tell, he was engrossed in a conversation with another noble. Not that his opinion mattered in regard to her family’s honor. She weighed her options. Either insults would continue to fly about the table until one of them, she was certain it would not be her, had enough, and challenged the other to a duel, or the insults would fly until the idiot tried to strangle her in her sleep. Or she could just let it rest and spare herself the trouble. She opted for the latter, and began eating.
“Do you insult me and mine?” clearly the man refused to let the matter rest.
The advantage of having spent so much time on a battlefield was that one could ignore most noise and focus on a given task. So, Anne focused on her food, but the n
obleman, whom she still did not know by name, refused to be ignored.
“Do you insult me and mine?” he shouted across the table, silencing all other conversations.
Thoroughly fed up with this oaf’s attitude, Anne looked up from her plate and smiled. “Lord… what was your name again?” He began to reply, but Anne went on, “Not that it matters. As to your question, my guess is that yours were exactly the same words your father said to your mother when he saw what she had given birth to.”
“You whore!” the man shouted. “You will pay for this!”
“The challenge is accepted,” Mireynh said, his voice cutting through the colorful insults the man continued to throw at Anne. He turned toward the nobleman. “Callan of House Farlin, you have the choice of weapons, as you are the one being challenged.”
“Weapons?” Callan Farlin sputtered.
“Aye,” Mireynh said. “You accepted the duel and have therefore the choice of weapons. What be it, milord? Swords, clubs, axes? You choose.”
“I… I… apologize, Lord Mireynh,” Callan of House Farlin stuttered.
“Don’t apologize to me!” the general roared. “Apologize to her!” He pointed at Anne. When the man remained quiet, Mireynh looked at her and then the silent nobleman. “You have accepted the challenge, yet you refuse to make a choice of weapons or decide how this duel will end. As you won't do so, Anne of House Cirrain will determine the weapons.”
She nodded, unsure of what the High General’s intention was, but she knew which weapon she had preferred ever since she’d wielded one for the first time in a battle against the northmen. She had lost her sword, and the only thing within reach had been a heavy, two-handed hammer. Even though it was not knightly, she liked the raw power of the ungainly weapons. “Mauls,” she said, and could tell by the astonished gasps that none of the attendants had expected this choice.
