Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Guilty,” Galen said.

  “Guilty.” Orkeanas’s voice so full of bitterness and venom that for a moment he was uncertain whether it had been the First saying the word. “Lerainh, King of Danastaer, you have been tried by Lesganagh’s Chosen, and have been found guilty of treason. The penalty for traitors to Lesganagh, traitors to the cause of protecting the Hold, is death.” Orkeanas stepped toward the monarch who edged away, whimpering.

  Kildanor pushed Galen aside and strode across the room. He grabbed Lerainh by the collar and picked him up.

  “Bastard, look at me!” he shouted. When the King didn’t acknowledge him, he slapped the man. “Look at me!”

  He wanted to strangle the life out of him, wanted him to at least slightly feel what all those children had felt when they were murdered by his royal hands.

  “Bastard! You gods-damned bastard! Look at me!” This time he punched, and shattered the King’s nose. “Open your eyes, murderer! Traitor!” Again, he smashed his fist into the King’s face. “Look at me!” He didn’t care if Orkeanas or Galen saw him. All the years of pent up anger and rage released themselves as he held Lerainh in his hands. “Murderer, look at me!” he shouted, his fist shattering the King’s jaw. Kildanor felt Orkeanas’s hand on his arm, the one holding the King, and he turned to face his fellow Chosen.

  “You want to give this animal the benefit of being burned quickly?” he roared. “Look me in the eye and say he deserves mercy!” His stare held Orkeanas’s. “Come on, give me your sermons about how we are not supposed to interfere! Tell me how there is no heir to the throne! Tell me we need to honor Halmond’s legacy!” He wanted to spit into the First’s face. “Tell me!”

  Instead he punched Lerainh again. “Tell me we mustn’t interfere! And tell the poor souls who suffered at this monster’s hands there was nothing we could have done to save them!” His fist smashed into the King’s jaw a second time, driving bone splinters through chin and lips. “Tell me he deserves a merciful death!” This time his fist drove into the king’s left temple. By now Lerainh’s head was a bloody pulp. “Tell me!”

  Orkeanas bowed his head. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Damn you, Kildanor, I can’t. You were right, and I have failed. The pig should have died decades ago.”

  Startled, he looked at the First, saw him turn his back and heard him say, “Do with him as you wish, we’ll wait.”

  They didn’t have to wait long, for Kildanor had barely enough time to punch Lerainh once more when shouts of alarm and the sound of steel on steel reached the royal chambers. Their entry had been discovered.

  CHAPTER 37

  The center of the Great Hall of Harail’s palace was empty. Tables and chairs had been moved aside to make way for the coming duel. Anne tested her maul’s weight as she looked across the room to her opponent. Callan of House Farlin regarded her with a mixture of fear and disdain. Disdain she knew and could live with. The dread that crept into the nobleman’s ash-grey face was new to her. Her gaze wandered up and down the man as he tried to gain a feel for the massive weapon in his hands. She had to admit, she liked this feeling of power. To have a southern noble trembling before her was almost as good as the thought of giving Callan Farlin a good thrashing. To draw first blood would be quite a feat, but she thought she could accomplish that without shattering too many bones. Her feelings of superiority were quelled some when she thought of Gwennaith’s remark.

  “Pay attention to his poisoned dagger,” she muttered absentmindedly as she looked for a dirk on her opponent. Nothing out of the ordinary; hauberk, half helm, plate gauntlets. The gauntlets would hinder the man more than aid him. She knew that from experience. Farlin would certainly wear leather underneath his chain. His legs were protected by plate, another mistake if he didn’t know how to move properly. Anne remembered how long it had taken her to get used to the interlocking plates. She had trained in plate in her father’s great hall for weeks, but in the cold mountains no sane warrior would wear it. The things were too prone to freezing up in the snow and if one wasn’t properly trained, its superior protection did not make up for the lack of mobility, even against a maul.

  There! Callan Farlin’s right boot seemed a little thicker at the ankle than his left. The squire was right. Given the chance, the noble would try to stab her. “Then he won't have that chance,” Anne muttered. She lifted her maul one final time, and let its heft slam onto the marble floor. “Ready!” She gave Mireynh a nod.

  “And you, Callan of House Farlin?” the High General asked. It seemed to Anne he could barely hide a smirk.

  “Ready.” But he didn’t sound it at all, and she wasn’t the only one to notice. A few catcalls echoed from one side to the other, but were silenced when Urgraith Mireynh stood.

  “Any rule breaking will result in summary execution. Fight fairly, ‘til first blood. Begin!” No sooner had the last word left Mireynh’s lips when Callan Farlin attacked. He came at her with raised hammer as if he wanted to drive her into the ground. Anne saw the man had a little training with plate, but that wasn’t enough. He was too slow.

  She sidestepped his swing, let the head of the maul slip down, and thrust the long handle between her opponent’s legs when he moved past her. Farlin’s momentum carried him forward, the maul pulled him sideways, and her quick thrust stopped both motions so that the noble hit the floor quickly, much to the amusement of the men and women who had toasted, only recently, to his health. Instead of using her advantage and bringing the maul down upon the prone Farlin, Anne stepped away. She wanted this humiliation to last longer than a few heartbeats.

  The nobleman stood and glared at her. A quick glance confirmed the dagger was still in his boot. His next approach was more cautious, but Anne could tell her opponent was still getting used to the ungainliness of the maul. This time his attack came horizontally. She stepped back to watch Callan Farlin pirouette around until he faced her again. The audience’s laughter was much louder this time.

  Farlin’s scowl gave her enough of a warning before the nobleman charged her. Instead of a retreat, Anne thrust her maul’s head straight for the onrushing opponent’s face, and she had to give the young man credit for his reflexes as he bent low to avoid her attack. Still, she stood in his path and merely let her maul drop, so that it hammered down onto his spine. Again, the noble was flung to the ground.

  “Can we start the fight soon, or is this a dance?” Anne taunted as she stepped away. “In which case I think I need to get my dress.” Now the audience cheered for her.

  She watched her opponent get up, dagger still in the boot. At least he was trying to win fairly.

  “Is this all you can do, whore? Dodge and mock?”

  Anne cocked an eyebrow. “You want more? Fine with me,” she said. She hefted her maul as she would a quarterstaff, like her teachers had taught her, and advanced. A quick thrust with its head, a teasing poke with the haft. Callan Farlin parried one but was too slow for the other. He still held his maul more like an axe, forgetting one of the most basic teachings that any weapons-master would offer: a weapon is. Any part of a melee-weapon can be used to injure. Her maul’s haft connected with his helm and sent the nobleman stumbling.

  She gave him no time to recover. Leading with the handle, she stepped toward him. She blocked his weak counterthrust with the maul’s wood, swept into the man’s range, and smashed the haft into his groin.

  The men in the audience groaned alongside Callan Farlin but she wasn’t finished. With the noble’s guard down, she gave his shoulder a resounding blow with the maul’s steel head. The noble lost hold of his weapon and stumbled to his right, his face a grimace of pain.

  Anne let her maul’s heavy top drop to the floor and leaned casually against its shaft. “Do you yield?”

  “No!” Farlin hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Retrieve your weapon then,” she said and took her hammer into both hands again.

  The nobleman walked over to the spot where his weapon had hit the ground and be
nt over to retrieve it. He swayed for a moment, and then brought his hands to the floor to steady himself. To any of the spectators it was quite a normal reaction, considering the punishment he had already taken. But when he stood, Anne saw that the bulge in his boot was gone. She focused on the man’s stance and how he held his weapon. There were only two hands in which he could hold the dagger, but he also had to maintain the illusion that he was going to keep on fighting with his maul.

  There was only one way to find out. Again, she led the attack with the shaft. She thrust the staff forward, and watched how well Farlin parried. He countered her attack with the shaft as well, although she detected a hint of clumsiness. The noble’s right hand held the top end firmly, which meant the dagger was in his left.

  Anne retreated a few steps and considered her options. Callan Farlin did not follow; he obviously waited for her to present him with an opening. She turned her grip on the maul so that the weapon’s head now hung under her left hand. Then she advanced, her right hand sliding down the shaft to rest next to her left. Using the shaft much like one used a sword in high guard, she attacked.

  Farlin looked confused as he parried her slashes on his maul’s wooden handle. She thrust to his right again and again, forcing her opponent to parry with the head of his weapon, and she noticed how insecure his left hand’s grip was. As he countered her thrusts, Callan Farlin retreated, his eyes darting left and right, searching for an opening. Anne denied him his chance and feinted her next thrust to which Farlin expectantly raised the shaft, but instead of pushing her improvised blade all the way forward, she reversed the momentum and smashed her maul’s head into the hand holding both shaft and dagger.

  Not only was there the telltale crunch of bones breaking under the assault, but also the clatter of a blade dropping to the floor. She heard the word “Foul!” echoing through the room, looked over to the High General and waited.

  Urgraith Mireynh stood and the noble mob quieted down. Disdain and anger were plain on his face; Anne almost expected him to finish Callan of House Farlin himself, but the general did not move. He looked at the treacherous aristocrat and then at her. “Finish it,” he said.

  “By your leave,” she replied and looked at the wounded nobleman. “Now, can you fight for your life?”

  From the corner of her eye she saw a few other nobles leave the hall. They probably did not want to witness the slaughter of one of their own, one who, in all likelihood was as much a coward as they were.

  Callan Farlin rose to his feet, maul clutched in both hands, the weapon’s head straight before his face, despite his apparent pain. She couldn’t help but give him credit for facing death standing tall, and honored his gesture with a salute of her own. Briefly she tipped her hammer’s shaft to her forehead before whirling it around so her hold on it was again with both hands a decent space apart.

  Then Anneijhan of House Cirrain attacked in earnest. Jab followed by a smash; both were deflected by her opponent. Sheer desperation seemed to drive the man, but it was more luck than skill that kept her from hitting him. Thrust, parry—the bastard was fighting back!—counterthrust. Suddenly the one-sided contest straightened itself. In Farlin’s eyes Anne saw his fear replaced by determination, and it was she that retreated from a vicious swing. She parried the next thrust and used her opponent’s momentum to whirl her around. Her maul’s heavy shaft smashed into the nobleman’s shoulder; again, she heard bones snapping.

  Dizzy, she stepped back, weapon held before her to block any possible attack, and tried to regain her sense of direction. Callan Farlin was beaten, and from the look on his face he knew it. Her world stopped spinning and she raised her maul to finish what now became an execution when she and everyone else in the room heard the ring of steel on steel accompanied by shouts.

  The castle’s defenses had been penetrated.

  Drangar felt the fury emanating from the luminous being that tried to push through the shadows.

  “I know your plan, Lawpisser!” the male voice snarled.

  “Your kind never knew to watch your tongue.”

  “You can't interfere!”

  “Says who? Which law states I can't defend me and mine?” the voice surrounding Drangar held a cold determination.

  “He never was yours, Lawspitter!”

  “You are bound by your word, sunargh!” Her voice boomed.

  Drangar felt as if a powerful gale passed him and shoved the light back. Then darkness engulfed him once more, and he was alone. Again.

  “Could have stayed to chat,” he muttered.

  After the exchange the silence became even more unbearable, even though he didn’t quite understand what the argument had been about. The demon wanted his future, or so it claimed. And who was the other being that had protected him? He had called her Lawspitter. Could it be… His thoughts halted; he was unwilling even to contemplate such a thing. Had everyone forsaken him?

  How could a demon want his future? He was dead, beyond the grasp of man and god, adrift in this black nothing. How could anyone want his future if he didn’t want it himself, and wouldn’t want it even if he’d still been alive?

  Dunthiochagh.

  Hesmera.

  He tried to recall her easy laughter, her mischievous grin; she had always managed to make him feel good about himself. Instead he saw the smears that had been her body on the floor, glassy, dead eyes looking at nothing. Hatred took Drangar again, multiplied, and burned inside him. He hated himself.

  How could anyone want such a future, a life so filled with self-loathing that he could hardly stand it? The scars from his unsuccessful attempts to take his life felt real, even in this world of gloom.

  Hate and fear. He remembered the force with which he had cut his wrists, and he also remembered his fear of being stranded in the vast nothingness reserved for those the gods deemed unworthy. Somehow, he had bandaged himself and the cuts had mended, despite their depth.

  Was there anything left, he wondered. After all, to the world he had left behind, he was dead and the gods didn’t want him; otherwise he would not be stranded here. He could hardly blame them. He deserved to be adrift in this nothingness. The demon? What did it want with him? Why would a demon have an interest in a soul adrift?

  He should have died with Hesmera. Now he would never have a chance to tell her how sorry he was. The past years hadn’t washed away his pain. Indeed, they had dulled it to the point where almost everything he saw was plain and pointless. The bandages that healed his cuts had done nothing to heal his heart. No bandage would ever heal the wounds Hesmera’s death had left behind. He recalled his face, the reflection cast by any shiny surface, and growled, “I hate you! I don’t want you! Get lost!”

  He did not. All that was left to him was himself. He felt a hand touching his cheek. A ghostly, fluttering caress that left a tad of warmth where there had been only cold, dark emptiness. Then it was gone, but it left behind something he had not felt since Dunthiochagh: the feeling of being loved.

  “You shall not fade. I’ll be with you,” the female voice from before whispered. Or at least he thought he heard something. In this darkness, nothing and everything seemed possible. Why would anybody love him? How could anybody love him when he didn’t love himself?

  CHAPTER 38

  “Kildanor! We must go!” He heard the anxiety in Galen’s voice, and all he felt was disappointment. He had imagined Lerainh’s execution differently. More slowly, at least. Now with the Chanastardhians alerted to their intrusion there was no time. The Second of the Chosen shook his head, hoping against hope that it wasn’t true. Galen’s voice shattered that hope, “Kildanor, we have to get out!”

  He grunted in disappointment as he grabbed Lerainh’s head with both hands. “This should have been slower, bastard,” he hissed and twisted. The King’s neck snapped, but although he felt the royal monster shudder and die, he kept turning the head until Lerainh’s sightless eyes looked down his back.

  Kildanor stood and headed for the corridor; G
alen and Orkeanas had already left to join the battle. As he left the king’s chamber he had an idea. The other Chosen were too honorable to consider spying; they were warriors of Lesganagh and their main duty was to fight. In the time he had spent with Cumaill Duasonh he had learned that knowing was the better part of fighting any war. His brethren usually just reacted. Instead of merely killing the King they should have also searched the palace for clues, orders, anything that would explain why Chanastardh was suddenly so interested in a country it could have owned a century ago. What reason did King Drammoch have to send troops south now?

  Torn between two options, helping his fellow Chosen or using the time they were buying to find out what he could, Kildanor stood in the hallway, sword in hand but undecided. He wondered what Cumaill would do in his stead. Cumaill Duasonh the leader, the crafty bastard who gathered enough information to make his opponents nervous before he let loose the dogs. Once convinced, Cumaill had provoked Jathain into action, hoping his cousin would not be prepared. Well, he actually had gambled with the traitor’s unpreparedness but had judged Jathain’s situation well enough. Maybe the others would buy him time to search for the enemy general’s quarters. He recalled the palace’s structure, its rooms and hallways, possible guard-posts and likely staff-rooms.

  “If I was a Chanastardhian general, which place would I pick? A room already furnished for paperwork.”

  There were at least a dozen of those in the royal palace. It had to be one with easy access to vital areas and the mustering ground to the north. There were only two rooms suitable for that. One was Halmond’s office and the other belonged to the chief tax collector. “Halmond’s,” Kildanor whispered and hurried away from the sounds of battle that came from the grand staircase.

  There were two ways through the palace to get to Halmond’s study, and both required going through guarded passages. At least they had been guarded during his time here, but any watch-captain worth his pay would post sentries where Danastaerian sentinels had stood before. He didn’t know how long the others would be able to hold the enemy back, didn’t even know how they planned to escape, and this left only one option. Head to the room directly above the study, through the window, down into the office and pray his hunch was correct.