Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  There came a slight commotion from the west. Mireynh saw a blood drenched man charge in, skewering warriors left and right as he joined the line of Chosen. For a moment the defenders wavered. Then their attack resumed.

  The High General was surprised by the maneuver the Chosen executed now. The left line folded back toward the stairs! Not only that, but the right flank mirrored the move, and as one the double column shifted toward the exit. He glimpsed the center of the line; a man covered almost head to toe in blood, wielding his sword in both hands. The man remained standing, pivoting so that his back remained to the others. As the column slowly made their way to the grand double doors the single Chosen stepped with them, his sword lashed out, each strike a deadly hit.

  Then he could only see the one Chosen. In that moment, the man scythed his blade in a half circle before him, forcing the defenders to retreat. The warrior raised his sword high above his head and spoke.

  Suddenly flames surrounded the man. The next moment the flames spread out, toward the Chanastardhian warriors. Anne Cirrain sprinted his way, jumped up the table, and dragged him down. Then the ground shook, glass shattered, and like leaves in a hurricane, doors and warriors were torn into the room.

  Both Mireynh and the noblewoman were thrown across the room; a fiery gust of wind set everything aflame. Mireynh felt his lungs ignite. Desperately suppressing the urge to breathe, he limped to a ruined window, fresh air the only thought on his mind. He heard Cirrain moaning behind him and glanced over his shoulder, saw the woman following.

  White specks already danced before his eyes, when he reached the shattered window and leaned out, not caring about splinters still protruding from the wooden frame. The cold night air was tainted by fire, but it was colder than the boiling atmosphere of the Great Hall. Gratefully he sucked in air, lungs rattling. Cirrain stood next to him, her breathing as desperate as his.

  The sight of the large room stunned him. Beautiful tapestries and banners were all ashes, as were the remains of most warriors and guards, who could only be identified by their armor and the charred remains of their weaponry. The nobles had escaped the worst of the flames.

  All wood in the room was burning, but what caused his senses to reel was a skeletal being that kneeled on the floor, clad in the charred remains of a chain mail suit of armor. The being clasped the hilt of its sword, the weapon firmly embedded in the stones of the hallway. Its skull shuddered as it turned its stare toward him. He screamed in terror as the being stood, focusing its empty eyes on him.

  With ease it pulled out the sword and headed toward them, bones and armor creaking with every single step. The survivors came to their senses, and Mireynh saw in their eyes the same battle that raged within him, fear and instinct fighting to take over. He raised his maul. “Stay back!” Mireynh shrieked, heart pounding in terror.

  It continued to move toward him.

  Then, after a few more steps it came to a halt. “Know this!” Its voice was loud and hollow. “You have entered a war you can't win!” Its eye sockets blazed as the skeleton transformed into something frightening, divine. “You have begun a path that will lead to your destruction. You have chosen the worst enemy of all.”

  The High General gasped. Anne Cirrain stood in stunned silence.

  “You have overstepped boundaries set by the gods! You will fail, and the Chosen will be your doom!” The being raised its sword and collapsed, leaving shivering Chanastardhians behind.

  CHAPTER 40

  In Baron Duasonh’s presence Ealisaid felt shabby. Her dress was rags held together with a sackcloth belt, and her stockings weren’t much better. Prisoners were denied fresh clothing, she knew that, but knowing and experiencing something were completely different.

  Despite the lateness of her audience, Duasonh was still awake, the rings under his eyes a silent testament to his lack of sleep. He looked up at her, waved her forward, and smiled. “If you’ve come to complain about the food, I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done about it.” His smile was genuine, and she felt he was not mocking her. “What is it you want?”

  “My lord Baron,” she began, still wondering how she could tell him about her stroll in spiritform.

  Duasonh must have sensed her hesitation; he lowered the parchment he had been studying and looked at her. “Well? You roused the guards, so whatever you’ve to say must be important. I suggest you start talking.”

  This man was so unlike any of her instructors. Ealisaid didn’t feel quite comfortable being treated so politely; she was, after all, a prisoner. That didn’t seem to matter to the Baron. “Before I begin, you have to understand that there are things a wizard can do which might seem like magic but aren’t.”

  Duasonh nodded and motioned her to continue. “There are ways, for those who know how, to leave their bodies and walk the spiritworld.” She saw his irritation, understanding, and anger, and hurried on. “I have kept my word, milord. I did not cast any spell! One can't perform magic while in spiritform!”

  The Baron relaxed a little. “Go on.”

  If she were to reveal what had transpired in the small chapel, she had to be honest with him. “Frankly said, I was bored. After all, you can count the stones in your prison only so many times.” She snorted in wry amusement. “I explored the Palace.” Quickly she held up her hand to prevent an outburst. “Not to spy on you! I was bored!”

  “And you are telling me this because…?” the Baron hissed, fury obvious.

  “Something odd is going on in the Palace,” she said.

  “Aside from having a woman from an extinguished people as a prisoner, you mean?” Duasonh’s clenched fists reinforced the threat in his voice.

  “There is a man in the chapel in the west wing, is there not?” She had to speak fast in order to prevent the Baron from calling the guards and ordering her gagged, or worse beat her unconscious.

  A stunned look crossed Duasonh’s face. “Aye,” he said.

  “Who is he?”

  “Some corpse.”

  She could hardly blame him for being annoyed. Instead of getting the explanation he deserved from her, the Baron was the one answering questions. “When I was in spiritform I felt, rather than saw, a strong force of energy surrounding this man. I went to investigate and found that the man is trapped in the spiritworld as well as in ours. What’s odd is that he isn’t there, neither here nor there.”

  “He’s dead,” Duasonh stated.

  “I believe you, but his body should only be in this world, not the next.”

  “Are you trying to tell me this same corpse is floating in… you know, the other world?” The Baron’s brow furrowed as he stood.

  “That I am, milord,” she said, glad that Duasonh believed her.

  “There’s been something damned odd about the bloke ever since Kildanor dragged him back from the Shadowpeaks,” Duasonh said as he walked for the door. “Come with me.” He left the room, looked at the two guards, gave them a brief nod, and walked toward the chapel; the two men followed silently. She hurried to keep up, as he forced his way through guards and servants too slow to move out of the way. For a man of such proportions, Cumaill Duasonh was fleet of foot. At one point, he halted for a moment and spoke a few words with one of Eanaigh’s Caretakers.

  “You’re coming with us, Braigh, there’s something wrong with your corpse. Don’t give me that look, man. You’re the one who did the Rite of Passing, so you should explain some stuff, not me!”

  They arrived at the small room moments later. Inside a dog was barking fiercely at empty air, while the corpse shook on the bier as if pulled by unseen hands. For a moment it seemed as if the body would be rent in twain, its legs stretching in one direction, its arms and torso in another direction. Then both the convulsions and the dog’s barking stopped. Corpse and canine were still.

  “What in the gods’ name was that?” Ealisaid asked, aware of the curious onlookers gathered in the hallway.

  “I… I… I have… I don’t know,” Caretaker Braigh stu
ttered, obviously flabbergasted.

  Duasonh pushed his way through the assembled gawkers. “Move aside!” he snapped.

  Servants, courtiers, and guardsmen obeyed quickly, bowing as they stepped back. The two guards remained at Duasonh’s side, and both followed him into the chamber.

  “Braigh,” the Baron said, “what the bloody Scales is going on?”

  “I don’t know, Cumaill.”

  “You are a Caretaker of Eanaigh, man. You’re supposed to know things about that,” Duasonh barked, motioned at the corpse, glaring.

  “Healing the wounded, yes. Not the dead!”

  Ealisaid walked around the bier, and tried to ignore the argument. This most certainly was the man she had seen. A thought occurred to her: Maybe she could shift part of her conscience into spiritform and look around. Then she saw the trembling paw. She kneeled on the floor and took a closer look at the dog. It looked as if no one had fed it in ages; there was only skin and bones to it. She looked up, wanted to interrupt the heated conversation, and saw one of the two guardsmen frowning in what could only be disbelief. The man stared at the corpse.

  The next instant the guard hurried closer to the bier. Duasonh and the Caretaker fell silent, as surprised as she. The lone warrior stared at the corpse. “I don’t believe it.”

  There was movement. The dog, despite her desolate condition, stood, placed a paw on the corpse’s shoulder. Then it sat at attention next to the body, eyes wide but apparently unaware of its surroundings. Before she had the opportunity to study the mutt any further the guard spoke again.

  “It can’t be,” the man whispered. “By the gods, Drang.”

  He knew the dead. Ealisaid took in the guardsman’s appearance. He was a warden. The bronze ribbon showed as much, if ranks hadn’t changed in a century. This meant he had spent at least five years as a city watchman, and had moved through the ranks until he became part of the palace guard.

  “You know him,” she stated.

  “Was he part of the city’s watch?” Duasonh asked, having apparently reached the same conclusion.

  “Aye, milord,” the sword replied. “He vanished two years ago, after… Milord, do you remember the slaughter in Cherkont Street?”

  “Of course,” Duasonh said. “We never found the killer.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The man nodded toward the corpse. “Drang… Drangar Ralgon is his name. He was betrothed to the victim.”

  She saw Duasonh glance toward Braigh, who nodded and closed the door. The Baron didn’t want an audience.

  “What are you saying?” Duasonh looked at the guardsman.

  “He vanished. I mean, Drang wasn’t found when we discovered what was left of Hesmera, the woman.”

  “Did you work with him?” The Baron began to pace to room.

  “He was my superior in the watch, sir. We all assumed he had gone to hunt the murderer.”

  “What’s your name, son?” Braigh said.

  “Glaithan, Lord Braigh. Glaithan Millerson.”

  Duasonh nodded thanks to his friend and resumed the conversation. He paced across the chapel, halted in the middle of the room, and regarded the warden. “You assumed, but was there further investigation?”

  “Aye, lord Baron,” Glaithan said. “We searched the house and found Drang’s belongings were gone. That’s when we began to suspect he had done the deed, but that’s impossible, sir.”

  “Why?” Ealisaid asked, her gaze wandering between warrior and dog.

  “He loved her dearly. He’d given up the mercenary life to grow old with her. He wanted a normal life. But why do you ask, sir? Everything is in the reports we gave Lord Jathain.”

  “The watch was Jathain’s responsibility,” Braigh muttered.

  She didn’t know who this Jathain was, but from the straightening of Duasonh’s back and his glare at the Caretaker, she figured this person was not popular in Dunthiochagh.

  “Millerson, I want everything on this murder on my table first thing tomorrow morning. You have the permission to go through what’s left of Jathain’s office to obtain these reports.”

  The warden saluted. “Very well, milord.” He turned on his heel and left, closing the door behind him.

  Duasonh shook his head, and then looked at Braigh again. “What the bloody Scales is going on?”

  The Caretaker shrugged. “I have no idea, Cumaill, this is unnatural,” Braigh said. The priest stood at the bier and inspected Ralgon more closely.

  “What is it now?” Duasonh took a deep breath, as he walked to stand next to Braigh.

  “His last injury is mending as well.”

  “You can’t be…” The Baron’s voice trailed off, as he looked at Ralgon’s body.

  Ealisaid watched as the remains of the man’s stomach wound closed. Never before had she seen anything like that, not even the priests’ ointments had such power, especially over the dead. Was Drangar Ralgon truly dead? There was no breath. But why was the body healing itself? And who healed Ralgon?

  “A miracle,” whispered Braigh.

  “Aye,” Duasonh agreed.

  The Caretaker frowned and moved to stand next to the corpse’s head. He placed his left hand on Ralgon’s chest. “No heartbeat.”

  “Maybe it was the woman?” Ealisaid suggested.

  Duasonh and Braigh turned to look at her. “What woman?” the Caretaker said a moment before the Baron.

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you in the first place, Lord Baron,” she replied. “I saw the commotion.” She paused briefly to gather her thoughts. “The body moving, I didn’t see that, but I saw the dog barking, a woman screaming. I don’t really know how to explain, milord.”

  “Try,” Caretaker Braigh ordered.

  “The dog was standing on its hind legs, paws on the corpse. It’s hard to understand, sirs, the spiritworld does not distinguish between matter, only souls, spirits. A body is seen, but through a haze, and there isn’t much shape to it.” She pointed at Ralgon. “With him it was different. He was both here and there, his body, not his spirit. There was no spirit I could detect. Instead I saw the dog, as a haze in the spiritworld, and above it…” she trailed off, unsure of how to explain what she had seen.

  “Yes?” This time it was Duasonh who spoke up.

  She had an idea. “My lords, you know how a drawing can be altered, so to speak, when one places a sheet of translucent parchment above it, and then draws something upon it?” Both men looked at each other, at her, and then nodded reluctantly. “The dog was the painting, and on top of it, its haze in the spirit world, there was a woman. She screamed at empty air while the dog barked. That’s what I wanted to tell you, but there is more going on here.”

  Braigh looked at the body. Her eyes followed his gaze, and she saw the wound fully closed.

  “No corpse heals like that, sirs. But you know this.” The dog whined and laid one of its paws on the corpse’s chest. For a moment Ealisaid was under the impression that the skin twitched under the touch, but when she blinked and looked again, the corpse was as still as before. “What happened to him?”

  “He was gutted,” Duasonh said. “Some sort of demonology ritual.”

  She frowned. “Are you certain?”

  “My source is very reliable.”

  “Why did you bring him here?” She wanted to understand what had transpired, and needed all the information she could get. Maybe through the telling of the tale she could uncover what was going on. Demonology was nothing but a theory, not one wizard had ever managed to prove there was a world where unworldly beings dwelled. There had never been any successful attempt to conjure a nether being, and people had lost interest in the topic fairly quick.

  “He’s a follower of Lesganagh,” Braigh spat. “The Chosen who dragged him in wanted the ritual Lesganaghists are so fond of performed: The Rite of Light...” Underneath all the scorn, Ealisaid detected something else in the Caretaker’s voice. She couldn’t tell what was wrong with the statement, but this was neither the time nor the pl
ace to question the priest.

  “You performed most of the bloody ritual, Braigh, so don’t you dare blame Kildanor for this,” the Baron said.

  The priest looked crestfallen and turned his back to them. Ealisaid understood his dilemma. Duasonh’s scorn was difficult to ignore, and there was yet something else troubling Caretaker Braigh.

  “So why are the wounds closed?” she said.

  “A miracle?” Braigh’s voice sounded doubtful, yet somewhat resigned. The Caretaker took a deep breath and looked over his shoulder at the body. “Lesganagh wants him to live?”

  “And here I thought you denied his existence,” Duasonh said with a snigger. “I wish Kildanor was here to hear that.”

  “Damn you, Cumaill, I have enough problems as it is. Do you think my superiors are happy that I performed the Rite?” Before either the Baron or Ealisaid could reply, the Caretaker went on. “Yes, your servants talk; they are like everybody else. Gossip is part of their duty, it seems, and you damn well know you can't stop it.” He whirled around and pointed at Ralgon’s corpse. “Don’t you see what this means? Everything the Church of Eanaigh has preached for decades is undone by this… miracle.” He took another deep breath and made one step toward the bier. “How can a god be evil when he heals the wounds of a dead man? How can Lesganagh heal at all when that has always been Eanaigh’s domain?”

  She understood the predicament, to a degree. What she couldn’t fathom was the disdain Braigh showed toward Lesganagh. The Lord of Sun and War was not evil, he just was. He had made the world, gave it light and life, his spear had pierced the veil of the heavens to create the stars. Why would the priests of his wife consider him evil?

  She was about to ask the Caretaker, when Baron Duasonh said, “I have no patience for this. Argue religion on your own time!” He wanted to say more, when the dog barked. They froze and turned, staring at the canine.

  One moment he floated in darkness, the next Drangar plunged down. He felt more than saw that he was falling. Still everything around him was purest black.