Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  The dog jumped up onto Ralgon’s corpse, and barked into his face.

  “Wake up! Damn you! Wake up, child!” The voice echoed from all around him. He had heard it before, whenever there was doubt in his heart, whenever he looked at Dog. It carried the same timbre as the one that had defended him against the bright light.

  Now the dog snarled into Ralgon’s face, her paws appeared to pound his chest in a fit of rage. Ealisaid shifted part of her consciousness into the spirit world. She wasn’t sure this would work, but she had to try and see what happened. Again, the dog was overlaid by the female spiritform, this time the woman pounded Ralgon’s chest. Duasonh moved to free the corpse, and Braigh followed suit, but she hurried to block their path. Whatever went on in both worlds, she felt that interference would be wrong. She didn’t know who or what the spirit was; her spiritsight again showed her the golden bowl hovering above the body. She couldn’t tell for sure which of Lesganagh’s children worked its power here, but one of them was intervening.

  “Wake up!” The voice sounded more insistent, desperate. Now Drangar felt as if a rope he was tied to dragged him down.

  A slight tremor coursed through the body. Ealisaid’s gaze wandered from the fiercely barking dog to the two men, her own astonishment reflected in their eyes.

  “What the bloody Scales?” Duasonh hissed.

  Neither Ealisaid nor Braigh spoke. The Wizardess glanced at the priest and found her own confusion mirrored on the man’s face. A heartbeat later she felt as if a tremendous force was ripping her insides apart. It was as if her brain was aflame, her soul screamed while her mouth could not. The agony that coursed through her mind and soul found its bodily echo in Ealisaid’s throat and arms, and then reached out to tear at her entire body.

  Drangar fell. Faster and faster he plummeted through the darkness.

  “What do you want from me?” he screamed.

  Fear, unlike any he had felt before, rose in him. He relived his nightmares. The haunted feeling of losing his mind made him claw at the unseen walls that had to surround him.

  They had been in his dreams, those walls, but now his fingers grasped nothing.

  Now the body thrashed on the bier, but Ealisaid stared on, unable to move or talk. And unable to hear. She saw Duasonh step into her view, blocking Braigh’s face. The Baron’s mouth opened and closed in rapid succession, but nothing reached her ears.

  She wanted to tell him what she felt, that everything in here happened for a reason. Of this she was certain. There was no malice in the pain, in the presence that surrounded them. She had seen the same recognition in Braigh’s eyes: a god was interfering! Directly!

  Duasonh took hold of Braigh’s body and shook the priest. When the Caretaker didn’t react, the Baron walked over to her and did the same to her. Compared to the soul-wrenching pain that flared through her, the shaking was nothing. Again, Duasonh said something, then, shook his head at the futility of his actions.

  Ealisaid’s spiritsight vanished, and all her senses slammed back into the real world. She saw Ralgon’s hands twist into claws, as if trying to hold onto something. Even the body’s mouth moved; lifeless lips went through the motion of words, baring teeth in a twisted snarl.

  Then, with a suddenness that caught her unprepared, the divine pressure was gone. Without the support of strained muscles, Ealisaid simply fell to the floor. Braigh struggled only a moment longer, before his staff slipped and he dropped as well.

  Try as she might, the Wizardess could move no limb, and so she only saw the outline of Ralgon’s body, as the corpse shook as if someone dealt it a mighty blow. He sat up on his bier, screaming at the top of his voice. “What do you want from me?”

  Then the body collapsed.

  CHAPTER 41

  Seventeenth of Chill, 1475 K.C.

  Kildanor wasn’t sure how he felt. Part of him was happy, almost excited, about their escape from Harail. Another part wanted to wallow in misery. Orkeanas was dead, had sacrificed himself to buy them time to flee.

  He had succeeded. The flamewave Orkeanas had summoned was the last resort, everybody knew that, and Kildanor wondered why the First had gone down this path. Summoning the wrath of Lesganagh killed the summoner; it was a price most deemed too high, especially since the Phoenix Wizards had summoned more devastating forces without being burned away.

  “We’re no wizards,” Kildanor reminded himself.

  The Chosen were extensions of the Lord of Sun and War, and what was fire if not self-consuming? Their duty was to guard the Hold so that no one would ever free what was buried beneath. This vigil was eternal, and they were not meant to interfere in the affairs of men. A silly notion; there was no way to avoid man’s business. The only way to guard the Hold was to support a strong leader. Lerainh was anything but; he should have died years ago. Maybe that failure, Orkeanas seeing his errors for what they were and what they had led to, was the cause of the First’s decision. At least he would be remembered for his sacrifice.

  Was there anything the others would remember him by when his time came? Kildanor didn’t really care, there was too much ahead to fret about such nonsense.

  The fifteen Chosen had retreated in orderly fashion, and with the Chanastardhians too shocked to worry about the small band of warriors, they had left Harail almost unchallenged. The warriors guarding the northern gate had decided to halt their passing; the ensuing battle had been brief. The Chosen focused their anger at Orkeanas’s death on the dozen warriors manning the gatehouse.

  Now they hurried for their horses.

  Kildanor looked at Galen who led the others with a firm yet relaxed hand. By seniority the new leader should have been Kildanor, but he was quite happy to leave the command to Galen. Only fifteen had made it out of Harail. Soon, there would be seven new Chosen among them, one of them to replace Orkeanas.

  “You’re coming with us?”

  For a moment, Kildanor thought Galen’s voice sounded pleading, but as he glanced at the other he saw the man’s faraway look. Galen was already calculating how many would be available to do what was necessary. “No, I’ll be heading back to Dunthiochagh,” he replied. He saw his comrade’s face sag with disappointment and added, “The Chanastardhians will first try to claim the city before they turn their attention to the Hold; everything else is suicide.” There wasn’t much to add, and he knew anything he could say would be just empty words, except, “If Dunthiochagh falls, I’ll be there, one way or another.”

  Galen swallowed. “I wonder who’ll be coming in Orkeanas’s stead.” Then, after a brief pause, he added, “You should have been First. With you it might have gone differently.”

  He said it with so much conviction that Kildanor was unsure how to reply. Leading the Chosen… the idea was something he didn’t want to consider. “I am not, and never will be. Besides,” he said, “I’m far too pig-headed to bully you lot around.”

  Galen remained silent, and none of the others said a word. Most of them were still in shock over the loss of their leader. Unlike Kildanor, the others had never been separated from one another since the Choosing. The community they belonged to wasn’t his, and yet he felt the hole Orkeanas’s death had left. “He did what he thought was right,” he said, unsure whether he was comforting Galen and the others or himself.

  Shortly before dawn the Chosen reached their horses. They had zigzagged across the fields and meadows surrounding Harail, and so far, no pursuit had been spotted. Kildanor looked around, saw the same sadness he felt reflected in the others’ eyes, and almost decided to join his brethren. He felt the connection his departure had severed four decades ago mending, but he could neither forget the reasons for his exile, nor forgive these people their determination not to interfere with politics. They all shared a bond—that much was true—but his path was different from theirs. He wanted to exchange Cumaill Duasonh for Lerainh, and with the old monarch dead, it was time to repel the invaders and groom Cumaill for the throne. However, there was one thing he could do.


  Kildanor rummaged in his saddlebags while the others prepared for their departure. When he found what he was looking for, he sat down and began to write. “Galen!” he called out, barely looking up from the parchment.

  “Aye,” the Chosen said.

  He handed the letter over. “This will help you with the commanding warleader at the Hold,” he said as he stood. “It will prevent any confusion.”

  “They don’t know?” Galen asked, casting a quick glance on the missive.

  “No one knows, and it will remain that way,” he replied. “This should be accepted. If not, send for me.”

  Galen nodded. “Thanks, I guess.” He held out his hand and Kildanor clasped it, and then hugged the man fiercely.

  “I’ll see you, one way or another,” he muttered. Parting now didn’t feel like it had forty years before. Back then, him leaving had drawn only the barest attention from his brethren. Now they surrounded the two oldest of their group, and clapped Kildanor on the back. It was a fond farewell, and he knew the battle inside Harail was the start of a healing of rifts that had grown over the years. The only thing he regretted was that so few of the original Chosen were there. “Galen?”

  “Aye?”

  “Do you remember… my… my brothers?” he forced the last two words out, almost as if he was vomiting. “Ethain. Ganaedor.” He felt the others’ resentment when the words left his mouth. The two Fallen, the two traitors.

  “Part of me remembers being killed by them,” Galen said.

  A few others said the same; he should have never broached the subject. Kildanor felt awash with emotion. “Should the Hold be attacked there will be twenty-four again.” He wasn’t sure if he could keep that promise, and he never was one for big promises, but here, among men and women who understood him, he felt certain he could fulfill it. Although he didn’t know how.

  Galen patted him on the shoulder and frowned. “You know what I know, and if you think you can do better than those who went after the pair during the Demon War, then try. If you succeed, none of us will complain. If you fail, we’ll know after a while. But first,” he added.

  Kildanor inclined his head. “First the Chanastardhians, then we worry about the rest. Fare thee well, my friend.”

  Galen nodded, and to Kildanor’s surprise the other Chosen followed his example, called him friend, and wished him farewell.

  “Fare thee well, my friends,” he replied, mounted his charger, and when the first rays of Lesganagh’s glowing orb touched the ground he directed the horse onto one beam.

  Lightbringer looked at the hazy figure floating before her. Cat was but a sliver of her former self; the fight in the spiritworld had cost her, not as much as expected, but still. The spirit was almost gone. Yet Cat’s presence seemed strangely powerful. Some other magic was keeping her soul in the world now.

  “Your words were true, Lightbringer,” the spirit said.

  “They usually are.” What was Cat hinting at?

  “What you did to me was wrong. What you did to my soul was wrong. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  This was not the same woman she had bound so many years ago. There was a certainty underlying Cat’s voice she had not possessed in decades. Gone was the almost docile spirit she had rescued. “I do what is necessary,” Lightbringer said.

  “I understand,” Cat simply said.

  “You understand? I doubt that.”

  “I understand more than you told me, and I see now you were right to do what you did, wrong though it may be.” Cat hovered above her.

  She blinked at the apparition. A Servant? It seemed impossible, but the spirit had a confidence about her Lightbringer couldn’t deny. “Tell me what happened,” she demanded, unsure if she still had power over the woman.

  “I couldn’t shield the boy for long. Just like you said my presence faded.”

  “Yet you remain.”

  “Aye, but not for long. My task isn't yet complete.”

  “Your task?” She had a suspicion, but it seemed impossible. The Lawgiver had never interfered directly, only through her priests. And Servants? Again, the word came to mind, and now she thought she understood.

  “There are gods, and they watch over us. Even you, princess,” Cat said.

  Lightbringer straightened. Nobody had used this title in millennia. Nobody knew. “What did you call me?”

  “I called you by your title, milady. I’m here to tell you that your deeds never go unnoticed, and the gods approve. Not necessarily of your methods, but approve they do.”

  “What of the things I’ve done?”

  “They approve, sunargh. Now I will go. My time is short.” The apparition vanished.

  Lightbringer blinked, shook her head, and tried to comprehend what she had just been told. Of course there were gods; she knew that. She did what was necessary, what was right. The gods knew, and approved! A smile crept onto her lips. Cat was in Lliania’s care now; she, on the other hand, had other things to tend to.

  CHAPTER 42

  His journey back to Dunthiochagh took moments, and as Dawntreader left the bridge of sunlight, Kildanor urged the charger into a canter. They passed South Gate without incident, and the Chosen was pleasantly surprised to see the city’s battlement alive with warriors.

  A quick tug at the reins and the stallion halted. Up on the wall he discerned wardens barking at their charges. Several scores of archers assisted by many city youths distributed baskets of arrows along the merlons up and down the wall. Things were changing for the better, and he was glad about having used young Garinad as bait. A passing woman-at-arms recognized him and gave a warrior’s fist-on-chest salute. He returned the greeting, squeezed Dawntreader with his thighs, and they were off again.

  Despite the morning chill, Trade Road was already abuzz with activity other than that of warriors. Servants, cooks, craftsmen, all hurried one way or another, some carrying baskets to fill or to empty, others merely trying to blink away the bright sunlight. This morning brought a crisp cold. He passed a group of youths who chipped away at the ice that had formed in the second arm of the new canal, and for a moment Kildanor worried the chill might affect the Dunth as well.

  His worry increased as he passed the first arm, three score yards off the river. Several children were testing the strength of the sheet of ice that covered the channel. The last time the river had frozen was before the magic of Shadow Academy had transformed the entire eastern reach of the Shadowpeaks into a temperate zone. Sure, further west and north the mountaintops still were covered with snow and ice, but down here things were different.

  Seeing a constable of the watch, the Chosen reined Dawntreader to a halt. After a brief exchange of salutes, he asked, “What’s with the ice?”

  The guard scratched his mustache. “The water ain’t flowing right, Lord Kildanor.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Ah, sir, you can’t smell it now, but for the past two weeks or so, whenever the air got a wee bit warmer, there was this smell. Real ‘orrible.

  “No one complained?”

  “Sure we did, sir, and Lord Jathain assured us it would be taken care of,” again the man scratched his mustache.

  “All right, fetch a few children with keen eyes. The channels are blocked somewhere. They are to find the blocked spots. Order whatever people can be spared to help get rid of the stuff. You know the drill, don’t you?”

  “Aye, milord,” the watchman said and headed off.

  Jathain had been gone for a while, and he was certain Cumaill had ordered the sweeping of the canals and moat. If the dirt had not been removed here in the new canal, was it possible that more of Duasonh’s orders had been ignored? That would mean the traitor still had men loyal to him in the city.

  “Constable?” he asked before the man was too far away.

  “Yes, sir?” The watchman halted and turned to face him.

  “Did you go through the usual channels?”

  Again, he scratched his musta
che. “Certainly, sir. ‘Tis right an’ proper.”

  “Who’s your warden?”

  “Bren Glaiden, sir.”

  “Thank you, constable. Carry on,” he said, urged Dawntreader into a canter, and quickly reached Dunth Street. So Jathain still had people inside the city. They had expected as much, and had time allowed there would have been thorough examinations but things had been rather shaky since the revolt.

  He crossed Old Bridge. Thankfully, his perch on the charger’s back was high enough to spy over the roofs of ramshackle stalls and makeshift booths to see that the Dunth was still flowing strongly. The river would keep their rears free for a while, until that Chanastardhian general either forded the bloody thing, sent a warband through the Shadowpeaks, or west down Dunth Street to the next bridge, some sixty miles away. Merthain was vassal to Herascor, so the army might cross the Dunth there. The bridge could still be destroyed; after all, the enemy general would be a fool to leave the four castles at his back unguarded.

  When he reached the northern shore of the river, Kildanor saw that the city walls were not the only place where warriors were busy. If the Chanastardhians managed to penetrate the southern part of Dunthiochagh, they would still have to cross the waterway, which would take a while; the banks would be bristling with defenses. But seeing sharp-eyed pairs of warriors patrolling the outer curtain wall, with clusters of guards at vital spots posted all along the battlement, was a vast improvement over what had been before.

  The drawbridge was down as was the custom during the day, but the massive steeloak gate that blocked the entrance to the Palace grounds was lowered, blocking his path. A precaution that had, until about a week earlier, seemed unnecessary.

  A sentry’s head poked out of a third-floor arrow slit to his right. The woman, Kildanor couldn’t discern who it was, recognized him and shouted, “The portcullis’ll be up in a moment, Lord Kildanor!” To whoever was inside, she barked, “Get the gate up, you louts!”