by Ulff Lehmann
“Impossible,” Drangar muttered, as the scene below unfolded in cruel detail.
His younger self jumped to the left, slashing blindly at a curtain, ripping it down. “Stay away from me!” he shouted. “All of you!” He swiveled the sword from left to right, stabbing at empty air, but the Drangar who observed the unfolding horror knew what the younger man saw. His nightmares were full of the monsters.
Hesmera’s face was taut with fear as she watched her beloved rave through the room. “Run,” the ghostly Drangar shouted, praying she might hear his words and escape her cruel fate. “Run! Run for your life!” But of course, she didn’t hear, couldn’t hear.
The weapon plunged into a desk, its wood cracking, splintering beneath the onslaught. “Please run,” Drangar whispered, while his young counterpart screamed her name in his mad rave, as he looked to his left and right, a haunted expression on his face.
Then, slowly, he turned to face her.
“Who are you, monster?” he shouted.
“I… I,” stammered the confused warrior-woman, unable to utter more. Her eyes were wide as she looked into the pained, vacant face of her lover, the man she was going to marry. “Drangar, please! Please, it’s me, Hesmera!” she finally shouted, her voice drenched with fear.
“Die cunt!” the young man growled, his voice feral. His blade neatly slid into her stomach, to the hilt. Hesmera let out a surprised gasp and dropped to her knees as her mad lover withdrew the blade.
“Drangar,” she uttered, blood welling from her mouth. “I love you.” Her last words were all but a whisper as the sword plunged, its steel going right through her chest.
“No!” the ghostly figure above them yelled, trying to avert his eyes from the spectacle. But he couldn’t.
“Watch! You have to watch!” his spirit companion said, her usual calm voice reflecting the hurt she felt.
“Why?” Drangar screamed. “Why do I have to watch myself killing her?” he shouted, beneath them his younger self hacked Hesmera apart, the sound of splintering bone almost drowning out the former mercenary’s pained voice.
Suddenly the world around them grew silent and the ghostly figure drew near, staring intently. “Don’t you realize, silly boy? Can’t you see it? This is only your body moving the weapon, it isn't you!”
“But…” Drangar stuttered.
“Look at the person down there!” the woman shouted.
Drangar glanced down, and saw himself driving the sword into her mutilated body. All across the room, around her lifeless form lay the already severed body-parts. He shuddered.
“Is that you?” She continued to shout. “Have you ever been able to call upon your sword and it readily jumped to your hand?”
Then he understood. “No,” Drangar whispered, his mind reeling with comprehension. “No, I’m not responsible for Hesmera’s death.”
He looked at the spirit, and felt loved, understood, appreciated without any conditions. “Mother?” he asked, and as he spoke, the world around him began to blur and he rushed away from the cruel scene.
CHAPTER 49
The High General had assigned her to the vanguard. Anne’s duty was twofold: to scout ahead, flush out enemies, and close on the army’s main body which, given their slower speed, should be only a few miles ahead.
They had left Harail two days ago, after a day of burials and messages written to inform nobles of their scions’ deaths. Mireynh’s anger at the Chosen’s infiltration had subsided but when the theft of several missives from his office had been discovered, an entire detachment of guards had been whipped bloody. Then, in the aftermath, a courier was sent north with several letters to Herascor.
When they finally left Harail, Mireynh had given precise orders: the fortresses along the road to Dunthiochagh were to be guarded only so the siege of Baron Duasonh’s city could not be interfered with. She thought it unwise and had voiced her opinion. Now, with so many arrogant idiots dead, and given her performance in the battle with the Chosen, the voices raised against her were few.
Mireynh had said, “We must revise the plan. That’s why we head for Dunthiochagh immediately.”
Anne obeyed the High General; she didn’t have to like it. Now, the vanguard reached the outlying guard posts of the army’s camp, which had settled and dug in around the only spot of land from which to reach Dragoncrest Castle. Already there were siege engines in various states of assembly, but when she saw the gorge and the spire upon which the fortress stood, the futility of a siege was obvious. Nothing short of birds could come close to the keep. Even if they bombarded the place day in and day out, the walls were too massive to breach and the defenders would repel any attempt to cross the void.
She pinched her eyes against the rising sun as she looked at the fortress. To her astonishment there were three banners flying above the main gate: Duasonh’s, Danastaer’s, and Lesganagh golden Sun and Sword emblazoned on blood red cloth. Three Danastaerian factions held Dragoncrest? She had a suspicion what the third faction was, but given the discrimination against the Lord of Sun and War’s faith in these parts she doubted the Chosen would flaunt their allegiance so carelessly.
When she saw House Cirrain’s standard flying above a cluster of tents, Anne guided her horse toward them. It seemed her absence had already lasted months instead of mere days, but the idiocy of Harail, the tedious squabbling between warleaders, and the veiled insults made the time with Mireynh seem eternal. She ignored the confused questions of the other warriors in the vanguard and jumped to the ground when she spied Dubhan preparing the breakfast porridge.
The older warrior looked up when he heard her boots thumping on the ground, and his sleepy annoyance was replaced by a wide grin. He tucked his unbraided long hair behind his ears and said, “Lass, now here’s a sight for me sore eyes!”
“A sight for you at least,” she replied.
“Aye, but nonetheless!” he guffawed and hugged her. The show of emotion was nothing new, but after the haughtiness of Harail, the affection of one of her own held the comfort of home. “Up, lads and lasses!” Dubhan bellowed as he lowered her to the ground. Anne dwarfed most women, but the weapons master was yet another foot and a half taller.
From the tents came angry mumbles. Then, one by one, the entrance flaps were pushed aside and the warriors of House Cirrain blinked sleepily, first at Dubhan and then at Anne.
“Oh, the lady managed to get her nose out of the High General’s ass,” Paddy said, standing up and yawning.
“Next, I’ll have my boot out of yours,” she replied, playfully glowering at her cousin. What came next was as much a ritual to the two as their mutual insults.
Paddy walked toward her, his steps slow and measured, arms outstretched as if to embrace her. She held her arms forward as well, her smile widening. They clasped each other’s shoulders and butted their foreheads together with enough force to send them reeling. For a moment Anne only saw bright lights; then she blinked away her tears and grinned at the man she considered more brother than cousin. “We’ve got to stop doing this!” she exclaimed.
“When we’re old and wrinkly…”
“Maybe,” she completed the sentence.
They hugged; then the others greeted her with hands on her shoulders and pats on the back. The palace, the nobles, to her none of it was home or family. These warriors, whom she had known all her life, were.
When the affectionate greeting was finished, Dubhan handed her a bowl of porridge. She smiled. “Thanks, mate, just what I needed. Listen, when you’re done filling your bellies, pack up.”
“We’re leaving?” Paddy mumbled, with his mouth full.
“Aye,” she said. She pointed at the pot containing the porridge. “You got enough for them?” She nodded to the men riding vanguard with her.
“Aye, lass,” Dubhan said.
“All right, ladies,” Anne said, “grab some grub!” Which the warriors did with relish.
She turned back to Paddy and Dubhan. “Who’s leading? And w
here is she?”
“He. Some bugger called Lord Commander Noel Trileigh,” Dubhan said. “Hardly knows which end is which on a sword, but he’s the man who orders us around.”
Before she could again ask for the Lord Commander’s whereabouts old Alayn pointed to the east. “His highness lives behind the fence.” The others sniggered, and when Anne turned to see the place, she noticed meager palisades surrounding a colorful tent.
“We thought about planting some flowers,” Paddy said.
Anne snorted. In other circles, namely at court in Herascor, such behavior wasn’t tolerated. In the grim mountains that House Cirrain called home, people knew loyalty was a blade that cut both ways. So, although Lord Cirrain ruled, he considered himself no better than those working the land. “Hasn’t anyone told him that a position like that is far too obvious?”
“Sure, some fool did, and he was whipped for questioning the Lord Commander’s orders,” Dubhan said.
“Trileigh rules with an iron fist, eh?”
“Aye, lass, but also with a brain of lead.”
The warriors shared a healthy laugh, and then Anne was off again, the vanguard following her. On her way she ordered wardens and warleaders to start packing, which they relayed immediately. Before they had reached the Lord Commander’s tent, half the camp was already busy disassembling their positions.
Anne and her small group reached the ridiculous fence just when a sleepy looking man stumbled out the tent.
“What?” he snarled at her. His clothes looked hastily assembled and unsuitable for the chill autumn air. Clearly, the man thought the world of his position, but had no true sense of what it meant to be in the field. The lace nightgown would have been more suitable in a Herascoran brothel, and the slippers that barely covered his feet would have caused them to be cold even in front of a roaring fire. The best feature of this clown’s costume, Anne thought, was a lush brocade and fur cloak that might have been very fashionable in the royal palace, but was utterly out of place in an army camp.
“What?” Noel Trileigh asked again, this time his look went to the troops who stripped down and packed up the camp.
“Anneijhan Cirrain, adjutant to High General Mireynh. And the question should have been ‘who’ not ‘what’, Commander!”
Nodding briefly at her, Trileigh resumed scanning his surroundings, only to be interrupted.
“If you wonder why the army prepares to march,” she said with a cooing voice. “The High General has decided to push toward Dunthiochagh, not bothering with the strongholds. They are, after all, poorly manned and no match for us on the field. Wasting our strength on them isn’t necessary.”
“But…” Trileigh stared at her and then back at the camp. Everywhere warriors disassembled tents and makeshift smithies, as well as siege-workshops. “Who gave the order?” he asked.
“You must listen, Commander,” she replied, barely suppressing her disdain. “High General Mireynh himself. And since you are awake now, your men can also look after your tent.” To one of the now attending warleaders she said, “Select a group of no more than threescore to stay They’re to prevent anyone from leaving.” She pointed to a few nearby warriors who immediately set to work. “You better get your gear together, Commander.” She reined her horse and sped toward the road that connected Dunthiochagh with Harail. A last look at the massive stonework that was Dragoncrest Castle reassured her Mireynh had made the right choice.
By noon the entire Chanastardhian army was on its way. Mostly they ignored the fortresses that dotted the way, leaving behind several scores of men to bar the troops holding the castle exits, and quickly finishing the various skirmishes with enemy scouting parties. Urgraith Mireynh drove his troops toward Dunthiochagh. Two days after his force had united at Dragoncrest, the army was almost a week away from Dunthiochagh, and its scouts reported contact with enemy troops.
CHAPTER 50
Jesgar was glad to see the walls of Dunthiochagh again. Even though the journey back had been by horse as well, his legs had healed nicely during the one day the riders had stayed at Dragoncrest. He still marveled at the speedy mending of his wounds, which Briog attributed to the potency of his ointment, and since his legs continued to recover despite the long days in the saddle, he could hardly voice his skepticism.
The Riders’ ranks had swelled at Dragoncrest. Kyleigh Mondar, leader of the half-dozen that had chased the traitor Jathain from Dunthiochagh all through Boughaighr, gave Jesgar a good-natured salute. She never tired of telling of the hunt.
The six Riders had finally managed to reach Dragoncrest before Jathain, overtaking the refugee resting somewhere in the foothills. When the Baron’s cousin had arrived at the fortress, the castle’s commander had already ferreted out those loyal to Jathain. The noble’s reception was rather direct; with Lliania’s blessing, Kyleigh was an Upholder, and the execution had come quickly.
Half a day behind the Riders came many warriors. Nerran had immediately assigned several score to remain at the castle and ordered the others to follow him to Dunthiochagh. The army’s warlord, a General Kerral, had initially protested, but after a long face to face talk with the Paladin he had relented. Jesgar had watched from a shady alcove, unnoticed by the room’s occupants. It was in this meeting chamber that he had found out from which family Nerran came. House Ghonair. In Dunthiochagh’s seedier taverns the name Ghonair was still whispered with reverence and awe. He hardly remembered the tales, but from what little he did recall, he knew the Ghonairs had been Paladins of Lesganagh. Whether Nerran clung to that old tradition he couldn’t tell, and the black eye Fynbar had given him for being too inquisitive was a not so gentle reminder not to pry.
“Nerran’ll tell you if you need to know,” Gavyn had said.
Jesgar obviously didn’t need to know, and when he saw Dunthiochagh’s high walls the only thing he cared about was a decent bed and maybe some food that wasn’t porridge. The more he thought about sleep and proper food the more his thoughts turned to home, his room, Maire, even his brother. Somehow, during the past weeks he had pushed his family to the back of his mind. He had been so busy that no stray thought had wandered to his brother and sister-in-law whom he had left without a word of goodbye. He missed them.
When the riders passed South Gate and were closing on the Trade Road/Trann Street intersection, he had come to a decision. “Lord Nerran,” he said after guiding his horse next to the nobleman’s.
“What is it, lad?”
Something was on the warrior’s mind, Jesgar could tell by the distant look in the man’s eyes. “I’d like to see my family, sir,” he intended to say, but in his nervousness the words came out mumbled and half-swallowed.
“Pardon?” Nerran said. “Spit it out, lad, you know I won’t skin you alive.”
“Yet,” Briog muttered to everyone’s amusement.
Jesgar repeated his request. He didn’t know if leave was allowed in time of war, but the Chanastardhians were still days away, and he could think of nothing to do for the Baron right now. Of course, Cumaill Duasonh might have different plans. Still, he hoped his performance at three of the four keeps leading to Harail had convinced Nerran of his ability and that he was loyal.
Nerran looked at him, and thought he detected mischief sparkling in the man’s eyes. “Well, lad, I believe you’ve earned a short leave of absence.” Jesgar smiled. “However, there’s a hostile army strolling up yonder road.” The warrior’s right thumb stabbed south. “I think I can convince the Baron you need some rest.”
“And considering where you put all that ointment,” Briog added, “stay away from the ladies!”
He knew he was blushing before the riders began to guffaw. “I… I’ll be leaving then, Lord Nerran,” Jesgar stammered and turned his horse.
“Not so fast, lad,” the aging warrior snapped.
Pulling the reins, Jesgar looked back. “Sir?” he said, wondering what the man wanted of him now.
“You should leave…”
Ne
rran was interrupted by the rushing approach of a band of robed and cloaked people. There were a score of them, armed with clubs and staffs, and to him it felt as if they were ready for battle. Jesgar frowned.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Nerran asked, his voice and bearing no different than if he was speaking to a merchant instead of a mob of muggers.
“The meaning of this, milord,” a tall man armed with a mace said, “is that we’ll take you and your Riders into custody for being either followers or priests of the banned one or heretic disciples of the Lady of Health and Fertility.”
Nerran barked out a laugh. “You’re joking, right? Besides, I recognize your voice. Caretaker Girec, is it?” The hooded speaker stiffened. “Why this change of mind, Girec? You’ve known me and my lads for years, why come after me now?”
“Your kind has led one of ours astray and planted within him the seed of doubt,” Girec said.
“My kind?”
“The cursed Chosen,” another hooded man said.
“The Hearthwarden’s High Priest Morgan Danaissan,” Nerran sounded genuinely surprised. “Isn’t this an illustrious group of murderers?”
Jesgar realized that priests of Eanaigh surrounded them, what he didn’t understand was why.
“We are not murderers,” the High Priest snapped.
“Weren’t those the selfsame words you told my mother when she let you into our house?” Nerran’s voice could have cut steel. “And you also know that I am no Chosen, if I were I’d be at Dragoncrest with the rest of them preparing to fight either the Chanastardhians or some other threat!”
“We need you all to come with us,” Girec said.
“Why?” Kyleigh Mondar asked.
“And you be?” the head of Eanaigh’s Church demanded.
“Upholder Kyleigh,” she replied.
“You are not from Dunthiochagh, stay out of this!” Girec commanded. “These people are accused of continued heresy and fermenting rebellion among the Caretakers of the land.”
“Do you, as the Hearthwarden’s High Priest, agree with your disciple that justice is no business of a lawful Upholder?” Kyleigh looked at Danaissan.
