by Ulff Lehmann
He leafed through the papers. Duasonh was right; this High Advisor had signed each missive. Drammoch or somebody else authorized other orders, which apparently had not passed through this man’s hands. Most regular messages were written plainly.
One document caught his attention. Kildanor scanned several others before he returned to this paper. “Have you seen this one?” he asked and held it out for Duasonh to read. Now he was wide-awake! Whatever other plans the Chanastardhians had, until this moment he had merely thought them bent on conquest. This missive changed everything.
“I studied them all while you were busy holding hands with Gail and the Wizardess.”
The Chosen felt a leer creep onto his face, and he couldn’t hold back. “Jealous?” he asked mockingly.
“I’ve more important things to do than playing Caretaker for a lunatic prisoner!” The Baron took the paper and read. “What is this Dragh-Hold?”
“Dragoncrest,” Kildanor replied.
“Why would they bother with that old place? And what’s with the name? Never heard that one before.”
“If you want to find out about it you’d either have to go to the Great Library, or become a Chosen, or die,” he said flatly. So, Dragh’s Rest was what the High Advisor was after. “Don’t worry about it, mate,” he grumbled. “The Hold is safe for now.”
“Hold? Rest? What the bleeding Scales are you talking about?”
“Chosen business, you don’t need to know, right now,” he replied. “My brethren are at Dragoncrest, and the enemy won’t get in anytime soon.” He didn’t like being so cryptic, but to worry Cumaill about things he couldn’t control—and frankly weren’t his business—would not help Dunthiochagh. “The High General will make sure he has no enemies at his back before he can secure the Castle.”
“How…”
“Would you act any different?” Kildanor interrupted. “It’s the only logical choice. He will sack Dunthiochagh first. Wouldn’t you if you were in his place?”
Duasonh thought for a moment, then said, “Aye.”
“So, worry about defending the city. If it falls, I guess we won’t worry about much else anymore.” A groan escaped the Baron’s lips. Kildanor knew how he felt; Ethain and Ganaedor had invoked the same helplessness in him decades ago.
“We still don’t know how large this army is,” Duasonh said. He was glad his friend had no difficulty focusing on a different issue in a matter of moments. “Mireynh’s speed is uncanny, especially if his host is big enough to take Harail as quickly as he did.”
“Considering how useless our defense was, and that Jathain was not the only traitor on Chanastardh’s side, they might’ve only worried about safe camps and a little forage. They would’ve taken most supplies from the villages along the way.”
There came a knock.
“Enter!” Cumaill said. Kildanor glanced over his shoulder and saw warden Kaltairr saluting. “What is it?” the Baron asked.
“My Lord Baron,” Kaltairr said, “we have intercepted and apprehended a group of spies who were bound for the Merthain Bridge, milord.”
Cumaill looked at him. “You know of this?”
“I do. I thought it wise to relieve our troops of people who might still be in favor of Chanastardhian rule.” He quickly summarized the plan with an occasional addition of the warden.
“I also sent a detachment to the Bridge to rig it so that it will collapse,” Kaltairr concluded.
This statement not only caught Cumaill by surprise, but Kildanor as well. “Bloody brilliant,” Duasonh said. “Congratulations, warleader, good work.” Despite her exhaustion, Kaltairr beamed at the promotion. “Your first order is to fetch the fastest riders, and drovers, and see to it that the outlying farms store their reserves in the city.”
Alert, she replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Get every cabbage, turnip, every bushel of feed,” Cumaill continued.
“Given her initiative, I think she understands.”
The woman saluted. “Consider it done, milord.” Then she turned about smartly and left the office.
“Think Nerran has…”
This time it was the Baron’s turn to interrupt, something Kildanor didn’t mind at all. “Even if he did, better safe than sorry, or low on food in spring. Our granaries are full, but we might not be able to feed everyone who comes seeking refuge inside our walls.”
There wasn’t much he could add. Cumaill Duasonh had been taught well, he admitted with some pride.
An urgent knock interrupted his sleep. Kildanor had trouble waking, and only after the knocks sounded like a battering ram did he shout a reply. “I’m up!” He stood and shuffled to the door. “What is it?” he snarled at the man he faced when the door was open.
“Sorry, Lord Chosen,” the guard uttered.
“This better be good,” he said, realizing too late that he had spoken out loud. The spiritwalk in the dungeon had taken out more than he thought possible; it wasn’t like him to say what went on in his mind.
The guard nodded, clearly preoccupied with something else. “Sorry, I was asked to fetch you, sir.”
“By whom?” He had no patience for riddles this early in the—he turned and saw the sun was already beyond his western window—afternoon. Had he really slept half the day?
“The witch in the dungeons, sir.”
Ealisaid? What did she want now? “Thanks,” he said, closed the door and dressed. When he left his chambers, Kildanor found the guardsman still standing at attention. “What the Scales are you waiting for?”
“I’m to take you to her, sir,” the man replied.
“I know the way to the bloody dungeon, man.”
“The witch ain’t in the dungeons no more, sir.”
He halted and faced the warrior. “What?”
“Lord Duasonh has pardoned her, sir.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he had been speechless, but now found himself unable to utter a single word. Had Cumaill lost his mind? If he hadn’t, had he consulted Lliania’s church before doing so? What had he done to appease the families of the victims? Question followed question, and he had no answers.
His first impulse was to head for Cumaill’s office, but whatever Ealisaid wanted, it couldn’t be unimportant. So far, the woman had been able to help, in a way that might be less useful for the war, but help she did. Without her Drangar Ralgon would still be in his fugue state or worse. Kildanor had seen the beings that had held Ralgon in thrall, and he was glad to have severed the connection between man and demons.
“Very well, take me to her,” he finally said.
“You should talk to him,” Ealisaid said the moment he entered her chamber.
The room she had been given was better than her cell. But then again, Kildanor thought, all closets in the Palace were better than the dungeon. “Talk to whom?” he asked, irritated at her unexpected greeting.
“Ralgon.”
“Why?” Maybe she was still getting used to the freedom she now enjoyed, even if there were two guards at her door. “You just asked me here to tell me I should talk to him?”
Ealisaid hesitated. “Yes,” she finally said.
The nerve!
“You are of Lesganagh’s faith,” she continued. “You believe Ralgon is important, so does Caretaker Gail, but she is gone, and Caretaker Braigh hasn’t returned either. I heard you and Caslin talking. There’s something special about him. You both feel it. Ralgon isn’t convinced that he is special, but he is sure about his innocence. He just can’t prove his innocence.”
“Braigh still hasn’t returned?” This news worried him. The past days had seen many changes; suspicions against the priest had been uttered. Now Gail was gone. Had the church taken her into custody as well? If so, why was Braigh still with them? He hadn’t done anything untoward. Braigh had said as much before his brethren had taken him, but his not returning to the Palace to look in on Drangar Ralgon was suspicious. He had picked up some of the rumors of Caretakers worrying about the resurgence of
Lesganagh’s faith, as if there had ever been any doubt the Lord of Sun and War still ruled the heavens. He needed to talk to Duasonh.
“I was told so,” Ealisaid said, then shook her head. “You need to speak to Ralgon.”
“Why?” he asked again.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He told me some things about the day he murdered his lover. I believe him, but I can't confirm his words without breaking my oath to the Baron, without using magic.”
“And you think I can?” He arched an eyebrow.
“Aye,” she answered with a shrug.
“Even if I could, what does it matter?”
“If his story is true, he is innocent.”
“That’s up to the Upholders to decide, not a Chosen.”
“Well, then fetch a bloody Upholder and let him see if Ralgon is telling the truth,” she snapped. “And don’t tell me the Church of Lliania can’t be involved as long as the man hasn’t been formally accused of a crime. You know that’s hogwash as well as I do!”
He had to admit the sorceress was right, and the conviction she spoke with convinced him. “Very well, I’ll see to it when I have the time.” Kildanor headed for the door.
A group of bloodied men and women halted his descent to the main hall. For a moment, Kildanor didn’t know any of them. Then he discerned Nerran. The aging warrior’s grim visage split into a wide grin. “Ah!” he shouted. “Just the lad I’m looking for.”
“What the bloody Scales happened?” the Chosen asked, realizing too late that his phrasing opened the door for all sorts of puns.
Nerran’s response, however, was sullen, “Some fools wanted to start a revival festival of the Dawnslaughter.”
Now Kildanor looked closer at Nerran’s companions. He recognized a few of the Riders, but one of them, held upright by an angry-looking Gail Caslin, seemed to have mainly his own blood on skin and clothes. The man’s eyes were almost swollen shut, his wrists were heavily bandaged, and he stood on trembling legs. He hardly recognized him. “Braigh?”
“Aye,” Nerran said. “Bastards took him, tortured him for his involvement with Lesganaghists… some business with hymns and returning people from the dead, that sort of thing. The poor lad was almost dead when we got to him. Health and Fertility my ass! If that’s nurturing and growing and raising shit, I prefer war. It’s not that nasty.”
Kildanor remembered the Dawnslaughter, when Eanaigh’s priesthood in Danastaer had ambushed the clergy of Lesganagh on their way to the dawn prayers. “Did you leave anyone alive?” he asked.
Nerran sniggered. “Lad, we’re idiots, not fanatics.”
Briog tapped the warrior’s shoulder. “That’s idealists,” he said with a grin.
“Ain’t that one and the same?” the Paladin asked. To Kildanor he said, “Aside from yon Braigh? Sure, turns out the fools had already bashed up some priests who disagreed with their plans for our lad Braigh, here; we saved whom we could.”
“And the others?”
“They paid.”
He knew what Nerran and many of his Riders had gone through in the past. Some of them had lost their families to the Dawnslaughter, having themselves survived only by chance, hidden by parents or away in Kalduuhn or elsewhere. Sons and daughters of priests and Paladins had banded together. Nerran had gathered these survivors and the followers of Eanaigh who had objected to the night of murder. “Talk to Cumaill, he’ll be glad you’ve returned.”
Nerran, the last appointed Paladin of Lesganagh in Danastaer, nodded. “We’ll wash up and see to Braigh and the others first.”
“Do that,” Kildanor said.
He had just reached the bottom of the staircase when he heard Ealisaid shout after him. He turned around, and saw the Wizardess hurry down the steps, her two guards just a few feet behind. What did the woman want of him now, he wondered, and asked when she reached him.
“I just remembered something,” she panted. To him it was obvious the sorceress was not used to physical work.
“Aye?” he asked, curious.
She looked at him, eyebrow cocked. “You could treat me with a little more respect.”
“Why? You’re free but still under guard. The end justifies the means; that’s the only reason you are still around. Yes, you did help with this Ralgon character, but remember you also killed a dozen people and destroyed two buildings. Wanton destruction earns fear, not respect.” The woman’s arrogance made him angry. Maybe she wanted to help, but he had seen what Phoenix Wizards were capable of, and unlike Cumaill Duasonh he would not trust a weapon he could not control.
“I made a mistake!” she hissed.
“Mistake?” he snorted. “Accusing the wrong person of theft and finding out afterwards who it really was and preventing the wrong person from losing a hand, that’s a mistake! If thrusting apart two houses and magically dismembering two families is what you count as a mistake, I don’t want to know what you call a grave error! The Baron has need of your abilities, that’s why you’re free.” He paused when he saw his words had the desired effect. “Well? What did you remember?”
Ealisaid struggled to regain her composure then said, “We forgot the dog…”
Kildanor didn’t even hear her finish whatever she had been saying but ran through the guardroom into the dungeon and down the corridor until he reached the abandoned cell. It still reeked of piss and feces, but that hardly mattered. Behind him, he heard the captain of the guards approaching. The man stopped as Kildanor kneeled on the floor to inspect the area surrounding the cot. “Sir?” the guard said.
He straightened and looked at the man. “Fetch me a lamp, will you?” Formalities weren’t his strength, especially in situations like this.
When the man returned, Kildanor took the lamp and began to search the floor again. “You haven’t cleaned out the cell.”
It had been delivered as a statement, but the captain answered, “No, sir, it’s just criminals down here. This place ain’t meant to be comfortable, sir.”
“He’s right, you know,” another voice added.
“Ralgon, is that you?” he asked, finally discovering what he was looking for.
“Aye,” the former mercenary answered. “And your friend’s right. A cell shouldn't make a prisoner feel comfortable.”
“Say, man, do you own a dog?” he asked as he pulled forth the mummified remains.
“Me?” the captain said.
For a moment, he had forgotten they were not alone. Kildanor shook his head. “No, Ralgon.” To the guard he said, “Leave us.”
“As you wish,” the warrior replied and walked away.
“So, do you own a dog?” he asked again, still in the cell, inspecting the canine corpse. He was no expert in things dead, knew how to kill but usually, aside from maybe burying or burning bodies, he didn’t bother to stay and watch a corpse decompose. This dog had been dead for years.
“Aye,” Ralgon said. “She’s called Dog.” He laughed. “Silly name, but she doesn’t mind. Why?”
This animal could not have been alive last night. Its fur and skin were so brittle; both fell away in the places he touched. Kildanor remembered the mutt that had led the horse into Dunthiochagh; she had spoken to him. And she had been with Ralgon when the man had returned from the dead. A little worse for wear, true, but it had been moving, eating, and, looking very much alive. This creature hadn’t drawn a living breath for many years. Was it the same animal?
“Does she speak to you?” he asked. “I know it sounds stupid, but I heard a voice when I met her leading a white horse through the city gates.”
His question was answered with silence.
“Ralgon, still there?”
“I am,” was the reply. Kildanor was about to repeat his question when the former mercenary spoke again, “Yes, I heard a voice, sometimes when I looked at Dog… I tried to ignore it… I’ve heard voices before, why should this have been any different? When… when Hesmera died… I heard voices then. They spoke to me… I still
dream of them… nightmares. But… I didn’t… couldn’t let the voice, any voice, talk to me again.”
Was this man utterly insane? The Chosen felt as confused as Ralgon surely was. No wonder he had seemed so at peace when he’d died. What could he do? What should he do? Should he do anything at all?
The former mercenary talked on, “You know, voices spoke to me whenever I got real angry, or when I killed someone in battle, or when I was drunk… gods know I haven’t touched alcohol in ages. I heard them again, before I awoke in this cell, they called me, told me I was… I can’t remember.”
Kildanor straightened. The demons had been talking to him? What had this ceremony in the mountains been about? What had the men tried to gain by sacrificing Ralgon? Had part of their ritual done what it was supposed to do? Why did he turn up now when the land was at war?
“I can’t remember what the voices told me… I never remember, but now…” Ralgon fell silent again.
“Now what?” Kildanor prompted.
He heard the prisoner draw a deep breath. “I remember what Dog said… that my time… that I still had time… that I must remember…” Again, the man paused. “Damn!”
“What?”
“The voice… Dog’s voice! I heard her while I was in the dark place.”
“The dark place?” Kildanor asked. “What are you talking about?” He stood, walked out, and headed for Ralgon’s cell.
The former mercenary sat on his cot, elbows on his knees, his hands holding his head. “What are you talking about?”
CHAPTER 53
Drangar hadn’t had time to think about all that had happened. His mind was a blur. The gorge in the Shadowpeaks, the dark place with voices fighting over him as if he were cattle on the market, his torment by the bloodied demons, the journey into the past, it felt as if there was barely a thing any sane person would believe.
He looked up and saw the man he’d been talking to. Short-cropped hair, clear, thoughtful eyes, and the tired look of someone who had spent too many nights without decent sleep. “The guard was very respectful,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Kildanor, Chosen of Lesganagh.”
