Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  He frowned. “My master is your master’s lord and father. There should be an exception!”

  “Why?” the Deathmask asked.

  “I am Chosen!”

  “Death makes few exceptions. Do you want the soul of Jathain the traitor before you and willing to answer your questions, yes or no?”

  “What will you take?” He hated this lack of control, wished there was another way.

  “There is none.”

  “Get out of my head!” he snarled. The Deathmask remained silent. “What say you? Answer me! What will you take? What do I have to give you to ensnare Jathain?”

  “Whatever is necessary.”

  A cold shiver ran down his back. The priest’s reply was meaningless. What did it take to capture an unwilling soul? “What will you take?” he asked again. “What is this price?”

  “Memories, feelings,” was the reply. “To capture any soul, you need to use bait. For those who celebrate with the gods it is simple: feed them love and they come. For the maggots, the filth, those of whom Lliania’s Scales did not approve the lure is different. I can explain this again, if you want me to, but the price will be the same.”

  “You won't take my memories?”

  “No, merely feelings, dark emotions for dark souls. It’s simple, Chosen. Symmetry in life and death.”

  “Very well, you leave me no choice.” His feelings made him who he was; his anger fueled him in battle. Now he had to surrender all he had left of the past, and he wasn’t even sure he could get the answers needed from Jathain’s spirit. What would the priest take? Would it be something that made him Kildanor? Who would he be after the summoning? There were very few things that could still make him afraid. This, the danger of losing his memories, was one. In essence he was his past. Would he still be the same? “I’m afraid,” he admitted to the Deathmask and himself.

  “To fear is to be human, Chosen.” He was about to protest when the priest continued. “You are human, even if you are loath to admit it! And you will remain who you are, maybe more so. The gods know the answer. Are you willing to pay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” the Deathmask said, turned away from him, and walked toward the skull-adorned chapel.

  Kildanor, feeling glummer with every step, followed.

  His return to the Palace felt strange, almost as if his body was not his own. The Chosen didn’t know what the Deathmask had taken. He didn’t feel any different, in essence, but something was gone. His memories were intact; he could recall his youth. He and his brothers, Ethain and Ganaedor, playing in the fields and woods that had surrounded their farm. Nothing seemed missing, but some parts were as if he knew of them, as if he had read them in a book. Danachamain he remembered as a good man who had gone off and fallen to some magic. The Heir War, a conflict of wizard against wizard in which he had fought. The demonic invasion that had followed the Wizard War, in which he had defended the fledging nation of Danastaer. It all was there, he knew what had happened, knew of battles, friends who had died. If the Deathmask had taken any price, Kildanor couldn’t remember. What counted was that Jathain had told him the signal to the Chanastardhians.

  For a moment he thought of young Garinad, but tracking down the errant spy had to wait. The information he had now would at least give pause to Chanastardh’s advance. He whistled a tune as he walked down Shadowpeak Street, enjoying the chill night air like he always had.

  Duasonh’s study was uncommonly cold; not as cold as the air out in the open, but compared to the warmth that usually permeated the place, it was quite chilly. “You rationed the firewood as well?” Kildanor asked as he entered.

  “Aye, says he wants the people to know he’s with ’em.”

  He spotted Nerran huddled in layers of blankets near the fireplace. “You’re a Paladin, man. Show some dignity!”

  “This place is still warm, lad. You should see our quarters. Cumaill had the staff close down all fires, except the kitchen and this miserable excuse.” The aging warrior pointed at the feeble glow. “Besides, not everyone is as young as you. Bah, you know what I mean, so sod off!”

  “Where is he?” Kildanor walked to Duasonh’s chair. He plopped into the seat and put his feet up on the table.

  Nerran turned and frowned. “He ain’t gonna like that.”

  “He has to cheer up some,” he replied.

  The Paladin squinted then sat up, a few layers of cloth falling away from his shoulders. “So, you paid the price, eh?”

  “Aye, can’t recall what it was though.”

  “Took me years to figure out.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t grieve my parents’ death anymore.”

  “Oh,” Kildanor said.

  “It’s not as simple as that. If you don’t grieve, you can’t really feel angry, which in turn makes revenge sort of pointless,” Nerran explained. “What drove your wagon?”

  He thought for a moment then said, “I don’t know.”

  “Makes life simpler, yet takes something you need, or think you need. I don’t know.”

  The Chosen frowned. “So, you didn’t kill the Eanaighists out of vengeance?”

  “Nah, I’m at peace with what happened to my parents; that’s life, whole circle and all. And before you ask again, I did what was necessary. Buggers were fucking things up, and right now we need the Lord of War more than turnips, eh?”

  Ethain, Ganaedor, his brothers, he remembered them, could recall their betrayal, but there was nothing, no pain, no hatred, just the cold facts. He didn’t care one way or the other; his brothers were lost to him, like his parents, his sister, all were gone. He was Kildanor, Chosen.

  Nerran winked at him, “Your worry lines are gone, lad. Guess he took a whole bit away from you. It won’t return either, no worries there.”

  Duasonh stormed into the room, halted the Chosen’s answer, slammed the door, and growled, “Get outta my chair!”

  Kildanor abandoned the seat and leaned against the bookcase. The Baron sagged down and heaved a heavy sigh. “What the Scales is this Garinad person thinking?”

  “What’s that?” Nerran said. “What’s he done now?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “I saw him near the cemetery tonight,” Kildanor supplied. “He was watching Ralgon.”

  “What’s his business with Ralgon?” Duasonh snarled.

  “Didn’t you send some lad to see him, Cumaill?”

  “Aye, he wasn’t in. His brother and sister-in-law said he’d been out drinking all night. Drank himself silly, they say. Couldn’t get anything coherent out of him.”

  “He seemed pretty together when I saw him.”

  “You didn’t stop him?” the Baron asked.

  “Wanted to. He took off when Ralgon left the graveyard.”

  “Why would Jesgar go after the Scythe?” Nerran scratched his beard.

  “Scythe?” Kildanor and Duasonh asked in unison.

  “Yea, you know, that’s what they called Ralgon. Cumaill, can you get the bloody servants to put more wood in the fire. I’m freezing! Anyway, the lad mowed down his opponents, like, you know, a scythe.”

  “Another bit of useless information,” the Baron muttered.

  “Aye, but does your man have any better?” Nerran grinned.

  “No, and he left the Garinad smithy after nightfall to report. He’s back there now.” Duasonh turned to Kildanor. “What about Jathain?”

  “I know how he was supposed to signal Mireynh.”

  “Splendid! We can lay the trap.”

  “If she can do it, lad,” Nerran added.

  Duasonh was about to reply when their room transformed into a lush garden, complete with rosebushes, gurgling wells, songbirds and a few fruit trees. “What the bloody Scales?” the Baron uttered and looked around, astonished.

  “I think the lass can do it,” Nerran replied, grinning.

  CHAPTER 60

  Twentieth of Chill 1475 K.C

  As the sun’s first rays broke thro
ugh the canopy of clouds, a scout sped toward the main body of Mireynh’s army. Anne Cirrain looked at the High General and smiled faintly when he gave her what he believed to be an understanding wink.

  He was happy with their progress; a forced march was exhausting, but it could not be denied that the warriors were anxious to do battle. Dunthiochagh, he hoped, would certainly offer the first real resistance in this, so far, rather uneventful campaign.

  Preliminary reports indicated that, in stark contrast to the main body of the Danastaerian forces, which had scattered in the first assault on the once thriving kingdom, Baron Cumaill Duasonh was prepared. A large force of his troops was supposedly gathered in Dunthiochagh. Some of Duasonh’s warriors were still manning the bastions in the army’s back, but Mireynh wasn’t overly worried. Several scores of warriors each sealed off the fortresses; none would harass their rear.

  What bothered him were reports that ragtag groups of once routed warbands were flocking to the Baron’s banner. Two royal flags flying alongside Boughaighr and Higher Cherkont’s colors on top of Dragoncrest Castle supplied ample proof of this. The other strongholds only flew the standard of the twin baronies, and with sixty warriors blocking Dragoncrest’s only exit they didn’t have to worry about either the Chosen or whatever remnants of Lerainh’s army were hiding behind the massive walls.

  Duasonh’s troops were rested, but Urgraith Mireynh was no novice at leading warriors. At night he ordered extra rations of ale and wine, keeping morale high. Happy warriors were good warriors. Despite the cold that penetrated even the thickest coat, the songs the warriors sung as they marched with the drums’ loud thump providing rhythm showed that his army truly was in high spirits.

  Mireynh looked at Anne Cirrain who sat comfortably and confident in her saddle. He still couldn’t believe such a woman came from a rebel family; truth be told, he doubted the High Advisor’s word that House Cirrain’s uprising was due to their traitorous nature. Her manner with warriors and warleaders alike was respectful, and almost everybody liked her. Still, his orders were clear: permit no message to her or House Cirrain’s warriors, and take her hostage should circumstances require it. Much like his army, he liked the woman, but sympathy for a rebel noble would only result in his own family’s execution.

  “Report!” Cirrain glanced at the scout as the man brought his horse to a halt in front of the two.

  “The Baron’s scouts have located us, sir!” The man petted the neck of his exhausted horse, and looked at Mireynh. “Our vanguard was unable to catch all of their lookouts.”

  “No matter,” the High General said. The traitor was still inside Dunthiochagh, and come nightfall, once the gate was taken, Duasonh would have to surrender the city. If not, the men were itching for a proper fight. He had been assured the South Gate would be open and the walls manned by warriors who’d then abandon their posts. Besieging a half-taken city would be easy.

  Urgraith Mireynh looked at his adjutant and smiled grimly. “They are warned now.” Turning to the scout, he asked, “Any horse?”

  “Only scouts as far as I could tell, sir.”

  Again, he looked at his aide. “Any sightings of heavy horse nearby? I don't want to be caught between hammer and anvil. The setup is perfect for it.”

  “No, sir,” Anne Cirrain said. “None.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered. “How long until we reach the city?”

  “We are bound to reach the Dunth-plain before noon, sir,” another warleader said.

  “Good,” the general said. He rubbed his left hand across his face, and closed his eyes, thinking. Then he looked at his warleaders. “Slow down the pace; if we arrive on the plain in the afternoon it’s early enough.”

  “Yes, sir!” the nobles shouted, turned their steeds and hurried to carry out his order. Only Anne Cirrain and the scout remained.

  “Go get some rest, son, you’ve done well. See that your horse gets rubbed down and has some hay. I expect you back for duty at noon.” Mireynh waved the man away and looked at the road ahead, watching as his warriors changed their pace. The thunder of the drums altered as well, and soon even trumpets began to play a slow, lamenting tune. The warriors sang along and for a moment the general thought himself in a temple with thousands of voices forming an immense choir.

  He turned his attention to Cirrain. “As soon as we reach the plain I want several parties to scout the area around Dunthiochagh. We have to cut them off. Have them look for suitable sites; if need be we will set up fortresses along each road. Also,” he added, “have them look for fords in the Dunth to the east. There’s only one road leading out of the city that way, and we must block every access, if need be.”

  “If need be, sir?”

  “Aye, my guess is we won’t have to use any of them, but circumstances may change.” He looked at the troops passing him. “Best be prepared, eh, Cirrain?”

  “You think we’ll take the city tonight?”

  “At least half the city, if the traitor does his job, aye,” he replied, confident.

  “Traitor, sir?” the woman asked.

  “Do you think we would’ve taken Harail in a day if their defenses had not been weakened?”

  “But I thought…”

  “I don’t like them?” He felt his smirk turn into a pained mask. “I don’t, and the one helping us here will be executed once we have the city, same as in Harail.”

  “Sir?”

  Gods this woman was dense. He liked her, but at times she just lacked the understanding of what it took to win. “This is war. We fight to win, remember that, Cirrain. Everything is allowed, so I use the traitors and then get rid of them.”

  She swallowed, nodded, her gaze remaining on him. “Very well, sir. Scout out the places and then what, sir? The ground likely is frozen,” the woman said.

  “Then we’ll wait. If we need to build the castles, so be it, but until we know for sure, have people take note of places with strategic value. Mark them on a map and that’s that.”

  “And should we need to build them?”

  “Have them light enough fires to melt the ice!” the High General snarled. “If we start a siege, you’re responsible for the thawing. We already have some wood, but I want more trees cut down. You see to that!”

  “Yes, sir,” the warrior-woman replied and rode off.

  “They’re set,” Mireynh muttered as he scanned the plain below. His horse stood on a hill near the forest that surrounded most of the southern Dunth-plain. Wrapped in his fur-lined winter coat he observed the walls of Dunthiochagh. The river had done its best to envelop the grass with swirling mist that seemed to thicken as Lesganagh’s Orb sank toward the western horizon.

  Duasonh’s troops stood on the ramparts: a bristling barrier of spikes that lent the stones an extra layer of menace. Behind those lancers and swordsmen, he suspected archers. In front of the open gate he could discern several armored figures on horseback. One of them held Baron Duasonh’s standard, the falcon, while the other four waited with empty hands. They were expecting to be treated with respect, and he would honor them with this formality.

  Anne Cirrain had returned to his side and looked at the assembled riders. “Guess it’s time to look into our enemy’s face,” she said.

  “Aye,” Mireynh replied, urging his horse into a light canter. “Time to demand surrender, boys. Come on.”

  His black clad escort fell into place, their horses’ coats as raven as the riders’ armor. One of them carried the royal colors: red dragon before silver mountains on black. Their faces seemed as unchanging as the obsidian hearts attached to their cloaks. He didn’t even know their names, didn’t talk to them most of the time, and truly didn’t give a damn whether they lived or died. His brown gelding and Cirrain’s gray mare were like islands of color amidst the massive black steeds. They outnumbered the Danastaerians six to one, but Duasonh’s archers more than evened the score.

  As he came closer to the wall, he saw that this southern stonework was
higher and in much better repair than its counterpart in Harail. Mireynh guessed that the rampart’s depth offered enough space for at least two lines of archers with enough room to maneuver for another half dozen in the rear. It would be tough to storm this wall if he had to. If the city’s defense was as formidable all along the curve of Dunthiochagh, it would become a long siege. But so far, every traitor had executed their part.

  They neared the gate and stopped a dozen paces away from the riders. He had no idea what Cumaill Duasonh looked like; according to rumor the Baron wasn’t the most fashionable dresser, but to his mind all the Danastaerians in front of the gate were dressed in rags, even the standard-bearer.

  “Pretty damn cold to start a siege, eh?” a fat man with salt and pepper hair said.

  Mireynh was surprised; the man’s tone was very relaxed, almost casual, even in the face of the massive army that slowly assembled near the tree line. When the four other men began to chuckle, he realized that his face had given away his astonishment. He scowled. “I am Urgraith Mireynh, High General of Chanastardh. In the name of King Drammoch the Second, I demand you surrender your city!”

  “What? No terms?” a younger man asked. By the look of him, he was barely out of his teens, but when he looked the youth in the eye, he saw age.

  “You need to name terms, High General,” an older man said. “You know, like that you’ll spare our women and children and all that. It’s the proper form.”

  The Danastaerians snorted with mirth.

  “Are you mocking me?”

  The chubby man shook his head, still grinning. “No, good man, we aren’t mocking you. We’re far too frightened to mock you; you certainly have us at a disadvantage, what with your army out there in the cold and us in here.”

  The younger man turned to the speaker and said, “That is mocking, actually.”