Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  Mireynh could barely contain his anger; these bastards made him look like a fool. He wanted to extend the common courtesy offered to every enemy, but the Danastaerians made this time-honored custom into a laughing matter. “Will you surrender your city?” he barked.

  “What if we won’t?” the older man asked.

  Gods, how he wanted to rip their faces off! The nerve, these sons of whores poked fun at him even in the face of his army. “If you don’t, I will let my men off the leash and they will plunder, kill and rape!”

  The fat man chuckled. “Kill then rape? Gods, your warriors are hardy men indeed!”

  “Insult me, if you will, make fun of my heritage, if you must, but don't insult my warriors,” he retorted.

  “You said they’d kill and rape, lad.”

  He looked at the speaker, a man barely older than he, he suspected. “Guard your tongue, man.”

  “Ah,” the youth said, “don’t mind him, he calls everyone lad. Besides, he is right. You stated there’d be killing first and then rape. So, you have to kill women before laying them?”

  The fat man held up his hand. “At least they’ll do it with women, not goats.”

  “You bastards! No mercy to anyone within Dunthiochagh!” he growled.

  “Good,” the fat man said, his humor gone in an instant. “We ask for none, and you will receive none! You are a crude man, Mireynh; you don’t just ask for surrender, you promise to spare whomever. You didn’t, and even if you had we would have spat in your face, with more pomp and etiquette of course, but the answer would’ve been the same. This city withstood the Heir War and the Demon War when other places, including Herascor, were reduced to rubble! If you think you can storm these walls, burn the gates, and kill its people, then Dunthiochagh asks you to try. There’s a mass grave waiting for your warriors! Now, go. You’re fouling the air!”

  The man’s manner had changed from joking lout to nobleman in a heartbeat. Not even Drammoch carried authority the way this man did. He was impressed, terrified, but also furious. Furious at the fat man, the Baron most like, his own error at forgetting the rules of war, and at the jokes they had made. He also worried how his troops would take to insult.

  “Fucking bastards,” he growled and turned his gelding. Snorting horses and the steady beat of hooves indicated his followers rode back with him, but he didn’t care. He wanted Duasonh’s head on a pike before the night was over. The insult would be turned into a weapon. His troops loved him, respected him. He treated them fairly, and this abuse was directed at them as well. “Cirrain!” he shouted.

  The noblewoman rode up and kept pace. “Sir?”

  “Extra booze for the men, not too much, but enough to make them… more receptive, understood?” They would be frenzied when the storm on Dunthiochagh began.

  “Aye, sir!”

  CHAPTER 61

  The South Gate grated shut behind them.

  “Nice speech,” Kildanor said. He looked at Duasonh and shook his head in amusement. “Think he’ll grow careless?”

  “If what Kerral told us is true, he’s already foaming at the mouth.”

  “Well, lad, he did look very purple when he rode off.”

  Kildanor chuckled; Duasonh looked very pleased with himself as he glanced at Nerran. “I don’t think he’ll be so foolish as to send his entire army to storm the gate at once, but he probably has all of them ready to follow in.”

  “So, you think the lass can actually deliver?” the Paladin asked.

  After what he had seen last night, the Chosen didn’t doubt the witch could create the illusion. It had taken them quite a while to leave Duasonh’s office, and they had the bruises to prove it. Once they had entered the corridor the images had vanished, and when they had entered the Wizardess’ chamber she had been lying in the arms of one of the guards commanded to watch over her, utterly spent. Cumaill had been furious, but had calmed once Nerran had made it obvious that the warrior had still looked over her.

  At least she’d had fun casting that spell.

  “Aye. Mireynh will be even angrier in the morning, trust me.”

  “Oh, I trust you,” Nerran replied.

  “That’s all I ask for.”

  “Lord Duasonh!” Kerral’s voice came from the rampart. “It worked.”

  “What’s he doing, General?”

  “They’re handing out bottles!”

  Duasonh looked to Nerran. “What’s that good for?” The Paladin shrugged. “Well?” the Baron asked General Kerral.

  Ever since last night Kildanor had wondered whether he should be at Cumaill’s side when the attack began, or if he should monitor what young Garinad was doing. Now he had reached a decision. It didn’t matter if he was on the battlement, even on a good day his archery was pathetic, and at night he’d be lucky to hit a barn from ten paces. Sure, it didn’t matter, one just had to draw back and let go at a decent angle, but he had a feeling that whatever Jesgar was doing might not be in the boy’s best interest.

  “It’s an old ritual of Mireynh’s, milord. He gets them slightly pissed and then angers them with some slight, imagined or real. Your little speech provided him with better material to rave about!”

  If Jesgar was following Ralgon there had to be a reason. Actually, he knew the spy followed Ralgon. He had seen Garinad lurking near the cemetery when the not-so-dead man had talked to the Deathmask.

  “When do you think he’ll attack?”

  “Whenever he sees the signal, I reckon.”

  “Cumaill?” He had to tell his friend.

  “All should be ready by midnight,” Duasonh shouted and then turned to the Chosen. “Yes?”

  “I won’t be with you on the wall tonight.” Before the Baron could ask any questions, Kildanor continued, “You’ve Nerran up there with you, as well as yon general, and let’s not forget the witch.”

  “What will you do?”

  He had expected Duasonh to refuse, to argue, but once again his friend surprised him. “I’ll look in on what young Garinad is doing. Ralgon saw him in a tavern yesterday, talking with some hooded man.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  Nerran grumbled, “Give the lad a break, will you, Chosen? He’s been through a lot, I’m sure he doesn’t do anything harmful. He’s a good lad.”

  He sighed. “I know he is, but this carousing and following, not to mention his lack of memory of what he’s been up to, I don’t like it.”

  “Lack of memory?” Duasonh asked.

  “Sir!” General Kerral’s voice interrupted his reply.

  “What?” the Baron shouted back.

  “He’s sending out riders!”

  “Probably to scout for places to build siege fortresses,” Nerran muttered. “Does this general know nothing of sieges?”

  Duasonh shrugged. “I’ll join you up there in a while, mate. Will you look after the chap?”

  “The lad’ll be safe under my wing, Cumaill,” Nerran said, dismounted, handed the reins to one of the squires accompanying them, and headed up the stairs to the battlement. “You’d best take good care of her, or I’ll have your hide, lad,” he told the young man when he was halfway up the stairs, pointing at his mare.

  Duasonh turned to the would-be knights. “Get back to the Palace, arm yourself, and come back here.”

  “Yes, milord,” the two men replied in unison.

  “You do know how to handle a bow, eh?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Good, now off with you.”

  “Whose are they?” Kildanor asked.

  “The blond one is Giles Huwill’s oldest, and the other chap is heir to House Tremay.”

  “Any ties to Chanastardh in those Houses?” Kildanor asked.

  “No, theirs are good families harking back to old Janagast.”

  “Any other nobles we need worry about?” He was concerned that some aristocrats not involved with Jathain’s attempted rebellion would favor living under Drammoch’s rule rather than staying independent. There w
ere enough families that had emigrated south after Halmond had conquered the three realms.

  “A few, but we’ll see. You said something about a lack of memory. What did you mean by that?”

  “Seems young Garinad has no idea what he has been up to the last two nights, maybe more. That’s what his brother’s wife told a man I sent there this morning.”

  “Too much boozing?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea, but I don’t like it.”

  Duasonh’s mind was at work, Kildanor saw. The Baron’s eyes were slit as he gazed off into the distance. He thought it best to remain silent while his friend worked out whatever he was pondering. Finally, Cumaill focused on him. “Didn’t this Ralgon character say he had been poisoned by something and then his body was used to kill his lover?”

  This was a possibility he hadn’t considered. Too many other things occupied his thoughts, and although Ralgon was upset, the wellbeing of the man was not his priority. Yes, Jesgar’s behavior was odd, but that an enemy of Ralgon’s was in Dunthiochagh and might use the spy to work some mischief hadn’t occurred to him. “Aye, he said that. You think young Garinad might be under a spell?”

  “Possibly,” Duasonh said. “See if you can find the boy, and stop whoever is behind this. If there is anyone behind it. Could just be that our spy is just following his hero.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You think that’s a possibility?”

  “I doubt it. That Ralgon saw Jesgar with some man without Jesgar taking note of Ralgon seems to indicate the opposite.” Duasonh focused again on the warriors manning the battlement. “Good thing we have the Wizardess.”

  “I still don’t trust her,” Kildanor countered.

  Cumaill furrowed his brow. “So far she hasn’t broken her word to me.”

  “So, you’ll be here?” Kildanor asked, switching the topic.

  “Where else should I be, mate? I don’t rule to hide behind strong walls when danger nears. This is my home!”

  “Aye, that it is,” he replied. “Good luck for tonight.”

  “Thanks,” the Baron nodded his dismissal and walked up the stairs to join Nerran and General Kerral.

  The inner bailey was busy. The quartermaster distributed sheaves of arrows, shields, even some spears. Off to the far side some warriors were practicing their archery. The men and women stood, barely two feet apart, in double rows of twenty, quivers tied to their belts. On a warden’s command, they drew and nocked arrows, aimed, pulled the string taught and, at a second order, let fly. Each missile found a target, and Kildanor saw that all five straw-wheels sprouted eight arrows. He paused to watch; a second group stepped forward, and the process was repeated.

  Something else caught his attention. In the shade of the keep a lone man went through the motions of basic swordplay. The man, unlike regular troops, was not equipped with shield and sword. Instead, he held the wooden practice sword’s handle in a two-handed grip, the blade raised above his head. It seemed as if the swordsman was uncomfortable, awkward with the weapon. The arms were too straight so that any slash would be carried with only a fraction of the force a proper Eagle’s Guard stance normally yielded. An uneasy cut later, the man saw his error, changed his footing and the angle of his arms. Now the stance resembled the Eagle’s Guard, and he slashed again.

  Resuming his now-corrected position, the man, obviously not a novice in swordsmanship, went through a series of cuts, thrusts, and parries until he returned to his original stance. Each of his movements seemed as if he reacquainted himself with both weapon and the routine. Still, the weapon was not meant for two-handed fighting, and even when he adjusted his left hand to grip the pommel, blade and fighter seemed at odds with what was clearly meant to be achieved.

  Kildanor crossed the courtyard and joined the man. Surprised, he finally noticed he had been observing Drangar Ralgon. The former corpse was frowning in concentration as he went back into Eagle’s Guard and began the routine anew. He had thought about suggesting that Ralgon pick up fighting again, if only as a means of self-defense, but the man had come to the conclusion himself. By the look of it, hair matted and sweaty, trousers and tunic showing stains of exertion as well, he had been at it for a while.

  For a moment Kildanor could see the man Ralgon must have been before the murder of his lover: determined, focused, and utterly unrelenting. Again, he went through the routine of cuts, thrusts and parries, and then the automatic return to the original stance. If only half of what Nerran had told him about Ralgon was true, the Chosen was glad to have never met the man in combat. The former mercenary halted in mid-swing and turned to face him.

  “What?”

  Kildanor shook his head. “Nothing. Practicing the old moves, eh?”

  “Figured I best be able to defend myself.”

  “So, you have been thinking about why these attacks were made in the first place?”

  “Aye,” Ralgon replied and resumed Eagle’s Guard again. He slashed and blocked. “Found the bastard spy?”

  “No, but we are looking. Something is definitely wrong with him,” Kildanor said.

  The former mercenary turned his head and managed a smile. “I appreciate your help. I really do.”

  CHAPTER 62

  “Are you going to follow me throughout the night?” Drangar looked at the Chosen as he stopped in front of the watch-house. Rob would finish his shift soon. Sword-practice made him realize there were muscles he hadn’t used in a long time, but he enjoyed the ache in his arms and legs. Had anyone told him a year ago he’d be shadow-fighting through most of the day, he would have called them crazy. Warriors were married to battle, and he had always said fighting was second nature. If there was anything he had managed to forget in the past two years, it was the moves.

  The Chosen halted beside him. “I want to make sure the boy won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Think I can’t handle a youth?” He didn’t know what to make of Kildanor. Sure, without him he might have fallen victim to the Demonologists—why they wanted to sacrifice him to these foul creatures he still had no idea—so he was grateful, but the Chosen reminded him of claims made during his youth that he was blessed by Lesganagh, another thing he would rather forget.

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that. I want to know what the Scales is going on with him.”

  “Do as you like,” he said and waited on Rob, the Chosen leaning against a wall a few yards down the road.

  “You fight with a two-handed sword?” Kildanor broke the silence after a while.

  He turned his head to look at his companion. “No, too clumsy. Good for chopping down horses, though. Why?”

  “You seemed uncomfortable with the sword.”

  Sword and shield, the preferred weapons of the Sons. Drangar had never liked to fight this way. Sure, he could if he had to, sometimes the extra protection a shield offered was needed, but it again served as a reminder of his time in the Eye where he’d learned what it felt like to be shunned, feared, even hated. “Not uncomfortable; I prefer the bastard sword. Shields are for the wall. I hated the wall.”

  Luckily, Rob left the building before the Chosen could reply. His friend seemed to recognize Kildanor and gave a brief salute before shaking Drangar’s hand and pulling him into a hug. “I see you survived,” the watchman said.

  “Aye,” he replied. “Let’s be off.” He pointed at the Chosen and shrugged. “Hope you don’t mind the escort.”

  Rob shook his head and smiled. “Not at all, it’s an honor, Lord Kildanor.”

  They walked in silence. Rob led the way up Hill’s Road, across the Dunth onto Miller’s Strip, and onto Shadowpeak Street. Drangar remembered some of the buildings from the dream-journey, but knew he wouldn’t have been able to find Neena’s home on his own. He saw Kildanor glance back every now and then, but whatever the warrior was looking for seemed not to be there.

  As they entered the Nobles’ Quarter well within Old Town, with buildings of varying opulence to their left and right, he began to ponder wh
at he had tried to avoid thinking about all day. What would he say to Hesmera’s friends? How should he explain what had happened? Certainly, mother and daughter would think him the murderer, and he could hardly blame them. Had he not thought of himself as a killer for the past two years as well? “Rob?”

  “Hm?”

  “When Hesmera was found and I had disappeared, did you think I was guilty?”

  The watchman halted and scratched his neck. Drangar remembered this gesture his friend did whenever he felt uncomfortable answering a question. “I would’ve also,” he said. “Had I been in your place, that is.”

  “It was kind of hard not to, Drang,” Rob said, turning to look at him.

  “I know. I thought it myself.”

  “You’re worried how her friends will react.”

  He nodded.

  “Explain the entire affair to them the way you told it to me.”

  “How long has it been since you worried about something like courtesy?” Kildanor asked.

  Drangar looked at the Chosen, but remained silent. How long had it been? He could hardly remember when he had been in a situation where etiquette was required. Back then he had said what he thought, not bothering with the niceties of court and society. He hadn’t even known about Hesmera’s friends until he’d seen Neena and the others. Had she kept this side of her hidden from him? Probably. He had told her more than once how he despised sneering, backstabbing nobles. “I’ve been speaking my mind ever since I ran away,” he muttered. “But I do remember how to do small talk and all that.”

  “You better,” Rob said. “The Cahills are one of the oldest families.”

  “Cahill?” the Chosen asked, clearly astonished. “That’s where you’re going?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “The Lady Cahill and her daughter were friends of Hesmera’s.”

  “They’re also quite easygoing, compared to some of the old lickspittles crowding these mansions,” Kildanor said. “Don’t be a pig, and all should be fine.”

  “Pig?” Drangar said, frowning.

  “You know, don’t be too much of a mercenary, show some courtesy, and let go of some of that stoicism.”