Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Can’t see most of them, milady,” Kerral said. “You can arrange a score of men to look like three score. Mireynh knows this, but he will see the walls being abandoned.”

  “Let’s wait then,” Nerran said. He looked around and asked, “Anyone got some Broggainh? I’m cold.”

  The assembled warriors chuckled and shook their heads; even Ealisaid couldn’t help but smile.

  Culain held her, whispering into her ear. She barely heard his words, so focused was she on her task of creating the illusion. Unlike her earlier experiment with him seeing the illusion while she didn’t, she now had to see the image, and then maintain the mirage of an empty wall.

  “They’re stirring,” her lover whispered. “The Chanastardhians can see the walls clearing, dear!” She felt him release her, to pick up his bow.

  Timing was everything. The illusionary warriors could not merely vanish from the wall, they had to move realistically. There had to be sound as well, the scraping of boots, the chink of weapons, and the like. Noise carried, especially in the dead of night when almost everything was asleep. Culain kissed her cheek. “You can do it, Milady Wizard.” Ealisaid looked up and down the wall. Did the warriors move too slowly? Was their retreat authentic? Again, she felt his lips on her cheek, her temples, and her forehead. Again, she let the magic flow as it may, as reality might have been. There was no need to summon her inner strength.

  She could do it!

  Now! The illusory warriors had cleared the wall. Part of her focus maintained the empty ramparts, while she concentrated on the gate itself. She heard imaginary hinges creak as the steeloak portal swung open. Now a figure, illuminated by the shine of his lantern, stepped into the gap. He began to wave the lantern in the prescribed pattern. Once, twice, then he stepped back into the gate’s shadow, extinguishing the light.

  At first, she could see nothing, then, in the pale light of the moon, she saw figures shuffling across the plain, onto the road, toward the gate. The bowmen, unseen to her, waited. Culain was as invisible to her as Duasonh, Nerran and the others, but she felt him standing near, bow at the ready.

  The Chanastardhians were close now. Ealisaid heard the creak of steel and leather which, despite being muffled, was quite audible. They were at the gate!

  “Now!” Nerran shouted.

  She heard arrows being nocked, drawn and released around her, saw enemy warriors fall, but couldn’t see the sources of their deaths. Her illusion worked so well that not even the missiles fired by the bowmen became visible to either her or the enemy. For a moment she felt elated, this was magic! Her magic! She had cast a spell—a sequence of spells really—she had thought herself incapable of.

  Then she saw how much damage the bowmen were inflicting on the confused warriors milling about in front of the gate. The bodies lay on the ground, some deathly still, puncture marks in chest, neck, face, legs; others were twitching, pinned to the ground by their wounds and the feet of their panicked comrades. An enemy warleader had the presence of mind to order his warriors to raise shields; and still the Chanastardhians were trying to get through a gate that in reality was closed.

  She heard that same man order retreat, saw the warriors obey, and still heard Duasonh’s troops let fly their arrows. More warriors were felled. Now the Chanastardhians were running.

  There was the distant sound of arrows. Ealisaid looked toward the enemy encampment. Atop a hill were archers. The Chanastardhians were shooting at their own troops! She was so surprised her focus vanished and she saw the people around her once again.

  Nerran’s eyes widened in shock as a second barrage of Chanastardhian arrows sped up into the air and came down in the enemy’s own lines. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered. Then a third volley was fired into the retreating footmen. The remaining warriors died during this last assault. The enemy returned to their tents as if nothing had happened. She saw various groups of people vanishing into the woods. “The siege has begun,” Nerran sighed as the sound of trees being felled echoed across the plain.

  “What…” she stammered, unable to summon the strength to speak, so deep was her horror.

  “I have no fucking idea!” Nerran snarled, disgust plain on his face.

  Duasonh shrugged as if to dismiss the matter. “Look lively, lads!” the Baron shouted. “There’s much work to be done! Get those catapults fixed! We need more!” He pointed to a few warleaders. “You, Runnaidh, you’ll command the escort for the lumberjacks! Blarney, Candles, Keep, organize patrols on this side of the river! You know what needs to be done!

  “And pray to Lesganagh!”

  He found himself huddled against a grandfather tree. For a moment he didn’t know who or where he was. He didn’t even know how he had come to be there. “Who am I?” he muttered, staring at the marks scratched into the tree’s bark. There was blood among the cuts; his fingers ached. He looked at his digits, his nails split and torn, blood crusted on the tips. “Who am I?” He touched the tree. Why had he scratched the grandfather like a lunatic? “Who am I?” he said again, hoping the answer would come, hoping that someone would answer.

  Lloreanthoran.

  He remembered.

  Elf wizard, sent back from the hated home the elves of Gathran had created after the Wizard War. The Aerant C’lain, the Stone of Blood, gone, everything was gone. Bright-Eyes, his familiar, dead. The spirit of… whom? What was that name again? Da… na… cha… main… The syllables came haltingly.

  Danachamain. Who was Danachamain?

  He had escaped Danachamain, run blind for… how long? It was dark, a while after dusk if he chanced a guess. How long ago had his entry into the Aerant C’lain been? Running, running, running was all he could remember. Something must have released him from the fear the apparition had unleashed within. Lloreanthoran focused his senses inward.

  Nothing… there! To the north he detected the molding of magic, the gentle nudge of a mind shaping what was into what could be. It was an inexperienced mind which relied on the feelings of another to change reality. Was this what had drawn him out of his stupor? A barely trained mind using magic the likes no one had seen in the land for a century.

  With a determined push, he thrust into his spiritform and looked north. Who was this sorcerer? The world folded underneath him as he concentrated on the source of this change, and when he reached the border of what once had been Gathran, he saw the novice’s signature flickering high above the city of Dunthiochagh. The spiritual imprint was unique to every caster, with one exception. A century ago he had seen many of these beacons whenever he traveled the realm in spiritform. His symbol was nothing more than a bright, green leaf, but the humans had all been imprinted with the same sign, a phoenix, like the one he was seeing now.

  Impossible! They hadn’t left anybody alive. Yet it was there, fading in and out, like a dying, or kindling, flame. The caster might not even know there was a signature above him, in the spiritworld. A poke on his shoulder snapped his consciousness back into his body.

  “You wasted enough time, staring and screaming gibberish,” a somewhat familiar voice said.

  It took a moment to get his bearings, but then he saw the incorporeal being that floated beside him. “Lightbringer,” he said, and bowed.

  “Better than kneeling and wetting yourself, I suppose.”

  How could she manifest her spiritform this way? The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind back when she had visited him the first time, but now he stared at the Lightbringer.

  “You could just stand here and wait for the snow to fall, or you could do something that actually honors the little squirrel’s sacrifice.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Busy. You?” she said in a mocking tone; then held up her translucent hand and muttered, “No more questions, you know what’s at stake here, so you best get going, lost enough time as it is. Head south to Kalduuhn, find the Eye of Traksor, the monks will help you locate the books and the Stone.”

  All Lloreanthoran could do was
nod.

  The next moment Lightbringer had vanished, and he set off to the south, to find the Eye of Traksor, whatever it was.

  CHAPTER 64

  “So, what shall we do? Wait for the signal?” Anne asked. She wasn’t used to large-scale assaults, sieges, and treachery, and didn’t like Mireynh’s casualness on the matter.

  “Trust me, the signal will come,” he muttered. “Say,” he glanced at her, “how many volunteers do we have?”

  She looked at him, astonished. “You want to send the Danastaerians as the spearhead?”

  Mireynh’s shoulders went up and down as if he cared little. “Why not?”

  “They’d face their countrymen.”

  “They joined us knowing they’d have to fight, did they not?” he said, hatred plain in his voice. It was almost as if he said “Let them die; I don’t care; if they take the gate even better.” Instead he growled, “I’d rather have had them butchered on the field when they faced us, but they pleaded for mercy, traitors to their country, their families. Let’s make the circle complete.”

  A shiver ran down Anne’s back as she heard the High General’s words, but she nodded grimly. “Four hundred, sir.”

  “Good, once I give the order they are to advance and take the gatehouse, understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” Anne answered. No matter what happened, Chanastardhian blood would be spilled last. She turned her horse and sped toward the troops that had volunteered to fight for Drammoch, a ragtag group of Danastaerian men and women who had fled their own flag to escape death. Dispirited when they first faced their countrymen, they had grown bolder in the folds of Mireynh’s command.

  Though she didn’t like traitors, the cold-hearted order she was bound to deliver sickened her. This wasn’t honorable. But neither was turning traitor. The High General’s hatred for turncoats was well known, but sending those people to the slaughter was beyond cruel. This was war, she reminded herself, trying to rationalize Mireynh’s order, wanting to see some sense in this approach, trying to stow away her disgust in the deepest recesses of her mind. Danastaerian blood would flow, so why not on both sides, she tried to convince herself.

  “Heads up!” the turncoats’ warleader shouted and the warriors assembled in a tight-standing square. “Orders, milady?” he asked, looking at her as she halted her horse.

  “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “You shall be first inside Dunthiochagh. Upon the High General’s signal, you are to advance and take the gatehouse. Good luck.”

  “But, lady,” the man said, “that’s suicide.”

  “You have your order,” Anne muttered. “Carry it out!” She felt sick and couldn’t stand facing the warleader any longer. Quickly she turned her horse and let it canter back to the High General’s vantage point.

  When she reached Mireynh, he was talking to the leader of the First Bows, a hardened veteran of several campaigns. “Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” the man snapped and returned to his troops.

  “What good will archers do, sir? The gatehouse will be undefended.”

  “None of your business, Cirrain.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. Then she waited.

  The night was getting cold. Anne rubbed her gloved hands to keep some warmth in her fingers, and still they waited. Then, just like the High General had promised, a light came from the gate, left to right, then up and down. One man of Dunthiochagh had done his best to let the city be taken.

  Mireynh turned to the group of flag-bearers. “Signal the advance!”

  The young men bearing the banners started waving them, swinging the poles widely, signaling the Danastaerians. The warriors marched forward, heading toward the gate. No sound was heard, apparently the turncoats had used the time to muffle their armor; there was no clink, no scrape, only the dull, almost inaudible thump of boots. In the clear sky, the moon illuminated the scene, and once Anne had brought some distance between her and Mireynh’s tent and the accompanying fire, she saw the huddled mass of warriors hurrying forward. They reached the gate and… halted?

  What the Scales was this? Why didn’t they enter the city? Were Duasonh’s troops blocking the gate? Was this a trap?

  The first warriors went down, dying, but who was killing them? The wall was empty! Why were they dying?

  Anne heard the Danastaerian warleader order his men to raise their shields. While doing so the warriors without shields tried to find shelter beneath their comrades’. And still the warband stood before the open gates. Still men and women fell. Who the Scales was killing them?

  She saw more go down, screaming, blood gushing from shoulders and necks. Others dropped their shields in shock as if the wood offered no protection. What were they defending against? What should they protect the warriors from? There was no archer in sight!

  “Retreat. Retreat, fools,” she whispered.

  Apparently the Danastaerian leader had the same idea, because all of a sudden they marched backward, shields high above them. Still warriors fell, blood spurting from faces and arms, and chests and throats. Still no one was shooting! People were dying because of wounds no one had caused. Anne didn’t understand what was going on; even the nobles around her were confused.

  “The bastards failed us, shame us with their inadequacy! Chanastardhians would never run! Archers!” Mireynh shouted.

  Anne’s head snapped around. She saw the First Bows at the foot of the hill. The bowmen nocked arrows, drew, aimed high, and let go. A cloud of missiles sped into the air and descended on the retreating troops. Now, the cause of the wounds could be seen, and Anne watched in horror as her countrymen, people she thought in her heart were decent fellows, decimate warriors sworn to serve King Drammoch. Mireynh’s single word had done more damage to her faith in the High General than anything he had done before.

  The street was silent, the moon was full, and Kildanor was bored and cold. For a while, after Ralgon had entered Cahill Manor, he had waited in the shadow of another mansion, this one not as venerable. The chill didn’t bother him at first, but as time crept on, first his feet then his legs went numb. How the warriors on the battlements survived this cold he didn’t know, but as he began pacing he also started to envy their resilience.

  At first, even when walking back and forth, Kildanor had worried about stealth, but the longer he walked and nothing happened, the more careless he became. “Stupid idiot,” he cursed. “Should have stayed in the bloody Palace, but no.” He had decided to escort Ralgon in case Garinad was up to no good. The Chosen rounded a corner and swung back to return to the gate when he saw a shadow move across the Cahill’s curtain wall. Had he been able to he would have also slowed his heartbeat, but all he could do was remain still.

  The shadow flickered across a wall adjacent to one of the lamps lighting the street. Suddenly, he was glad he had decided against wearing his heavy winter boots. He padded toward the spot where he suspected the intruder and saw him walking down the road, skirting the guttering lanterns the nobles had demanded put up in their streets. One of the lights allowed him to discern the intruder’s shape.

  Garinad! He was spying on Ralgon! Kildanor followed the stray spy, but despite his knowledge of Dunthiochagh, in the pale moonlight he soon lost his bearings. The streets looked alike, but when Jesgar entered a tavern, the Tankard, the Chosen once again knew where he was. The pub was close to the western slums, near the warehouses, close to where Jesgar had spied on Jathain’s smuggling operation. What he couldn’t figure out was why the young man had come here.

  A quick glance through the window showed a taproom packed with off-duty warriors and a few tradesmen; he didn’t see Jesgar. He couldn’t afford to lose the youth again, entered the place, took a longer look around, and finally saw Garinad at a table in the far corner. So far, he had been undetected, and he wanted to keep it this way. When a drunk vacated his spot at the bar, he slipped into the opening.

  “What’s yours, mate?” the aging publican asked.

  “Pint of bitter, plea
se,” he replied.

  “One silver leaf.”

  “What? I can buy an entire barrel with a leaf!”

  “Could, mate, could. The rationing and them warriors make prices go up,” the man said, foaming mug in one hand while the other was stretched out. “Take it or leave it.”

  Taverns and inns must do smashing business, but he didn’t begrudge them their fortune. Sure, the price was outrageous, but such was the nature of things: more demand, less supply, higher prices. He fished in his bag for a leaf and placed it in the bartender’s hand. Then he held his mug and took a long pull, his eyes once again on Jesgar’s table.

  A while later—at the rate this was going he would be broke after a few bitters—a man in a brown hood entered the tavern and pushed his way toward the far wall. Was this the same chap Ralgon had spoken of? The new guest sat down opposite Jesgar, his back to the entrance. Obviously, the man wasn’t worried about anything untoward happening behind him. Both men leaned forward and Jesgar began to talk. As the conversation went on, the hooded man ordered one pint after the other, most were for young Garinad while the chap still had his hands wrapped around his first mug.

  “No wonder he wakes up remembering nothing,” Kildanor muttered. “The boy drinks like a horse.”

  The conversation came to an end, the hooded man handed the serving maid a handful of coins, clasped Jesgar’s hand, and gave the spy an affectionate slap against the temple. Jesgar’s reaction seemed very odd. The young thief stood, a vacant look in his eyes, and headed for the exit, uncaring of the shouts and shoves he received from some of the patrons.

  His first impulse was to follow the boy, but if anyone was a danger to both the spy and Ralgon it was the other man. Jesgar would, in all likelihood, go home and sleep, with everything of this night forgotten by tomorrow morning. Given the spy’s consumption of ale he’d be incoherent anyway, and the lack of attention to his environment reinforced the Chosen’s notion. The key was the hooded man.

  Kildanor drained his bitter and left. If Jesgar had told the man about Ralgon’s whereabouts, Cahill Manor was the man’s destination. Was it possible this person was one of those who wanted to sacrifice Ralgon to the demons? He’d covered his face, like those bastards in the Shadowpeaks, and he certainly was looking for Ralgon. The longer he thought about it the more convinced he was this man was a Demonologist. If his way led him back to the Cahills, any doubt he might have would be eliminated. There was naught to do but follow.