Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  If his new friend suspected any pursuit, his pace would have changed. The man wandered through Dunthiochagh as if he had not a care in the world, and Kildanor found it easy to keep his target in sight.

  They crossed Old Bridge, the Chosen always a few dozen steps behind. Mist, frozen on the cobblestones, made footing treacherous, and he slowed. His mark went on, as if the frost-rimmed stones did not bother him.

  At the Palace, the man turned right into Shadowpeak. Here, Kildanor’s steps were little better than stumbles, but soon, as they got farther away from the river, his soles had more traction. He quickened his pace, could still see the man, but…

  There! The chap hurried around another bend. The Chosen sprinted and reached the corner a few moments later.

  He chanced a quick glance into the crossing street, and recoiled. The hooded man stood directly in front of him, stepped forward, and fixed him with his shadowed face.

  “Do not interfere, Chosen!” the man hissed. As he spoke his hands completed a gesture and light blinded him.

  Pain seared through his head, lancing inward from his eyes as he tried to open them. His lids fluttered in expectation of another blaze, but the alley was still. “Bastard!” Kildanor growled. How long had he been out? The night sky was almost the same; it couldn’t have been that long. Sitting up, he felt the paving underneath his cloak. The temperature was barely different from the stones around him; the stun had lasted only a few moments, but that was more than enough time for someone who could use magic. Cursing himself, he stood. He had been careless; Demonologists used magic the same way as every son of a bitch Phoenix Wizard. This guy was good at what he did, otherwise he would not have been sent on this mission alone.

  Ralgon was in danger.

  With his presence revealed, stealth mattered little, and he ran down the alley. Cahill Manor wasn’t that far. Not much further! How did this bastard know he was Chosen? His attire bore neither Lesganagh’s orb nor any other badge that revealed his allegiance. None of the people inside the pub had identified him either. So how had this man known what he was? It didn’t make sense. He rounded another corner and saw the curtain wall ahead.

  Glass shattered, women screamed, and he had no more time to think about how the Demonologist acquired his knowledge.

  CHAPTER 65

  Kildanor was frantic. He didn’t even consider the bell pull. Judging by the sounds of turmoil coming from inside Cahill Manor, no one would have answered it anyway. It had been a while since his last climbing of a wall, and the one surrounding the residence looked formidable. He took a few steps back and launched into a swift run. When he was a few feet away from the barrier, he jumped. His arms shot up and he managed to grab hold of an outcrop. Muscles tensed as he pulled. He felt his hold slipping, fingers hanging on to the rock. Now his slide halted, even when he let go with his right hand to reach out for the top of the wall.

  Thankfully the crenellations were merely decorative. No sentinel patrolled the barricade, and he found enough purchase to let go with the other hand and pull himself up. Muscles cramped, he took a moment to massage the ache away and then was down on the trimmed lawn, moving toward the manor.

  Despite the general uproar within, a servant must have heard his banging on the door, for the main entrance swung open. The Chosen did not wait for the man to question him, but ran through the opening into the hallway and stopped amidst the chaos of servants and guards running about the place. Most of them were on the stairs, heading up. The others looked at him askance. He could only guess at his appearance; his tunic was probably torn.

  “Why do you stand there gaping?” a stout man of middling age shouted. “Get up there and find out what’s going on!” Kildanor had seen Lord Úistan Cahill only a few times, several years ago, but now that he had a closer look he saw the man hadn’t changed that much. “You, Chosen!” the nobleman snapped. “This has something to do with you?”

  He sketched a bow and said, “No, Lord Cahill, but I’m here to help nonetheless.”

  “Good. Up you go, and help my people. Stop whatever it is.”

  Kildanor didn’t even bother to reply; stairs, guards, and servants seemed to sweep past him as he rushed up the steps. On the first landing he stopped. The demonology he’d felt before was now mingling with something else. What was it? It felt familiar, but for a moment he couldn’t identify it.

  The people behind him hurried by, he saw them glancing at him as they went. Why did this other presence feel so familiar? It was as if… no, that seemed unlikely. Yet, it was too similar to what he’d felt when his fellow Chosen had perished and Orkeanas had sacrificed himself for their escape. Could it be possible? He continued his ascent, every step reinforcing the impression that demonology was being used in addition to… Lesganagh’s might.

  The Demon War had seen rise to many strange things. Priests of Lesganagh had summoned demons of their own to battle what Danachamain had unleashed in Honas Graigh. He hadn’t been there, hadn’t felt the powers at work, yet he was certain he could distinguish between the gift of the god and demonology.

  The guards, he saw as he reached the uppermost landing, were trying—and failing—to force their way through a door. Whatever magic was being used, it was happening behind that door. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that Lesganagh’s might was intermingled with demonology.

  One of the guards called for axes, and a pair set off to fetch the weapons. “Steeloak, Lord Kildanor,” explained the man, the arms-men’s leader he figured. “Bloody hard to get through on the best of days.”

  “Aye,” Kildanor said. “May I?” he asked as he walked forward. Not waiting for a reply, he put his hands against the door. Yes, the magic came from here.

  Demonology was now prevalent, the residue of godly power almost gone. He heard raised voices, shouts, but no words. There was a surge of…

  He woke a moment later, lying on the floor; the confused faces of several guards looking down at him. “Gods!” he cursed. That much vile power he hadn’t felt in almost a century. The circle in the Shadowpeaks had been mild compared to this! “We need those axes!” he shouted as he stood.

  “My wife and daughter are in there!” Úistan Cahill thundered. “Out of the way!”

  He saw the aging nobleman shove his way through the assembled guardsmen, in his hand a massive broad bladed battleaxe. Who was he to deny the lord of the house the honor to destroy his own property? He stepped aside.

  Lord Cahill stepped in front of the door and chopped the two-handed weapon in a mighty downward swing. The impact reverberated through the corridor, yet only a small piece of wood chipped off. “Thrice-damned quality workmanship,” Úistan Cahill swore in a very unlordlike manner. His next swing had the same effect. The noble turned to Kildanor, “Want a hack at it, son?”

  The Chosen couldn’t suppress his amusement. Why didn’t Cumaill spend more time with this man? “Certainly,” he said and received the heavy weapon. The axe’s weight was unlike any he had wielded before.

  Lord Cahill must have seen his frown, for he guffawed, “This is a man’s weapon.”

  “A very big man’s weapon, milord,” he replied, chuckling.

  “Aye, that it is. Now get going,” the noble commanded.

  Surprised, Kildanor obeyed. Like Cahill, he couldn’t use the haft’s full length, so he put as much strength as he could summon into the swing. A considerably bigger splinter came lose. “Again, son!” the noble shouted, and he obeyed. There! A big chunk of wood splintered inward. He could see into the room. What he saw shocked him.

  Inside the square chamber a glowing circle of light with beams acting as a cage illuminated the entire scene. Behind the bars stood Ralgon, fingers aflame, hair reduced to ash. The man struggled to escape his prison, growing leaner by the heartbeat. Opposite, in direct line with the doorway, stood the hooded man muttering what could only be a summoning spell. The demonic energy swelled, seemingly rising to ever-higher levels, and Kildanor trembled, whether out of rage or fear
he knew not. One thing he did know, however, was that this man was trying to summon a demon, using Ralgon as a sacrifice.

  He chopped again at the door. “Damned Demonologists!” he shouted. He had to break through!

  Lord Cahill, using a maul, supported him, slamming the weapon’s considerable weight against the wood. The noble did not ask what caused his agitation.

  Then, suddenly, the presence of demonology vanished, leaving only traces of magic behind. Kildanor seized the chance and threw himself against the door. Metal screeched, tore, but the door hardly budged. Something was still blocking it.

  “Neena!” Úistan Cahill’s voice boomed next to his ear. “Leonore! Clear the way!”

  There was some scraping and grunting as the women pulled away whatever stood in front of the door. Kildanor moved to enter, but was pushed aside by the lord of the manor. He followed. The women were safe, weeping as they clung to the nobleman’s broad shoulders, held tight by him.

  The turret room was a battlefield. Its two windows shattered, furniture broken and aflame. The outlines of a summoning-circle were still visible, the burning remnants flickering in the quickly chilling room. Inside the circle, clothes, skin and hair badly burnt, knelt Drangar Ralgon. He stared at something in his left hand while muttering “You bastards, why?” again and again.

  Lord Cahill quickly assessed the situation and barked orders to the throng of people. “Get water and blankets! They’re freezing!”

  Kildanor liked this man. “Take both of them out of here!” he added, leaving mother and daughter in the care of a pair of maidservants who stared wide-eyed at the destruction. The women were led out of the ruined room as if in a trance. Neena Cahill’s gaze wandered over to Ralgon. She started to move toward him, but her father’s strong hands took hold of her shoulders and guided her out.

  As he watched the women leave, he heard lord Cahill’s sharp intake of breath. He turned and looked the direction the noble was staring. “Impossible,” he muttered.

  Amidst the chaos he had paid little attention to Ralgon; aristocrats had priority over a former mercenary. Now he had the time to spare.

  When he had seen the man the first time, albeit as a mutilated corpse, Ralgon had looked slender, but well nourished. Now, the naked, huddled man, his hair burned away, looked ill. The fire had barely injured him; aside from the loss of all hair, Kildanor saw no wound on him. What worried him, and Lord Cahill, was the pallor and malnourishment.

  Ralgon was barely more than skin and bones, and he didn’t even realize something was terribly wrong with him. He just hunched over the trinket he held in his hand, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself.

  CHAPTER 66

  It wasn’t as if a gust of wind had blown out the lamps or extinguished the fire Drangar realized. No, all light had vanished! Neena and her mother let out surprised shrieks and he straightened in alarm, stood, trying to get his bearings. “This darkness is wrong,” he muttered, tense. There was a fourth presence in the room. “Ladies, I need my hands. Cut the bonds, please.” The women must have felt it as well because they whimpered in fear. How this person had reached the room from outside, Drangar didn’t know; they were in a turret room dozens of feet above the street.

  “Perceptive as always and all tied up, bastard!” a voice said. “Makes it so much easier!” The voice was everywhere, resonating from walls and inside Drangar’s mind. Footsteps rushed forward and he heard a stool being shoved aside. There was a whoosh of air as something or someone appeared next to him and vanished again. Muffled screams followed.

  “I hope you like being reminded of being helpless, bastard,” the voice taunted. “Such nice women you got here, the young one so unlike your dead lover, eh?”

  Drangar turned. Where was he? Why did this voice sound so familiar? He tried to locate the man, fear surging up, not for him, but for Neena and Leonore, who struggled against the unseen enemy. He was afraid of losing both Cahill women; they were his last link to the past, his last chance to find the murderers. His wrists were still bound behind his back.

  He chuckled. “Bloody idiot,” he cursed himself aloud. Here, within this room was one of the killers. This man could tell who was after him and why they wanted to kill him. “Who the fuck are you?” he shouted, desperate to buy more time. A tug at the rope, both arms strained against the knot. Muscles protested against the unusual action.

  A mad giggle echoed from unseen walls. “Look at you, won’t you? The sorry fate of the one Lesganagh blessed, who was always so strong and so gifted.”

  Whom had he slighted in the past? There were many, but most of them were dead. A relative maybe? His blessing was no secret, but he had never gone about bragging. “Let them go!” Drangar had to make the intruder let the women go free, and he had to get out of this rope. There! His tugging worked! He felt the hemp give a little.

  “How was it to feel so helpless, so alone, bastard?”

  Someone hammered against the door, but he felt only he could free them. If the assailant could be defeated in this bloody darkness at all. Finally! The rope snapped, but the friction had taken its toll on his wrists. His fingers felt wet. If he died tonight a little blood would hardly matter. Groping about around him, he got hold of a stool. “Maybe I’m not as helpless as you think, murderer!”

  “Murderer? You call me murderer? You little shit!”

  Let him talk, Drangar thought. All he needed was to pinpoint a spot to throw the stool.

  “Forgot that little village down in Rantarr, now, did you? What was it called?”

  “Little Creek,” Drangar growled. How did this bastard know such things?

  “Ah, yes. Nice work down there, worthy of you, Scythe! The entire village! And you call me a murderer?”

  “Let them go!”

  “I haven’t even started killing anybody, yet!”

  There! The foe had to be there! Drangar threw the stool and heard it shatter against the far wall. “Missed me!” the voice mocked. “You know what, bastard? Maybe I’ll kill you first and then have my way with the ladies,” taunted the intruder. Why did the voice seem so bloody familiar? “I’ll treat them better than you did that dark-haired slut.”

  “She was no slut!” shrieked Neena. In the darkness it sounded as if the younger Cahill woman was struggling with the assailant, but only for a moment. A grunt followed by a resounding slap and the struggle was over.

  “I don’t like hurting women!” the voice said. “But I’ll do so should either of you wenches piss me off again!”

  “Let them go!”

  “Ralgon!” He recognized the voice as Leonore’s. “Save us, I beg you!”

  “How can he when he can’t even save his own worthless hide, eh, bastard?”

  Who was he?

  “Just imagine, bastard, me drawing a sharp blade across the young one’s throat, killing her silently while you are surrounded by darkness, hating yourself for your inability to help her! Brings back memories, eh?”

  Drangar growled in anger, clenching and unclenching his bloodied fists. He couldn’t locate the voice and now the women’s noises were also coming from every direction. He trembled with frustration.

  Not again; his mind reeled. He refused to allow this! His anger focused. He wasn’t helpless, hadn’t been helpless ever since his journey into the past. “Memories of traitorous wretches too afraid to face one man! Memories of cowards choosing to kill an innocent instead of doing the deed themselves! I’ve seen sheep with more courage than your lot!”

  He heard the sound of a dagger being unsheathed. “Damn you, fiend! Leave them alone!”

  “Oh, but I do like to play, and I take the word fiend as an insult from one such as you!”

  He didn’t know whether it was Neena or her mother whose whimpering was echoing from the walls. “Leave them alone! Take me instead!”

  “Oh, please, do you really think I would spare them after I am through with you? You must have more sense than that!” That voice, cruel, calculating, he knew he�
��d heard that lilt before, could almost link a name, a face to it. Who was he? Why did the voice seem so familiar?

  Fury overwhelmed him, fury at his own inability to help the women, fury at his past and the enemies that had caused Hesmera’s death. No, he was not responsible for her death, but he would be responsible for Neena’s and Leonore’s if he didn’t do something. Anything!

  He grabbed a chair and raised it above his head, ignoring the taunts. “How nice, the fool wants to play some more!” Drangar threw the chair in one direction, he couldn’t tell which. The roar of splintering glass filled the room as the chair smashed through a window. Drangar heard the unseen assailant scream in pain, followed by a woman’s wail of fear.

  For a moment he fought the red veil of anger that threatened to wash over him; he would not lose control as he had in Little Creek—he had forgotten the village’s name! The Fiend would not win this battle, he would not allow it! If he let his fury dominate, Neena and her mother wouldn’t be safe from him either. He struggled, desperate to maintain control, felt this rage seeping into his soul.

  “No!” He had to keep the Fiend at bay; the meditations must have been good for something. On the battlefield his fury had saved his life time and again; maybe he could channel it into saving Leonore and Neena Cahill now. He took a deep, steadying breath and ignored the assassin’s taunts.

  Could he control the Fiend?

  He had to guide it, let the fury be his servant not the other way around. Like a red curtain, the anger seemed to envelop him; he pushed back. It tingled like a sliver of lace might; the urge to rush blindly forward was there, but unlike all those times when the bloodlust had taken hold of him, this time he prevailed. The curtain became like a frame, gilding his sight; it still drenched his soul with fiery blood, but he could control it, had to control it. Drangar roared, closed his eyes, opened them again and could see the room as it was, still illuminated, one window smashed by the chair he had thrown and the forced entry of the man who had both women collared with a glittering band. The blood that had seeped out from his wrists was gone, only a thin red mist remained. His wounds closed as he watched. What was happening?