by Ulff Lehmann
The hood his opponent wore hid the man’s face, but he remembered at once the person who had sat with the spy last night. The Chosen had been right, none of Duasonh’s men had sent the youth after him; it had been this man. Who was he? Drangar peered into the hood but couldn’t discern anything.
He pivoted as if still searching for his opponent, trying to keep the foe in the belief he was still affected by the magical darkness.
The intruder then shifted his gaze from Drangar to the women and moved his hand in well-practiced motions, ignoring the deep cut he had received, probably by Neena. A desk slid across the room in front of the door whose lock slid shut and melted, barring every route of escape.
“Now the bitches will die,” the man said, sneering at Drangar. He raised both his outstretched hands and formed a circle with his fingers and thumbs, muttering words that seemed strangely familiar.
“No!” Drangar charged the attacker.
Irritated at his sudden move, the assailant stopped his spell work—it had to be magic—and raised his left hand to his chest, quickly dropped it down, and vanished from the spot he had just occupied. Unable to halt his attack Drangar smashed into the wall.
“Too slow,” the man taunted as he reappeared next to the broken window, his voice quavering slightly.
The impact with the wall proved almost fatal, but by sheer force of will he remain conscious. “Damnation!” he cursed and turned around, fiercely blinking away the motes of light that flickered before his eyes.
“Damnation indeed,” the assassin sniggered and prepared the ritual again, faster this time. “I think I’ll take care of you first,” the man sneered. “You’ll have to wait, ladies,” he added with a nod toward the cowering women. A jet of flame rushed toward Drangar, forcing him to dodge aside, away from the inferno. Whatever the fire touched was set aflame, tapestries, carpet, his clothes.
Drangar twisted into a ball, rolled onto his back, and extinguished the flames. The smell of burnt hair and skin intermingled with the smoke that now filled the room. A quick look at Neena and Leonore assured him they were somewhat safe; he crouched low and watched the man’s next move.
Who was he? Even the quaver in his voice reminded him of someone. Was he a wizard like this Ealisaid person? The bastard certainly knew magic.
A few uttered words caused a fiery circle to appear within the room, surrounding him. Drangar sprang forward, straight for his opponent, but smashed into an invisible barrier that burned his skin. Tears of pain and frustration welled up as he watched the man draw closer. He knew this man! Why couldn’t he remember? The cold voice, the almost feral snarl. “You don’t belong here, bastard,” his attacker said.
A memory lingered in the back of his mind but refused to step forward. The barrier was thorough; his probing fingers didn’t detect an opening. He didn’t care about the burns, already smelled the charred meat, felt the pain coursing from his fingertips down his arms.
The man stepped closer, his robes shifted slightly and for an instant Drangar thought he saw a medallion hanging around the man’s neck. Confusion and anger welled up again, and he felt the fiend, his fury, which he had thought was finally under control, rising.
“Now the circle is complete,” the assassin said, chuckling humorlessly. “Quite literally.”
Still Drangar struggled to control his rage. It had helped him overcome the magical darkness. Could it help him overcome this barrier as well? There wasn’t much left to lose, his fingers were slowly being devoured by the circle’s flames, Neena and her mother were helpless, leashed to the wizard by magic, Hesmera was dead because… he refused to let the suspicion rise fully inside, he couldn’t be sure just yet. Gently he let his fury envelop him, not the uncontrolled wine-induced madness he had experienced before, not the bloodlust-fueled rage of battle; no, this was as if he poured out all the anger, fear, self-loathing, grief into a dam, through the breach, to feed a stream steadily.
He held this fury on the edge, felt his grasp on reality crumble, saw the magical collar around Neena’s neck flicker and fade. The bastard didn’t have much control after all. Neena rose carefully, her eyes met his and then moved over to the enemy. The young Lady Cahill edged toward the one remaining chair, completely ignored by the assailant whose attention was focused on Drangar. The assassin chanted, sung, words too weird for him to comprehend. It almost felt as if he was praying. No, suspicions he might have, the glimpse of a medallion that might or might not be there fed them.
Instinct and reason battled inside his mind; from one moment to the next he didn’t know which side would take control. For now, he could hold his rage back, but a part of him wanted to rend the bastard apart, feed his entrails to his dying body! The Fiend within roared, urged on by the slowly dawning realization this was merely the last of a string of assassins sent by… no, he refused to believe this! His consciousness battled the Fiend, and through the haze of pain he felt a change happen to his fingers. Drangar chanced a quick glance to his hands. The burns were mending! He looked back at the assassin, and from the rim of his vision saw Neena, mouthing two words: For Hesmera.
He blinked once, twice. He understood what she intended. The bastard was chanting, his hands moved in complex patterns, tracing and retracing complicated lines in front of him.
Lines of gleaming hot light sprang up from the circle, closing in on each other above his head, forming a cage of white light. His body shook with rage, but Neena’s mentioning of Hesmera had brought reason back to Drangar’s mind and he regained control over the Fiend. His anger finally controlled by his will, his conscience.
Eyes still focused on the mage, Drangar felt his strength ebbing away, sucked into the circle around him. Tendrils of light leapt up from his body, away from him into the cage.
Soon.
Neena had moved up behind the stranger and raised the chair above her head, poised to strike. As if it was nothing the man turned, looked at her, and then as calmly as he had turned to face her he returned to his position, leaving her as she was.
Drangar saw the noblewoman tremble with effort as she tried to look into his eyes, saw her fear and determination battling something inside her. She was spellbound, he realized, his stomach clenching. He thought fiercely about what to do, his strength ebbing with every heartbeat.
A great boom resounded from the door. Someone was trying to get in. Again, the entrance shook under the force of the assault. It had to be Kildanor. Dimly he heard the Chosen of Lesganagh curse, “Fucking Demonologists!” The wood creaked, part of it splintering away, but he doubted the Chosen would be in time. The door was too thick.
Bile rose in his throat. The fiend begged, taunted, promised that only with it in control could he save them. For a brief moment, he battled with himself, then let go. He would not allow this man to kill the women. Or him!
Straining against the forces that drained his body and soul he shouted, “Hesmera!”
As he screamed from the top of his lungs, felt how his fury ripped free of its leash. He stormed forward, crashed into the barrier of light. The searing heat and pain were nothing. He could not be held, could not be tamed, nothing would ever stop him!
His shout had the desired effect; Neena snapped out of her trance and brought the chair down on the assassin’s head. Luck was with the enemy. He twisted aside and evaded most of the blow.
Kill, kill, kill, the fiend roared inside of him. Again, and again he smashed into the barrier. Nothing could stop him!
Kill, kill, kill! The roar went on and on. A detached part of Drangar’s mind felt the searing, the burning in his shoulder, felt how his hair burned off his scalp, feared what the fiend might do when the wall was breached. Already the barrier seemed weaker but he also noticed how even the rage that fueled him ebbed away.
Neena pummeled the mage with her fists and feet as Kildanor struggled to overcome the door.
Kill, kill, kill, the hiend howled. Drangar felt the wall shatter. They were free. They? Almost meekly the fiend seem
ed to halt. It was as if his fury was looking back at him, looking for the way. He was still in control! For the first time in his life he was really and truly in charge. The mental leash was tied quickly, but not too tightly. Drangar felt his knees buckle, but the fiend pulled him forward. There would be no stopping this time, he knew.
He lunged for the wizard and got hold of his throat. “And now you will speak!” he roared, his face twisted with anger. He raised his other hand, balled it into a fist. The assassin’s hood fell off.
Drangar hesitated, staring at the revealed face in disbelief. It couldn’t be true! He refused to believe it! “No,” he wheezed.
“Oh yes, Ralchanh, oh yes.”
Ralchanh, the name he had discarded fourteen years ago, the name he had dismissed, and the name that was his by birth. Here, in his trembling hands, was Dalgor. Cousin Dalgor, the bullyboy. Dalgor the Bastard, he had called him. The child that had always treated him like vermin from the beginning, who had spat in his hair, thrown mud into his food. “Why?” Drangar whispered. He felt his hands shake uncontrollably, his voice hoarse, his breathing labored. “Why?” He refused to believe it.
The assassin twisted out of his grip. The chain holding the medallion in place halted his attempt for a moment, and with a flick of his head he snapped the links.
Before Drangar could react, the man held his left hand out, pulled it downward, and vanished. Drangar looked at the place where the man had been just heartbeats before, blinked, gazed at Neena as she hurried to her mother’s side. Then he stared again at the amulet.
“Why? You bastards why?” Drangar mumbled again and again. “Darlontor, why do you want me dead?” he whispered.
Why did they want him dead? He didn’t understand. What had he ever done to them? What reason did they have to kill Hesmera? He looked at the amulet in his hand and felt himself fall into a darkness that was worse than the endless night he’d been trapped in when they had tried to kill him. Why would they go to all that trouble to kill him?
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. “Why?” he asked, tears running down his face. “Why does he want me dead?” His knees buckled, slammed onto the carpeted floor. He didn’t even feel the impact, his eyes wandering back to the trinket in his hand. “Why?”
The how didn’t matter anymore. He knew they had means at their command that most people in this age only dreamed about. He did not know the reason for the killing, but he finally knew the source of all his misery. There was no doubt now. He looked at the proof—the medallion’s face engraved with the coat of arms of the Sons of Traksor.
CHAPTER 67
Trudging through frost-rimmed Gathran was hardly effective. Was he already on Kalduuhnean soil? Lloreanthoran didn’t know, and where by Lliania’s bloody Scales could he find the Eye of Traksor the Lightbringer had asked him to find?
Walking would not get him there, wherever “there” was. Where should he start? Which city had a library that could possibly hold the information he needed? Ma’tallon, the capital of Kalduuhn! It had survived the Heir-War and, he hoped, the Demon-War. As it was the capital, it had had one of the biggest libraries, attended by venerable priests of Traghnalach. If the city and the library still existed, the priestly historians and scribes would have at least a fraction of the information he needed. Whispering, he hurried through the chants and gestures of the teleportation spell and disappeared from the small clearing.
A heartbeat later Lloreanthoran stood on a hill outside the city. The sight of Ma’tallon caught him by surprise. A century ago the city had been a sprawling rectangular block of walled in houses and mansions. Now it looked more like a massive tower.
The whitewashed walls still demarked Ma’tallon’s limits, but it seemed as if the humans had expanded not horizontally, but vertically. Above the marble of mansions, villas, and temples, there loomed another layer of city, built right on top of the roofs, and one or two more layers on top of those. Massive stilts, latched onto walls and several of the lowest buildings, supported the framework holding everything aloft.
He stared in disbelief. Elven magic had once built the city, the first town in which former slaves and former masters lived together. Nothing could break down both buildings and walls. Yet, instead of expanding beyond the massive stone edifices, like other cities had, it seemed as if the rulers had decided to go up.
Walking closer, Lloreanthoran saw stairs and pulley-driven lifts connecting the various layers of Ma’tallon. Wheels, very much similar to those on mills, driven by wind, pumped water into the upper levels. Unlike what he had expected, the higher the city went, the more desolate it looked. Nobility and clergy, it seemed, was earthbound, while the lower classes—did they still distinguish between villeins and freeborn?—lived higher up. He now saw, the upper levels barely had railings and handholds, so that accidents were quite likely to happen.
To the humans, life remained cheap.
As he neared the northern gate, he pulled up the hood of his cloak. It would do no good to be discovered. Elves had left these lands long ago; his people’s exodus was only the last in a long line of retreats. The elves of Kalduuhn had moved into a more remote area, still living in the world, but apart from it. Human wars had hardly abated in the centuries before the Heir-War, and even to the vengeful elves the constant warfare and moving of borders had become tiresome.
Ma’tallon was a reminder of what had connected the two races ages ago: master and servant, much like the elves and those who had enslaved them.
The closer he came, the more details did Lloreanthoran see. The layer on top of the original city was less decorated, but still respectable. It also had an unbroken railing surrounding its limits, a sturdy steeloak fence almost half a man’s height. Above that, things looked more decrepit. No more handholds, functional houses belying the buildings they stood upon, and even further up, sheds that looked only remotely better than some of the tents that had been set up next to them. Waste, it seemed, was tossed into chutes leading to the ground, where it was gathered by somebody to be towed off. Also, the people most removed from the ground seemed most prone to stumble and fall to their deaths.
Yet children were climbing all along this latticework, up and down, playing a death-wish version of hide and seek. Lloreanthoran stood and stared, amazed at the skill of these young humans as they darted about the framework.
“They’re called lattice-children,” a passing woman, bent by age, explained. “Ma’tallon’s very own version of the gutter-youths found in other cities.” She shook her head, muttering, “One of these days it’ll all come down.”
He wanted to ask her something, but she had hurried onto one of the departing lifts, carrying a score of people up.
Was this how humanity treated elven leftovers? Ma’tallon looked, at least at its foundation, very much as he remembered it. Much like Honas Graigh before the Wizard War, stone had been called up from the bowels of the soil to form walls and houses. Only after the rock had cooled had artists hammered frescoes into the stone. The interiors and roofs were stone as well, making them appear like children’s toys when viewed from above.
At the gate, a bored pair of guards gave him a cursory glance. Apparently, they were satisfied for they let him pass without question. Inside the city the bright, crisp autumn day was replaced by gloom. Flames flickered in lanterns, and a little sunlight entered this stuffy underworld through the gate behind him and from a few breaches in the frames holding up the higher layers. It almost felt as if he was back in the Aerant C’lain.
Almost.
The moment he passed through an alcove onto one of the main squares, the atmosphere changed. This was a marketplace, he noted to his astonishment. Back when he had last visited the city this once sky lit area had been host to theater groups, philosophers, all talking and playing to whomever was interested. Now there was a massive pillar in the square’s center. Four huge tree trunks had been put together to keep the wood and plaster ceiling high above his head up in the air. Attached to
the wooden column was a wide staircase leading into the next level. On those stairs, each wider than a medium sized boat, was a booth of some merchant or other. The steps themselves were firmly embedded into the wood, and supported by metal poles that seemingly reached from the ground all the way up to the ceiling.
Lloreanthoran stopped and stared, unable to tear his eyes from this magnificent piece of human architecture. He tried to grasp the skill and manpower it must have taken to build this pillar, let alone the upper tiers of the city. The air was still stuffy, but now a myriad of scents surrounded him. Smoked meats, pies, vegetables, fruits, cured leather, there even was a smithy built right under the staircase! From the look of the workshop, the owner had managed to make the shack fireproof, and even as the woman beat a piece of gleaming iron into shape, the sparks flew up and were swallowed by the forge’s ceiling.
He was still staring when someone pulled at his right sleeve. Irritated, he looked down and saw a young boy dressed in the garb of a Librarian staring up at him. Certainly, the God of Knowledge and Sky would know of his arrival, and inform his priesthood. Still, he was surprised to see the Chief Librarian had sent a boy to fetch him.
“Are you…?” the lad fell into an uncomfortable silence, his eyes trying to pierce his hood’s darkness.
In the gloom it was impossible to see his face, and he was glad about that. “I am Lloreanthoran,” he replied, knowing full well the boy had wanted to know something completely different. “And you are?”
