by Ulff Lehmann
SHATTERED FEARS
Light in the Dark, Book 3
By Ulff Lehmann
A Mystique Press Production
Mystique Press is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright © 2019 Ulff Lehmann
LICENSE NOTES
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Meet the Author
Ulff Lehmann has spent quite a while waiting on his Midlife Crisis, and decided he won’t go there. For the past two decades he has been developing the stories he is now publishing. Born and bred in Germany, Ulff chose to write in English when he realized he had spent most of his adult life reading English instead of his mother tongue, and brings with him the oftentimes Grimm outlook of his country’s fairy tales to his stories. A wordsmith with a poet’s heart, Ulff’s goal is to create a world filled with believable people.
According to his friends, his place is utter chaos and filled to the brim with books, CDs, and DVDs. In an earlier part of his life, Ulff turned his love for music outward, singing in two bands. Nowadays the only singing he does is in concert with his shower, and it thinks his voice is still acceptable. His passion for movies led him to begin Movie and TV studies at university, begin being the operative word. He didn’t finish. Instead life pulled him this way and that until he finally understood he was a storyteller.
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DEDICATION
For my little monster, Charlotte, who is far too young to read any of this, for the time when she can.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As with SHATTERED DREAMS and SHATTERED HOPES, I thank Katti Mattern who helped me hammer out the kinks, and Kathy Freuden, my friend and editor, for supporting me beyond my wildest; KathleenStammers, who gave me moral and artistic support from the get go; Anneke van Heusden and Ryan Ryker Lazslo for the inspiration, and David Dodd for giving the covers THE LOOK; Faith McKee for bringing Dunthiochagh to life; Riza Türker, for the first map; Sayan Mukherjee for the second map and for helping me flesh out the Woods of Gathran; and Robert Altbauer for taking all the stuff I, Riza, and Sayan had come up with and perfecting it. Rebekah Teller for emergency surgery on the blurb. Timy Takács for the last minute typo finding. My deepest gratitude, however, goes out to Daniela Bockhorst, without whom I never would have discovered who I really am; and Susanne Fritsch, who never gave up and kicked me until I went and got better.
I would also like to thank Charles Phipps, for believing in me, and David Niall Wilson for giving me this chance.
Without any and all of these wonderful people, this book would not be what it is!
Dramatis Personae—Shattered Fears
Anneijhan Cirrain—Chanastardhian noble
Arawn—a Son of Traksor
Baron Cumaill Duasonh—lord of the city of Dunthiochagh
Braigh—a Caretaker
Coimharrin—an Upholder
Dalgor—a Son of Traksor
Darlontor—Priest High of the Sons of Traksor
Drangar Ralgon—a mercenary
Ealisaid—a wizardess
Gail Caslin—a Caretaker
Gryffor—a Son of Traksor
Gwennaith Keelan—a squire
Jesgar Garinad—a thief
Kerral—Danastaerian General
Kildanor—a Chosen of Lesganagh
Lightbringer—a mysterious entity
Lloreanthoran—an elven mage
Nerran—friend and advisor to Baron Duasonh
Rheanna—an Upholder
Úistan Cahill–a nobleman
Urgraith Mireynh—High General of Chanastardh
Pronunciation:
Some names, be it cities or persons, lean heavily on sounds not usually found in English.
For instance, ch and gh in Dunthiochagh sound similar to the Welch consonant ch, think Johann Sebastian Bach; same goes for Carlgh, for example.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 1
Thirtieth of Chill, 1475 K.C.
Lord Commander Noel Trileigh’s return was happy news for Urgraith Mireynh. But instead of first reporting to the High General’s tent, Trileigh paid wounded Callan Farlin a lengthy visit. Finally, when Mireynh was about to storm out his tent and disrupt the meeting, the Lord Commander entered.
“Good day, sir,” Trileigh said, saluting. When his hand left the chest, the nobleman briefly grasped a pouch tied to his belt, as if finding reassurance in its presence.
“Why this visiting the sick business before coming to me?” Mireynh growled. “I’m about to begin bombarding the city, and any news that can help us is bloody welcome! Why did you dawdle, wasting your time with the cripple Farlin?” He didn’t care if the scholarly noble or the Black Guards detected his anxiety. Damn them all, he thought. The assault had to happen now, or they would be forced to retreat to Harail, an act akin to failure in the High Advisor’s eyes. And failure meant death to his family.
“I apologize, sir, for the delay. It was necessary.” Trileigh looked calmer and less out of place than he had a few weeks earlier. Initially the noble had been nothing
more than a fop, his pretentious affectations, the order to lay siege to impenetrable Dragoncrest, all of that had certainly left its mark on Mireynh and the others, not to mention the ridicule of the veterans.
“Necessary?” he asked, letting irritation seep into his voice. “Unless what you have to tell me is really a new divine manifest, I shall judge what is and is not important.”
The time in Harail’s Library had really changed the man. Trileigh closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then said, “Sir, with all due respect, it was you who sent me to find out how to battle wizardry. And judging from what occurred here a few days ago, we truly are dealing with magic.” The Lord Commander’s voice remained even, although he thought he detected the slightest hint of resentment.
“Well then, speak on,” he said.
Trileigh remained silent, standing erect. What was the fool’s problem now? Mireynh stared daggers at the noble. “Spill it, man; I have no patience for games!”
The noble’s gaze met his, and for the first time he detected some fire inside. “You will address me by my name and title, High General, or at the very least my rank, sir.”
“Are you mad?” he sputtered.
“Quite the opposite, sir. I am of House Trileigh, a cousin to King Drammoch, and part of the Royal Family. You, not taking into account your experience, are nothing more than a freeborn upstart. Despite this, I have given you the respect you deserve as leader of my cousin’s troops. You, however, have not returned the favor. I am neither daft, nor some jester sent here for your amusement.” There was nothing Mireynh would have liked better than to beat the man’s superiority from his face. He held back, sensing, for the first time that maybe, despite Trileigh’s lack of experience in anything battle-related, there was more to the man.
“I admit, High General, that your knowledge of warfare and combat are superior to mine, and I value your advice,” the Lord Commander continued. “But your blatant disregard of my status and my expertise ends here, now.”
For a moment Mireynh remained silent, stunned by the noble’s vehemence. Had he treated Chanastardh’s aristocracy like idiots? Sure he had. With a few notable exceptions they were a bunch of bickering sycophants unworthy of their titles. Still, when Drammoch had made Noel Trileigh Lord Commander and thus second only to himself, he had thought it a joke. Now, considering the steel in the man’s voice, he wondered if he had underestimated the nobleman. House Trileigh was closely allied with the Royal House, but he had been disturbingly unaware of the nature of the relationship.
Finally, realizing he was staring, Mireynh averted his eyes and said, “I admit my mistake in underestimating you, milord.” Summoning all his resolve, he added, “Still, I am your superior, and will not be intimidated by your standing at court. No matter how much you think it wise to proceed otherwise, you will inform me of your intentions, provided, of course, the situation allows it. Next time you decide to take a detour, keep me informed. Do we have an understanding, milord?”
Trileigh snapped a hand to his chest, saluting. “Yes, sir!” he replied.
Mireynh thanked the gods for being able to rein in his temper, and then returned to his chair and sat. “Have a seat, Lord Commander.” He gestured to one of the other chairs that surrounded the table. For an instant he was tempted to offer the nobleman a drink, but then thought better of it. They were not on such friendly terms just yet. When Trileigh was seated, he asked, “All right then, what can you tell me? How can we defeat a wizard?”
“So now you believe me?” Trileigh asked, a slight smile playing about his lips.
“Can’t be another explanation to what happened with our timber,” he replied, fighting to keep his resentment down. Now that they had established a new set of rules, he already felt as if Noel Trileigh, like the Chanastardhian noble he was, would use the situation to his advantage.
The Lord Commander surprised him by spreading his hands and bowing his head. “I take no comfort in knowing I was right, sir.”
Had he not known how treacherous nobles could be, he would have believed the apology. “Well then, what have you found out? How can we beat a wizard?”
“One moment,” Trileigh said before he began to rummage in the pouch Mireynh had noticed earlier. The nobleman retrieved a sheaf of papers that were wound together. He untied the string and the mass of documents unfurled, revealing tightly scribbled notes in what had to be the Lord Commander’s handwriting.
“Well?” Mireynh asked when the man had leafed through the pages a few times.
“You have to understand, sir, that there are some things one cannot easily solve within a Library as young as that in Harail,” Trileigh said, looking at the first page.
“I thought they record all history.”
“That is true. However, a Librarian starts penning history as it unfolds from the moment the last acolyte has entered the building, so to speak.”
He arched an eyebrow, staring at the noble. “Are you saying that what we need is not in Harail since the city was founded after the Heir-War?”
“In a way, yes.” Trileigh’s eyes darted to a cluster of bottles that were accompanied by several mugs on another, smaller table. “Do you mind?”
A noncommittal shrug was Mireynh’s reply, as he pondered what this revelation could mean for a defense against magic. The visit to Harail’s Library could not have been a complete failure since the notes from the Lord Commander’s pouch were certainly more than a quick reminder that nothing much had been found. Also, Trileigh had lingered in Harail for quite a while, which made him suspect the noble had indeed unearthed something.
Equipped with a filled mug, the King’s cousin returned to his seat. He took a sip, and then set the container aside, retrieving the papers once more. “I found no direct references to how Halmond, your esteemed predecessor, managed to defeat Wizards. Those records can most likely be found either here in Dunthiochagh, or back home in Herascor.”
“Here?” Mireynh echoed, regretting his lack of knowledge regarding the area.
“Certainly, sir,” Trileigh said. “Dunthiochagh once was the capital of Dargh, a kingdom of minor influence, but still a kingdom; as such, it had its own Library. Everything east of the Elven Road up to where the Flannardh flows was the kingdom of Janagast, while everything west of it was Dargh. Well, not everything, the nations beyond retained their borders.”
He grew impatient, already considering Trileigh a fool once more. History lessons were not what he needed. “I need tactics on how to beat Duasonh’s wizard,” Mireynh snapped.
Just as the Lord Commander was about to respond, the tent’s flap was lifted aside and Killoy’s head poked inside. “The two ’throwers are ready now, sir.”
“Start sending the packages,” he replied.
“Yes, sir!” Killoy grinned, saluted and left. A few moments later, Mireynh heard the distinct creaking of slingthrowers being made ready to shoot. Duasonh would not be all that pleased with half-frozen body parts showering down on the southern end of his city.
To Trileigh he said, “Thank you for the arms, milord. Please continue.”
Shaking his head, probably to rid himself of the gruesome image, the Lord Commander said, “Certainly, sir. As I was saying, there were no true historical records of the Heir-War in the Library’s inner chambers. Those still rest in Dunthiochagh. In the archives open to the public, however, I hit gold, so to speak.” The noble visibly became excited. “Several fighters, and no fewer than three Chosen, veterans of the Heir-War all, did pen their own memories of what had happened. Some of the texts are heavily edited, and I was unable to force my way to the originals. The Chief Librarian explained that the source-texts were never entrusted to the Library. It wasn’t as if the actual battles had been omitted, rather that some passages had been blacked before the papers actually reached Harail.”
“Yes, yes, enough chitchat,” Mireynh said impatiently, waving his hands in circles to urge the nobleman on. “Get to the good stuff, will you?”
&n
bsp; “As you wish, sir,” Trileigh said, seeming slightly crestfallen, but right now there was no time for hurt egos. He had an escalade to win.
The slingthrowers had stopped lobbing sacks filled with body parts into Dunthiochagh by mid-afternoon, and were now pounding the city with stones. At the range the big engines were dug in, it was impossible to accurately aim for the walls, not that they needed a breach for the escalade. The return shots from the enemy artillery were as poorly aimed as theirs, and only a few actually caused damage.
Thankful for the trenches in which many of his warriors huddled, the only thing that bothered Urgraith Mireynh was his insane order to build siege castles when they had first come here. In hindsight it was always easy to analyze one’s mistakes; that sort of armchair tactician thinking might have been good for drunken veterans reliving their glory days; it didn’t help improve their odds now.
Someone on the defenders’ side was paying attention. A barrage of stones fired from the city’s eastern wall plowed into the troops assembling near the proposed siege castle construction site. Why had he relied so much on the promise of the High Advisor that traitors would open the gates for an easy invasion? Yes, it had worked with Harail, had promised easy victory with Dunthiochagh. It had also caused him to not prepare for a direct assault. Two slingthrowers were hardly enough to suppress the defender’s activities, and the Danastaerians grew more daring.
The effective range of a siege engine was some four hundred yards; any precise aiming beyond that distance was impossible. But the artillerists on the city walls were adjusting. They had the high ground and were less prone to run out of ammunition. With every shot, the impact came closer to his positions. They sure couldn’t aim properly, but were able to adjust their angles.
A succession of boulders hit the ground near the pits, skipped over the dug-up earthwork and continued to tumble on through the row of carts assembled beyond. Wood splintered, oxen howled in pain. Mireynh even heard some of the drovers scream. He glanced in the direction of the noise.
