by Ulff Lehmann
His priority was Drangar’s safety; the man had feared something would happen, and he had been right. Anger lowered the defenses, allowing the Fiend to slip into his mind. What did it matter if the Chanastardhian warlord was distracted? If they were unable to free Ralgon from the demon’s thrall, none of them would survive to tell that tale. Maybe he could still command the monster, but somehow, he doubted that.
Blood, spattered all over caergoult and cloak, was hissing away, dissipating into a crimson fog which briefly hung above the mercenary’s head before vanishing completely. At the same pace the bloodstains burned off Ralgon, the cuts and slashes, visible through the torn leather, healed as well. No wonder the Chanastardhians were frightened. He looked first at Cahill and then at the others; some had come forward to observe the insanity, whispering frightened prayers. He shared their fear, not because the man running ineffectively against the barricade howled like a living nightmare, but because of what might happen once the creature turned on them. He had seen the light of reason vanish from Ralgon’s eyes, and now the final result was visible to all.
To his surprise it was Sir Úistan who first shook off the shock of seeing this beast. Maybe it was because his mind simply ignored what was right before their eyes, or that amidst all this madness he clung to the only thing that still did make sense. Whatever the reason, the noble turned and waved to the archers still hidden atop the cliff overlooking the crossing. Addressing his cohorts, he said, “Snap out of it! This is a diversion.” A very good diversion, Kildanor thought. “Ralgon keeps them busy. Camran, get a pair of bowmen into position.” Cahill pointed to an intact roof. “There! Artianh, circle to the left, see if the other alleys are also blocked! Feoras, the same to the right! Braen, look for a decent position for the rest of the Bows!” He looked at Kildanor. “Anything to add, Chosen? No? Good. Proceed!”
After a moment’s hesitation a look of relief spread on the retainers’ faces and Artianh and Feoras took off at a sprint. He doubted the Chanastardhians would leave their flanks open to attack now that the alarm had sounded, but maybe they needed every warrior available to hold Ralgon at bay. His eyes remained on the uneven fight, though he wasn’t quite sure who had the advantage. Sooner or later the Fiend would run out of foreign blood to feed its spells. When that happened, it would draw on Ralgon’s life energies to keep up the healing. And when that happened the mercenary would truly have lost his struggle. Then again, his frenzy kept the Chanastardhians cowering, so that despite their apparent discipline, errors were bound to happen.
Like they did now. Quick as a hawk Ralgon’s blade flashed forward, catching an enemy in the neck. Blood burst out the wound, showering the dying man’s companions and, much to their disadvantage, also Drangar’s face. The disturbing image was reinforced; a stubbly head caked in fresh blood. Ralgon bellowed another challenge, tried to force his way into the breach, but the Chanastardhians closed the line almost at once. It was a maneuver executed with perfection; the Chosen applauded the enemy’s morale and discipline.
“Damn, they’re good,” Sir Úistan muttered. Then the noble said, “Chosen, what the Scales happened to Ralgon?”
He was at a loss. What could he tell the noble? Should he tell him anything at all? And what of the others? If he told Lord Cahill in front of his men, gossip would spread like wildfire, people might take matters into their hands and try to drive out the Fiend in whatever way struck their fancy. No one, not even he, knew how to handle this. He opted for an evasion. “Later I will explain what I can, milord.”
Cahill opened his mouth but halted as the archers arrived. He nodded briefly. Camran saw the gesture, took it as his signal to act, held up two fingers then pointed to the roof. Morwen and another woman hurried off into the building. The others were just about to request new orders, some were gawking at the grotesque scene below, when Artianh and, a moment later, Feoras returned.
“They’ve blocked off the alleys on my side,” Artianh wheezed, trying to catch his breath. Feoras’s report was similar. For a moment the two stood there panting.
Cahill grimaced, and then said, “Dewayn, can your people create a breach for that man”—he thumbed at Ralgon— “to go through? I don’t need all of the bastards down, just enough to let him finish what he’s started.” The sentence was underlined by another feral cry that came from below. Some of the archers and men-at-arms shuddered. Even Kildanor felt a chill running down his spine.
Dewayn hesitated, regarded the bloodcurdling situation for a few moments, and then swallowed and said, “Sure, sir.”
“Make it easy and messy,” Cahill replied. “I want the Chanastardhians to run in fear.”
“The way he’s going they’ll be running away soon enough,” Kildanor muttered. What was going on with the man? He couldn’t have healed himself back to life; there was hardly any blood left when he had brought him to Dunthiochagh. Had the demon revived him? If so how? Too many questions were bubbling forth, and all added to the mystery that was Drangar Ralgon. The poor bastard could provide none of the answers either.
He understood why people claimed Lesganagh had blessed the man. The howling lunatic below had more things in common with the God of Sun and War than he cared to admit. For one, he was relentless, tireless, and prone to burning himself out before long. But it wasn’t the god, the thing slamming itself against the wall was a demon. Yet why had it obeyed him?
“… we’ll follow, understood?” Kildanor blinked. Had he just missed Úistan Cahill’s entire plan? He couldn’t even remember the last time he had ignored what was going on around him while awake.
“You agree with the plan?” Sir Úistan asked, this time addressing him directly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying hard not to sound like one of those imbeciles at court.
“Get your head in the game, we’re not here to ponder life itself; leave that to the scholars and priests.” Shaking his head, Sir Úistan said, “Once the Bows have cleared some of the path for Ralgon, we’ll let him proceed a while longer. Let him play butcher until we have the bastards fleeing, no doubt they soon will anyway.” Another death wail rang up the hill. “Then, when they are running, we will follow, clearing out whatever nests remain of the bastards. And then we need to pray real hard for that lunatic down there to calm down enough so he doesn’t slaughter all of them.” He shook his head. “How the Scales is such a thing possible, Chosen?”
“Later, milord,” he said, realizing there was very little he could say to answer the questions either of them had.
Lord Cahill nodded, closed his eyes as if to block out the horror and said, “Fire!”
Arrows whistled overhead, and true to their word each one found its target, neatly missing the berserk Ralgon. The front ranks, hidden behind their shields, were unaffected; the soldiers behind who had supported their fellows faltered and fell. Not every arrow took down its mark, but as the shield-bearers lost their backup, the interlinked wood and metal wall faltered under the mercenary’s mad battering. The enemy, suddenly aware of the threat posed by the bowmen and women, retreated in a vain attempt to retain their coherence. Step by vicious step Drangar pursued, lunging repeatedly for one or another. An evading warrior lost her footing when she stepped on an ally’s prone corpse. The integrity of the entire shield wall disintegrated.
Kildanor couldn’t tell whether Ralgon was aware of the failing defense, the lunatic was still too busy charging into the shields held against him. Then, finally, with a gut-wrenching roar, the mercenary was through. One of Cahill’s men moved to follow, but the Chosen held him back. “Wait,” he said. “I do not want to be caught on the wrong side of his rage.” Paling, the retainer—was it Feoras?—nodded, and stepped back.
With morbid curiosity Kildanor observed the bloody spectacle below. Screams for mercy echoed up the alley, usually they ended with a growl and a dying human’s last gasp, or whimper, or yell. At one point he thought he heard Drangar grunting “Hesmera,” his dead lover’s name. He saw a warrior being picke
d up much the same way the mercenary had lifted Sir Úistan off the ground, and thrown into another. If the man felt pain, it didn’t show. There was no remorse for the slaughter. He wondered if he should have warned Lord Cahill of the danger enraging the mercenary posed. One look at the noble showed the man’s ashen face, his mouth muttering silent prayers.
To whom should he pray, he wondered. Lesganagh probably enjoyed the straightforward bloodshed. In a way he should have taken comfort in the raging battle as well. Wasn’t it the epitome of everything the Lord of Sun and War stood for? Maybe it was, but the slaughter was, in its essence, a reenactment of the Demon War. Ralgon bashed one soldier’s head against a wall, her head rupturing like an overripe grape. The resulting shower of blood dissipated almost immediately in a crimson mist rising around the mercenary. A man had his neck shattered by a dismissive stomp of Ralgon’s boot as he was desperately trying to crawl away from this embodiment of war. The warrior didn’t even utter a last groan. In a matter of moments, the line had shattered, its human remains splattered on frozen mud and ice-rimmed wood- and stonework.
But Ralgon was far from finished. He rushed after the now heedlessly fleeing Chanastardhians, uncaring about honor and battlefield courtesy. Then again, Kildanor reflected, did he fight that much differently? During Jathain’s short-lived rebellion he had slaughtered as indiscriminately as the demon, and the same had happened in Harail. He had pummeled Lerainh to death with his bare hands. Was the shattering of one’s skull against a wall that much different from doing the same with fists? Yes, he argued, he had been angry, but his fury had not unleashed a monster.
The skirmish had passed beyond his line of sight, and against his own advice Kildanor followed the thinning trail of corpses. The others were cautiously advancing with him. Past the wall where the woman’s brains had slid to the ground, he heard the sounds of mayhem from the right. At the alley’s end a house blocked the way, and the street branched. Momentary silence ensued and he wondered if he had heard correctly. No corpses could be seen in either direction. The gurgling of another dying Chanastardhian, again from the right, reassured him that his hearing had not failed.
Another scream followed. If there were enemies hidden in ambush, he doubted they remained so as a single man slaughtered their companions. Or, maybe, they cowered in shadowed corners, too afraid to show their faces. The heavy footsteps halting a few feet behind him could only belong to one man. Without turning, Kildanor said, “Think there are more, milord?” He glanced up at a pair of shuttered windows.
“If there are, they’d be bloody stupid to look out,” Sir Úistan replied. The noble sounded more confident now, having fought down his fright and shock.
“I’d rather be hidden than facing this,” Dewayn, who had crept up, added.
“Aye,” Kildanor said, his eyes still searching the upper windows.
“What is this… man?” Dewayn asked.
“I don’t truly know.”
“Shall we scour the buildings, sir?” Camran asked from behind. Lord Cahill must have nodded, for the retainer snapped orders in quick succession. “Feoras, take two, search this house and its neighbor! Garlan, same for you, that side!”
Taking Ralgon along had been madness; had he told the others of his concerns, this insanity might not have come to life. It would have prevented the demon from gaining control. What if Drangar could not wrest it back from the Fiend? His musings were interrupted by a different kind of howl. He removed his helmet to hear more clearly. Twisting his head sidewise, he was able to hear the scream. Unlike the guttural yells of before, Ralgon’s voice was intelligible now, reminiscent of what had happened weeks ago in the Palace’s dungeon. “Let go!” the mercenary roared at the top of his lungs. Someone, a warleader most like, urged his troops to rally.
“What is it?” Cahill asked.
Donning his helmet, Kildanor didn’t bother to answer and took off at a sprint. Ralgon was fighting back! How the man had regained control mattered not; the only thing that mattered was that he had.
At an intersection another mangled corpse showed the way. The others would have to follow the same signs. More bodies, all horribly mutilated, were as good as any sign for the direction of Drangar’s path. Here and there he passed people who still clung to their last shreds of life. Under different circumstances he would have stopped and eased their suffering, but this was so much more important. If Ralgon was once again fighting free of the enslavement he might be able to help.
He skidded to a stop. Around the next bend a group of warriors were chanting a rallying cry. He heard the dull thud of blunt objects hitting leather, and the mercenary’s pained groans amidst his angry shouts. To charge in was akin to suicide. There had to be a better way. Was he ready to enter the spiritworld here? Before he had only done so under Ealisaid’s supervision. Could he do so, alone? Now? His position was as exposed as could be; the next Chanastardhian walking this way would be bound to find his limp body. It mattered little. His friend’s life was at stake. Drangar was battling the demon. He had to help no matter the cost.
What was it the Wizardess had said? One could return to one’s body in a matter of moments by merely thinking of it. If that was true, he might be able to help Ralgon before some foe discovered his body.
The trample of boots from behind made the decision much easier. Kildanor signaled Lord Cahill and his cohorts to stop. When they had reached him, he explained in quick words what he wanted to do, brooking no questions. He finished with, “This is important, so don’t fuck it up! You will stay here, and guard my body while I help Ralgon.” The inarticulate screams had resumed, mingling with the Chanastardhian chants. How anyone could take this much punishment and remain conscious was a mystery. It didn’t matter. Not yet, anyway. “Guard my body,” he reminded his companions once more, and then leaned against the wall, sliding into a sitting position.
The transition into spiritform was quick. So fast, in fact, that Kildanor was soaring above Ondalan even before he had fully closed his eyes. Below him were the smoky shapes of Sir Úistan and the others, as incorporeal as the houses. To the left, as expected, the thrashing, and Drangar’s all too real presence. Foggy shapes surrounded his body, some holding his arms and legs, while others threw punches with wild abandon. His body flopped in synchronicity with the blows, twisting in the grip of his tormentors. He saw the shadows of the real world go through the motions of pummeling again and again. Ralgon’s spiritworld counterpart was moving the same way, though there was something ghastly different about the motion. Here it looked as if more wires than there had been weeks ago were holding the man’s skin and flesh. Unlike then, not just one spear protruded from the chest; there were dozens, hundreds, turning the body in a grotesque human pincushion.
Despite his all too brief experience with such a thing—there were so many more wires to tear free—he knew the slightest touch would lead to prolonged unconsciousness. Now, that he looked closer, his spiritform floating toward the screaming man, the Chosen realized there was something profoundly different about the situation.
What had looked like a bunch of elongated needles from a distance, now appeared more flexible, like fishing lines, their hooks embedded in Ralgon’s body, each pull of a string coinciding with a blow in the real world. The mercenary wasn’t just reacting to the physical attacks; he was fighting against a puppeteer using him like a perverse marionette! It seemed as if he wasn’t even aware of the thrashing.
Then he realized another thing: in this world of shadows and silence, he could hear Drangar’s scream.
CHAPTER 5
Sir Úistan’s words had angered Drangar, stoking a fury he’d thought long gone. His resolve to heed Kildanor’s words and remain levelheaded evaporated in the barrage of reminders. Back in his mercenary days, he had fought knowing Lesganagh was at his side. That certainty was what had kept him standing strong. The pain of suffering the injustices at the Eye of Traksor had grown less pronounced; in a way, he realized, it was that pain that had
allowed him to control the Fiend. Now he could not even steer the snarling animal within. All he could do was watch. He saw how his hand lifted the noble off the ground. He felt the Fiend’s need to smash the man into the next wall. Then, to his surprise, the Chosen spoke words he could not hear, but they affected the monster. He hammered and stomped against the walls of the prison that was his own mind.
What happened then was just as shocking. He saw his charge, the attack on the building and the tearing through the opposition. Appalled, Drangar wanted to weep. All this butchery reminded him of Hesmera’s death. He saw his sword flash up and down, a cruel reflection of the murder he knew he had not committed. He had never been this brutal, had he? Memories of Little Creek slammed back, half-remembered scenes viewed through the haze of inebriation. He had blamed the drink, but had it truly been the booze? What if the wine had lowered the walls holding the Fiend back? Was the monster truly a demon, as Kildanor had said? It had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember, this rage, easily controlled. Not anymore. He looked through his eyes, yes, he heard his voice, sure, but he wasn’t the one seeing and snarling. Anger controlled his body. Endless fury drove him on. How was this possible?
When the few cuts from the previous battle had vanished, Chanastardhian blood hissing away from his limbs, the question of possibility was raised to something entirely different. Why was it doing this? How was it healing him? Who had returned him from death? Was he possessed? Was it truly a demon that had taken hold of him? And if so, was it really the same as his furor? It wasn’t the first time the enemies had taken a host body; that sort of thing had occurred more than once a century ago. But the demons had been driven off, beaten back to their own world! He wasn’t even remotely close to the age necessary to have witnessed the Demon War! For fuck’s sake, what was going on?
