by Ulff Lehmann
Through his eyes, he witnessed the slaughter, wounds he did not feel vanishing in a hiss of blood. This was his body! The silent scream reverberated inside the emptiness that surrounded him. Again and again he saw his arms rise and fall, not the polished cuts and parries he had used in the bout with Kildanor, but the reckless cleaving of a monster that cared for nothing.
His shout must have had some effect, for the malign spirit ignored still breathing, maimed people. This was his body, his mind, his muscles, and his bone. He would not allow the demon to keep him in its thrall! All too clear was the memory of what he had witnessed in the past, seeing himself kill Hesmera. This travesty was far too much of a reminder of the time when he had truly been powerless. “I am I!” he shouted, at himself, at the one controlling his body. This time the snarled declaration echoed around, gaining in strength. “No one will control my body! Not again!” Phrases mixed with words with syllables with breath until the oppressing emptiness sang with his resolve. Sound mixed with thought, and for a moment, the Fiend hesitated, allowing a Chanastardhian to retreat.
“IamInoonewillcontrolmybodynotagain!” the noise rang through his mind, the emptiness, and his body. It was maddening.
“Noonewillcontrolmybodyagain!” The creature faltered, his motions grew sluggish. Drangar felt as if someone was trying to push through the murk of sound, as if his arms and legs were being pulled one way while he willed them to stop. Now he realized he did not need his eyes to see what was going on. In a way he was looking at the outside as through a side of his skull. He glanced down, forcing his right leg to remain still, unmoving. His body faltered.
Lines held his limbs. He was no puppet! The sounds became deafening. His sword dropped to the ground, his hands reached for his head. He felt another presence here, inside of him. A throaty growl filled the air, almost drowning out the mix of syllables, phrases, words, and thoughts. Still, he howled against the guffaw. “Noonewillcontrolmybodyagain!”
“Of course I will,” the other replied with a chuckle.
Now the Chanastardhians grabbed him, pinned him down. The Fiend tried to lash out but the angry echo kept up its distraction. What was this monster?
He looked up, along the gleaming lines still attached to his body. Again, he saw the feline monstrosities. One of them caught his eye. He felt the bloody stare, cowered, dreaded the thing’s ire. Why was the bastard playing him like a godsdamned puppeteer? “Iwillcontrolmybodyagain!” he roared inside his mind. More of the demons were inspecting him now, some tugging at the strings; his legs shook. Drangar fought back, howling.
“Let go!”
Had he screamed these words? Or was his mind playing the final trick on him? For a moment his body ceased moving. Whipping his eyes away from the demons, he looked through his eyes again. For a moment the Chanastardhians had stopped pummeling. Then the strange tugging began anew, blows of many fists accompanied its rhythm. “Iwillcontrolmybodyagain!”
Just how strong was the demons’ grip? He began to further test their domination. “Iwillcontrolmybodyagain!” A twist of fingers into a fist was interrupted by both humans and monsters, but not before his digits had fully curled. Bastards, Drangar thought grimly. The only good thing about this was that he felt none of the pain he was bound to feel once he was master once more.
“Iwill controlmy bodyagain!” He pushed, pushed, slowly feeling the alien presence back off. Immediately the blows hit as through a blanket. The Fiend—or Fiends?—tried to rein him back at once. They failed. “Control mybody again!” He turned his head, one eye already swollen shut, toward somebody on his left.
“You will obey!” the demon’s voice thundered in his head.
Drangar felt his lips twist into a grimace no one would call a smile and said, “Fuck you!” The Chanastardhians’ reply was as swift as the demon’s. Punches hammered against his head, he felt his lip split before he was back inside the dark with the feline puppeteers back in control. No! His body, his rules, he thought grimly. “Iwillcontrolmybody!” Again, the tugging faltered, but the bastards still held the strings. Drangar strained against the demonic grip.
A few futile moments later, he realized this was no physical contest. For a heartbeat he despaired. How could one puny human make a stand against demons? Now there was nobody shielding him, defending him. “Mybody!” the echo sounded plaintive, not the determined holler it had been.
“Retrace your steps,” the voice, Dog, had ordered. What steps? What was he supposed to remember?
A notion tugged at the back of his mind, something he had thought of moments before. What? What was it he had forgotten that had helped him live? Before Hesmera’s murder, before the claws of nightmare had torn his life apart.
Was it the Scythe? He didn’t want to become him again? No, not that, he decided. Aside from her death, what had made him Drangar? The mercenary, the bane of every shield wall, that wasn’t him, had never really been him. But…
For a moment the echoes of his voice fell silent.
But… what?
Purpose, meaning, his life had had meaning, not the bare existence he now called living. Running away had giving him focus, purpose. All that had returned after Little Creek, the Fiend had remained, but never as strong. A silent presence most of the time, until… her death. He couldn’t, didn’t want to go back to being the Scythe.
And he didn’t have to. In Cahill Manor his desire to rescue the women had tamed the demon. All he needed, truly needed was… a purpose, something worth living for.
Justice. Not revenge, no death would bring Hesmera back. He would bring justice to those who preyed on the unwitting, most of all the Sons of Traksor.
“I will control!” the words reverberated through the blackness. For an instant he felt the blows smacking into his body. Pain had never felt this good.
“Bastards,” he heard himself grunt.
The beating and tugging continued, but it seemed as if the latter had lost its force. His mental eyes sought his foes’ faces again. When they returned his stare, it was he who snarled, baring his teeth. “I am I!” Doubts, fears, in the past he had never doubted himself, never feared much of anything. The lessons he learned at Little Creek were that alcohol was his enemy, and Lliania forgave if one was truly repentant. Cahill’s words had washed away everything but the anger, and the Fiend fed on it. “I control again!” Brave words were just that, words, nothing more. He had never taken responsibility, never looked truth in the eye. Two years ago, he should have turned himself in. Justice, Lliania, knew the truth, now he did too.
“I control my body!” Drangar screamed, verbally and mentally, severing the lines fused to his body as well as breaking away from the Chanastardhians’ grasp. For a brief moment he felt the howl of anger rattling through his mind. Then it was gone.
His body met the ground in an instant, the impact forcing out the remainder of his breath. With his one good eye scanning the ground for his sword, he stood, haltingly. Where was the bloody thing? A shield bashed into his back, sent him sprawling. The Chanastardhians advanced, weapons drawn, this time less intent with continuing the beating. Whereas their numbers had counted for little against the raging, blood-coated man-beast, bruised as he was, he knew he was now far easier game. His limited vision, his frantic turning of the head to keep the furious enemies in sight and, at the same time, scanning the ground for his blade, would have encouraged even the dumbest foe.
“Drangar!” the Chosen’s voice hollered from behind. He dared not turn his back on the score of disciplined warriors. Racing footsteps approached, presumably Kildanor wanting to lend a hand. Creeping away from the ranks of foes eager to kill him, his hands swept the frozen ground. He understood their caution, their fear.
His left foot grazed something solid, steel scraped over earth. The enemy leader, a tallish man with the air of a true fighter, shouted, “Get him!” and Chanastardhians surged forward. When his searching hands found the hilt, for a brief moment, he felt the Fiend scream with joy. Grunting, he br
ought the blade up into Eagle Guard, this time he would remain in command. No bloody demons, no strings, no Fiend!
The enemy covered the last few yards the same moment Kildanor reached his side. “Don’t leave this spot!” the Chosen warned as his sword rose to fend off a stab by the leading foe. The ring of steel on steel and the screech as the weapons disengaged only to meet again, brought forth another exultation of the Fiend.
“Bastards,” Drangar growled, unsure whether he referred to the enemy or the demons trying to regain control. He knew he could beat the monster within, and with a snarl he countered a Chanastardhian blade on the outside, reminding the Fiend who was in command. This was his body!
Battered as he was, his parries came slowly. Again and again, Kildanor jumped in to deflect a blow he had not seen. Limited vision, dizziness, a multitude of bruises, he tried to shut the pain away but it remained. He was master of a failing body. Stumbling, only the Chosen’s helpful hand and a lull in the fighting prevented him from hitting the ground.
Drangar needed to think, quickly, for the enemy was advancing once more in closed ranks. Cahill Manor, a goal, confidence, the words rattled through his numbing mind. If he made sense of them, the plan to lure Mireynh’s attention away would work.
Had he healed himself in the turret room, or had that been the demon? Was it wise to even consider allowing the Fiend back in? Barely remembered sentences, the evaporating of blood, wounds closing, flesh charring and growing back; magic, all of it. Forcing fact onto an uncertain world was what Ealisaid had said. Was that what his father had been afraid of? That he, by accident, would learn the same type of magic the demons employed? Could he force the fact of healed flesh onto his bruised body?
Gritting his teeth, Drangar decided to try. If he failed it barely made a difference. He imagined his face, hale, unhurt. Blackness…
“Get to your senses, man!” someone shouted, shaking him.
His head throbbed, the pain almost unbearable. A purring laugh resounded through his mind. Opening his eyes, he squinted as far too bright light pounded into him. Shapes peeled out of the luminance, shields, helmets, and spears.
“To arms!” the voice roared.
Kildanor!
Ondalan, it all came back in a flash. Forcing his body to health, creating fact from possibility. The enemy was nearly upon them. Drangar blinked tears from his eyes. Both eyes! It had worked, but the agony and fiendish laughter within his skull almost made him throw up.
Then there was no more time, for the Chanastardhians had reached them. Instinct took over.
“Stay put!” Kildanor reminded him.
Now, in full command of his body and senses, Drangar still felt detached, as if this was less real. He stabbed at the helmets poking above the tower shields.
For an instant it seemed as if the dark shadow would step in again, just as the warriors retreated to prevent being impaled by his sword. A mental snarl kept the shadow in check. Again, he stabbed. Kildanor was employing the same tactic. The Chosen’s plan revealed itself a moment later.
Arrows quivered in a pair of heads before him, and another two to his right. The falling warriors created a breach. Not waiting for his companion to urge him on, Drangar darted into the opening. Surprised shouts and the ring of steel told him the Chosen was right beside him. Again, he felt the Fiend tug. “I am in control!” he roared, bashing aside two slashing blades. He used the momentum to pivot, stomping his right boot into the side of one opponent’s knee. The monster rejoiced, cheered the subsequent crunch and the man’s pained scream. His snarl silenced the demon.
Dodging a pair of thrusting spearheads, he slashed his blade in an arc, decapitating the second swordsman. With grim determination he now fought on two fronts, one within, the other without. As blood splashed into his face, Drangar drove his blade into a woman who was trying to stab him from the side. At the same time, the Fiend roared once more, stronger than before. In the moment it took to reinforce his defenses, the spearmen drove their weapons at him in unison. At the last instant, with steel points almost scratching his armor, he managed a desperate parry. The two soldiers, their faces blurred from blood running down his face, had overeagerly advanced well into his reach. A horizontal slash penetrated their chainmail. He saw the look on their ashen faces as their guts spilled on the ground.
“Retreat!” the warleader shouted. Glancing about, Drangar saw there were few enough Chanastardhians to obey the order.
Arrows, he now realized, had cut down most resistance while leaving himself and Kildanor virtually untouched. Dewayn certainly was true to his word. All he had to do now was lure Mireynh into sending more troops here, preferably the rebel noble Kildanor had mentioned.
Two more Chanastardhians hit the ground, missiles in their backs. He had to act fast! Presumably the archers knew to leave at least one survivor, but one could never predict such things in midst a battle. Drangar followed the handful warriors fleeing Ondalan, waving his sword in a way he hoped would tell the bowmen to stop shooting. Another Chanastardhian went down. Then the whistle of arrows stopped.
His legs and feet ached; even breathing felt impossibly hard. New bruises had replaced old ones. It was as if the Fiend was now trying a new tactic to usurp command. It promised healing, fast and quick relief from the aches. Remembering the instant of unconsciousness, he snarled his refusal. Instead, he sped up, sprinting after the enemy. Again, the shadow leapt forward, trying to dominate.
Growling, snarling, Drangar caught up with the rearmost soldier. He didn’t bother to aim his blow, bringing his blade down in a quick slash; cutting off the woman’s left leg at the knee. He was past before her body connected with the ground. Only three were left, including the leader.
Another one, a chubby bastard, faltered, stopped, gasping for air. As he passed the man, he brought up his sword, the blade flashing briefly across the exposed side of the neck. Then he was upon the remaining pair.
Both had freed their horses, the leader already in his charger’s saddle. The other one—Drangar noticed he was also garbed in better armor—had a foot in the stirrup and was glancing his way, eyes wide with terror.
Holding his sword like a lance, he covered the remaining distance in a single lunge. The nobleman’s chain surrendered to the weapon’s point just as easily as any other armor would have, the hammered steel sliding effortlessly into the man’s abdomen. For a moment, the Fiend’s cheer mixed with the Chanastardhian’s dying groan. Drangar tried to ignore both. His scowl had the added effect of drawing the other nobleman’s eyes his way. “Tell Mireynh, Drangar Ralgon is here, and demands the promised reward!” he said, his last victim still impaled on his blade. Despite protesting muscles and the need to vomit and weep at the same time, he held man and sword aloft, so the Chanastardhian slid down the entire length of steel until he came to rest against the already bloodstained guard. “Tell him he owes me!”
The horror in the man’s eyes was even more pronounced now, and Drangar tried to retain his uncaring, unstrained face as he held the sword in a two-handed low guard. “I am Drangar Ralgon, and I demand the reward Mireynh promised. It’s long overdue.” The effort almost made him drop the blade, but determination prevailed. “Now, get to your pathetic High General and tell him, understood?” His stare still held the Chanastardhian’s, and finally the man nodded, his entire body reflecting his dread. Turning his horse, the warrior galloped off.
As the noble disappeared behind a hill, Drangar finally let go of his sword and the mask of the hardened killer. He fell to his knees and retched. When his stomach was empty, he wiped bloodstained tears from his face and looked back at the trail of bodies left in his wake. Were his killings so different from those of the Fiend?
Not much later, after Lord Cahill’s men had brought horses and wagons into the village and had relieved mortally wounded foes of their prolonged suffering, the others inspected the ruins. Sick of death, Drangar watched from a distance. What had Kildanor said earlier? Or was it Cahill? He didn’t re
member. The people of Ondalan had fled their homes before the Chanastardhians had arrived. Only those few skilled in archery had stayed behind. Yet why would a conqueror of an abandoned, burnt out village demolish the place even further? Had the enemy done more than simply hold the place against a handful of defenders? Did it even matter?
Before, be it in Little Creek or Dunthiochagh, he’d not seen what the Fiend was capable of. Even the glimpse into the past had not revealed the sheer disregard for life the demon had shown today. The bloodstains on his armor glaringly reflected the deadly work. But some of the slowly blackening crimson was not the work of the other possessing his body. There were a good half-dozen that had fallen by his hand. He recalled the battles he had fought, more clearly now than during the past few years, but never before had the killings etched themselves so strongly into his memory. Slaying a man from behind, there was no honor in that. All the Chanastardhians had done was to follow their lord’s command. If only he could find some justification, anything that would make the slaughter easier to comprehend. He did not want to be the man the others fearfully regarded from a distance. If only he felt as true in his actions as he had in Eanaigh’s temple.
If only…
He ran an ungloved hand along the cold stone of a wall. Not only had fire devoured the roof of the house, but mortar had been scraped out and rocks removed so that its top looked as uneven as a mountain ridge. All evidence spoke of only recent abandonment, and the scratch marks on plaster and stone were fresh, underlining that fact. Drangar circled the ruin, found the entrance, and stepped into the enclosed space that had once been the common room. The remains of wooden furniture were yet another reminder of what had taken down this house. In the crisp air of the foothills, the tang of burnt wood stood out, and though some of it carried the scent of singed shingles, there was an even fresher note underneath the layers of smell.
