by Ulff Lehmann
“No wonder the others shun me,” he muttered. But even had they wanted him there, he would have chosen solitude. He remembered watching the assault on that first house, recalled his anger at himself as Sir Úistan had listed all his faults. It began to blur, fragments of bloodstained visions; his sword stuck in a Chanastardhian’s skull; racing up the stairs; his hands in a woman’s belly. Gods, what kind of creatures did such things?
Even though he had seen himself cutting Hesmera to pieces, he remembered none of it. Had the puppeteers taken control then? If that was true, could the Sons be in league… No! He shook his head, dismissing the notion. Something else was going on here.
Approaching footsteps halted his musings. Drangar turned and saw Kildanor. The Chosen’s face was drawn.
“Been out here all night?” the warrior asked, leaning against the wall he had put his sword up against.
Drangar regarded the man, wondered if the distrust present in Lord Cahill and his men was present there as well. “Aye. Had a lot of thinking to do.”
“About the cairns?”
He shook his head. “No, they had to bury some dead, hidden archers in the east.” Absently, he picked his nose, scratching the inside with his thumb. Then he turned and faced Kildanor. “I saw the slaughter, mine and the Fiend’s. How do I know it isn’t me killing all the time? There isn’t that much difference after all.” Finally, he had put into words what had been bothering him through the night.
Kildanor heaved a sigh and sat down beside him, facing him squarely. “You think the demons guide your hand even when you are in control?” The Chosen scoffed, and held up a hand before Drangar could snap a reply. “That trail of bodies, of parts scattered in your wake, first time you’ve seen those?”
Irritated, he shook his head. “Of course not.”
“Then why ask such a stupid question? Old reflexes came to the fore, like our last bout at the manor, remember?”
He did, barely, flashes of steel, dodging, parrying, losing track of time. Despite this, he nodded his head. “Aye.”
“As a mercenary, did you not kill enemies?”
“I never looked back. Only see their faces.”
“At night, in dreams? Same happens to me, only I have a few more decades of killing and bloodshed on me.”
“I was searching for a wrong these bastards had done, hoping that would explain the violence. You know, sword of Justice and all. They didn’t murder, torture, betray, or cheat. They just did their jobs.”
He took a deep breath then continued. “I was afraid. Before Sir Úistan made me angry, I mean. Yes, I thought I could remain in charge. At the manor it worked; I was able to control whatever is inside of me.” He saw the Chosen frown. “Yes, there is something else inside of me; I can feel it even now. It is angry and wants out, and I think that whenever I lose control it gains more ground.” He chuckled.
“I realize how insane this sounds.” He paused, scratching his chin. “You saw me, what I did. Or rather what my body did. Do you really think me capable of tearing a person in half?” The Chosen’s expression didn’t change. “Bleeding Scales, come on, man! You damn well know that tales get embellished, and if I had killed as many enemies as the stories say I did, don’t you think we’d have very few standing armies left?”
“I saw the demons,” Kildanor reminded him icily.
“And I freed myself.” He spat, looked to the sun that was now fully visible. “Do you think I enjoy the bloodshed?” The Chosen remained silent, regarding him. “Do you think I like dreaming of Hesmera’s pieces scattered all across the floor?” He poked his finger at Ondalan. “Do you think that knowing I tore that woman’s spine gives me warm and fuzzy feelings?”
“Then why did you follow my order?” Kildanor retorted.
He opened his mouth, but the reply did not come. He wanted to know that answer as much as the Chosen did. It was like what he encountered whenever he tried to remember willing his sword into his hand. Finally, he said, “I don’t know.” The Chosen regarded him evenly. “Fetch a Lawspeaker, if you want to, but I am not lying to you.”
“Is it constant?” Kildanor asked a moment later.
“Is what constant? The struggle?” Drangar said.
“Aye.”
The answer came easily enough; after all, he had been pondering the issue the entire night. “Until recently I wasn’t even aware there was a struggle going on. After Little Creek I thought I had just gone mad with the injustice and all. I could feel the furor, sure, but always thought that was just me being angry at shit, and believe me there is enough shit to fill a bunch of lifetimes. I gave it a name, Fiend, after Little Creek, not that I was aware of it as an entity.”
“You channeled it before?” the Chosen wanted to know.
Drangar considered, then shrugged. “Consciously? At the manor, yes, I did; no idea how. Maybe I had some leverage because I was angry at something other than myself and wanted to save the Ladies. Cahill just made me furious.”
“And on the battlefield?”
“That’s easy, I was mad at my father most of the time…” he fell silent, regarding the Chosen. “Say, if the bastards who attacked me in the Shadowpeaks were Sons of Traksor, they must have a reason for wanting to see me dead. Other than sheer maliciousness, I mean.” He chuckled. “If I was in some way connected to those demons, wouldn’t they know? And if so, why the Scales did they let me live in the first place?”
“In their place, would you have killed yourself?”
“Scales, yeah!” he replied in a heartbeat. “We were trained to fight the demons any way possible.”
“But you are no demon,” Kildanor said. “So, what are you?”
Drangar closed his eyes, suddenly weary. “That is something only the Priest High of the Sons of Traksor can tell me.” He rubbed his face, yawning. “Guess the conversation with daddy dearest will take a completely different turn.”
“Why was it different?” the Chosen asked. “Why could you control yourself before? It can’t just have been your focus.”
He blinked, looked at the warrior and said, “I still had something to live for, I guess.” Speaking out what had been bubbling up inside of him was hard. Not even with Hesmera had he shared all of his feelings. “When around her, the shadow withered.” He paused, thinking. “It never completely went away, but I found a measure of peace.”
Kildanor squinted, scratched his temple. “You said those who had wanted you defenseless did it because they wanted to kill you, right?” He nodded, frowning. What was the Chosen getting at? “What if that potion had an effect on you that was unforeseen? Maybe only part of their illusion worked, and this demon of yours did the rest?”
Could that be possible? It didn’t matter, and he said so.
“Nothing of this matters now, only that this Fiend, or fiends, or demons, are now able to slip past your defenses even when you are not in any way poisoned,” Kildanor countered then fell silent, looking thoughtful. Drangar didn’t know what to say; so little made sense as it was. He tried to recall other instances where he had lost it the way he had yesterday.
Into his musings, Kildanor said, “Ever been to an old ruin? Something really old?”
He frowned at the Chosen. “Most of the shit built before last year is considered really old by some idiots.”
“No, I meant have you ever been to a place…”
His derisive snort silenced the warrior. “I know what you meant. No, I have never been the type to go plundering tombs. Doesn’t sit well with most folk, grave robbing. So, unless something mundane has been possessed by an evil spirit, I am haunt-free.”
“Except that you aren’t,” remarked Kildanor.
“But why?” He was tired of the endless debate, internal or external. “Until I reach the Eye, there won’t be any answers,” he grumbled. “And this talk isn’t helping any, won’t change a bloody thing. Why do you help me?”
“I have my reasons.”
“So, you’ll be what? A wet-nurse
?” he muttered.
“You can’t be that moody a bastard, can you?”
“No, I like to go to the opera before I eviscerate people,” Drangar snapped. Then, more calmly, “Sorry, just too much shit on my mind that doesn’t make any sense. Of course, I appreciate your offer. If all else fails you can stand next to me and kill me for the next few centuries.”
Kildanor snorted, and he joined the laughter. It felt good to laugh again, even if the matter was not truly humorous. The moment of mirth lasted only a few heartbeats, and, almost reflexively, Drangar felt his face revert to the cold mask he had worn for more than two years. Looking at the Chosen, he said, “Just when I hoped the entire affair over, the shit gets flung right back into my face.”
“Maybe it isn’t that bad,” the other replied jovially, but his tone changed in the end.
“Bloody difficult to maintain a charade when the world is this fucked up, eh?” Drangar remarked.
This time there was no hint of humor in Kildanor’s eyes. “Too true, my friend.” He was about to say more when another set of footsteps approached. Both turned and saw a grim-faced Úistan Cahill approaching.
Lord Cahill avoided eye contact with him and said, “The men would like to have breakfast with you.” That Drangar doubted very much, mainly because he would certainly not like to share breakfast with himself. He looked at Kildanor who responded with a brief nod.
“Very well,” he said with a reluctant sigh. “Though, truth to tell, I am not hungry.” It was the truth; he hadn’t eaten since before the attack yesterday, and with the images of his hands tearing two fellow humans apart still in his head, he doubted he would feel anything remotely resembling hunger again.
“You need to eat,” Sir Úistan said, finally looking at him. It was as if Lord Cahill tried to summon up the same friendliness he had shown before, the same patronizing way he addressed his servants. He tried and failed. Drangar didn’t blame him, had there been a mirror, he would have smashed his image to pieces. Did Sir Úistan think himself responsible for the carnage? Maybe it was good to be around the others. A last swipe of the stone, thumb touching blade and point, mainly out of habit and not to truly feel if the edge was honed—a night’s work of sharpening would have brought an edge to a maul—and he stood.
To Drangar’s surprise the mood around the fire was less subdued than expected. Who knew what kind of self-preserving rationale the men and women had come up with? Feoras’s warm greeting was only a charade; the horror still lurked in the servant’s eyes. But he had not the heart to respond to the well-meant banter that haltingly restarted when he sat.
Someone handed him a mug, and, after making sure it contained no alcohol but tea, he drank. Bread was passed his way. Absentmindedly he tore off a piece and ate, chewing listlessly. What the Scales was going on with him? The thought was always there, not even the forced cheerful noise around could drown it out. He went through the motions, bite and chew, drink, and swallow, but what should have been refreshing tasted like ashes. He knew far too little to make sense of this tapestry of madness; too little about the Sons, too little about the demons, and ironically enough, it seemed, too little about himself. In a way the slaughter of those Chanastardhians had wounded him almost as much as Hesmera’s death.
With a start he sat up. Hesmera, his anger at Darlontor, even Little Creek had one thing in common: it was personal; it affected him personally. Not her killing, but fighting for her, fighting to impress her. It really had been a personal matter. He remembered the faces of those he had killed, even the villagers. Always he’d had a private reason to be angry, determined. The only killing he hadn’t been able to recall was Hesmera’s. Maybe the nightmares were akin to the flashes he had when thinking about his one-man assault on the Chanastardhians. Kildanor was right! The potion the bastards had sold Hesmera had done so much more than just make him see weird things! It had eased the bonds of the Fiend.
“That doesn’t explain it being there, though,” he mumbled through the saliva-soaked shred of bread in his mouth. He swallowed, acutely aware that the banter was gone.
“What being where?” Camran asked.
He ignored the servant and caught Kildanor’s gaze. “We need to talk,” Drangar said, standing, and walked into the open before the Chosen could react.
The crunch of a single pair of feet and the jingle of chainmail followed him. A slight glance back showed it was Lesganagh’s warrior. He breathed a silent thank you, and didn’t stop until the house inside which he had brutally killed the Chanastardhians loomed before them.
A moment of hesitation, and then he entered.
Inside, he turned to face the Chosen who was right behind him. “I think you are right,” he began.
“About what?”
“That the potion I drank two years ago loosened something inside of me.” Drangar paused, considering how to continue without appearing completely mad. “When I was angry, I always was more powerful, stronger. I’ve never forgotten a face of anyone who died by my hand. Except…” He couldn’t believe how difficult it still was to speak openly of…
“Hesmera,” Kildanor supplied.
“Aye,” he said, acknowledging the help with a brief nod. He searched for the right words. They came haltingly. “Whatever this Fiend, or fiends, is, it never truly manifested itself before… her death. I have nightmares about my killing… her, but until I was shown the past, I never knew what really happened. Yesterday I saw, as if my eyes were windows through which I looked, because I was fighting back. I was aware of the monster taking over.”
“So infuriating you set that thing loose?” He nodded. “But why then did you obey me?” the Chosen wondered aloud.
“Bloody good question,” he said. “I can’t recall ever obeying anyone, not really.”
Kildanor laughed softly. “Now that I can imagine. Still…”
“Aye, still a damn strange thing, and nothing that we can solve here and now, it just might be a good idea to remain calm.” Drangar held up a placating hand. “I literally tore through a bunch of people. I certainly don’t want to see that happen again.”
“Agreed.”
To Drangar it looked as if the Chosen was about to say more, but hesitated. “Speak your mind,” he prompted.
“So,” Kildanor began, sounding as if he was truly thinking out loud. “How can we make certain the demon will remain trapped when we engage some foe? I mean, is there a way for you to fight and still remain yourself?”
He had already wondered about the same thing; after all, they were at war. “I need something worth fighting for,” Drangar finally said, realizing that such a thing, or person, was very difficult for him to find. A sad chuckle escaped his lips. “Bright thought that, isn’t it?” The reply he got was a shrug. Revenge wasn’t a good enough reason, anger even less so; what might have worked in the past had been obliterated by the Sons of Traksor’s marvelously insane and insidious plot. Love, he thought, might be an answer, and the double failure of the Sons became even more obvious. By using him to kill Hesmera they had not only loosened whatever restraints had been in place against the Fiend, they had also obliterated yet another anchor for him to hang on to. “Fucking idiots,” he grunted.
The Chosen nodded. “They shouldn’t have done that.”
He gave Kildanor a sardonic look. “Really now?” He knew that the warrior hadn’t meant it the way it came out, but the misplaced levity broke the ice. “You know, oh Chosen of Lesganagh, you are a right bastard.”
A moment passed, and then Kildanor said, “Takes one to recognize one, eh?” They laughed, briefly. “We’ll figure out a way, and then we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“I hope it is a bottom I like,” he replied, feeling better. “Come on, they can’t be done emptying out those storehouses, can they?”
They headed out together, and for a moment Drangar really felt at ease. But the gloomy thoughts returned during the monotonous haul of sacks and barrels filled with raw iron.
By late noon it began to snow. The wagons were loaded and on their way back to Dunthiochagh, accompanied by half the retainers. Lord Cahill had been loath to leave a single one behind to welcome the Chanastardhian deserters, but a firm reminder from Kildanor changed the noble’s mind instantly.
Snow on the first day of Cold was a rarity. Winter usually took its time to cover the world in white. This year, for a change, the calendar was true to its word. With the coming of snow Drangar’s chance to leave for Kalduuhn before the beginning of next year was as thin as the sheet of ice he watched forming in a puddle. Dismayed, he flicked a pebble onto the ice, shattering it. It was getting colder still. He pulled the cloak taut about his shoulders and watched the fog of his breath mingle with the falling snow.
“Riders!” Feoras called out. The man was on lookout near the southwestern road, and he was glad that it wasn’t Camran who had stayed behind.
“Banner?” Lord Cahill asked.
“Some mountain, tied to its lance is a blue ribbon,” was the answer.
Kildanor who had been huddling near a low fire, stood, crossed over to Drangar, clapped his shoulder, and said, “C’mon, let’s greet our guests.”
“What if it is a trap?” he asked.
“Would you feel more comfortable if I put you on a leash and made you real angry?” the Chosen asked.
Drangar shook his head. “Fuck you!” he retorted. He knew Kildanor had spoken in jest; still, he wondered how he would ever find anything or anyone worth fighting and, more importantly, living for.
When the Chanastardhian warband rode into Ondalan, the woman he saw made him wonder how he could have ever worried about that at all. He stared, and didn’t care anyone nearby could see him ogling the breathtakingly beautiful woman. Sure, she was no Hesmera, but for the first time his thoughts about her did not hurt as much as they usually did. Before him on a horse sat perfection, and suddenly he knew there indeed were things worth living for.
In a rare moment of self-consciousness regarding his appearance, Drangar pulled up the hood of his cloak to hide the clusters of stubbly hair that were slowly returning. He had enough possession of his senses not to check his breath or see if his hands were clean. If any woman worried about things like that out here in a warzone, he was certain it would not be her.
