by Ulff Lehmann
CHAPTER 11
“Princess!” a snapped command woke her. Lightbringer’s eyes fluttered open, and immediately she squinted against the luminescence bathing her cave.
At first, she was unsure of where the light was coming from; it was everywhere. Then, as her sight adjusted, she saw them. Trying to retain some grace, she stumbled to her feet. Millennia of etiquette had never been wholly erased, and, although the motions came haltingly, she went through the proper ceremony of greeting Those Who Came Before. Clawed hands went crosswise to her shoulders, chest, thighs, and finally, as she kneeled, to the ground. “Ancestors, I hail you,” she repeated words unspoken for eons. They felt wrong. Hadn’t she earned the right to be treated as equal?
“Equal?” one of them echoed her thoughts. She couldn’t tell who had spoken; the illumination was too bright to differentiate between the twenty-four first ones.
“You are not,” another said. Male and female voices of her race had always been hard to distinguish, and it had been millennia since she had last heard any of them speak.
Of course, she was equal! She had done more, accomplished more than any single one of them. She had freed the elves from slavery, had taught them a safer way to use magic, she had even reminded them to release humans before there would be another Great War. How could she not be equal to them?
“Don’t be petulant, girl.”
“But I’ve done so much!” she complained aloud.
“You never abandoned your ways, always sacrificing those you claim to protect!”
“I can’t!” she retorted, realizing that she sounded like the Royal Princess of Hrecknast, spoiled beyond belief.
“You have never even tried!”
“You never led by example!”
“You told the elves it was wrong to use life to force magic, but did so yourself!”
“These ashes, this place, witnesses to your failure!”
“Hypocrite, teaching one thing and doing the other!”
“Know that even if you were to defeat your brother, as long as you do not abandon your unacceptable ways, the war will never truly be over, not as long as you do not change!”
“But I set things in motion.” Even to her ears the words sounded weak.
“We turned our back on our children’s children because of what you all did, what you still do.”
“Even now he plans their return. His followers have wrought horrors and perversions upon the world that prevent even the gods from seeing what they are doing. The Kumeen Mountains are dark; Naghturuu’klanagh’s magic saw to that.”
“Can’t you pierce it?” she wondered aloud.
“We are servants to the gods; you decided to guide events.”
“You took it upon yourself to change the world.”
“To truly change the world, you have to change as well.”
The brightness didn’t waver, and still the only thing Lightbringer saw were silhouettes painted onto a gleaming canvas. These were her ancestors, the first ones, and they had forsaken the world before she had been born. “Teach me!” she pleaded. “I want to learn!”
“You taught the elves, teach yourself!”
“Let your past go, child.”
“Your machinations have born many fruits, but you have never eaten one of them.”
“If you are unable to heed your own teachings you will never bring the desired change.”
“You have the discipline, the focus; you would not be here pulling strings otherwise.”
“You helped the human prince, Tral.”
“Him you taught an amalgam.”
“And you claimed it came from Lesganagh!”
“You do not serve Him, or any other god.”
“He let it pass, for even we fought your brother’s hordes on behest of His clergy.”
“If you want to change the world, change yourself!”
With that final advice, she was alone once more, the ancestors gone. Her knees ached from remaining prostrate on the ground. She stood uncertainly, fists clenching. Had she really thought herself equal to them? If she was completely honest with herself, she was forced to admit they were right. Humility was lacking just as much in her vocabulary as it did in Naghturuu’klanagh’s. Now, even though she had lived with his name all her life, the shortened version the humans used, Turuuk, felt much more familiar.
Unlearn everything she had ever learned? The mere thought was daunting, frightening. She had never truly considered it. Part of her recoiled at the idea; the habits of millennia had become so ingrained that even thousands of years after her kind’s defeat, using the blood of others came as natural to her as breathing.
She had tried to explain it to Cat, but now realized her fear was talking. Could an old dog still learn new tricks? This question she had never truly considered. Teaching young pups was easy, the elves had learned quickly enough, as had Prince Tral, and in turn, his followers. Even the human wizards had excelled at it. But none of them had been truly weighed down by a lifetime that had outlived the ages.
And who could teach her? More importantly, who would teach her? Elves? Certainly not. If the Elf Lloreanthoran were any indication, they would sooner wet themselves. Humans? There was no one… She hesitated. That there were no humans capable of teaching was wrong. The Phoenix Wizards were gone, and that whelp of a sorceress would not really suffice as a teacher. But there were others, the followers of Tral Kassor first and foremost. And their location was very suitable for launching an attack at her brother’s stronghold, when the time was right.
The students would become the teachers, and the teacher the student. And maybe she would be able to find out what had really happened to Cat.
With practiced ease she began casting a teleportation spell, and then suddenly, she halted. If she were to unlearn and learn anew, she had to start now, not when she reached the Eye of Traksor. Never in her entire life had she walked that far. The eastern part of Gathran was considerably wilder than the west, and the Elven Road had fallen into disrepair in the last century.
A hike through the forest it was, then. She would have to hunt for food, yet another thing she had never done before. Back in Hrecknast it had never been necessary, and after the Great War when the servants were gone, and the whole of the sunargh people had been wiped off the face of the world, magic had provided her sustenance. Magic and blood had made her as lazy as the elves of Gathran. Fear almost made her abandon the journey before it had begun, but the appearance of the twenty-four ancestors was a sign she dared not ignore.
The moment she stepped out of her cave and into the tangle of trees that was eastern Gathran, the chill of winter rushed in on her. With a groan she realized there was much more to traveling than just hunting and walking and fire making. She needed the right clothing as well.
And with what should she hunt? Swallowing her rising despair, she began to walk. If she were to relearn magic, it was best to relearn life as well. She would live stark, primitive, as if she were the first being to walk the world. Like one of the forbears, her ancestors who were first given the light of reason by Lesganagh, first of the gods, she would make her way, unhampered by trappings she had lived with for thousands of years before she had helped the elves rebel. With that in mind, the cold seemed to barely reach her feet.
CHAPTER 12
At the break of dawn, the assault had lost none of its ferocity. Again and again the Chanastardhians charged the wall, but the defenders prevailed. Only a few were dead, on each side. Cuts and bruises were prevalent, and those who had died had been kicked off the battlement. The healers and pallbearers had their hands full with the wounded; the dead were of little concern to either side.
Strangely enough, even with Gail and several others missing, Rhea felt the same. She was far too weary to bother with any thought not dedicated to saving her hide and keeping the enemy off the wall. At midnight some fresh troops had been brought in, but seeing that her fellow Riders remained, even Nerran who looked beyond tired, she refused
to be relieved of her duty. The wizard-wrought clearing had allowed them to retake that section, and it had remained in Danastaerian hands ever since.
The grind of slash and stab and kick was now a reflex; Rhea felt like a sleepwalker, going through the motions burned into her body, almost like riding. Had anyone ever told her she could fight while asleep, she would have scoffed at the notion, now even this thought slipped from her mind, as she cut at a Chanastardhian’s head. With a shout the enemy woman flung herself backward, off the ladder and into the milling mass of soldiers below. A moment later the next in line poked his helmet above the merlon. Before her weapon was ready to strike, someone beside her lodged a halberd into the ladder’s wood and sent the entire thing rocking back. In a flash of clarity, Rhea let go of the sword and helped the man finish the job. The ladder went down.
She had barely retrieved her blade when, a few yards to the right, a concerted assault began. The battle cry and subsequent clash of arms drew her attention, and she saw a trio of well-armored enemies mount the wall at the same time. The soldiers launched themselves at defenders who looked as weary as she felt. It wouldn’t take them long to widen the gap to a degree where those who were just now pouring across the battlement would be able to fight as well. A glance at the Pike whom she had helped only moments ago, and then she charged off. The soldier, his halberd leading, was right beside her.
In silence they covered the distance, crashed into the flank of warriors still trying to get their bearings. They cast them off the wall. Their ladders followed a heartbeat later. By now the three enemy warriors were batting off swords and maces and axes beating at them from all directions. They were back to back, and although they fought well, a sudden arrow into a helmet’s faceplate ripped the defense asunder. A moment of violence later, three corpses, weighed down by heavy armor, were thrown into the attackers.
Rhea returned to the section of wall that was her killing field. The Pike, she didn’t bother to mark his features, was at her side. By now the ladders had been righted and the dance began anew.
None of them truly noticed the moment when, at noon or so, the assault stopped. It looked as if everything had just been covered in a translucent veil; then the lack of arms clashing and absence of grunts and cries and howls registered in her mind. Blinking dazedly, Rhea looked around and saw the other defenders were just as surprised as she was. If this was victory, she didn’t feel it. The Pike, her unlikely brother-in-arms, gave an uncomprehending laugh, others near her gasped, their mouths and faces distorted in base relief. For the first time, at least it felt like the first time, she noticed the cuts and bruises she had suffered.
Until now, with the constant fighting, she had barely felt the frosty air. Now, as the tension of combat fled her body, the chill of winter rushed in without mercy. Her teeth chattered, and her lips trembled. It felt like she had been tossed in ice water; she felt just as helpless.
The Pike hung on to his weapon for a moment longer, and then joined her on the cold stone. Rhea hadn’t even noticed her knees buckling. Near her, embedded into the heavy granite foundation, stood one of the massive ovens guards usually gathered around on their tours of the wall. With fingers that were as numb as the rest of her body, she clawed her way to the iron monster, only to realize upon arrival that the fire had gone out during the night. Amidst all the fighting, who would have found the time to feed wood to the flame? With the cold driving out the last shreds of heat left in her, freezing sweat soaked her undergarments, and she had no strength left to crawl any further.
Then she felt someone pull her up and wrap her in something heavy. She opened her eyes and saw an old woman, a merchant’s wife judging by her clothes, wrapping her in a blanket. The woman looked weary and afraid, and deep gratitude overshadowed her exhaustion.
“Have some soup,” her savior said, and a moment later she felt the hot rim of some bottle scorching her split lips. Rhea didn’t care how much it hurt; she drank greedily. “Not too much, dear, there are others who need it, too.” The blessed warmth, she couldn’t even tell what kind of soup it was, left her lips and the woman walked to the next warrior who was already wrapped in a blanket.
As some life returned to her tired limbs, she struggled to her feet and looked around. All around her she saw the same thing: townsfolk, mostly wives, but also children and elderly folk, were walking among their defenders, bringing blankets and hot drink. How many there were she couldn’t tell, not that it mattered. Those same citizens had, only a week ago, complained about the presence of so many warriors inside Dunthiochagh. Now that animosity was gone, replaced by a caring gratitude only found in people who had just realized how much they relied on those they had scorned. Better late than never, she thought.
A girl, she couldn’t have been more than six or seven summers old, walked up to her, eyes wide with fright and bewilderment. In her small hands she carried a bottle, saying, “Ma says you have ta drink, brings back them spirits. Just one sip, more wanna drink, ma’am.”
Rhea took the container and made sure to fill her mouth with just a little of its contents. She was glad not to have poured in more, the stuff, whatever it was, burned her mouth, lips, and chin. Scales, even her throat hurt as the liquor ran through it. Only years of drinking booze with her friends stopped her from coughing. She returned the bottle, not trusting her voice to thank the girl.
The lass beamed at her, waved goodbye, and skipped to the next warrior, addressing him with the same words: “Ma says you have ta drink, brings back them spirits. Just one sip, more wanna drink, sir.” The man-at-arms, so tattered was his surcoat Rhea couldn’t even tell whether it was a Sword, Pike, or Lance, drank. His eyes bulged, color crept back onto his pale face, and the girl was off again, smiling broadly. Whatever was in this bottle, its contents were potent.
More children came. Some looked frightened enough to cower from the blood spattered on the stones, but others, obviously used to at least some sort of bloodshed, carried armfuls of firewood, and set about rekindling the ovens. There even seemed to be some reserves coming up the stairs.
One of them, she recognized a moment before he stood in front of her, was Nerran. The Paladin looked weary as he inspected the situation. The Baron joined him. Duasonh looked just as tired, his shredded surcoat and haphazardly bandaged wounds were ample proof that Dunthiochagh’s ruler had not sat idly by and let others do the fighting. Nerran, despite his exhaustion, seemed in better shape, she noted wryly. She had seen neither of them during most of the night, but judging from their appearance they had been in the thick of it as well.
Duasonh offered her a weak smile and a nod. She owed him no allegiance, and he knew it. It was Nerran who spoke. “Think they are regrouping, Princess?”
Gods how she hated that title! Suppressing her ire, Rhea said, “No idea, chief, we gave ’em a good deal of bloodied noses, but if it hadn’t been for that Wizardess we might have lost half the city.” She tried but couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice. Gail and the others had been in that captured stretch of wall, and that bit of sorcery had literally wiped out the chance to find them. Losing anyone was hard, had always been hard on her. Far too many bad memories of living while the ones closest to her had been left behind—left for dead. If the others had been alive when the Wizardess had worked her spell, they had surely died when the magic had hit the wall.
The Baron, probably sensing her resentment, cleared his throat and then spoke. “The Lady Ealisaid did what had to be done; there is no point in arguing that.” He sounded tired.
“Tell that to those who lost someone in that assault,” she replied bitterly, though a small part of her kept arguing that the sorceress’s intervention had probably saved more lives than it had taken. Maybe—she had never truly thought about it—the end did justify the means. Maintaining the law was one thing, but was it the law of man or the law of gods she was supposed maintain? The laws of man elegantly stepped around certain entities, first and foremost among them the very nobility she had belong
ed to. There was freeborn and villein right, and noble right; those Lawspeakers who disagreed with what a lord did never raised their voices again.
“They would’ve lost more than just their sons and daughters, Rhea,” Nerran said, putting a hand on her shoulder. He rarely used her name; he mostly used the hated title. Surprised, she looked up and saw the grief she felt reflected in his eyes. “Just remember that they went into battle knowing the risks.”
She wanted to argue, deny that fact, but she could not. Instead, she nodded her head in silent agreement. The pain of loss was strong; she felt very much reminded of the life she had left behind all those years ago.
“Good girl,” the Paladin said, squeezing her aching shoulder. “Even the Wizardess did her job.”
“Not as expected but it worked,” Duasonh added, and then turned to walk among his warriors.
“There’s gonna be some people demanding payment for what the Wizardess did,” she muttered.
“That’s been going on since she blew those houses to rubble,” the Paladin said. “Don’t worry, lass, the Baron will put her to trial once all this is over.”
She had heard some of the rumors. Still, now that she thought about it, maybe in this instance her deeds in defense of the city should be weighed against the destruction and death she had caused. She remained silent.
“Got some inspecting to do, lass,” said Nerran, giving her shoulder a final squeeze, then turned to follow Baron Duasonh. “Get your wounds looked after” were his parting words. She watched until he was lost amid the milling of warriors, healers, women, and children of the city.
“Some soup, m’lady?” piped a voice beside her. A boy and a girl, brother and sister by the look of them, stood there, holding a cooking pot by its cloth sheathed handle. The girl held out a ladle, which she gratefully took. Her brother looked about, unease and fear plain on his face.
