by Ulff Lehmann
“Maire can work the forge, runt. She’ll do a far better job of taking care of herself than you ever could,” Ben would have said. In a way he thought he heard his brother’s voice. “Remember your first horseshoe? You’re no smith.” In Jesgar’s mind Ben sounded less temperamental than he had ever been in life. “Go do what you feel is right, follow your path and not the path you don’t want to travel. Make your own footsteps.”
“Even in death your brother is very stubborn,” a voice beside him rumbled, pulling Jesgar out of his reverie.
He blinked and looked at the speaker. All Deathmasks looked alike, that much he knew, but in a way, he felt this one was actually smiling at him from beneath the brass covering the face. “Excuse me?” he finally managed to say.
“You heard me and him, there is nothing left to say on the matter,” the priest of Jainagath said with a brief bow. “If you wait here, I’ll take care of the body.” The Deathmask motioned to the chapel, and after a moment’s hesitation he went inside, leaving the cleric with his brother.
Maire had said everything had been arranged, whatever that meant. As the door shut behind him, he remembered he had forgotten to tell the priest to proceed at once. He turned, opened the portal again and found the yard empty. The Deathmask must have known what had to be done. With so many dead and winter embracing the land quickly, it seemed likely that any high and formal funerals would be delayed until such time as the weather was more agreeable. That didn’t delay the actual burying of the ashes, though.
The chapel, he noticed with surprise, was not what he had expected. There were a few skulls carved into the mantelpiece and the posts of what he guessed had to be the bed, but aside from that it looked more like a library of sorts, or a study. The room—he couldn’t tell if there were more beside this one—wasn’t exactly cold, neither was it as warm as he expected of a living space. He had been in barns warmer than this place. Determined not to poke his nose into things that were none of his business, Jesgar sat on the single hard chair and waited.
Soon he found himself staring at the skulls. Why was there a fireplace if it wasn’t used? The friezes seemed to shift, as he inspected them, taking on features he had seen on his brother. One was laughing, another frowning, yet another glared, they depicted the range of emotion Bennath Garinad had displayed in all the years he had known him. That one grinned, like Ben had when Jesgar had thrown a snowball straight into the face of the neighbor’s dog. It was a proud grin. Despite the emptiness he felt as he thought of his brother’s lifeless body, the skull-faces brought forth all the memories he had of Ben. The hole his death had torn inside was slowly filled.
Jesgar smiled, wept, laughed, and scrunched his face in chagrin. The skulls seemed to say that all would turn out well, and to his surprise he believed them. In his heart, without even realizing he had done so, he had detached himself from the smithy long before now, but a part had always stayed there, would always stay there. And now, with Ben gone, the part that had left his home behind knew it was all right to go. The memories would remain, Ben would remain, in his heart, and that was really the only place they were meant to endure for as long as he, Jesgar, lived. When death found him, he would join his brother in the Halls of the Gods, and there they would celebrate. Until then, Ben lived in his heart.
At that moment, he understood that his grumpy, loving older brother would always be with him, he remembered something Ben must have said when he had been but a child. Ben had wanted his ashes be joined with their father’s, in the forge. That their father had been with them all these years, whenever they worked the bellows or heated iron, he hadn’t even been aware of. And Ben wanted the same.
Rubbing tears from his eyes, he looked at the mantelpiece again, there were only carved skulls, staring blindly.
The door creaked open and the Deathmask entered. “It is done,” the priest said. Whether he meant the cremation or the final understanding that his brother would always be with him, Jesgar didn’t know. It didn’t matter. “The stone will be engraved,” the Deathmask continued. “Here, you know what he wanted you to do.”
Jesgar nodded, tears again welling in his eyes. He took the urn, nodded once more, and then left.
Outside, already a few yards down the next street, he remembered the wheelbarrow. A few heartbeats later, urn secured on it, he pushed the contraption southward, home.
By the time he reached Hill’s Road the last vestiges of doubt had vanished. His responsibility was, first of all, his own wellbeing. He was no warrior, even if the fight on the wall had demonstrated he could do battle if forced into it. The blacksmith’s craft certainly wasn’t for him either. He would do what he enjoyed, Maire would understand, and his brother approved. Spying, much like thieving, was mainly the boredom of observation and only in part exhilaration, but this small part was enough. He would remain the Baron’s spy and go where his lord wanted him to go. In his mind he already saw himself wandering the places of power, not so much lurking about but mingling with the mighty, pretending he was someone else. Scales, it had worked in the enemy camp, it was bound to work elsewhere.
When he reached the smithy, by now the nearby buildings had been cleared of debris and casualties, the sound of the bellows and the roaring fire beckoned him. His brother’s urn in hand, Jesgar entered the stiflingly hot workshop. Inside Maire was busy shoveling more coals into the fire. She wore Ben’s old leather apron. The thing was far too big, despite the worn yet sturdy material having been bunched at the waist. She was working as hard as she would have on any other day.
She must have felt the draft, for she turned, wiped a sweaty strand of hair from her face, and regarded him. The way she stood, her pose, in a way she had taken her husband’s posture and made it her own. Sure, she was hardly as tall as Ben, and the apron looked rather silly on her wiry frame, but she exuded a confidence and strength he had rarely noticed before. She pointed at the urn, her eyes still boring into his. “You know what to do?”
He nodded. Of course he knew, yet he was unsure whether Ben wanted him or her to pour the ashes into the forge. She must have sensed his hesitation for she walked to his side, folded her arms, and turned her head to regard him. “Your brother did the same for your father,” she said. “Some stupid Garinad man-thing if you ask me, but that’s what he would’ve wanted.” Up close he saw that she was not finished grieving, the rivulets of sweat that washed the soot off her forehead were mixed with tears that still ran all too freely.
“You should go and see the Deathmask, and his fireplace,” he said. Then, to lighten the mood, “Should children bearing our name ever walk this place we’ll let this stupid male tradition slip away, eh?” He tried to wink, but ended up blinking fiercely. “Bloody smoke,” he mumbled, wiping a sleeve across his face. If Maire noticed his weeping, she didn’t mention it. Her hand was on his back, and she gently pushed him toward the roaring flames. Fumbling, he reached for the lid, pulled it off, and was about to empty the urn’s contents into the fire, when Maire stopped him. He threw a questioning look at her.
“Together,” she answered, eyes pleading. Without a thought, Jesgar nodded. She had been Ben’s wife for almost as long as he had been his brother; the two had lived as a couple for as long as he could remember. Traditions were there to be changed, and if Ben was too stubborn to recognize her right to perform this last honor, he had better stay quiet.
Both of them held the urn in their hands. Jesgar glanced over to Maire, and saw her lips moving. The roar of the fire was too loud for him to hear what she was saying. It mattered not. His words, when they finally left his mouth, were as quiet as hers; he wasn’t even sure he was actually speaking them. Then, in unison, when the flames had died down leaving enough of an opening, they tilted the urn, and Ben’s ashes joined those of his father.
For a long while they stood in front of the forge, watching the coals burn. The glow intensified and lessened, spreading from the center into the farthest spots. It looked as if it was searching for something. Je
sgar liked the idea of it looking for Ben’s ashes; it was a nice image. Once or twice Maire and he shared the duty of working the bellows, fanning the heat on. Then, unsure when he had put on his own barely used apron, they worked.
Sparks flew, hammers sang, and the bellows roared. How long they remained thus he couldn’t tell, but it was well past dusk when they left. On their way out, Maire nudged him companionably and said, “Do me, you, and most importantly Ben’s memory a favor.”
He looked at her. The sadness in her face had been replaced by exhaustion, and there was a sparkle in her eyes, mischievous, yes, mixed with the last remnants of grief, if he were to guess. A smile crept onto his lips, unbidden, for he knew what she would say. “Aye?” Jesgar asked.
“Don’t ever do any work in any smithy again, at least not with the hammer and anvil,” Maire said with a smirk. “Hungry?”
“Scales, yes!” he replied. Casting one last look at the forge his brother had worked at for so many years, he followed her inside. Ben was dead, but life went on.
CHAPTER 16
Third of Cold, 1475 K.C.
Heavy snowfall had brought their journey to a dreary halt, and though warm, Drangar felt as if the cave walls were closing in on him. Aside from Kildanor and, strangely enough, the woman he would rather have met when he was bathed and clothed rather than splattered with blood from a good score of Chanastardhians, no one exchanged more than a few halting words with him. Solitude, he was used to it. At least his garments were dry, and the air remained breathable. He hadn’t found the natural chimney yet, but one had to be there, somewhere. Touching his head ever so often, he felt tufts of hair clustering about the pate, and even the previously bald spots were slowly sprouting again. The same was happening to his eyebrows and beard. Lacking a mirror, he imagined his head looked less a nightmare now than he had a week ago. Not that this boosted his confidence whenever she came over to strike up a conversation. What did she see in him anyway?
Again, he ran his hand across his stubbly head and wondered why she even joined him. He certainly wasn’t attractive, not like this, and women of her age usually went for looks instead of personality any day of the year. He scoffed. Right now, he was lacking in both areas. Maybe he had lacked them all his life?
When he closed his eyes, he saw the Fiend, restless, pacing, waiting for its chance. The thought of having torn apart a human being with his bare hands made him jerk awake at night. This vision replaced the vision of butchering the monster that turned into Hesmera, not that the new dream was any better. In the twisted way nightmares worked, Drangar was certain that sooner or later he would be tearing Hesmera apart. If the others were disturbed by his restless sleep, they didn’t mention it. Not even Kildanor.
He didn’t blame them; the Chanastardhians relied on rumors but generally kept to themselves, and Sir Úistan’s people were busy staying clear of him. Sometimes, when she sat with him, he thought he could detect concern in her eyes. Yesterday she had almost broken the somewhat comfortable silence. She had tucked her curly hair behind her ear, bitten her lips, taken a deep breath, and in the end remained silent. Drangar was grateful for that. He didn’t know what to say, what to speak of. Things had been simpler back then, before Dunthiochagh. He didn’t even know her name.
The spot where he had chosen to put his gear was away from the others. One of the recesses branching off from the main chamber gave him the solitude he wanted. He chuckled, shaking his head. He wanted solitude; he didn’t need it. But with so many people around, he felt uncomfortable. Ignoring the fact that he was drawn to her, he enjoyed her company. She made him feel at peace, made him forget that there was something within him that loved tearing through people, that loved bathing in blood. Had his situation not been as grim as it was, he might have asked Kildanor for advice. Courting had never been one of his strengths; Scales, it had taken him months before he had uttered the first words to Hesmera. The Scythe—how he hated that title now—being afraid of women had been a permanent joke with his mates. Not that he had ever been afraid of women, just a woman he really liked. Hesmera had had it, and this one had it also, the one thing he felt drawn to, a depth in her eyes hinting at the depths of her heart and soul. Even cultured Neena Cahill had carelessness in her eyes, a naiveté shining within, that made him shy away. Maybe this was because he’d seen all his dreams and hopes shatter before his eyes before he had ever had time to reach for them. In a way this flame-headed warrior had the same look about her, a kinship he was drawn to.
A kinship he dared not share again. He wouldn’t endanger her like he had unknowingly endangered Hesmera. He would rid himself of the Fiend, and get the Sons off his back. Then maybe, if she would have him, he might be able to love himself, and her.
The sound of the whetstone running down steel surprised him. He hadn’t been aware of unsheathing the sword. All the techniques of prayer and meditation the Sons had taught him were nothing compared to the calm that engulfed him when sharpening a blade. A few Chanastardhians looked his way, suspicious. He didn’t blame them, had he been in their place he would have felt the same. The covert glances from Sir Úistan’s retainers were different. Here suspicion had grown into worry, a fact that bothered him because he knew some of them. Now, going about their businesses, they avoided coming any closer than necessary.
As far as he could tell, they tried to maintain a vague resemblance of normalcy. Someone had carved dice from a chunk of wood, and the main attraction of the cave was a game of chance. No one had invited him, but he didn’t mind, preferring the solitude. It was safer that way.
The stone ran down the blade automatically, he went through the motions with a precision born of years and years of routine. His eyes took in the scene before him. There were the dicers, Lord Cahill inspecting the snow-shut entrance, Kildanor looking his way, the Chanastardhian woman Cirrain, and her. Did he want to know her name? In the warband it had been easy finding out Hesmera’s, everybody knew each other, here with people avoiding him it was more difficult. He could ask her, but that would open an entirely new bag of problems. Under normal circumstances he would have gone and asked her, talked to her, but his life was anything but normal. He tore his eyes away as she brushed her hair back with both hands.
“Can we talk?” the Chosen’s voice startled him.
“Hmm?”
Kildanor sat next to him. “The Fiend you mentioned,” he began, looking thoughtful.
“Hmm.”
“Is it there now?” Drangar thought he detected some genuine worry in the Chosen’s voice. “Why did you come back?”
He arched a sparse brow, looking at Kildanor. “Like I had a choice in the matter. At first you thought Lesganagh or some other god returned me to life, eh?” Drangar scoffed. “I never asked for any of this.”
“So, you don’t know how or why you came back?”
“Other than to make my life even more miserable?” he asked, trying to keep the sarcasm down. “No.”
“And the Fiend? Is it there?”
“I try not to think about it.”
At first, Kildanor regarded him silently, and then he said, “Still, I need to understand…”
“You and me both, I think.”
“So is…”
“Yes, it is there, all the fucking time,” he interrupted. “I feel the bugger lurking, waiting. You shouldn’t have brought me along on this.” He nodded to House Cahill’s men-at-arms. “They thought me strange to begin with, what with the eating and all. Now they think I’m a monster. Maybe I am.”
“But you said it yourself, you were not in command,” protested Kildanor.
“So, if a captain orders warriors to butcher innocents, the soldiers are not to blame?”
“The soldiers have a choice, you did not!”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? I remember seeing my hands in that woman’s stomach, around her spine, tearing her apart,” he growled. “Do you really think I enjoy these images? Sure, every one of us”—he made a waving
motion with the whetstone—“has killed. I imagine there are some torturers who’d applaud my creativity, even if I have done nothing. It’s all I can do to stay calm and not allow the Fiend to gain the upper hand.”
“What is he?”
“Damned if I know, mate.” A sad chuckle escaped his lips. “Never gave me a name, nor did I see a face. Aside from the cat beasts you called demons. Fought them to regain control.”
“What really bothers me is that you obeyed me when I told you to clear the way,” said Kildanor.
“Aye, I saw that.” He looked at the Chosen and saw the man blinking in disbelief. “Not that the bastard told me his intentions.”
“What?” Worry was now plainly in Kildanor’s face. “So, you had no hand whatsoever in that decision?”
“None. I regained control when that thing kept running into the shield wall,” Drangar said. “I could see through my eyes then, like windows, so to speak. The massacre in the house, the killings as it, I, walked for the shield wall, I saw it and could do nothing.”
The Chosen swallowed, face devoid of blood. “This being controlling you obeyed me?”
Drangar snorted in derision. “Well, I certainly did not order anything to go and clear the way.” His hand was halfway up his head when he remembered there was no hair to rake through. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall anything he might have missed. The search, he felt, came close to that part of his mind where the Fiend lurked, sequestered for now. If any minute memories remained, they would return unbidden, much like the other flashes, just like the nightmares.
A hand on his shoulder brought him back to the cave. “Don’t look for places you don’t want to see,” Kildanor said.
“I never saw them in the first place,” he retorted. “It’s more a matter of steering clear of this thing in my head.” The Chosen looked doubtful. “It’s there, waiting. Bastard’s always waiting.” In a way he felt reminded of the argument that the two, or was it three, disembodied voices had when he’d been in the dark place. The time has not come! His unseen protector had yelled at the shining lights that had tried to reach him. What time? It made no sense. The time has not come! Had the Fiend been waiting, lurking inside of him all his life? No. Or had it? Nothing made sense, and this Chosen was no help either. “I have to go to the places I don’t want to go to,” he finally said.
