Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  “I need you to find someone, my nephew. He is in the Kumeens.”

  His eyes became slits as he regarded his host. “You’re joking. I know how every attempt to penetrate the mountain range ended in failure. How do you expect me to succeed when, as you so aptly pointed out, I couldn’t even escape this prison?” It was lunacy. “You want to kill me here and now, try, but stop playing games.”

  “You must understand the enemy, and for that you need to walk their lands. Only then can you do what is necessary. Only then will you be ready for the lessons.”

  “And what if I fail?”

  “You won’t.”

  “What makes you so certain I won’t?” How was it possible that Darlontor sounded both so close to despair and yet so determined?

  “You managed to wander in spiritform through this place. You have the determination. You will succeed.”

  The task, and its promised reward, felt like another attempt at procrastination. Why was Darlontor so eager to prevent him from gaining the necessary knowledge? He was of half a mind to ask. There had to be another reason beyond the splintering of the order. “Why the delay?”

  The question was met with silence. Regarding the human, he tried to discern the truth. He was no priest of Lliania, neither could he work the same magic Gaedhor had used to verify his words. Magic, as he knew it, was nudging chance and possibility, not creating fact. Standing, he closed the distance between them. “Why all the secrecy? I am on your side.” Though with all that was going on here he was unsure what the Sons’ side really was.

  “How fast can you be in the Kumeen foothills?” Darlontor asked, evading the question.

  “Less than half a day’s flight,” he said, jaw muscles clenching in frustration.

  “I’ll locate him, and if we’re lucky, you two will have returned by sundown tomorrow.”

  “How can you find someone in an area that doesn’t even allow the Librarians sight?”

  “You’ll learn soon enough.”

  It was maddening. First the isolation, and now the rescue mission. Did he really need their help? What if the Lightbringer had erred? The memory of her presence erased that doubt immediately. No, she hadn’t made a mistake. If she said these humans could help, they could. But why did he have to prove his quality to a group that was suffering from internal strife? None of the books he had read indicated this kind of division. According to the notes in Ma’tallon and the sparse literature he had been allowed to read here, the Sons of Traksor were a group dedicated to duty and protecting each other. How, and more importantly when, had this changed?

  “So, I will leave in the morning?” he asked.

  “Aye, the door will be unlocked, but please remain in this room. We cannot risk having your presence made public.”

  “As if keeping a supposedly empty cell locked for days does not arouse suspicion,” Lloreanthoran said acidly.

  “Not in this part of the Eye,” Darlontor replied then added, “I will supply you with more books to peruse.”

  He didn’t bother to hide his scorn. “I’ll do as you ask.”

  Oblivious to the steel in his voice, the Priest High’s lips twitched in a quickly subdued, grateful smile. “The tomes will be with you momentarily.” Then Darlontor left, closing the door.

  For a few heartbeats he waited for the key to scrape the lock once again, and when that didn’t happen, he returned to his seat and picked up the discarded book.

  Sooner or later, he decided, he would find out what was going on in the Eye of Traksor.

  It was sooner, for Kevonna brought the books to him. The swordpriestess still looked old and wrinkly, but the substance that had been missing from her the day they first met had returned. Her greeting was a brief bob of the head, and then she kicked the door shut, her arms loaded with rolls of parchment and books. “Help an old woman, will you?” she said, her voice still sounding as brittle as before.

  There were no infirm in Graigh D’nar. Even Julathaen, by far the oldest elf Lloreanthoran knew, was still as quick of mind as of body, and even though the Chief Librarian had been old, Kevonna seemed older still. He shrugged, stood, and took the load off her arms.

  “Thank you,” she wheezed, sitting down on the bed. “Too much work for an old warhorse such as me. Hope you don’t mind; these bones aren’t what they used to be.”

  Was this an act? Even with her tottering, Gaedhor had not moved a finger to help her. “Where is Darlontor? Why have you come? You were near death when last I saw you. How have you recovered so quickly? And why were you in that shape to begin with?” he blurted out, asking questions in random order.

  “Darl is trying to track his nephew. I volunteered to take the books to you. Good eating. And burning the candle from both ends and the middle,” Kevonna said, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. All he could do was to stare at her. It was obvious she wasn’t as fragile as she pretended to be. “And before you lob any more queries my way,” she added, leafing through the parchments and retrieving one, “read this.”

  Stunned, he took the offered document.

  Its contents were shocking, a revelation as to why the Sons of Traksor were in such a sad state. He finished and looked at her. “Are you saying this division occurred a mere fourteen years ago with the escape of this boy?”

  “In part, yes,” Kevonna replied. “Though I haven’t been able to ferret out everything there is to know.”

  “So, this man is as much a threat as the demonologists?”

  “More so, I think.”

  “Then why was he allowed to live in the first place?”

  She gave a cryptic smile and said, “That is the essence of why there is no unity. I have my suspicions but none of them are of use to us. We thought we could change destiny. We failed. Some view him as the bigger danger, others think Danachamain and his ilk are worse, and still others are paralyzed with indecision.”

  “And you?”

  “Darlontor is a good man, he just lost his purpose.”

  “And his nephew?”

  “Dalgor? He might well be the answer to our problems.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she looked at him again. “Only as a unit can we succeed in countering the threat. Only the entire order can help you on your quest. Dalgor is the strongest mage we have; ruthless he may be, but he gets the job done, and he will be able to bridge the gaps between the factions. His uncle knows that, but he is too caught up in his own fears to relay his thoughts adequately. He meant no disrespect. He’s merely cautious.”

  “And Gaedhor?”

  “We sent him off again, accompanied by a score of warriors. He is to organize the evacuation of Machlon and every other settlement, bringing the people here where they will be protected.”

  Now he understood. “That is why you need me to find Dalgor! With three factions the refugees will not be protected at all. They’ll be caught in the middle.”

  “We cannot do it ourselves. Dalgor is alive, that much we know, but our magic stands out like a beacon in the Kumeens. Any rescue effort has to come from an outsider.”

  “But I thought only your magic could defeat the demons and their creations.”

  “Aye, but the rescue requires stealth, and none of us can be stealthy there. Your skills will be feeble, but better weak and sneaky than strong and loud.”

  He looked at the parchment and up again. “This was not meant for my eyes, was it?”

  Again, the mischievous sparkle returned to her eyes. “I said it before, Darlontor is a good man, but in his need for secrecy he can be a bit overprotective. I find it better to have an ally who knows what is at stake.”

  “Then why not go after this Ralchanh?” he repeated.

  “Because now we have no way to reach him without interfering with matters in which we have no right to meddle.” She rose far more quickly than she had hobbled into the room. “I’ll leave you to your studies. The gods speed you along tomorrow. And safe return.” She strode out, the pace belying her age.

>   When the door fell shut again, he dove for the books. Soon the task ahead was all but a distant nudge in his mind, the writings drawing him in further and further.

  CHAPTER 20

  “You spoke with him?” The question was out before Kevonna had closed the door behind her.

  Guiltily Darlontor looked up from his desk, his left hand opening the drawer while the right shoved the crudely drawn pictures inside. Was that a hint of understanding lighting her eyes? She may have guessed at the origin of the pictures, but he knew no one else was aware he still owned them. “Aye,” he said, pushing the drawer shut.

  Her kind smile couldn’t hide the steel in her voice. “You had to send someone for Dalgor. Arawn might have succeeded, but then you’d soon have open rebellion on your hands.” He saw no trace that her magic had almost killed her, only the slight tremor in her hand as she stroked her braid. “You need to be our leader, not merely act the part. And you need to face the truth, and soon at that.”

  Did she know? He caught himself before blurting out the question. “The truth is that Danachamain has returned from the dead.” Would she add the obvious? That Drangar had also returned to life? He waited. One breath, two. When Kevonna remained silent he spoke on. “In all likelihood he has already reached the Kumeens.”

  “The recent attacks indicate he has. With your permission,” she added sardonically as she sat on the one cushioned chair opposite the fireplace. Did she intentionally take his favorite place? In his mind’s eye he saw the little boy sitting there, hunched over the drawing-board, a stash of papers piled to his right, tongue stuck out in concentration, his hand a flurry of motion, drawing, always drawing.

  “I asked ‘What took you so long to order the evacuation?’” Kevonna’s voice tore down the memory. Why were they returning now? There were more important things to do.

  “I had to insure that Arawn would assist us in the effort to keep the peace here and send some of his own with Gaedhor as well,” he replied, eyes still glued to the chair. Had she intentionally pulled it up at a similar angle? Was that what she meant when pushing him to face the truth?

  “And that took three weeks?”

  He shook his head. “No, most of that time was spent arguing over what should be done, finding out if what the elf said was the truth, and finding Dalgor.”

  “How did he survive there anyway?”

  “He is the best we have. I traced him from Dunthiochagh to Pudlain and Crossads and from there to Mtain Geer. Seems he considered his options first.”

  “Would you have ordered him killed had he returned immediately?” Kevonna asked. He had searched for the answer to this question ever since decreeing the death penalty void.

  Now he knew. “No.” The shake of the head was brief.

  “The idiocy had to stop anyway.”

  “Gryffor disagrees,” he said with heavy heart.

  “How has he been able to hide his zeal?” Did she know that the way she folded her legs now was the same as…? No! He would not go down this road!

  “We were blind.”

  Kevonna pursed her lips. “Don’t you mean that you, yourself were?” Was she testing him even now?

  “You should supply our guest with more books, give him some substance, but let him think it was on your initiative.”

  “Devious,” she said, crinkling her nose. Rising, she locked eyes with him and didn’t let go until she reached the door. Then, halfway across the threshold, she said, “You still love her, don’t you?”

  Openmouthed he stared at the door as it fell shut. She knew! Gods, she knew. She had known all these years and never acted upon this knowledge. Squeezing his eyes shut, he banished the unsettling thought. He still had to find Dalgor’s exact location. Whatever Kevonna planned had to wait.

  Maybe she wouldn’t do anything. Maybe her revelation was only meant as moral support. No! He had to find Dalgor.

  The knock was loud. In this troubled time Kevonna and his few remaining supporters usually just entered without bothering to announce their presence, Gryffor hadn’t come to his study in months, which left Arawn or one of his.

  “Enter,” Darlontor said, wiping away the last of Dalgor’s blood. As he tossed the rag into the fire the door opened revealing Arawn.

  The swordpriest’s head bobbed briefly in greeting. Then, kicking the door shut, he folded his arms on his chest and regarded him. “They held another of their ceremonies.”

  Darlontor knew whom he meant and remained silent. His spell had been taxing, the land surrounding the Kumeens now fully under the sway of Danachamain’s followers had taken most of his strength.

  “Gryffor even pretends he is a Sunmaster.”

  Forcing down the weariness, he looked at Arawn. “What?”

  “Has himself decked out in robes and one of the ceremonial staffs. The gods only know where he found that thing.” Ever the warleader, Arawn headed for the nearest chair and sat without waiting for Darlontor’s invitation.

  “When did he start buying into the myth?” He hadn’t meant for his thoughts to be spoken aloud but his sluggish mind registered the error only after the fact.

  “The elders should never have started the nonsense in the first place.” Arawn scoffed. “A landholding arm of any church, how ridiculous.” Then he grew serious. “We all saw what fanaticism did in Danastaer, that and ambition. Maybe he buys into his own story; maybe he just wants to replace you.”

  Darlontor scowled at him. “As if you don’t covet my position.”

  “Me? In your boots? Scales no.” Again, the scoff. “Never wanted to be the leader. All I have ever wanted is to end the threat. Guardians”—he spoke the word with fierce derision as if there was no worse term—“waiting for an enemy to attack.”

  “It was what Traksor’s followers wanted.” Now that he thought about it, now that Arawn forced him to consider the fact, he realized that the declared goal was perhaps not as lofty as he had always considered.

  His doubt must have shown for Arawn said, “You see the foolishness as well, don’t you? We live the lie the elders hammered into our brains. Just think on it. Lesganagh’s Servant gave Tral of House Kassor the means to end the demonic threat. The prince dies, and those he has gathered to his cause vow to be there should the demons rise again. None of them knew how to wield Lesganagh’s weapons. Scales, we understand more. How do you think they must have felt?”

  His reply stuck in his throat. There was nothing he could say to deny the basic truth Arawn was saying. Had he not been so caught up in his own misery he might have had the same thoughts. “What do you want me to say?” he asked, his voice sounding defeated even to his ears.

  “Drangar is irrelevant.” The other snorted. “Scales, if we could dispose of Gryffor we might even be able to send his idiot followers against the Kumeens first, weakening their defenses.”

  “There will be no more…”

  “I did not say we should kill the fool,” Arawn interrupted. “Though you have to admit the idea has its merits. The elders vowed to fight the demons, knowing they could not win a direct assault. We know more than they did.”

  Shaking his head, Darlontor said, “We still know too little, and some of what I do understand frightens me.”

  A cocked eyebrow, followed by a skeptical look was the reply he expected. “Frightens you?” Again, Arawn snorted. “You scare too easily.”

  “Have you ever taken a look through the books? And I don’t mean what Traksor and others have developed out of the existing material, but the source itself?” When the swordpriest merely shook his head, he continued. “The parchment shows…” How could he make Arawn understand? He knew there were few enough souls who bothered to look at the original manuscripts. Their magical knowledge was taken from the adapted works; the other books were disturbing to look at. What he had seen three decades ago had only underscored the concept of defense. To go against the enemy, to fight them on their own ground required weapons, magic that would change them, transform them into th
e very thing they were meant to face.

  “The parchment shows what?”

  Was his revulsion that apparent? Disgust and fear so plain on his face? There was no way around it. Arawn had to see for himself. He pulled his badge of office, the gold amulet bearing Tral Kassor’s seal, from beneath his tunic, unhooked the chain and held it out. “Very few people ever asked for it, and for good reason. Must have driven…” He paused. Gryffor had spent a lot of time in that part of the hidden library, translating, studying the magic Lesganagh’s Servant had given them. Had the knowledge frightened the man into insanity? Was that the reason for Gryffor’s madness?

  “In the back of the room there is a shelf made of fir.” He waited until Arawn indicated that he knew which one he was talking about. The other shelves were oak, not very subtle, he knew, but as old as the Eye of Traksor was, eclectic furniture had become normal. “Behind it you find a slot, a lock. This is its key.” Arawn reached out to take the amulet. “I warn you, it is not for the fainthearted.”

  A grim smile creased the other’s lips. “Never was one of them. Thanks for trusting me with this.”

  “All you ever had to do was ask; every council member has the right to look at the originals.”

  The shrug was a warrior’s dismissal of the situation. “Why bother with the old when the new suffices?”

  Anxiety over Arawn’s reaction to the gift of Lesganagh subsided only slowly. Darlontor, despite the need for sleep, found himself pacing in front of the fireplace. How the elders had managed to tear what little knowledge they could from the malignant books was something he had considered when he had first ascended to the council. Back then the last of the original followers of Traksor had passed away and translation, no, adaption had stopped. Some things were best left untouched. He had sampled the tomes, same as Kevonna and Gryffor, in the hopes of gleaning information that might help them perform their duties. And though he had been able to put the nightmares behind, the lingering threat that lurked behind the fir bookshelf always cast a shadow whenever he used bloodmagic.

  Dalgor had been to the hidden library as well, but if his nephew had been disturbed by his findings, he had not shown it. Maybe the gruesome books had driven Gryffor into his zealous rage? He had never bothered with the question of where the books had come from. The Servant had brought them, Traksor had used them to fight Turuuk, and in the end the prince had paid for his success with his life.