Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  Dalgor was still alive; maybe that was wishful thinking on Darlontor’s part, maybe the truth. Whatever the case, he had agreed to find him. If the Son of Traksor had made it this far and still lived, he probably was beset by bloodbeasts and worse. How the human stayed ahead of these creatures was something he would tackle once he located Dalgor.

  For the first time, he studied the dried out, frozen horror. It was huge, even with the massive head scattered about. The fur, just like the head, looked remotely familiar; he just couldn’t pinpoint the species. It seemed as if aspects of wolf—the jaws had definitely belonged to a wolf—had been mixed with those of a goat, the beast’s feet were cloven. How Danachamain’s followers had created this amalgam he didn’t want to know, the fact that they had done it was upsetting enough. There would be more, of that he was certain.

  The magic warming him flickered, faded, and then returned, albeit weaker. If he had to fend off more of these monsters, he would lack the time to reestablish connection and tease out the potential of every rock used as a missile. He didn’t even know whether this memory remained inside the pebbles once established. Groping around the bone shards, he found his previous weapon. A flick of the wrist and the little rock flew away.

  He focused, willed the stone to remember.

  For a moment it felt as if the fragment had a hard time growing back to its former size. A further nudge brought the desired effect. So, it was possible to circumvent the certainty of the land! His confidence rose. There was a way to wield magic in this gods-forsaken region.

  Rejoicing, Lloreanthoran began to gather and attune pebbles. Then he resumed his journey, on foot.

  CHAPTER 22

  Fifth of Cold, 1475 K.C.

  The sky had cleared, but winter did not relinquish its grasp. Lloreanthoran’s connection to magic was fractured. This land dampened not only his spirit but also the natural order of things. Nothing in the Kumeens was as it should have been. And still there was no sign of Dalgor’s passing.

  He hadn’t slept since he’d crossed the invisible border. Normally he would have rested to regain strength, but that was impossible here; he dreaded what would happen once his guard was down. Neither had he eaten, afraid that the corruption of nature had also taken hold of what little wildlife he saw. Granted, none of the animals looked as if a mad god had jumbled pieces together, but who was to tell the hard fact that permeated the land hadn’t also changed the rest.

  Had Darlontor sent him on this fool’s errand to be rid of him? For the past day the question had resurfaced time and again, and he still had no answer.

  That Darlontor had not told him the whole truth he now accepted as fact. Yet he couldn’t deny the concern in the human’s eyes when he had spoken of Dalgor. Maybe he should have just plunged into the man’s mind and retrieved the knowledge. A truly elven act, at least according to the fools who considered the killing of others sport.

  Now, as he rounded another bend, wind’s icy breath covering his face in another layer of hoar, he wondered if this lack of morals was what was needed for his mission.

  A noise from up ahead!

  Unsure how far away whatever he heard was, Lloreanthoran inched closer to the next outcrop. Humans would have perished long ago, had they been in his place, but courtesy of the bit of magic at his command, the cold only stung.

  He squinted, peered around the corner just as another rumble filled the air.

  A skeleton of a man, gaunt, his clothes seemingly keeping his body erect, stood on a ledge some fifty yards to the west.

  “Come on, you bastards!” the man shouted. “Let’s finish it!” To his surprise, the stranger, in a move that belied his fragile condition, hurled a fist-sized rock at something Lloreanthoran could not see. Then, his eyes still on the stick figure, he saw how the man stabbed something into his palm and howled syllables that made his skin crawl. The stone shattered in midair, each splinter in turn grew in size until an entire barrage of fist-sized chunks disappeared from sight.

  The pained scream that followed showed the stranger knew what he was doing.

  “Is that all you want to throw at me?” the man shouted.

  As reply a cloud of vapor—he had no idea how such a thing was possible in the frigid air—rushed toward the stranger, threatened to engulf him. “Lesganagh, aid me!” the man shouted, bit his tongue, and spat bloody saliva at the mist just as it encircled him.

  Never before had Lloreanthoran seen the use of bloodmagic. He had felt the effects, had been feeling them ever since entering this dreadful domain. But this was different. The spell proved effective in countering the fog, which vanished in an instant. And even though the stranger was victorious, the land demanded its toll. The stranger stooped a little, gasping. “You will not win!” he wheezed.

  And for a moment he seemed to be right. Whatever had assaulted him had stopped. He watched the human stagger his way, blindly. His first impression was supported by the fact that there truly was not much substance left on the man. Bloodless, almost lifeless, the coat and trousers he wore might have fitted once. Now they simultaneously seemed to keep him standing and drag him down.

  This had to be Dalgor.

  He stepped into view, and instantly the man was on guard, though it looked more like he staggered to a halt, drawing a rasping breath. “Stand aside monster,” he said, his accent similar to that of the Sons of Traksor. “Stand aside!”

  “Dalgor?” he asked instead.

  “Bastards are in my mind as well!” the man who obviously was the one he was looking for snarled. “You will not take me alive! Like Traksor I will gladly die and take you with me!”

  For a moment he wondered if Dalgor was addressing him, and then he saw shapes detach themselves from the gloom of the nearby cliff. The bloodbeasts he had seen before seemed pathetic compared to what came for them now. The human raised his right hand—bandaged as he now saw—and removed the stained cloth. Underneath, revealed by the light as a repeatedly slashed cut, was a wound that with the removal of the bandage bled freely. He knew what Dalgor was doing, had seen it just moments earlier. The other hand was cut as well, and even from the man’s lips trickled red spittle. Neither of the wounds gushed, but from the looks of both palms this Son of Traksor had been forcing magic for a while now.

  What then followed was something Lloreanthoran had never seen before.

  Dalgor closed his eyes, hummed, bloodied saliva running down his bearded chin. The air about them pulsed, boiled. A great rushing boom followed, as something solidified before them. A geyser of magma materialized, surged forward, and engulfed the two aberrations. Not knowing what to observe, his eyes flicked back and forth, from the burning mass of lava tearing into the shrieking monsters, to the hiss and sizzle of blood evaporating from the man’s chin and palms.

  No sooner had the enemy fallen than Dalgor turned about and faced him, the shine in his eyes less mad than before. In the heat and rush of air that followed, the backwash of the explosion had dislodged the elf’s hood, and now Dalgor knew what he was facing. “Your magic is useless here,” He snapped. “Best you bloody your hands and do what needs be done.” Then, after casting a look back to the stone encased monsters, he added, “This place is a violation of nature, if you want to survive, play by their rules.”

  Stunned by the man’s ferocity, Lloreanthoran remained silent. Their rules? The demons’ rules? “Are you saying?” he finally stammered.

  “Aye, and since you don’t look like you just arrived, I suggest you stop fooling yourself.”

  “I came to find you.”

  “So you did,” Dalgor replied, taking him by the arm, careless of the wound in his palm, and steering him away. “Been running for weeks now, the land changes, been in the fucking mountains most of the time. What enters, no matter whom, they intend to keep. More blood to feed their accursed lakes.” He poked his free thumb in the direction of the cliffs and the cooling lava. “They hound you.”

  “Who are they?”

  Dalgor gave h
im a scornful scowl. “Those who wait on Turuuk’s return,” he spat. “Followers of Danachamain.” The swirling ashes, the chants and… the figure of soot that had risen from the chaos. “Get a move on, who knows what they throw at us next.”

  When dusk reached them, they were still trying to find a way down. Stumbling, blinded by snow, Lloreanthoran had, under Dalgor’s derisive explanations, finally begun to grasp the immensity of the threat. Twice the human had managed to kill the perversions the land threw at them; it was a miracle the blood loss hadn’t weakened him more. In clipped, terse, panting sentences Dalgor had tried to explain how to force magic with a minimum of harm done to the body, and from the explanation he had gathered this man’s magic was an amalgam of what elves used and the old, the dark way.

  His mind reeled at the idea of breaking the bonds of possibility. Everything he had ever done was just within the realm of what might happen; Dalgor’s approach, though not as draining and violent as that which the ancients had used, was still alien and frightening. His mind balked at the prospect of breaking his skin and sacrificing his own life force to invoke, to create things that could never be.

  Now, with the sun low in the west, Dalgor was searching for a cave in which to rest.

  Looking around, his heart filled with doubt and despair about what the night would bring, Lloreanthoran asked, “How can we find a safe spot if the entire land is poised against us?”

  The human gifted him with the arrogant smirk he had already grown used to, and replied, “You fool it.”

  “You fool the land?” Suddenly he felt similar to the young apprentice he had been quite long ago. All this was so worrying, so frightening, and understanding came haltingly.

  “No wonder your people retreated,” Dalgor grunted.

  Lloreanthoran was so taken aback at the venom lacing Dalgor’s voice that he forgot to put the human into place. He just opened his mouth, staring.

  “Gods, you are dense!” This time Dalgor laughed. “It was a jest.” From such a thin man, he would have expected a weak blow, but when the comradely slap on the shoulder landed, the elf staggered back.

  Forcing himself to recover the last shreds of dignity, he straightened, found his footing on the treacherous slope, and stood, regarding the other. “Explain if you please.”

  “The land’s changed, given enough time it could be returned to what it was, but only once the bastards are gone. But with enough focus you can convince it to reshape itself to a normal cave,” Dalgor explained.

  “So why can’t you leave?” he asked.

  A snort, and then, “With focus I mean meditation. Can’t move much when you’re trying to make a mountain listen to you, even a sliver of a mountain.”

  This mirrored his own experience, and shone light on some of the things that had bothered him since coming here. “How do you know they won’t attack again?”

  “They like to play, like cats,” the Son of Traksor said as he settled on the snowy ground. “Always give the prey the illusion of a chance, wear it down until it just gives up.”

  He was tempted to ask why Dalgor hadn’t already given up, but thought better of it. There was no point antagonizing him. He watched his unlikely companion close his eyes and wondered what he could do to assist. Rest was more than welcome. He thought of slipping into spiritform to watch what Dalgor was doing, and had almost thrust his mind out of his body when he remembered the pain walking around in the Eye had brought. Seeing Dalgor fend off wave after wave of the aberrations, had shown just how powerful forcing magic really was. Maybe there was some truth in the human’s words. Maybe he would have to adapt to survive.

  Turning away from the meditating mage, he drew his dagger and was just about to pierce his skin, when a stalling hand landed on his arm. “Don’t!” Dalgor hissed. “If you do this the land will remember, and then we may have to fight once more.”

  Sheathing the weapon, Lloreanthoran looked at him. “I need to learn so we can get out of here.”

  Dalgor sat back down. “Plenty of time to learn tomorrow, trust me. I thought your kind never bothered with such minor concerns as the passing of time.”

  Just how much had the Priest High kept from him? Of course, he hadn’t doubted for a moment that Darlontor had his secrets. But he had never imagined a human being this disrespectful. This mage made him feel like a snot-nosed learner. He wanted to learn, to help, and was ignored at every turn. If Dalgor was so good at what he was doing, why then had Darlontor requested his help?

  He stood, glowering at the meditating figure, pondering what to do and how to proceed, when, to his continued astonishment, the rock face before Dalgor trembled, fissured, and finally revealed the entrance to a cavern. A triumphant smirk on his lips, the human rose and bowed mockingly, gesturing for him to enter first.

  He struggled to keep from lashing out, even as he stooped to leave the snowy night air behind. Looking back, he saw his companion follow, and wondered briefly if the man really was as coldly determined as he seemed. For one who had struggled to escape this hostile environment for almost a month, he appeared as rigid in thought and body as anyone at the onset of a journey. What exactly had Dalgor been doing here in the first place? Surely, he would have known that heading deep into this territory could only result in death, if one was lucky. There was so much he did not understand about the motivations of either the Sons of Traksor or humanity in general. And of all foreigners, Dalgor seemed the most determined.

  Inside, with dry rock surrounding them, the mage regarded him, a slight smile—one less derisive, at least—playing around his lips. “Food’s hard to come by when all life is drained away.” He breathed deeply, calmly, closed his eyes, not in concentration but in honest relief. “Gods, how I hate this,” he sighed. His eyes opened once again, and for the first time Lloreanthoran noticed a deep weariness lurking within. “You want to learn how to fuck the land before it fucks you?” Not waiting for an answer, Dalgor continued, “Great, guess we both could do with some heat. Just focus, beat the rock into submission, and force it to heat up, understood?”

  It sounded easy, coming from Dalgor’s lips, but the truth was it wasn’t. Under the human’s tutelage, which was stern most of the time, Lloreanthoran finally managed to raise first a stalagmite from the ground, and then heat the cone. By the time he was done, Dalgor was cutting fresh strips of cloth from his tattered cloak. The old bloody bandages he stuffed into a pocket, explaining, “Blood’s blood, don’t waste a single drop of it.” He patted an empty-looking wineskin. “Every one of us keeps a bottle of his own blood with him at all times, just in case.”

  “How do you keep it liquid? Won’t it congeal?”

  “Herbs, fresh whiteleaf works best. Up here the flask is useless; the cold freezes it. Besides, I used most of it when trying to get through the thrice cursed mountains.”

  “Through the mountains?”

  Dalgor nodded. “Aye, wanted to get to the bastards’ hole, wanted to do some good before I die.” He spoke of his death so calmly Lloreanthoran wondered if he had heard correctly. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” muttered the human sleepily. “We all die, and because of what some idiots did, we all have to pay for their mistake. I just wanted not to waste my blood on the cobblestones.”

  “Why do you have to die?” he asked, but in the light of the stalagmite he saw Dalgor had fallen asleep.

  CHAPTER 23

  Their return to Dunthiochagh had taken longer than expected. To his surprise, Kildanor found out he was not the only Lesganagh worshiper in the band, and at dawn and dusk the score or so Chanastardhian faithful, among them Anne, prayed for the sun to clear their path. The others made offerings to Broggagh the Weatherlord. He joined them afterward, but it seemed neither deity heard their pleas, for the snow did not melt. The lack of a fresh snowfall was enough of a blessing; at least they proclaimed so when they finally reached the North Gate.

  The city was unusually quiet. Few warbands were about, and those who were, escorted wagons loa
ded with building materials southward. After Cahill’s loud proclamation of who they were, entrance had been granted with no further challenge, and Kildanor could hardly blame the guards for not recognizing him. He was as unkempt as the others; the grime of more than a week had given his skin a patina not unlike that of a beggar. The others looked no less filthy, and he dreaded the moment that four walls and a roof would surround him again, for then the stink could not escape anymore. A bath, the thought was foremost on his mind.

  Having fulfilled his duty, the Chosen said his goodbyes to Cahill’s retainers. After Cahill had discovered that the carts laden with iron ingots had made it safely to the city, he was in a better mood than he had been in days. He thanked Kildanor with the promise to consider marrying his daughter to Cumaill. Provided Neena agreed. In the places where riding side by side had been possible, they had done so, talking politics.

  At least he would have some good news to tell the Baron.

  The Chanastardhian turncoats accompanied Kildanor. Their astonished looks, as they took in Duthiochagh, told him most of them had never been inside such a big city. Chirnath, the province from which they hailed, wasn’t much more than a few villages spread over a handful of valleys surrounded by mountains. Anne Cirrain had told him as much. She, looking far less impressed by the houses and storefronts hemming them in on each side, had been to Herascor, and Harail. The others had rarely traveled far from their homes.

  “I thought there isn’t much to it,” muttered Anne’s cousin, Padraigh.

  “Just that bloody wall south of the river, eh?” the old warrior, Dubhan, retorted.

  Their leader turned in her saddle, snorting. “As if you aren’t impressed.” Kildanor had noted the change Anne Cirrain was going through. She was less aloof than when they had first met, and reminded him a little of Cumaill. That, in his opinion, was a good thing.

  “It stinks,” Natheira remarked.