by Ulff Lehmann
“It ain’t the city, lassie,” Dubhan said. “It’s you.”
“But the one who reeks like a pigsty is you,” the huntress snapped, much to everyone’s amusement.
The ruckus of their laughter caused some neighbors to open their doors and windows to watch the bedraggled looking band pass by. He looked about and saw that many people wore mourning white, far too many. This had nothing to do with the melancholy roused by the coming of winter, he realized. Even the Chanastardhians must have grasped the import of it, for they fell silent.
Their path had kept them out of sight of the Dunth’s southern shore and the enemy camp. Mireynh had not taken the city; it was far too calm for that. Kildanor wanted to ask the carpenter, Bacán, whose shop they were just passing, but instead of the man he only saw his young wife, also in mourning white. What was her name again?
He didn’t recall, although he had shared wine with them at their wedding. Too many names and too many faces, three lifetimes of people filled his memory. Who was he to be surprised at that he’d forgotten somebody’s name? It happened all too often with those he met only sporadically. Besides, he told himself, as filthy as he was, the carpenter’s wife wouldn’t recognize him.
Anne Cirrain touched his arm. He hadn’t noticed her spurring her horse close to Dawntreader. The wide road allowed a handful of riders abreast, but through sheer force of habit they had been riding double file. “Seems you’ve won.”
“At what cost?” he replied. Even with General Kerral’s warriors, most of the defenders had been citizens. Sure, most knew how to handle a weapon, but how many of them had ever truly seen combat? Most people died only after the whole affair was done. Wounds, despite the healing hands of the Caretakers, had the nasty habit of infecting before any healer ever saw the victim. A nick to the skin, seen as a mere scratch by the wounded, could fester and kill just as any sword blow to the head could. There were never enough Caretakers, and despite the priests of Eanaigh’s claim to treat everyone equally, the fact was that those of import were preferred over a villein forced into battle by his lord, or the carpenter who fought to keep his wife safe. It didn’t matter if Lliania weighed the souls in the Bailey Majestic, most people didn’t give a damn about the afterlife; their wellbeing while they lived was what mattered.
Maybe growing up in enlightened Kalduuhn affected his outlook on things, even after decades of living in Danastaer, or maybe it was just the thought of decent people dying while the dregs of humanity claimed rulership and shat on those whom they saw beneath them. It mattered little if nobles like Cumaill and Sir Úistan tried to make a difference. This was not Kalduuhn and no towering city rested above the rich people’s heads to remind them to stay honest. He resisted the temptation to ride through the Noble’s Quarter, saw no point in checking if the aristocracy had also unpacked their mourning whites.
“Where’s the lassie?” Dubhan’s voice broke the silence.
Kildanor, torn from his musings, looked back at the double column. “Who?” he asked.
“My squire,” he heard Anne say. “Gwennaith.” Then she added, in reply to the warrior’s question, “She’ll join us later. Told me she wanted to accompany Ralgon.”
The bond the unlikely pair had formed during the past days had not gone unnoticed, and even though Lady Cirrain—he forced himself to think of her as nobility instead of the comrade Anne had been for the past days—viewed the budding relationship with worry, he found the calm Ralgon displayed when with the young woman a welcome change from the man’s usual brooding. Explaining the details of the mystery and disquiet surrounding the mercenary was something he was loath to do. For now, Drangar was at peace, and whatever was lurking in the back of his mind remained silent, and for that he was thankful. “Don’t worry,” he told Anne. “She’ll be safe.”
That the noblewoman was not convinced was obvious. She shook her head, as if dismissing the thought, and said, “She’s of age, her choice.”
“Aye,” Paddy, who rode behind them, piped in. “Remember how moon-eyed you were at her age.”
“Bet his broodiness works on lots of women,” Dubhan added. The Chosen glanced over to gauge Anne’s reaction. Dubhan’s booming laughter was cut short by her glare. He saw that she was only half serious when he caught her sticking her tongue out at the warrior. It was a small gesture, but refreshing nonetheless.
The Palace, with its mismatched walls and haphazardly added towers, came into view as they passed Beggar’s Alley. He could only imagine what sort of impression it made on the Chanastardhians; he guessed their reaction was like his when he had first seen the edifice. Much like a well-loved cloak, it had been patched and expanded over the years, yet the walls, as the refugees would find out very soon, were sturdy and once more in good repair.
People were leaving and entering; the drawbridge, some smidges of snow still lacing the rim, must have been lowered since before the blizzard. Even the barbican was pulled out of the way. Either, he guessed, the enemy had granted Dunthiochagh a respite, or they had retreated to sit out the long months of winter. He doubted the war had been won; Chanastardh’s troops were too many for that miracle to have occurred.
A mutter from one of the warriors down the line caused the others to suppress their laughter. Kildanor guessed they were making fun of the Palace’s appearance. He didn’t blame them.
As they passed into the outer bailey, however, those whispered remarks ceased. The Palace had that effect on newcomers. Decades of improvement had left the original manor surrounded by two squares of battlements that looked shabby only on the outside, lulling observers into thinking the fortress weak. No slingthrower had ever bested the walls, and from the appreciative whistles sounding behind him, the Chosen could tell Cumaill’s guests had realized their error in judgment.
He had given his name to the Warden of the Guard when the woman had challenged them crossing the bridge. Now, as they passed into the Inner Bailey, he heard Nerran’s distinctive bellow among the muttering of soldiers, the hammering of steel, and the sharpening of weapons.
“Fuck me! You’re one louse away from being competition to the gutter-mutts!”
The tension the Chanastardhians must have felt was released in a combined, albeit uncertain chuckle.
“And you, mighty Paladin, should hand your tongue to the maids to get it cleaned!” he replied.
“Paladin?” Anne echoed in a whisper.
“Did that once, hasn’t helped,” Nerran retorted, stomping across the slushy courtyard. He stopped, taking Dawntreader’s rein. “Gods, is that your stench or his?” he asked the horse.
“Mate, may I present the Lady Anneijhan of House Cirrain?” Kildanor interrupted the Paladin’s well-meant tirade.
Nerran looked over to the noblewoman. “I don’t know.” He gave her a knowing wink. “Best present her when she is presentable. Don’t you agree, milady? So far you’d be more suited for latrine duty than a reception.”
By Anne’s silence Kildanor could tell she was confused by the Paladin’s rudeness. He didn’t blame her; Nerran had this effect on most. “I apologize…” he began and was interrupted by the aging Paladin.
“What he means is he should have shown you the bathhouse before any of you dragged your rank bodies here.” The statement brought forth a murmur of agreement.
“Well, there you have it, lad; come back when you don’t reek like manure anymore.” Nerran sketched a bow, pinching his nose shut, and then retreated.
He had never seen his friend this rude. Something was bothering him immensely. Then, for the first time, he noticed the Paladin wearing much stained mourning whites as well. Was he drunk? How many of his Riders had he lost? He looked about, and saw that scores of warriors, while practicing with their weapons, wore white. Just how many had died?
“Him? A Paladin?” Anne asked, shock plain in her voice. “A drunk, nothing more.”
“He’s grieving,” her cousin, Padraigh, said. “See with your heart as well as your eyes.”
&nb
sp; “I was told a Paladin of Lesganagh always was courteous, honorable, and honest.”
Kildanor looked at her, and for a moment didn’t know what to say. Could it be true that beneath the surface the woman was that naïve? He had seen priests leading a sermon while the vomit stains were still drying in their beards; he had seen a King sodomize a boy of eight years. Then he remembered. Her grandfather had been a Paladin. Maybe she had known him, and he had told her stories, naturally glossing over the parts where he’d done the church’s bidding, no matter how ruthless it had been.
He was about to put her head straight, when Dubhan growled, “Lassie, you’re old enough to realize that stories are always glorious, no matter how much pissing and shitting and bleeding actually happened. Scales, you do the damn thing yourself. So, this Paladin is drunk. Who gives a damn? Think that will spoil the memory of your grandda?”
For a moment she was silent, looking as if some realization was plunging straight to her heart. Then, after closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she said, “We turned and deserted, what honor is left for us if not that of the past?” Hadn’t she made her peace with the situation? Apparently, the conflict within was far from being resolved.
“Had we remained you would’ve been imprisoned to force your da into submission, with the rest of us getting to know the business-end of an axe,” Dubhan snapped. “You know it same as we do, lass. Stop rolling those things round in your head; Wadram decided to secede, and if we don’t honor our lord’s decision, then who the fuck are we supposed to honor at all?” He spat in disgust. Kildanor was tempted to voice his opinion as well, but this talk had to remain the Chanastardhians’. An outsider would only cause dissent. “Be reasonable, lass. Think! There’s much to be done as is. We need to get home safely, and fight the buggers.”
“The buggers,” snapped Anne, “are our countrymen!”
“Aye, the same bastards who had no qualms shooting down retreating allies,” Padraigh interjected. “I saw your concern. You didn’t like it, and now you complain about losing face?
“Lass, you’re a warrior, worth ten times as much as any of those bastards obeying Mireynh’s orders. Why the Scales does this bug you so much?”
Because now it was truly sinking in that House Cirrain was firmly set on a path of desertion, Kildanor realized. “Maybe,” he said into the ensuing quiet, “you should discuss this privately.” Other warriors were already ogling them, and some of their looks, now that they realized Chanastardhians accompanied him, were all but hostile. He couldn’t blame them.
“Nonsense,” Dubhan spat. “This has been brewing for too long already. Always you concern yourself with our motto, but never with the heart of the godsdamned matter.”
“You said it yourself, Mireynh isn’t worth fighting for,” Padraigh added. Both men were right, and judging by the struggle Anne’s face displayed, she had reached the same conclusion, but still doubted its validity.
“Come on, lass,” Dubhan said calmingly. “You’re smarter than that. Think!”
“He’s right,” a woman’s voice added.
They turned and saw Upholder Rheanna standing in front of them. She also wore mourning white. Of course, none of the Chanastardhians knew she was a priestess of Lliania. To them she was only another dark-haired stranger interfering in their affairs. “Lady Cirrain, may I introduce to you Rheanna, Upholder of Lliania,” he said before anyone could hurl insults at Rhea for meddling in things that were none of her concern. From the ongoing silence he guessed their tempers were at least somewhat calmed.
“What the Scales do you know about…” Natheira snapped, but Rhea interrupted.
“Justice and what is right? A whole lot, judging people and making deals helps; so does insight into Lliania’s will.”
“What about honor?” Kildanor asked slyly.
“Honor is nothing if not ruled by common sense.” The reply was just as cunning.
“If I don’t get off this animal now, my saddle sores will marry my breeches,” another Chanastardhian, Connar he thought the name was, muttered. The tension broke.
“Honor’s nothing if common sense doesn’t rule, lass.”
Anne shot Dubhan a vicious look, and then nodded. Maybe, Kildanor hoped, Rhea’s decree had finally silenced the argument inside her head. And the Chanastardhians still did not know about the dwarf. He stifled a groan as he dismounted. There was more than enough talking and arguing to be done. He nodded his thanks to Rhea who indicated for him to follow her. A stable hand took Dawntreader’s rein and he hurried after the Upholder.
She halted in a far corner of the Inner Bailey, and turned to regard him as he approached. A few steps away, Kildanor felt a cramp clutching at his legs. Stopping, he straightened and began to massage muscles that hadn’t hurt that much in ages. “Scales!” he swore, the word hissing through clenched teeth.
“You need to ride with us, Sunsword,” Rhea commented his pain. He looked up, wishing for a moment his glare could kill. She chuckled.
“Two bloody days for half a day’s ride. Bloody snow! I’m not used to this anymore.”
“Stop complaining,” she said, snickering. “Before you ask, the Chanastardhians assaulted the walls a day after you left.”
He nodded. “I know, the turncoats told us.”
“What they didn’t know is that they retreated, gave up the siege once Duasonh’s Wizardess took down their foothold on the wall.”
“She did?” he asked, the pain forgotten.
“Aye, wiped the wall clean.” Her voice had taken on a mournful note. “We’re still searching for our people. Snow has the nasty habit of covering everything.”
“They’ll be dead by now,” he said, realizing why so many wore white. Not only for those who had been found, but also for those who hadn’t. “Scales,” he swore. “How many?”
“Hundreds.” She drew a deep breath and let go of it in a billowing cloud. “That, however, is not why I need to talk to you,” she continued.
“Hmm?” He wondered who of the Riders had not survived.
“The dead are dead, Sunsword,” she snapped. “Concentrate on the here and now.”
It took a moment, and then he was able to focus on Rhea. “Speak, I’m listening.”
“What do you know of Drangar Ralgon? Is there anything strange going on with him?” she asked. But before he could reply, she added, “I know of his regeneration, and Coimharrin told me about the murder he hadn’t committed, said that somebody else had taken control of Ralgon’s body to kill the woman. What I need to know is if there is more to this.”
“Why?” Maybe it was a bad habit, maybe it was something else, but being questioned by a woman he barely knew, even if she was an Upholder, was odd.
“Let’s just say I am familiar with his family,” she replied, evading a proper answer.
Like the deity who’s Chosen he was, Kildanor had no patience for Chiath, either verbal or physical dancing was against his nature. He brushed the answer away with a curt swipe of the hand. “Cut the bullshit, will you? Why do you want to know about Drangar?” For a moment he wondered if using the mercenary’s first name reflected the friendship he felt for the man, but even if it did, it mattered not.
“Coimharrin told me about a woman’s spirit supposedly taking him into the past,” Rheanna went on, unperturbed.
This caught his attention. “Speak on.”
“I…” she paused. “This is crazy! Forget it.”
“Believe me,” he said, trying to sound amused and failing. “Nothing is too crazy where Drangar is concerned.”
She nodded. “Well then, what would you say if I told you I was asked to help him.”
“All right? That’s nothing unusual, I dare say. He still has some people who care about him living here.”
The look she gave him was indicator enough that she was not amused by the comment. “No shit, really?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
It had already been a long day, and his legs hurt. “I’ve no time fo
r games, Rhea, just tell me what’s going on, will you? I want a hot bath, and to be out of these boots!”
“Why would he need my help? And why would the ghost of his dead mother appear to me and ask me for it?”
All Kildanor could do was stand and stare.
CHAPTER 24
This morning he had worked the bellows with Maire to help prepare the forge for a new day’s work. Now, Jesgar stood in the Baron’s study, waiting. The atmosphere in the Palace had barely changed since the Chanastardhians’ retreat. Some drunks in the Tankard yesterday evening had proclaimed that it was doomed from the beginning. One look at the braggarts had shown these men had never seen combat. He had, and wished he hadn’t.
Baron Duasonh, he could tell by the man’s tone, was also aware of how close things had been. The Baron wore his bandaged arm with pride. Rumor had it an enemy’s spear had pierced his shield. Since none of the defenders had come away unscathed, Jesgar believed the gossip.
Since Ben’s cremation he had stayed with Maire, had been granted a few days leave to help her return operation of the smithy to normal. The house was crowded. Pientic, the wheelwright two houses down the street, had been sheltering some refugees. But enemy stones had destroyed the craftsman’s house, and Maire had offered to take them in with her. Their home wasn’t big enough to house a score of folks, most of the space was dedicated to smithy and storage, and now there were people everywhere. One couldn’t put a foot down without stepping on somebody else’s toes. And on top of all of that, Pientic’s oldest daughter followed him wherever he went. In another lifetime he would have welcomed the attention, the lass was pretty enough, but now, even with his grief gone, chasing skirts felt trivial. The Baron had cancelled his leave, and it felt like a blessing.
Entering the study had ended the joy. Aside from Lord Duasonh, two very familiar faces greeted him with resigned nods. Upholder Coimharrin seemed angry, maybe even a bit disturbed; Librarian Megan scratched her cheek, which, he had come to learn, was a sign of disappointment. For the most part the two priests ignored him, listening to the Baron who was pacing back and forth, despite the obvious discomfort. All Jesgar could do was wait and listen.
