Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  “You won’t,” she said simply.

  Would she really be there to rein him back should the demon take over again? How would he know she was safe? Again, his face must have betrayed his fears, for she leaned down and caressed his scalp. The hair was growing back, and it felt as if he was covered in soft down, but the truth of it still was that he was loathe to have anyone see him like this. He jerked back, banging his head into the wall.

  “How do I know that you won’t hurt me?” she voiced the question herself. Smarting from the impact he gently bobbed his head. “Because,” Gwen said, counting off her fingers. “I will not slip you a love potion.” With a teasing smile she added, “I don’t need help driving a man crazy.” Then, “So far I’ve always been able to keep the nightmares at bay. And finally, you wouldn’t hurt me.” She stated this with such conviction that Drangar believed her.

  “Besides, I won’t train you,” she added a moment later. “Dubhan will.”

  Dubhan was the oldest of House Cirrain’s warriors, the arms master of the noble family, a gruff man who spoke his mind. That much he had gathered on their journey back from Ondalan. Drangar didn’t doubt the Chanastardhian would treat him like any other recruit. Then he rolled his eyes. These people fought with sword and shield or spear and shield, and he liked neither option. Gwen didn’t reveal how she had convinced the old weapons-master to agree to this plan. The more important question was when had she done so. They barely left the house under the pretense that he struggled with his nightmares. Jass, he decided, must be involved in this little plot of Gwen’s, not that he minded. There was something oddly relaxing in holding a sword in his hands, and no amount of knitting could replace that.

  Still, he was not sure this was the right way, feared that against Gwen’s prediction he would hurt her. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “That’s why you won’t have much of a choice in the matter,” she replied happily. “Oh, don’t give me that look. If things were up to you, you would sit and brood all day and toss and turn with bad dreams all night.” Was he that obvious? “Isn’t that what you were doing in your shepherd’s hut? My da always says that if there’s no wind, you just get out the oars and pull. Seems like you haven’t rowed in ages.” She was right and knew it, and Drangar couldn’t help but submit to her logic. Were things so much different now, he wondered. No, not really. He had to do something rather than mope.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “Let’s do it.” Though, he still hated the thought of fighting with a shield.

  Dubhan arrived shortly before the dusk-gong rang across the city. He followed Jass into the common room, grumbling and complaining in his thick northern accent. That he accompanied Jasseira supported Drangar’s theory that the warrior woman had played the part of messenger between Gwen and the Cirrain retainer. “Bloody rain,” Dubhan muttered. “Can’t it just snow like in normal places? All this slush now, and fucking ice in the morning.” He halted, regarded first Drangar then Gwen. “So, you two ain’t lovers at all, eh?” he said.

  Gwen looked at Jass. “You didn’t tell him?”

  “’Course she told me. Believed her, too, I did, but rumors are harder to kill than a Northman bastard,” Dubhan answered. To Jasseira he said, “Nice house you got here.”

  Drangar waited on his friend to reply, and then decided any explanation would lead to more questions and leaned back in the chair. Jass must have thought the same thing, for she thanked the Chanastardhian. “Drang, I brought you a shield. Dubhan says you’ll need one.”

  He groaned. Shields were good in a wall, but otherwise useless. A good arrow pierced it more often than not, and the point from a charging lancer couldn’t be stopped anyway.

  “You don’t like shields?” Dubhan asked. “Tough luck, mate, you’ll use it. Heroics only get you killed that much faster, shield to shield, that’s how true men fight!”

  “And still I live,” he muttered. Whether any of the others had heard, he couldn’t tell; they remained silent.

  This was almost as soothing as sharpening a blade, Drangar thought as he slid into the chainmail. Jass had thrown away nothing, or next to nothing, and so his war-gear had been stored in one of the wicker baskets next to his bed. Ever the thorough warrior, she had oiled the metal yearly, preventing rust from settling and growing. Still, the heavy linen shirt and even more so the leather on top of it, were stiff from disuse. The leather creaked, as he whirled his arms about, testing its flexibility. Somehow, he couldn’t explain the feeling, the layers of armor and padding gave him a confidence he thought long lost. The chain went down to his knees, slit below the crotch for easier movement. His legs were clad in caergoult, the heavy wax-boiled leather so stiff from disuse that for a moment he worried about mobility.

  Jass tossed him his boots. He caught and donned them. Unlike the riding boots he preferred to wear, the plate-reinforced leather was about as subtle as an anvil.

  Gwen and Dubhan regarded him as he stalked down the stairs. There was nothing elegant about his movement, and Drangar felt as if each booted step made the stairs groan in protest. This was his gear, his armor, not the stuff Lord Cahill had given him for Ondalan. His movements were clumsy, and he wondered how he had ever managed to walk much less fight in this, or how anyone else could.

  “Bloody infantryman, that’s what you look like,” the weapons-master said. “Bloody young infantryman at that.”

  With pleasure he noted that Gwen had not taken her eyes off him. But now was not the time to contemplate his feelings for her, or hers for him. Maybe when all this was over, but not now.

  “Sorry about the shape of the leather,” Jass said, obviously enjoying his awkward gait. “Should have oiled it.”

  “That you took care of the chain was more than I ever would have expected. Scales, you didn’t even know I would return at all,” he told her, buckling his sword belt. This stuff weighed more than a full-grown sheep. How he had ever managed to move in this, he did not know.

  “Well, then, you dress like a warrior, mate. Let’s see what you can do.” Dubhan walked for the backdoor, adding, “And don’t forget the shield.”

  How he hated shields, and strapping this monster to his left forearm only reinforced that emotion. “Bulky bugger,” he grumbled. The thing was rectangular and as wide as the door. He had to twist sideways to get out. Behind him, Gwen and Jass giggled. That Gwen would giggle in such a girlish way he had anticipated; Jasseira’s like display of amusement surprised him. The warrior woman had never struck him as the typical female prone to giggling, and she was being exactly that.

  Outside, the Chanastardhian had taken up a defensive position, his shield-protected flank facing Drangar. He barely remembered the moves, yet another thing of his past he had tried to forget. Dubhan braced against his shield, peering over its rim.

  “Charge me!” the weapons-master ordered.

  The Fiend remained quiet. Maybe his lack of anger kept it that way? Whatever the reason, he was here to train and his teacher had ordered him to charge. The weight of his armor bolstered his confidence; he drew his sword and obeyed. Leading with his shield, Drangar raced forward. He didn’t hold back, thought Dubhan didn’t want him to. A yard, then only two feet separated the two shields, and closing his eyes, he prepared for the impact. Less than a heartbeat later he was still running, aiming for the far thornleaf that separated this garden from the next.

  He skidded to a stop, balancing to regain steady footing. From behind Dubhan growled, “No, you imbecile, no! You do not close your eyes! You never close your godsdamned eyes!” Drangar whirled around, equally embarrassed and angry with himself. “Do you think a proper enemy will close his eyes when you come charging at him? Might as well throw bones or dice instead, if everyone runs about blind,” the Chanastardhian grumbled. Then, shaking his head dismissively, he turned to Gwen. “Been meaning to ask you something, lassie.”

  Drangar barely heard the younger woman’s reply. Blood was pounding in his ears, and the Fiend’s faint voic
e, barely audible before, was edging him on. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. If any of the others had noticed the struggle, he couldn’t tell.

  “So, what shall I tell Anne?” Dubhan asked.

  “My place is here,” Gwen replied.

  “In Dunthiochagh?”

  Upon hearing that, Drangar looked up, hopeful. “No, too dry for my liking,” Gwen said. The hope drained from him. Had he misread that a relationship was forming? In the back of his mind he thought he heard a shout of joy. What the Fiend exclaimed, he couldn’t tell, but it clearly was happy with that development. Then she pointed at him. “Where he goes, I go.” Her words were like music, and while Drangar caught himself grinning like an idiot, the Fiend snarled in anger. Why and how Gwen managed to keep the demon at bay, he didn’t know, but that mattered little. She did.

  “No,” Gwen said. The roaring inside his skull made it impossible to follow the entirety of the conversation. “Of course I plan on returning home. Da will be pretty upset with me once word reaches him that I deserted.”

  “Most likely someone at the head of Drammoch’s army will deliver that bit of news,” Dubhan replied. He then turned to Drangar. “What are you smiling about, mate? Don’t get mushy on the lass here, understood?” Behind the weapons-master’s back, Gwen winked at him. He felt his grin broaden again. “What’s so funny, eh? Get your shield up, rush me again!”

  “Yes, sir!” he answered.

  Dubhan braced for impact, and Drangar forced his eyes to stay open when the two shields connected. In the last instant, the Chanastardhian shifted ever so slightly. He saw the change, but with the ground as slippery as it was and his momentum, Drangar was unable to adjust.

  Steel-reinforced wood grated on steel-reinforced wood, but only for a moment, and then Drangar was free again, the impact had barely slowed him down. He barreled into the brick wall of the house, the leading arm flattened between shield and armor.

  The others laughed.

  Again, the Fiend roared, raged, and he wasn’t certain it was only the hidden demon. He turned, glaring, and something in his look made everyone, Gwen included, take a step back. Something similar had happened in Carlgh, at the Boar and Bustard. He had been so furious at the imbecile noble’s disregard of courtesy and his threats against the serving girl then, and everyone had tried to escape his eyes. His attention was drawn to a window that reflected his image. He stopped, unable to believe what he saw. He blinked, and when his focus returned, he regarded the same face and the same eyes he had always seen when looking into a mirror. But for this one moment, this one instant before he had blinked, he had seen his eyes glow. “What the Scales,” he muttered, turning to regard the others. “You all saw that, didn’t you?”

  Their stunned nods were all the reply he needed.

  CHAPTER 36

  Twenty-second of Cold, 1475 K.C.

  Kildanor decided Cumaill looked better, as he watched his friend working behind the table. After having spent a long time in front of the Deathmask’s fireplace, Nerran had emerged a new man and immediately begun to assist the Baron in running the city. Not only that, but the Paladin had convinced him to invite Úistan Cahill into the small group of advisors. With the Lord Cahill came his daughter, Neena, supposedly to assist in accounting, but it soon became clear that Sir Úistan had something else in mind for her. And Cumaill, to everyone’s surprise, relished the lady’s presence.

  Maybe, Kildanor thought, all it took was a woman’s touch. As the Cahills took on a large portion of the work, Nerran in turn was free to look for new Riders. The Chosen doubted the warband was still needed, and with Danaissan’s stranglehold on Eanaigh’s church gone normalcy was bound to return soon. But even he admitted that rebuilding the church of Lesganagh would take years, if not decades. So maybe the Paladin was right. It was unfortunate that the Librarians only recorded history, and not secrets of faith. Thus, the restoration would likely be hampered by lack of knowledge until some Sunpriests came and settled in Danastaer from one of the other kingdoms. That also was a day far in the future, for even though the imminent threat of the Eanaighists was gone, the horrors of the Dawnslaughter lived on in people’s memory. Convincing any Sunpriest that the danger had passed, and making sure it did not return, would now be the new task for the Riders.

  Cumaill rifled through a stack of Watch-reports from the past week. After Jathain’s failed rebellion, the Baron had taken a keen interest in what went on in the city. The mug of heated wine remained a few inches from his mouth as he read. The Baron frowned, looked as if he only now realized the container was aloft in his hand, and set it down. “Didn’t you say Drangar Ralgon was at his old house brooding?” he asked.

  Kildanor cut a slice off the roasted ham as he said, “That’s what I’ve been told, aye.”

  “Hmm, have a look at this.” Cumaill passed the parchment to a servant who in turn held it out to him. “Wipe your hands before you touch that,” reminded the Baron. Ever since Neena Cahill had taken the position of accountant, she had also taken a great interest in the Palace’s records. One of the results was her justified complaint that no one had ever truly bothered to keep the records in pristine condition. It was true that none of them, not even Jathain when he had run the Watch, had bothered with tidiness. A man’s world, Neena had remarked acidly on several occasions, claiming there even was a slice of sausage now firmly glued to two pieces of paper.

  Consciously the Chosen wiped the grease from his hands. He hurried through the lines that described repeated complaints of neighbors about the noise of military exercises performed somewhere near Old Wall Street. The last such protest had prompted the nearby Watch commander to send some of his people to investigate what had proved to be the residents of Cherkont Street, always a place where retired warriors settled, participating in shield wall and weapons training. Chief among them these days were all the Chanastardhian turncoats and one Drangar Ralgon.

  He looked up at Cumaill, saying, “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “Nay,” the Baron burped after draining his mug. “The commander is a good man; he wouldn’t fuck around with this.”

  “No, I know this Maelgwn. What I meant is that Ralgon is allegedly sitting around moping, while he is actually training to go to war.” There was more to his worry, but so far none of those who had been to Ondalan had spoken about the slaughter. Neither did Cumaill know of the demons that apparently vied for control over Drangar even when the man was calm.

  “Good for him. Look at Nerran, a bout of depression can really mess with you, and I’d say this Ralgon fellow has more to be depressed about than Nerran.”

  Should he speak of the Fiend? Were circumstances different, he’d have confided in Cumaill a while ago, but the Baron already had enough on his mind. Food was more readily available, all the refugees and warriors had been billeted, yet troubles had only been postponed. The enemy was bound to return, if not in spring then certainly in summer. He wished he could share his concerns, would have voiced his worries under other circumstances. That Drangar practiced fighting was dangerous, not only to the man himself but to everyone with him.

  “He’s probably tired of all the attention. I don’t blame him. More wine, please,” Cumaill said, holding out his mug. A servant refilled it. “Do you have any idea how bloody annoying it was to have you and Braigh smothering me with attention when that assassin of Jathain’s managed to cut me? Unbearable, I tell you! Would have done anything to get the two of you off my back.” A long pull, and then he added, “We should ask them to do it elsewhere though, with all that has been going on, open military exercises can make some folk mighty uncomfortable.”

  “Better uncomfortable than dead, I’d say.”

  “There’s that, of course.” Then, “You still want to go south with Ralgon come spring?” Cumaill had been avoiding the topic ever since he had first made his decision known. It was bound to happen, but Kildanor was surprised that it had come out now. With Sir Úistan and Nerran having
taken over some of the Baron’s workload, his friend had more time to think.

  “Aye, as much for Drangar’s sake as my own,” he said.

  “His sake?” Cumaill cocked an eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry about it, it’s…”

  “Stop that nonsense,” the Baron interrupted. “Too many strange things have been going on around this mercenary, and your decision to accompany him just adds to the mystery.”

  “Cumaill, listen…”

  “No, you listen, there are things you have kept to yourself and I respect that, but Ralgon’s return from the dead, the brutal killing of his woman, his strange state when he was in our cells, you freeing him and talking of demons you saw. All this isn’t something to be put away lightly. I demand you be honest with me. Why do you want to go to Kalduuhn with Drangar Ralgon?”

  There was no way around it now. He took a deep breath, put aside the report and fixed Cumaill with his eyes. “The truth is that there is more to Drangar, something that is trying to take control. I’ve seen it, not only here but in Ondalan as well. In Ondalan, though, it wasn’t just a struggle. The demon or demons had won.”

  Wide-eyed, the Baron asked, “What do you mean won?”

  “Your plan would have failed had Sir Úistan not angered Drangar, but his anger only freed the demon to take over. That monster inside him took out the entire Chanastardhian force.” For a moment he fell silent, remembering the bisected corpses, the man desperate enough to jump to his death before becoming a victim of the slaughter. “And the strangest thing of all is that I think I was able to direct that demon. Had I not intervened and reminded Drangar of the mission when he had Lord Cahill in his grip, we all would have died there.”

  Cumaill blinked, glanced at the servant whom Kildanor had completely forgotten, and said, “No word of this will leave the room, understood?” A short pause followed. Then, “Is it dangerous to let this go on?”

  “Could be.”

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t Ralgon who did the killings?”