Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Absolutely. You should have seen him, he was terrified.”

  “Is that the only reason that you want to accompany him to Kalduuhn? Wouldn’t it be more prudent to help free Dragoncrest?”

  Now came the tricky part. Cumaill knew him too well to overlook an evasion. He couldn’t stop his discomfort showing. Dragoncrest was still besieged. More than a hundred enemy soldiers had erected an almost permanent camp at the fortress exit. The fact that this warband remained while the bulk of the Chanastardhian army had retreated to Harail was a clear indicator of what the High Advisor’s true goal was. “I should, but aside from helping Drangar, there is something personal in Kalduuhn that needs my attention.” Before the Baron could ask the obvious question, he continued, “Ralgon mentioned something about my brothers.”

  “I thought you bore no grudge against them anymore.” Cumaill helped himself to another slice of ham.

  “I don’t, but Ethain and Ganaedor are still blood. Even if they sided with Danachamain and the demons they still are my brothers—and Chosen.”

  The Baron’s fork halted in mid-air. “What?” he snapped.

  This explanation should have come years ago, Kildanor knew that, but Chosen business was discussed with outsiders only on rare occasions. Normally he wouldn’t have told Cumaill even this much, but in the past week the Cahill’s influence, especially Neena’s, had worked marvels to nudge his friend toward the throne. If Cumaill were to become King, he would know these things anyway. “Twenty-four were Chosen by Lesganagh, each one to be replaced at the death of another. My brothers and I were among them. Since the Demon War there have only been twenty-two. Figure out the rest yourself.” Maybe he should have waited until they were alone, with servants waiting in two of the room’s corners there was bound to be gossip, and soon. He doubted even Cumaill’s order or any threat would confine the conversation to this room. Not that it truly mattered. The Chosen’s duty, Kildanor feared, would all too soon become apparent. That the High Advisor was after the Hold and what it held was fairly obvious by now. He wondered if he should divulge the entirety of their mission, but was thankfully interrupted by Nerran barging in.

  “Bloody bastard!” the Paladin roared.

  “And a good morn to you, too,” Kildanor said. Cumaill still seemed preoccupied with the revelation. “What bastard?”

  “Kerral,” Nerran grumbled, pulling a chair from the table and hunkering down. “Bastard thinks he runs the defenses.”

  Irritated, the Baron asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Kerral; are you deaf?”

  “Distracted. So, what is the problem?”

  “He’s gathering workers and shovels and picks.”

  “What for? Come on, mate, tell the whole story, don’t let me drag it out of your nose bit by bit.”

  “He has this mad idea to divert part of the river to flood the southern plain,” Nerran said.

  Actually, Kildanor thought, the idea was brilliant. The General was thinking ahead, preparing for the Chanastardhians’ return in spring. He remained silent, unwilling to get involved in this struggle of egos. Cumaill looked as surprised as he felt, but neither shared the Paladin’s anger.

  “You told the bastard he follows our orders.” Was Nerran complaining about someone else taking on the challenge of preparing to defend the city? Or was he merely whining about not having thought of it first?

  The Baron’s words echoed his thoughts. “You were senseless most of this month, mate. I doubt Kerral meant to make a fool of you.” Nerran was doing that all by himself throwing such a tantrum.

  “So, you agree with his actions?” Maybe this still had to do with compensation for losing Gail, Kildanor thought.

  “Sounds reasonable,” Cumaill replied. “Even if he hasn’t discussed his plans with me.” The Baron sent him a pleading glance and he nodded briefly. He would back his friend, but this was a fight Cumaill had to fight alone. Nerran grieving was one thing, clinging to issues that had been diluted by his absence was another. And Cumaill had made it very plain that he ruled.

  “What do you mean? I thought you and I were leading the defense.” Did he truly complain that someone else had thought of a good plan?

  The Baron must have felt the same, because he spoke very curtly. “General Kerral has proven himself a good leader, and willing to follow orders. If he has taken the initiative now there is nothing wrong with that. What are you so bitter about? Is it that someone else has a good idea, or are you afraid that everything will slip through your fingers?”

  When Nerran remained silent, Cumaill went on, “Gail was a bright woman; she knew what she was risking. Scales, you knew what you two were risking by allowing her to join the fight! You can’t control every aspect of everyone’s lives, especially in a battle. Next year Mireynh will show up with more than two slingthrowers, and you damn well know it. If we aren’t prepared Dunthiochagh will fall, and Gail’s death will have been in vain. So, unless you have a better idea, I suggest you drag your ass out there and make sure Kerral doesn’t fuck things up. Understood?”

  For a moment Nerran stared at Duasonh, and Kildanor didn’t know whether this show of strength on the Paladin’s part had merely been an act, or yet another way for him to deal with his repressed anger. Then, much to the Chosen’s surprise, Nerran bowed his head. “You’re right. It’s just that I don’t want…”

  “War’s war, people die, you know how it is,” Cumaill said. A brief nod was Nerran’s only response. “Would you have been able to order Gail away from the fighting?”

  The Paladin looked up, lips curved in a sad smile. “Fuck no! She’s as hardheaded as a bull. Err, she was.” He stood abruptly. “Should’ve paid more attention to the fireplace,” he muttered and stomped out again.

  Chosen and Baron shared a knowing glance. The fireplace was a feature almost unique to the nearby cemetery, but anyone who went there could visit it, alone, and receive some manner of peace. He had never bothered to ask the Deathmask about it, the fireplace just was. Other cemeteries had similar ways to help mourners deal with their pain, but the silent skulls on the mantelpiece were impersonal.

  “So, your brothers may still live?” Cumaill said into the silence, picking up where they had left off.

  “Not may, they live. And I think there is a connection.”

  The sycophants had finally recovered their limited wits and were bombarding Cumaill with presents and demands even before the Baron had reached the audience chamber. One of the more obnoxious trade-representatives, a fool who blatantly shoved a bag of something at Cumaill, was taken in by the guard and introduced to the blunt end of etiquette. These people never seemed to learn. None of the Duasonhs had ever been corrupted. Cumaill’s great-grandda, rumor had it, had even executed a score of courtiers as an example for the rest. Should there be a King Cumaill, Kildanor knew, those in Danastaer who put their interests above the wellbeing of the entire nation might well reap another hunting-season. He smiled at the notion. Cumaill didn’t mind looking the other way when it was for the betterment of all, the kind of people who usually were scrubbing chamber pots or helping the tanners or equally distasteful jobs, but bribery and corruption were as bad as murder and rape.

  He saw that Úistan and Neena Cahill were waiting in the audience chamber, let out a relieved whistle, and hurried away. Spending even a few moments with the sycophants made him feel unclean. Cumaill would understand.

  His walk took him to Cherkont Street, and the noise of shields clashing reached him long before he entered the road. What surprised him was the mass of children who, instead of lobbing snowballs at each other, watched the lines of armed men bashing into each other. He recognized some of the colors present. Among the Dunthiochagh’s crest depicted on many shields there were the coats of arms of a few Houses who had joined General Kerral’s army, and here and there blank shields that most likely belonged to the retired warriors of the neighborhood. Some were lounging against nearby houses, taking a break from the hard work of fig
hting in a shield wall.

  In the teeming mass it was difficult to make out any individual; the press of bodies was too tight. He didn’t bother to count heads. There were too many of them, and more arrived still. Some of the newcomers weren’t old enough to grow a beard, and others were old enough to be their grandparents. Maybe this militia business had something to it. He even saw one or two beggars carrying old battered shields, down on their luck like so many veterans who had spent their money on booze and whores and dice, and would lose it all before long. The one thing that did surprise him was the number of women present. Not that the sight of female warriors was uncommon, but here, by the look of it, were housewives straining with warriors in the same line, and making it look easy.

  To his right, on a hastily erected platform stood the Chanastardhian weapons-master, Dubhan, shouting orders at one group or another. There was no kindness in his voice. The otherwise jovial man was the drillwarden and as such he performed with excellence.

  “Worrying about me?” someone said from behind.

  Kildanor turned and saw Ralgon stretching his muscles. He hadn’t recognized the former mercenary in the war-gear. Ralgon had taken his helmet off and was wiping his sweat-soaked brow with a gloved hand. “Yeah, I look different,” he said.

  He sounded different as well. Not as tortured as he had after Ondalan. And the patches of hair had formed into something that no longer resembled a holey quilt. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” Kildanor admitted.

  “What?” Ralgon smiled. “Dressing up for war or practicing within a shield wall?”

  “Either, both,” he admitted. “Why didn’t you…?”

  “Tell you? You would’ve worried about my sanity, and I was tired of being treated like a crazy.”

  “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “The discipline? Aye; neither did I, but it turns out this is exactly what I need.”

  They were interrupted by a shout. “Ralgon’s group get back in here, let Keelan’s group take a break!” Dubhan hollered. “Move it! Anne, take your lot back in as well, let the freeborn catch their breath!”

  “We’ll talk later,” Kildanor said, but Drangar was already heading back to one of the now separating warbands. He watched as Gwennaith Keelan stepped away from the line, gave Ralgon a gentle pat on the armored arm, then strolled toward him. What was the relationship between the two? That Ralgon fancied the girl he already knew, but the thing seemed mutual enough. Maybe she really had a soothing influence. Why else had the man’s behavior changed so drastically?

  “Morning,” Keelan said, taking off her helmet and wiping her brow. “Come to check on him?” she asked almost casually. So, there was something more going on.

  Instead of asking her directly, he nodded and said, “Some people complained about the noise you are making.”

  She scrutinized him for a moment then snorted. “Right. And the Watch has other things to do.” The young squire was quick-witted. “You worry about him having another of those… episodes, don’t you?”

  “Episodes?” he said. Her look told him she would not accept anything short of the truth. “After Ondalan, can you blame me?” The entire Chanastardhian warband had heard about the massacre, and it would be a real miracle if Cahill’s retainers hadn’t spoken of it.

  Keelan shook her head. “No, not really, and truth be told I was worried also. At first, that is. And so was he.”

  “True, but had he become angry it might have happened.”

  “He was afraid of himself, and what he had done, even if he knew it wasn’t him.”

  “How did you manage to get him out of that mood?” Kildanor asked, realizing the instant the words left his mouth that he already knew the answer. Gwennaith Keelan was witty and gorgeous to boot, and she was a stranger.

  The look she gave him was amused and belittling at the same time. “What can I say that you can’t figure out for yourself? Drangar doesn’t need something to worry him. He needs a purpose, something to occupy him.”

  “And fighting in a shield wall gives him that?”

  Keelan nodded. “It gives his life order.”

  He understood. Ralgon had lived as a shepherd after the slaughter of Hesmera, a hermit by choice. The loneliness, combined with the paired need to understand and do penance, would have driven anyone mad; with the realization that he had not killed Hesmera, the guilt had been removed but the hermit had stayed. What Gwennaith had done was to drag this man out of his isolation and back into the world of the living. Pretty smart for such a young woman, he thought admiringly. The luxury of Cahill Manor had most likely reminded Ralgon of what he had fled from in his youth. What if being alone also weakened Ralgon’s defenses against this Fiend? It was a possibility, although this did not explain where this otherworldly influence had come from in the first place.

  He realized that Gwen Keelan was looking at him, waiting for a reply he had not yet made. “I should have thought of that,” he said, hoping it sounded apologetic enough.

  “Given the circumstances not many people would have,” she said. “You had a war on your hands. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “Lesganagh’s followers are not necessarily the most empathetic.” What was she hinting at? The Dawnslaughter had affected the other kingdoms not as harshly as Danastaer, and there still were a few active Suntemples in Chanastardh.

  “I’m the daughter of a sailor, the granddaughter of a pirate,” she said. His confusion, probably mixed with a little apprehension, must have shown. “The Lord of the Sea and Horses is whom I worship most. And the sea adapts; war and sun are usually quite straightforward, as are their followers.” The conversation had taken yet another turn, and he saw more clearly why Drangar was attracted to her. Sure, at first it had only been the pretty face, but he was forced to admit that young Lady Keelan was charming and insightful. Now that he thought about it, he realized she was right, and he was not above admitting it.

  “We are a very direct people,” he said.

  “Keelan!” Dubhan shouted. “Enough chitchat, get your group back into line! Ag Marranh, yours take a breather!”

  “Try not to worry too much,” the young woman said as a farewell. “He’s in good hands.”

  He believed her.

  CHAPTER 37

  Sixth of Ice, 1475 K.C.

  This was the coldest part of winter. The sky was clear, and for the past two days a chill, dry wind had gusted through the streets. Dubhan had agreed to call off the practice bouts until it grew warmer, though by now Drangar could tell the weapons-master was less than happy with the situation, claiming that lowlanders were a bunch of pampered bastards. A sentiment he only shared with the warriors of House Cirrain. How the highlanders endured this cold was beyond him, and he regretted agreeing to the sparring matches even as he shrugged into his chainmail. “This is no weather to go about banging swords at one another,” he grumbled.

  “Just don’t lick your armor,” Gwen teased.

  “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

  Over the past few weeks they had grown closer still, and he thought it evident that their relationship had outgrown the cordial formality that still reigned them. Then again, he could not shake the feeling he was not yet ready for anything physical. It wasn’t Hesmera’s spirit lingering near that prevented him pursuing Gwen more aggressively, far from it. He was at peace as things were, why mess them up with proclamations of love and tumbling in the blankets.

  Sometimes, when she looked at him, he saw his yearning reflected in her eyes, but they both remained apart. He had repeatedly meant to broach the subject; the training, however, kept them occupied. Now was not the time. He smiled as he donned his coat. Things were good. Even the Fiend had not reared its ghastly face. Why then would he fuck all of this up? Certainly not for a bit of fleshy pleasures.

  “What’re you smiling about?” Gwen asked.

  His first impulse was to say “nothing,” but the change he had gone through thanks to her went deeper still. Four months ago, he
would have surprised himself by saying, “I’m wondering when and if there will be a right time.” Now, as he spoke the words, they came naturally.

  She looked at him, and he again saw the longing. “We’ll know. I hope,” she added with a chuckle. So, she did feel the same. Drangar was elated. “But it’s not now.” She pulled his cloak taught, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “No matter how much I wish it were different.”

  He wanted to sweep her up, hold her tight, and his desire must have shown, for she tsked at him and left the room. She was right, now was not the time.

  The layers of armor didn’t feel that uncomfortable anymore, but outside with the wind freezing everything, the stiffness of leather and steel once more hampered him. His cloak didn’t help either. Dubhan waited for him in the open, and he wore the same threadbare outfit he had worn when Drangar had first seen him. How the highlander could stand the biting cold was something Drangar did not want to consider. The mere thought of young warriors running up snow-covered slopes with barely a thread on their bodies sent shivers up his spine.

  The weapons-master was accompanied by several of his countrymen, as skimpily dressed as the older fighter. “Hope you have your head protected,” Dubhan greeted him.

  “Aye,” Drangar replied. Out here in the cold his stoicism returned, not that it mattered to the rough-cut warriors. He figured any additional word that allowed the chill to enter one’s body was a word wasted.

  They practiced with wooden swords, none of them willing to submit their warsteel to the rigors of the cold, and soon, despite his apprehension, Drangar began to enjoy himself. It surely was not the kind of exhilaration he had felt in years long gone; there was grace in this dance of sword or spear and shield against a warrior wielding the same. He had always thought the shield wall a stupid, useless thing if one was strong enough to break it. But nothing compared to the camaraderie of people acting as one singular being, bracing for the coming impact, straining to keep the enemy at bay. It was grueling work, certainly, but at the end of a day he felt good about himself and the warriors he stood in line with. There was no anger in the wall, only determination, and it taught him something he hadn’t been aware of: that relying on others was not only possible, but also pleasurable. Sure, whenever the lads and lasses went for a pint or two to guzzle down the past day’s weariness he withdrew, unwilling to touch alcohol; what further amazed him was the fact that they understood.