by Ulff Lehmann
Now, as he practiced maneuvers with Dubhan, Padraigh and a few others whose names he could not recall due to exhaustion and cold, he felt the same kind of excitement he felt whenever he was with Gwen. These people accepted him. They did not treat him as an outcast anymore, and while none of them—he included—understood what kind of terror lurked in the back of his mind, they had all come to realize he was a decent enough person to sit and joke and talk with.
“Mind if I join?” someone asked from behind him. Drangar turned and saw Kerral.
For a moment he stood still and regarded the man. General Kerral, the title bothered him, the man bothered him. How had this lowly mercenary warleader become a warlord in his own right? In his hut he had made it very clear how he felt about his former friend. Brothers did not stab each other in the back yet Kerral had done just that, had betrayed him. Suddenly, without warning, the hurt at the duplicity rose back to the fore. He remembered how his one friend in Mireynh’s army, his warleader, his captain had turned his back on him when all he had done was obey Mireynh’s order. He had brought the treacherous son’s head back and demanded his due reward. Kerral could have stood by him, should have stood by him, and supported him, because he had done the right, the just thing. Instead the bastard had howled with the wolves.
“Fine,” Drangar growled.
Now they stood facing each other, shield to shield, staffs held as lances, pushing, stabbing. For a moment it looked as if Kerral wanted to speak, a forceful shove shut him up. Instead the older man shifted his shield so that Drangar slid past and stumbled in the slush. A heartbeat later, his balance regained, he turned to face Kerral once more. The others laughed. It wasn’t the first burst of mirth, but this time it stung. Years and years back the children at the Eye had laughed at him, had laughed when the older boys, chief amongst them Dalgor, had kicked him about the courtyard. He had wanted to prove himself to them, show them he was their equal, and no matter where he lunged and swung, his blade had always connected with a shield or another sword.
Dalgor made him stumble, again. No, not the hated cousin, but the man he had called friend. Kerral, General Kerral. They had never sparred, he had never stood beside the man in a shield wall, but still they had been friends. General Traitor, Drangar wanted to spit.
He had brought back Mireynh’s son, and the head of the bastard who had betrayed them. It wasn’t his fault they’d been one and the same! Mireynh had been furious at his demand for due payment, but after all he had accomplished both missions.
Again, the shields ground against each other, and again he lashed out with the staff. Kerral leaned to the left as if anticipating his move. Was he using his knowledge of him against him? The counter-attack came before he had time to pull his weapon back. A slap to the helmet, nothing serious, but for a moment it numbed his senses.
Just like Dalgor had done in so many sparring bouts.
Drangar managed to bring his shield up in time to prevent another hit to the head, a hit that never came. Instead the other’s staff smacked against his left leg. Unbalanced, he struggled to remain upright. Now even the grass underneath the snow was against him! He fell.
Again, laughter sounded, despite someone trying to calm the men standing around. Just like the children back then, they mocked. Just like his comrades who had scoffed at his demand for payment for two missions. Kerral had… no! Dalgor had laughed with the others. Kerral had done nothing. Nothing!
It had been unjust, wrong. No friend abandoned another, it was law, unwritten, but it needed no contract. Struggling to his feet, he faced Kerral once more.
Shields collided yet again.
They parted, Kerral panted. His breathing was calm, controlled. But inside, his emotions tumbled, roared. Warleader Kerral was now a warlord, respected. And still he fought like a whirr, as if he did not enjoy the easy life of all leaders? Drangar dropped the staff and picked up the wooden sword. It was time to show the bastard what true fighting meant. Barely acknowledging the fact that Kerral held on to his staff, he grumbled and approached again.
Shields slammed into each other, but only for a moment. Drangar was aiming for Kerral’s head. The general danced out of reach. The momentum of his swing whirled him around, and again the ground rushed to meet him.
This time he was up on his feet and running in a heartbeat. As his shield hammered into Kerral’s, he slashed right above its rim, aiming for the head yet again. Kerral ducked. Wood scraped metal. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard someone shout. The voice ordered him to stab. And stab he did.
Kerral went to his knees, the shield rising at an angle to deflect the blow. Again, the call to stab came.
Drangar thrust again.
A general. How could such a treacherous bastard attain such a position? Whom had he stabbed in the back to claim that rank? The bastard did not deserve it.
Again, the shields crashed into each other. He would show them all who deserved the respect. Kerral should not hold such an honored title. If anyone deserved to be warlord, it was he, Drangar. He should have been the hero, for a hero Kerral was, if only to those who did not know him as Drangar did. He could have held the fraying army together as well, no, better than this thrice damned imbecile, this wretch, this traitor!
Bastard!
The call to stab sounded once more, urgent. Or was it stop?
Drangar stabbed, missing the enemy’s head by a fraction. Kerral spoke. He did not hear. Once more, he drew the sword back. How much blood would a fighter yield? Another stab. The other’s shield moved up, redirecting the blow.
Traitor!
He was torn from his feet, crashed into the packed snow. A face came into view. Who?
Gwen.
The Fiend had crawled into his mind again, and he had never even felt it. Now the monster roared out its anger, tried once more to break through the shadowy bars holding it at bay. How? Why?
People—his friends—pinned him down, shouting, but he heard none of their words. He almost would have—no, not him! The Fiend! It would have killed Kerral and the others. This time there was no Chosen who could have directed its rage. The cold penetrated cloak and armor, and still the others held him down.
He did not blame them.
“So, it’s true,” someone, Dubhan, muttered. The first coherent words he made out through the roaring in his mind.
“What was that?” another asked.
“Thank gods you were here, lass!” a third exclaimed.
At that Gwen’s lips curled up in the hint of a smile. “Are you back?” she asked, her eyes boring into his.
He was; the Fiend had withdrawn not a moment too late. “Aye,” Drangar said, wheezing. The highlanders stood, released him, and pulled him up right into Kerral’s sight.
“You aren’t blessed by Lesganagh, are you?” the general asked, shock still plain on his face.
His first instinct was to run, hide, weep, and bury himself in misery. A hand on his shoulder restrained him. “Don’t,” Gwen said. Her voice sounded soothing, but he heard the concern layered underneath.
She led him inside, the others crowding in after them. He thought he heard whispers, mouths yapping, repeating, and confirming rumors, claiming he was cursed. It was so like his nightmares Drangar glanced back at them. All he saw was somber faces. Shock was etched into their features. Even Kerral displayed none of the cockiness he had come to expect from the warrior.
“Sit!” Gwen’s determined voice ordered.
He obeyed, slumping down onto a chair opposite the fireplace at the far end of the room. The others gathered around him, concern slowly replacing the masks of shock on their faces. Now Gwen pushed herself before the others, arms folded on her chest, stern determination lining her eyes. There was nothing gentle about her expression.
“What the Scales is your malfunction?” she snapped. “For weeks you were all right, and now this!”
“You take slights…” Kerral began.
“You call a friend’s betrayal a slight?” h
e heard himself growl, wondering if it was he or the Fiend speaking.
“Calm yourself,” Gwen said soothingly, yet there was steel in her voice. Over her shoulder she said, “Tell me what happened to make him resent you so much.”
“He was in my warband, years ago. It was there he got the nickname, Scythe. He volunteered for breaking walls.”
Astonished mutters rose around him. “Drangar’s the Scythe?” “I heard it say he was blessed…” “No one survives charging a wall alone!”
“Shut up!” Gwen snapped. “Go on.”
He tried to make out Kerral’s face, read his expression. Someone stood before the fireplace, the bulk blocking the firelight. “We became friends. Not many folks befriend their warleader, thinking we’re mean bastards or something, and despite his impossible successes they shunned Drangar. Sure, there were the rumors, about him being blessed and all that, but the others usually steered clear of him.”
Silence engulfed him, until Gwen’s hands cupped his cheeks and he found her face hovering before him. “Stop staring, start listening, understood?” He bobbed his head.
Kerral continued, retelling the tale from his point of view. How he had volunteered to bring Mireynh’s son and the traitor’s head back. “He did as promised,” the warlord concluded. “Returning with Kirran Mireynh’s head, turned out the little shit had sold us out.” Some of the people attending chuckled. “It could have ended there, but Drangar had the cheek to demand payment for both missions accomplished, totally ignoring the fact that he had murdered our warlord’s son.” The laughter died down. “He stood there retrieving the bugger’s head from a bloodstained bag and tossed it to Mireynh’s feet.”
“He had promised a reward for both!” Why couldn’t they see that he had done the right thing?
“And here I thought Connar was stupid,” Padraigh Cirrain muttered.
“You calling me stupid?”
Gwen answered his question by walking behind him and wrapping her arms around him. “Shut up, listen, and learn, dear,” she whispered into his ear, her head resting on his shoulder. “You may have judged at Eanaigh’s temple, but you are not objective here.”
The Fiend receded. He hadn’t noticed it crawling up.
“Aye,” Kerral said, looking him in the eye. “He promised a reward for both, but do you think any father enjoys seeing his son dead? You could have thought that far ahead when you caught up with the little shit. It was not that you were wrong, mate, it never was! It was about you robbing Mireynh of the chance to pass judgment over his son. And you stood there so bloody self-righteous, demanding payment from a father whose son you murdered. He probably would have killed the bastard himself, but you took away those last moments, and were proud of it as well. It was never that I sided against you, but I heartily disagreed with your attitude.”
Even the fire seemed muted. All he heard was his own breath rattling in his lungs. He had taken away a father’s chance to face the facts, had, in a way, done to Mireynh what Darlontor had done to him. His cursed sense of justice. Unlike his grandda, he was no judge. He had done the right thing, but it would have been just as easy to subdue Kirran Mireynh and drag him back to his father.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thought the Fiend was raging.
“You’ve been alone all your life, mate.” Kerral’s voice penetrated the silence. “Unloved, always had to prove yourself to yourself and others, striving to be recognized, but never recognizing that none of it mattered to the people who consider you a friend. Scales, you never understood why anyone cared, and how could you? Singled out, mocked, hurt every step of your way.”
Drangar tried to focus on the man, blinked fiercely to clear the tears from his eyes. When had he begun to weep? When had Kerral become so… kind?
“I’ve never stopped being your friend, even after you turned and ran. If only you had allowed me to speak instead of screaming insults of betrayal and worse at me. Back in Carlgh you did the same thing. I thought you had changed, and you had, but not as much as I had hoped. You killed the oaf Haggrainh, not a bad thing, considering what I’d heard about him, but you did what was right and shat on the consequences. You did the world a favor, in both cases. In Haggrainh’s case not even his uncle misses him, but what if there had been an investigation? What if the Lord Haggrainh had decided the villagers had paid you to kill the little shit?”
“Aye,” muttered Padraigh. “Every story has two sides, and even if your view is the right one, the other might still be pissed off at you, or any other judge.”
“So, you really killed Mireynh’s son and asked for both rewards?” Aoibhan, the youngest of the Chanastardhians, asked.
The murder Drangar realized, seen from Mireynh’s perspective, could not be considered justice, only spite. Kerral was right, had been right then, and he had lived with the impression of betrayal for years, holding a grudge where none had been warranted. “Aye,” he finally said, bowing his head.
“Pretty ballsy,” the young warrior said.
The others, even Kerral and Gwen, laughed, and he knew that they were laughing with him, not at him.
The warriors had left shortly after the dusk-gong; none had mentioned Lesganagh’s non-blessing or his glowing eyes, and he was thankful for that. He heard Jass return but didn’t move to greet her or introduce Kerral when she entered the common room. His wish to be left alone had not been granted, and he was in no mood to talk. There were enough disturbing memories running amok in his mind already, and any reminiscing would rouse more. Gwen must have sensed his mood for she was the one talking to Kerral, distracting him. How had they grown so close in such a short time, he wondered, and not for the first time. Yes, they lay together, but they weren’t lovers. Already his affection for her had complicated things.
Undistracted, he had used the time to analyze how the Fiend had managed to take control. It had turned the resentment and painful memories of being mocked against him. Both feelings had opened a path the monster had sneaked along. It wasn’t just outright anger the demon fed on, no, its talons clawed into any and every weakness. In time it might even use his yearning for Gwen as a means to take over. This he could not allow. Love was as strong a feeling as anger, drowning out reason. And if one thing was certain, it was that he needed his wits to get out of this. Even if he still had no idea what “this” was.
“And just who are you?” Jass asked.
Even with his back turned Drangar could see the image of Jasseira standing in the doorway, her stance tense yet relaxed. He had worked with her for enough months to know her habits, and though he would have loved to watch the scene unfold, he remained as he was, staring into the fire. Kerral’s reaction was more difficult to picture, ten godsdamned years since they had been friends; the warleader was a general now, a warlord, who had led hundreds of warriors into battle and then on an organized flight to Dunthiochagh. His jealousy was dead, if it had ever truly existed. His… friend deserved to lead fighters; he could barely lead himself.
A chair scraped; then Kerral spoke. “Madam,” he began. Drangar smirked, knowing full well Jass liked the formal blathering as much as he did. Her snort reassured him that some things remained the same.
“If it wasn’t for little Gwen there’d be no lady here,” Jass said, earning an exasperated drawing of breath from Gwen. The two had become close, yes, but Jasseira was the older and mocked the younger woman’s status whenever she could. Not that Gwen cared one way or the other. The exchange was as much to their amusement as to confuse Kerral. “So, who the Scales are you?” Drangar almost said “my friend” but caught himself before the words spilled out. Instead he coughed. “You all right, Drang?”
“Jass, this is Kerral,” Gwen said, he could just picture her impish smile. Now Kerral was probably glaring at her for forgetting his rank. “Err, General Kerral.”
“Sir,” the warrior woman said, her words probably accompanied by a nod. Jass wasn’t the type to salute anyone in her home. He heard Kerral clear his th
roat, a habit he’d already acquired when the two of them first met, probably wondering what he was doing here living with two women.
Another chair was pulled back; Jass was settling in as well. Whatever the three of them spoke of, it was hushed enough for Drangar to hear little more than the occasional snippet. A while later the muted conversation subsided. Kerral cleared his throat once more.
Then, “Drangar,” the warlord said, “we used to be friends; if it was up to me, we would never have stopped.”
“You were a brother to me,” he finally muttered. “I told you things I didn’t even tell Hesmera. It hurt when you did not stand by me.”
“Do we have to go through this again?” grumbled Gwen. “You insulted your leader before his troops. You made the mistake, accept it.” Then, in a soothing voice, she added, “Sometimes it is wrong to do the right thing.”
“Drang, had we just followed the evidence, we would have hunted you down, but we trusted our guts. Lliania knows right from wrong, and Her Scales will tell the truth. A man forced into treason by means of threat will still feast in the hall.”
They were right.
“Mate,” Kerral said, rising and walking over. “Hold on to the lass, she is good for you. I’ve never seen you this calm, so stop grinding every past slight, real, or imagined, through your mind. Start looking forward. Underneath all that doubt and misery is a person well worth knowing and calling friend. Make peace with yourself, it’s the only way to survive.”
He felt the warlord’s hand on his shoulder, a slight squeeze. Then he was alone once more. Somewhere in his mind the Fiend was lurking, waiting. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
