Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  He didn’t care about his ancestry. Why should he? There wasn’t anything he wanted to know. Was there? Much like his resolve to keep his distance from Gwen had evaporated, he wondered if his reluctance to discover whom his mother had been wasn’t another mistake. In a way he wanted to get to know the person who had shown him what had really happened three years ago. Finally, he said, “She wasn’t a dog, was she?”

  The priestess chuckled. “No.”

  “I had a dog once,” Gwen mumbled from under the blanket.

  Now Drangar chuckled as well, caressing her hair. “Didn’t think she was, but with Dog being all mummified and that I had to ask, didn’t I?”

  “Dog? You called your dog Dog?” Rheanna asked.

  “That’s a stupid name for a dog,” Gwen yawned.

  “Shows you how much I didn’t give a shit.”

  “Well, it’s ironic, really. Caitrin’s nickname was Cat.”

  Drangar blinked, shaking his head. “So, what was she like, my mother?”

  “I’ve been trying to remember since I realized there’s a connection. I was younger than she. I think the age difference was something like ten years, so I barely spent time with her. She hated needlework, which was the one thing most women at court did.” It hadn’t escaped him earlier, in Dunthiochagh, when she had mentioned the court of Haldain. His grandda had been Justiciar there.

  “What’s your connection to the court?”

  “My family lived there.” Drangar sensed there was more to it so he pressed the point. A freeborn or villein member of a Royal court would not necessarily know members of its elite by name, much less their nicknames. Her gaze was on him before the thought was finished completely. “Coimharrin was right,” she said. “You have your grandda’s insight.”

  “What?” he muttered, hoping he had heard wrong. Was she telling him what he thought she was?

  “Lliania’s smile was on Amhlaidh.”

  “Bloody Scales,” he hissed. At first the buggers spread the rumor he was blessed by Lesganagh and now this! Why could he not be like everyone else? Life would have been so much simpler. “Are you saying the Lawgiver has an eye on me?”

  Rheanna scrutinized him, as if searching for something. Back in the Palace’s dungeon he hadn’t felt Coimharrin’s intrusion as the Upholder had searched his words for any falsehood. Was she doing the same now? He knew that Eanaigh’s Caretakers could, through the goddess’s blessing, treat wounds with dirty instruments that did not inflame the wounds, but he knew too little of Upholders to tell whether she was probing his thoughts.

  Finally, she broke the silence. “She never speaks directly. Never reveals her intentions, other than giving us insight into the truth of the matter.” Then she hesitated. “Truth is subjective.”

  “Yeah, I heard that before,” he interrupted her. “Bloody brilliant, if you ask me. So, when I lie you can tell, but this isn’t a matter of lying, it’s a matter of knowing. And you know as little as I do.” He paused, stroking Gwen’s hair. By now she was curled up against him, her head resting in his lap. How she could find any rest in such an awkward position he didn’t know. Her presence was soothing “No matter. Tell me about her.”

  As she had related to him before there wasn’t much to say. Caitrin Ralchanh had been ten years older than Rheanna, and as such their paths had barely crossed, other than formal feasts and such. The Upholder knew more about his grandfather, and before he realized what he was doing he began prodding her for more and more information. The urge to belong had never been this strong, and with every anecdote he felt as if he still had a family, a past that did not solely rest on the tainted experiences of growing up an orphaned bastard at the Eye of Traksor. Curiously, it also explained his sense of justice, something that had tossed him into more trouble and grief than anything else in his life. Little Creek, killing Mireynh’s traitor son, even the murder of the fool Haggrainh a few months ago, it all made sense. His grandfather had been a just man. This weighing of facts and ferreting out the truth that Rheanna had spoken of on more than one occasion was something that resonated deep in his soul. This echo of understanding, of kinship, also had another, more direct effect on him.

  The Fiend that always seemed to lurk at the fringes of his conscience protested, howled, yet its screams sounded muffled as if thrown at him from a great distance. Maybe, he thought, this was salvation.

  CHAPTER 41

  Twelfth of Thaw, 1475 K.C.

  Kildanor watched the road before them. It rose and fell with the hills. Not that it was much of a road. The mud gathered in the depressions, turning them into marshland much like the swamp on each side of the Shadowpeaks. Soon it would all drain away, but for now this was the way it was. Not that the hilltops were in a much better condition. With every rise the mud wading merely turned into a struggling climb, hooves, boots, and wheels held down by sucking, freezing muck. Yeah, the weather was better, but at night the cold returned with a vengeance, making travel even harder. The Chosen elves’ magic helped some, but they were no wizards and knew very little. Ealisaid tried and failed as often as not. Sometimes the paths would dry up, but just as many times the soil remained muddy, slushy. She blamed it on the agony still wracking her body, and judging from the way her expression changed from calm to pained in a matter of heartbeats he believed her.

  They were only a few hills away from Dragoncrest. A glance at the elves told him they were aware of their brethren’s proximity as well. Cadwaer, the older of the two, came to him.

  “Efflyn and I will scout ahead; we’re faster on foot.” The elves waited for his nodded approval, and then hurried off.

  At his signal the others stopped, which, given the ox-carts crawling pace, happened quickly enough. A look back told him most of the warriors had already dismounted and were now leading their horses away onto slightly better terrain. Morale was low, and it showed in their expressions; they wouldn’t be much of a threat to a shield wall, their only chance lay in surprise. So far no one had spotted them, though more than once since leaving Rainbow Ford the elves had come across enemy corpses. Sometimes the deaths had been recent, as if someone had been waiting for them, trailing them from a distance, or ranging ahead to clear the path. Whoever it was, they had to be very good at stealth and archery. House Grendargh’s warband most like, but why they hadn’t shown themselves was a mystery. On his orders the elves ignored the tracks they had discovered; if their benefactors chose to reveal themselves, they would.

  He spotted Ralgon and his woman. When he had begun thinking of Gwennaith Keelan as the mercenary’s woman, he wondered. It was obvious they were a couple. Their longing glances made him wish he could feel the same. But that road only led to pain and sorrow. Chosen were not meant to enjoy life; they had a duty.

  A commotion from ahead drew his attention back to the road. Cadwaer and Efflyn were racing toward him, and even though elven expressions were usually unreadable, they seemed distressed. Panting they skidded to a stop next to him.

  “Bloody Scales,” Efflyn swore in between breaths.

  “What?”

  “They know we’re coming, must have missed a scout,” Cadwaer explained, still struggling for air.

  “The wall’s ready,” the other elf added.

  “Fuck!” Kildanor growled.

  “Indeed. Not a chance to get through. Even if we charge, the horses can’t make it.” By now Cadwaer looked only slightly flustered. “We would not have the speed to break the wall, even if the ground wasn’t this mucky.”

  He nodded. “Horses will never break a properly formed shield wall.” If those Chanastardhians were anything like the ones they had encountered in Ondalan, the bastards who had managed to hold back demon-controlled Ralgon, they would hold their ground and let the Horse charge spend itself on their propped up, interlocked shields.

  “What are we waiting on?” Ralgon asked from behind.

  “The bastards have already formed a wall.”

  “Fuck,” the mercenary grunted and was
about to say more when Ealisaid came rushing toward them.

  “Can you feel it? Chosen, can you feel it?” she yelled.

  He stared at the Wizardess, wondering if the woman had completely lost her mind. “What the Scales…” He never finished the sentence. Now he felt it, the same distress that had penetrated the air in Cahill manor. Demonology! No, he reminded himself sternly, not that. Forced magic.

  With a groan the Wizardess sunk to the ground, and before he was able to act the elves were at her side, helping her to her feet once more. She hung limp between them, moaning incoherently.

  So focused was he on both the roar of magic and Ealisaid succumbing to the forces of fact tearing through possibility he almost missed the transformation Ralgon was going through. Rigid, eyes aglow the mercenary stared down the road toward the enemy’s camp. No! This intense a glow he had only seen once before, before the Fiend had butchered its way through Ondalan. “Ralgon!” he barked, hoping to draw any reaction.

  “He… is…” Drangar’s voice was cracking; each word took one wracking breath. “Gaining… the…” He saw the struggle to keep the Fiend, the demon, at bay, leapt off Dawntreader, rushed to Ralgon’s side. Gripping him by the shoulders, he tried to shake some sense into the mercenary.

  “Let me pass, you landlubbers!” A shout came from down the hill. He didn’t have to look to know it was Gwen. The change already affected Ralgon. Gwennaith of House Keelan surged up the hill, shoving so roughly those who didn’t steer clear of her that she left a trail of surprised looking warriors lying in the mud. Her voice, it seemed, was the one thing that truly did help Ralgon. He regarded the shaking man. It was as if two equally strong forces were tearing him apart. Did he dare to slip into the spiritworld and observe what was really happening? No, he might lose hold of the mercenary and make Keelan’s task even more difficult.

  Gwen was at Ralgon’s side, holding his hand, leaning close to speak to him when the ground shook. The tremor was followed by a massive boom. A cloud appeared beyond the hill, right where the enemy camp was. His ears rang with the force of the sound that echoed and intensified in his mind. Kildanor stumbled, almost lost hold of Drangar while behind him he heard the Wizardess and the elves scream in agony. In his hands Ralgon convulsed, back arching as if fighting against a great weight. He could almost smell the forces pounding in on the man. Gwen was leaning close, talking, at least her mouth moved. He did not hear a word, could not hear anything other than the roaring in his head. Then, as if a dam had been closed, the onslaught of inhuman noise stopped. Sound reached his conscience once more, and Kildanor realized Gwennaith Keelan was screaming.

  “Come on! You can beat it, dear, come on!” She had one of Ralgon’s hands in both of hers, clinging to him.

  In his grip Ralgon shook, eyes ablaze with white-hot flame. How could he have forgotten that fire? They had shone even stronger in Ondalan, but not by far. Pupils, the only dark still remaining in those fiery orbs, darted from left to right, unaware of either him, or Gwen, or anything else.

  Ralgon’s mouth moved, unintelligible words spewing from his mouth with the saliva of his mad ravings.

  “Drangar, please,” young Keelan said, leaning close to him, tears in her eyes. She kissed him, probably hoping it would return the man to his senses. “Please,” she whispered again, her red tresses shrouding the seizure-stricken face like a curtain.

  He had to do something, anything, but couldn’t for the life of him come up with a plan. The Chosen were warriors, first and foremost, not healers.

  “The chant!” he heard Ealisaid shout from behind. “You need to get in there and sing the chant!”

  He was about to turn around and stare at her when it hit him. Of course! That was it, the same thing they had done a few months ago when they had dragged Ralgon out of the stupor he had been in when returning to life. But he would feel safer if he had a Caretaker to sing with him; aye, he could do it alone, theoretically, but the Hymn to Sun and Health had more meaning when sung by followers of both gods. Where was a Caretaker when he needed one?

  “Dragoncrest,” he grunted, heaving Ralgon off the ground. There was bound to be at least one healer in the fortress. If not, he would enter the spiritworld alone and try his best to sever the demonic lines. He glanced at the contorting body in his arms, wondering how much longer the mercenary could fight off the fiendish influence. Last time it had been days; maybe they’d be lucky again. “We need to break the siege!” he shouted. “Cadwaer, go check on the bastards again.”

  Giving a brief nod, the elf sprinted off. An elven Chosen was something he had never encountered, and two made him wonder just what the Scales was really going on. The Hold was safe, and would remain so until the Chanastardhians figured out how to cross the chasm. And who had forced magic so brutally that even he had been able to feel it?

  Kildanor caught Ealisaid’s attention. “What was that?”

  The sorceress shrugged. “My guess’s as good as yours.”

  He regretted being ignorant of magic. The boom and cloud could only mean one thing, but until Cadwaer returned he did not know for sure. If the enemy had been destroyed, who in this world had the power to do such a thing?

  Cadwaer came back into sight, legs a blur of motion. “Gone,” the elf panted.

  “What do you mean gone?” Chosen and Wizardess echoed.

  “There’s nothing left in front of the chasm, nothing, no tree, no shrub, no blood, or grass, the entire camp has vanished. See for yourself.”

  He had watched Ealisaid’s reaction to the report. Her face had lost all color, and the constant shaking of her head indicated just how shocked she really was. Not that he could blame her. Such large-scale destruction hadn’t happened since the Demon War. Dragonfire was capable of reducing a house to ashes, one had even melted part of Dragoncrest’s wall, but to obliterate an entire warband was something he had only seen demons do. It made sense, the feeling of all chance and hope being sucked from the air pressed into a steely coffin of firm control, those things he had felt, later than Ealisaid, granted, but still. And it was this same certainty that had shoved Ralgon over the edge. The decision to move had barely entered his mind when he saw that the Wizardess and his fellow Chosen were already heading for the far side of the hills.

  He looked first at Dawntreader then at Ralgon’s Hiljarr, and finally at Gwen who was still holding onto the mercenary, urging yet reassuring whispers streaming from her mouth. “We need a cart,” he grunted as yet another convulsion tore through Ralgon’s body. It felt as if there was even less resistance now. The black dots of the pupils were almost lost in the surge of brightness that was Drangar’s eyes.

  “On your horses!” someone, Upholder Rheanna he thought, shouted. The priestess rode into view a moment later, looking at them, concern lining her face. “The wagons will be here shortly,” she said, turning her mare around and yelled, “Get moving, you lot!”

  “Thank you,” Kildanor said.

  “What for? Doing my duty?” she replied, her lips a grim line. “The demons striking at him again?”

  “Aye,” he grunted as another seizure made Ralgon rear against his grip. “Whatever caused the Chanastardhians to vanish also battered down his defenses.”

  “I wish I could help,” Rhea said. “Almost makes me wish I knew how to heal.”

  Gwen must have heard her for she snapped, “His mind’s fine! It’s the Fiend; no healer can deal with that!” Then, her voice reverting to the soothing tone she had used on Drangar. “Don’t let go, dearheart. Please, come back to me.”

  How was it possible that this butcher could attract such a gentle and beautiful woman? No, that thought was foolish. Ralgon was not the killer, he reminded himself. He was not the creature or creatures trying to gain the upper hand in his mind right now. He had not committed the slaughter in Ondalan. The struggles seemed to have abated for the moment, but he was unwilling to relax his grip even for a heartbeat. The gods only knew what Drangar—no—the demons would do once in ch
arge. Most likely relive the carnage, bring destruction. “Get a move on,” he snarled at the riders that passed them slowly, gawking. As if this situation needed an audience.

  “You heard the man,” Rhea added, her voice so commanding that the horsemen spurred their steeds into a quick canter. He could almost imagine her in a throne-room as had been her birthright. The aura of authority surrounded her like a beacon, and she knew it, using it to her advantage. Had she been younger he would have suggested her to Cumaill as a wife; she was far better suited for the rough, direct Baron than Neena Cahill. The only thing that spoke favorably for Úistan Cahill’s daughter was she could produce heirs. Rheanna and Cumaill were a far better match, personality wise.

  “What are you staring at?” the Upholder asked, obviously having noticed his expression.

  “Nothing of import,” he said.

  She nodded then spurred her horse after the warband.

  He watched her ride away, and realized that he was dreaming of things that would never come to pass. Houses Duasonh and Cahill would merge, if Sir Úistan had his way, and he had no doubt that Cumaill, once he realized they were serious about making him King, would agree to marry the Cahill heir. At least she was good-looking, and from what he could tell, she would know how to use her brain and command the Palace’s servants.

  Another spasm shook Ralgon and he turned his full attention back to holding the man. He hoped Dragoncrest’s Caretaker knew the Hymn to Sun and Health, not that he was looking forward to tearing away the golden wires. The first time had been painful enough. Killing Ralgon wasn’t an option, the bugger would most likely return from the dead anyway, probably with even less control over his body than now. No, the only option was to free him from the demonic influence and pray it would not happen again.

  Galen and the other Chosen at Dragoncrest were as surprised by their elven brethren as he had been, and Kildanor would have loved to enjoy the brief reunion, but with Ralgon still shaking and twisting in his grip there was no time. He didn’t even have time to inspect the field of dust that had been the Chanastardhian camp. Only the gods knew what had happened there.