by Ulff Lehmann
The Wizardess had preceded him, and thankfully had talked the Caretaker, an aging man named Conlae, into joining them in the spiritworld. They had managed to tie down Drangar so that he now could slip into spiritform unhindered. It had become easier, and now only a few calming breaths were needed to thrust his mind away from his body.
Immediately he saw Ralgon, solid as always, before him. The golden wires were not only stuck in his limbs but also in his head, and no matter how the mercenary struggled, twisted, and thrashed, he could not shake the demonic bonds.
Kildanor waited. His first sortie into this world of swirling shadows had taken a tad longer also. No doubt Conlae was going through the same doubts he had. He was half tempted to thrust back into his body and see what took him this long. Instead, now that he seemingly had the time, he decided to take a look around. Dragoncrest held many mysteries, and though curious, he decided against exploring the fortress. The sheared off land right in front of the chasm beckoned him, and he didn’t resist. Maybe the spot would reveal more of what had happened.
Surprised, he discovered that, unlike any place he had ever walked as a spirit, Dragoncrest was as solid here as in the real world. Which, now that he thought about it, made sense. What the Hold kept imprisoned surely was able to escape through most means known to mortals. The doorways on ground level, however, were as insubstantial as he was used to. Even crossing the gap was easy.
He was halfway across when the swirling mists of the spiritworld coalesced into a solid mass not unlike the fortress’s foundations. But instead of walls blocking his path and vision, he saw tents and fire pits. And frozen in midst the unmoving camp, as if a painter had held the likenesses of every Chanastardhian warrior, were men-at-arms. Hundreds of them, some standing in a tight shield wall while others were in mid-stride heading for the line. Nothing and no one moved. How had magic been able to rip an entire warband out of one world and put into the next without killing them?
How long he stood there, Kildanor did not remember. Only when a ghostly hand appeared before his eyes did he tear his sight away from the grotesque likeness of life. Ealisaid looked as stunned as he felt, and the Caretaker who had followed her grimaced as if he was about to vomit. But instead of staring at the still life, the man struggled to avert his eyes from the chasm they were hovering over.
Ealisaid motioned for the castle and drifted off again, Conlae following her. She was right. It was pointless to continue without Ralgon at least being remotely sane once more, and even if they could have tossed the man into the chasm, that would barely solve the problem. He drifted away, steeling himself for the ritual.
It had been harder this time. While in the Palace dungeon he had to only remove one of the godsdamned things, the multitude of lines stuck in Ralgon now resembled the strings of a mad puppeteer. The visions of demons he had seen every time he had torn one out still flickered through his mind. In the end the hymn had almost been too short, and instead of pulling them out one at a time, he had resorted to grasping whole handfuls, yanking out a dozen at once. And on the last syllable of the last word, Conlae had looked up at him and had torn away the one line embedded in Ralgon’s stomach. Kildanor had been so focused on the wires stuck in appendages that he had missed the one that, like the golden perversion of an umbilical cord, had pulsed in the mercenary’s center. Conlae had done the right thing, but had not been prepared for the blood and the demons. The Caretaker had screamed himself to sleep. He now lay unconscious in his cot. Kildanor knew well the kind of visions the Eanaighist was experiencing; the priest was living through his worst nightmare. If Eanaigh smiled on him, he would wake with nothing but bad memories left of the experience.
Ralgon also slept. The Chanastardhian lass watched over him, as always.
Despite his weariness, Kildanor couldn’t find the rest he badly needed. He stood on Dragoncrest’s massive battlement and gazed at the even spot of dusty land that had held the enemy warband. How had magic been able to lock all those warriors away? The thought made him sad; dying would have been a better fate for the enemy. He couldn’t tell whether they were aware of their situation or not, and prayed they felt nothing. Stuck in the spiritworld, could there be a worse fate?
Her footsteps were not nearly as light as they had been, but he was still able to tell the Wizardess was coming toward him. He stayed as he was, waited for her to come to a halt. The cowl that now hid her disfigured features most of the time was drawn back. Glancing at her, he saw that, from this side at least, the scarring looked less severe.
“Enjoying the cold?” she asked. If she was joking, he couldn’t tell.
“You saw the same thing as I,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “How can this be?”
She shuffled to face him, the scarred tissue preventing her from merely turning her head. “I have no idea.” Ealisaid looked as if she wanted to say more, so he held her gaze and waited. Finally, she went on. “Forcing magic into certainty isn’t really something I know much about. What we do know, however, is that someone made sure we had a clear path.” The thought had crossed his mind as well, but he remained silent, encouraging her to speak on. “Whoever or whatever did that is powerful.” She shuddered, and added, “Very powerful.”
“Who can be this powerful? How much blood did it take?”
Her nod was quick, brief, and a grimace of pain twisted her face. “So, you agree that someone wanted to help us?”
“Aye, just needed confirmation, don’t want to go off on any wild theories.”
A smile creased her scars. “Still, the question remains. Who was it, and how did they do it?”
He scoffed. “Sometimes I think that the more we live with our companion the more questions are thrown our way.”
“I wouldn’t want to trade with him. There’s bound to be some part of him that just wants it over with, one way or another.”
It was as if the fall had changed her even more. “Not much left of the arrogant wench, I see.”
“Was that a compliment?” Now her voice had almost returned to the slight teasing it had possessed before. He could imagine the Lady Wizardess standing here instead of this broken shell.
“You’ve come a long way,” he replied, evading the answer.
It was her turn to chuckle. “So have you. Be that as it may, I think we’re going to be better off without any more interference. We were able to free Ralgon this time, but we have no Caretaker with us, so the Hymn cannot be properly repeated should this happen again.”
“I agree.”
“Get some rest, Chosen,” Ealisaid said, putting a scarred hand on his. “I’ll try to find out something about this.” She bobbed her head into the plain’s direction.
“You’ll be all right?” The smile she gave him, although it almost split her face, was full of broken and missing teeth.
“I’ll be fine. Good night.”
CHAPTER 42
Fifth of Seed, 1476 K.C.
From his room Darlontor watched the procession of refugees enter the courtyard led by Machlon’s Knight Protector, Gaedhor. It was a band bereft of vigor; the strain of travel showed. Some of the weak huddled on the two wagons, others rode donkeys, and he even saw a few being carried by younger men. From the leading wagon stumbled a figure of pity. Sword-arm in sling, Lleufor looked about the deserted bailey, scowling. Had the man’s face not been in full sight, Darlontor would have missed the Shieldwarden’s call in the general commotion. He heaved a sigh and turned to meet the newcomers. The encounter, he knew, would be as bad as the past few times the Council had met.
To his surprise it was Dalgor who intercepted him on the stairs. “Uncle, we need to talk.”
“More demands from Arawn?” he asked wearily. In the past months it had been enough of a struggle to maintain order. Gryffor’s followers, the fool called them faithful, had gone beyond the demand of sending an envoy to the Chanastardhians in order to secure Dunthiochagh and thus Drangar. Thankfully Arawn had intercepted the messenger they had sent. Ho
w the warleader had done so mattered little, by now the ever-increasing brawls between the two factions had become more and more brutal. If Darlontor protested the means that had been employed to stop the envoy, it would only sour his relationship with Arawn.
“No,” Dalgor stated. The boy’s familiar face had changed in the Kumeens, and the two attempts on his life—by Gryffor’s men, no doubt—had scarred him even further.
“Lleufor and Gaedhor…”
“Can wait,” his nephew interrupted, put a firm arm around his shoulders and steered him back to his study. “This talk you have postponed for far too long.”
“What about the rest of the council?”
“Kevonna already knows, so do Berleven and Arawn.” The door shut behind them. “As for Lesganagh’s false prophet, his voice matters not, he is insane.” Dalgor guided him to the chairs near the fireplace and pushed him down on one.
“Misguided, perhaps…”
Again, his sister’s son interrupted. “If it weren’t for the elf, we would already have full-scale skirmishes breaking out.” Dalgor positioned himself in front of him and remained standing. “The danger is real, uncle. Not only from that fool Gryffor, but also from Danachamain’s disciples.” A shudder ran through the younger man. What had he seen in the Kumeens? Was it worse than it had been? He shut down the memories as they rose. “The bloodbeasts are numerous, but you know that. Have you seen how few people survived the winter? None of our messengers reached Ma’tallon or Crossads. We’re cut off, and you still deny the facts before you.”
“Facts?” Darlontor echoed dully. “What facts?”
“The elf said Danachamain has risen from the dead, a fact that you failed to mention.” Dalgor held out an index finger. “Second, bloodbeasts have assaulted every manor, village and town in our fief, herding everyone here. Why? Maybe because it will only take one fell strike to wipe out the entire order.” It was pointless to ignore logic and knowledge that had for too long been banished to the deepest recesses of his mind. “Thirdly, the Kumeens are alive, a separate entity, an extension of the fallen Chosen’s will.” Darlontor stared. Just how far had Dalgor managed to penetrate the enemy stronghold? “Aye, uncle, I saw them in all their terrible glory, more demon than man now, both of them. I saw their…” A booming knock on the door interrupted him.
For a moment Darlontor stared at his nephew, was about to shout for the new arrival to leave, when the portal swung open. In strode Lleufor, Shieldwarden of the fief. “What the fucking Scales is going on?” the man roared, courtesy and etiquette, usually so important to him, had been worn thin on the road. “Instead of a fortress and the brotherhood ready for war I see three camps of people vying for supremacy! Whilst you fools have been bickering and fighting amongst yourselves, a handful of farmsteads and at least two villages were butchered.”
Darlontor opened his mouth to reply, but Lleufor’s glare silenced him immediately. “Don’t give me that defender litany, old friend. The only thing you are defending now is your cracked honor. Otherwise you would have nailed Gryffor and his staunchest supporters to crosses weeks ago. While you tried to ignore every godsdamned sign, we were holed up in Hlathan a mere twenty fucking miles from here, fighting off wave after wave of those monsters. Twenty fucking miles!”
From the courtyard the sound of Gryffor’s voice rose above the din. “Brothers! Sisters! Heed my words!”
“What the Scales is he up to now?” Dalgor grunted, already halfway to the window.
He was a step or two behind Lleufor, and as he reached the glass panes, his nephew had already wrenched the window open. Now Gryffor’s voice rang unhindered. For the moment, however, Darlontor was not interested in the man’s proclamation; his focus was on the screen of men and women that surrounded the false prophet. All of them bore arms and he even saw the glint of chainmail underneath a few tunics. But what troubled him most was the openly displayed bloodbags hanging from their shoulders.
“Our worst fears have been realized!” Gryffor boomed. “Death is at hand, hunting us, and the only way to prevent what is happening is to march for Dunthiochagh and capture Drangar Ralchanh!”
“Imbecile,” muttered Dalgor, shaking his head.
“He worries about Drangar?” Lleufor exclaimed, shocked. “As if the boy controls the bloodbeasts attacking us.”
“Gryffor, ever the fool!” Arawn’s voice rose above the murmur, shrieks, and wails. “This will not end with Drangar dead, and you know it!”
“Aye, it will not end there, our vigilance is eternal, Lesganagh has given us this duty and we will slay those who stand against us! First Dunthiochagh and then the rest.”
Darlontor stopped himself before he could shout out that Drangar had already left Dunthiochagh. That information would have made things worse. The elf remained silent, and the others did not voice their suspicions. “Where is Lloreanthoran?” he asked instead.
“Who?” the Shieldwarden said.
“You think he can calm him?” Dalgor inclined his head toward Gryffor.
“I truly do not know, he might defeat a dozen, maybe more, but there are far too many out there. Close the window nephew, and go to Arawn; he will need your help. Tell him he is right, we need to strike at the Kumeens.” It was time to face his demons, figuratively and literally. “Lleufor, get the weak away from the courtyard, I want them nowhere near Gryffor and his ilk.”
“What will you do?” Dalgor asked, pulling the window shut. Was there concern in his voice?
“I’ll wait for him to make a mistake.”
“You think he doesn’t know you are watching?”
“Oh, he knows, but he will want to make a spectacle of challenging my authority, what little is left of it. Lleufor, if anyone asks, tell them we will do what is necessary to banish the threat once and for all.” Maybe, he hoped, there was a chance of getting the situation under control without having to face all of his nightmares.
The two men hurried out. Now that the glass muffled the sound it was harder to hear what Gryffor had to say. It mattered not. He would draw the line here, now. The Shieldwarden was right, he should have stopped this nonsense months earlier. Kevonna was right; it was time for him to be the leader once more. Arawn’s demands were reasonable. He did not need Dalgor’s report of the demonologists’ stronghold. He had seen the place decades ago… No! That was a bridge he dared not cross.
“Darlontor!” the shout rang through the glass. He waited.
CHAPTER 43
Despite being a stranger and also the only elf at the Eye of Traksor, Lloreanthoran was the sole person each of the three sides vying for dominance trusted. Or at least they allowed him to relay messages between the different factions. So far it hadn’t come to serious open bloodshed. Tempers were rising, knives had already flashed in the night, but no one had been killed yet.
Gryffor’s followers were the worst, edged on by their fanatic leader. Now, with winter finally defeated by spring, they clamored for decisive action and favored an alliance with the Chanastardhians to take Dunthiochagh, in addition to Drangar Ralgon. Darlontor, Arawn and excitable Gryffor, while not on speaking terms, only agreed adamantly on one thing: none revealed why Ralgon was so important.
His own research into the matter had already been curtailed, and he was banned from an entire section of the archives. So far, Lloreanthoran had obeyed the decree, but his patience was waning. It would’ve been easy to slip past the guards posted at the entrance, but he knew the situation was bad already. Any impulsive action could bring the whole of the fortress crashing against each other, using his actions as a focal point.
In the past weeks his knowledge of and capacity for using bloodmagic had grown substantially. The Sons, despite their claim of being a defensive force, had focused on offense; very few chants and spells were directed at protection. The books he had studied were obviously adaptations of other works, that much the text actually revealed. As to how the Sons of Traksor had gained access to the knowledge, he knew the answer to th
at. The Lightbringer had opened this path for the disowned prince. From where it came from remained a mystery.
“Darlontor!” someone shouted in the courtyard.
His meditation cut short, Lloreanthoran opened his eyes. He stood and walked to the window, pushing the shutters open. The Eye itself was a marvel of architecture, but only a few windows had glass panes to keep the chill out and allow daylight in. His cell was like most others, drafty, bleak, not that any of the other rooms he had seen so far were any different in appearance. Everything here seemed focused on one thing: discipline. Not that the current situation had improved matters. Entire passages were filled with rubbish and rubble, silent memorials to the occasions when hostilities had not remained on the verbal level.
Now the courtyard was packed with humans standing amidst refuse. And there, at its center, surrounded by his followers stood Gryffor. “Darlontor!” the faction leader shouted again.
A quick count told Lloreanthoran that all members of this group of warmongers were assembled, armed and armored, ready for battle. He recognized Gaedhor among the bedraggled creatures trying to push away from Gryffor. The refugees had finally made it. His first impulse was to rejoice, but the situation they now faced was anything but joyful.
“Darlontor!” Gryffor’s voice boomed. Surely the erstwhile leader of all the Sons had heard. Was the old man once more underestimating the threat?
In recent weeks the Priest High—a title only few still addressed him with—had retreated further and further from those siding with him. Even he’d had a hard time talking to the man. He was by no means a good judge of human nature and the accompanying expressions, but the images he had gained from delving into the man’s mind had clearly shown him how afraid Darlontor was, and how that fear was not focused on the impending doom but on a truth, he tried to hide. Never one to give in to idle speculation, he had left it at that. If he was able to pick up on the duplicity, the few people who still straggled to the aging Priest High’s banner knew of it as well. Not that they spoke with him. Most of them were idealists, believing more in the position than the man himself. And as the days passed, more and more people abandoned him. None of them sided with Gryffor; most had changed allegiance to Arawn.
