Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Bloody bread,” Drangar grumbled. Finally satisfied with the leg guards, he belted his sword. By now, after the weeks of training in Dunthiochagh, he was once again used to being encased in leather and steel.

  “Aye,” Gwen said. “What will we do when this is over?”

  The matter had crossed his mind almost every time he thought of his upcoming encounter with the Sons of Traksor. He had always refused to consider it, too much depended on what would happen in a little while. “I don’t know,” Drangar said. “I guess we should go north.”

  “North?”

  “Aye, by now Anne’s warband will be back in Chanastardh and Mireynh’s messengers will have reached Herascor informing Drammoch of your desertion.”

  Her face brightened. “You mean we will go help my da?”

  “Can’t go about with you being gloomy as well, can we?” He wanted to say more, how much he cared for her, how much he wanted her to be happy. He never got the chance, for Gwen jumped him, embraced him, and kissed him long and hard.

  “Your beard smells,” she remarked a moment later, nose wrinkled, stepping away from him.

  He wisely held his tongue.

  Something was odd about the Eye. The circular clearing was immense—almost a mile in diameter, but even from five hundred yards off, Drangar could tell something was wrong. He stared at the white wall and the northern gatehouse, trying to decide what he didn’t like about it. There was the obvious, of course. The bastards were responsible for Hesmera’s death, and that alone was reason enough to despise the inhabitants of the fortress. And it clouded his objectivity. But there was more. Dusk was almost upon them, yet he saw no indication of fires being lit on the battlement and torches mounted in the brackets on each side of the gate.

  He found it hard to focus, squinted every few breaths. The throbbing hadn’t passed, and it seemed to be getting stronger. Gwen rode beside him. He glanced over to her and saw she was rubbing her temples as well. A quick scan of the others showed him the same. Kildanor was frowning, Rhea also, and Ealisaid had shrunken even deeper into herself, if such a thing were possible. For a moment he wondered if he had missed something, and then remembered Eluned. She looked strained as well. Bloody bread, he thought grimly. Winter had one advantage over the other seasons: food did not spoil as easily, and were it not for the snowstorms and constant gloom everyone seemed to walk in, he would have wished for it still to be the cold season. No. He shook his head, tried to clear it of the annoying pushing and pulsing that went on behind his eyes. “Stay focused,” he whispered, and found himself wishing that Dog were still with him. Her stern reminders would have worked wonders.

  Now he knew what bothered him about the Eye. Not only was there a lack of illumination, the sentries were missing as well. What the Scales was going on?

  The throbbing became a stabbing that drove tears to his eyes. A loud shout echoed over the clearing, and he felt the others’ eyes on him. But it wasn’t he who had screamed. The voice had sounded from the Eye.

  Finish it. He had to finish it now. Already he felt his determination, his resolve wavering. And there was something more. After Cahill Manor and Ondalan and certainly after Dragoncrest he was familiar with the feeling. The Fiend was striking again! It was growling in pleasure.

  He spurred Hiljarr on. The others followed immediately. Did they know he was struggling again? Probably not. Whenever he had told them the fiendish presence was still there, Ealisaid and Kildanor had gone into the spiritworld to see for themselves. And every attempt had been futile. They had detected nothing. They were wrong. Why bother telling them he felt the wires reaching for him once more if they could not see? Even Eluned… who? He dared a glance back at his friends… companions. Who was that person riding next to Rhea?

  Another boom. It sounded like shields splintering, or wood being torn apart by a slingthrower-stone. Then all air was forced out of his body by a massive punch to the chest. Breathe! He had to breathe! Gasping, Drangar rode on. Hiljarr, ever the stalwart companion, was as surefooted as always, pounding the dirt underneath his hooves. Air streamed back into his lungs. Hooves battering the road thundered behind him. He didn’t have to tell them what to do, they knew. Maybe they sensed something was wrong. But there was no time for maybes.

  The next sound he was quite familiar with. Screams of the dying issued from the Eye. What the bloody Scales was going on in there? He felt the coils of gold unwinding from the blackness, reaching out for his mind, his body. No, the bastards would not win again. He was master of himself, his body, and his mind. They would not use him again!

  He reached the gate. It stood ajar; he could ride through easily. From beyond he heard the sounds of battle, armies clashing, as if shield walls miles long were hammering into each other. The others were behind him now. Hiljarr, so long untried in battle, danced nervously beneath him. He reached forward, patted his neck, spoke words he hoped sounded soothing. With all this noise it was impossible to tell the charger anything. At least he tried, and Hiljarr noticed his touch and calmed. “We’ve been through so much, old friend,” he said, knowing full well the animal did not hear. It mattered not. The words were meant for him as well.

  Another wave of anger, rage—something—hit him. Drangar looked ahead, squeezed his thighs, and let Hiljarr do the rest. He patted his sword for reassurance. There would be no need for it, if he could help it.

  Hiljarr inched for the gate. The horse, Drangar knew, was smarter than most, and craftier. Years of sheep herding even when Drangar had been too beat-down, had taught the charger a lot, and now he seemed to know it was best if the gate was wide open so the others had an easier time passing through. Another push, the steeloak portal swung wide.

  Another wave hit him, but now it came not from within but without. Hiljarr felt it also, shied, and had to be urged on.

  The courtyard was a battlefield. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, he heard the screams of the dying, the grunts of the combatants. The Sons were fighting each other!

  Then they all turned as one. Somebody shouted “No! No!” but whoever it was, the bloodied masses did not listen. As one they charged.

  Hiljarr, panicked, reared, almost threw him. Someone—Drangar saw little aside from the teeming mass of armed men and women—threw a spear. The weapon was a streak in the air, a blur almost too fast to see. Again, his mind reeled, the golden coils swarmed.

  Hiljarr went to the ground, falling backwards. The wedge-shaped spearhead sent gushing out of the charger’s back, the bloody fountain drenching him. The roaring inside his head vanished in an instant. Hiljarr, no! His horse didn’t even have the chance to whinny one last time. Aside from the chanting, screaming, howling horde charging at him, Drangar heard nothing. Saw nothing. Hiljarr! No!

  The world turned red.

  CHAPTER 46

  Something was wrong. Ealisaid was certain. She couldn’t tell what it was, but she knew. She glanced about the others munching on dry bread and some apples that had seen better days. They all looked distressed. Nothing new there. They were close to their goal. Of course they were tense.

  But that was not what bothered her.

  She looked at Gwen and Drangar, smiled. They were closer now, and she was happy for them. Eluned’s timely intervention had done them good. Eluned somehow knew what to say and what to do to help others; she was good at tasks such as these. During the trip down from Dunthiochagh Eluned… who?

  Who was this person?

  The world seemed upside down for a moment then righted itself. And Ealisaid knew she had been thinking about something important. Something she now couldn’t remember.

  They were back in the saddle sooner than she wanted, and though she understood the urgency, her back, legs, and behind ached so terribly she wondered how the Scales she managed to stay on the horse at all. But she did, and the trek continued.

  She turned and looked at the others. Kildanor, Rhea, Gwen and Drangar, they all looked weary—she paused, and then recalled there was one mo
re to their little band: Eluned. It seemed as if she alone did not suffer from fatigue. Instead, she sat boldly upon her gelding, focusing on the road ahead.

  She remembered the day they had met in… what was that place again? The more she concentrated on the incident the blurrier it became. Where had they met? Who had they met? Sharp pain lanced through her head. Ealisaid cringed, ground her teeth, and stared at her horse’s bobbing head. Why couldn’t she remember where they had encountered… It was maddening. The agony behind her eyes increased the harder she tried to recall. A look over hunched shoulders showed Gwen and Drangar looking more asleep than awake.

  Ahead were Kildanor and Rhea, both slumping as well.

  Where did they come across… her?

  Ealisaid prided herself on having a good memory, but the more she rummaged through her mind the less she felt she knew. Something was definitely not right. One moment she saw two companions in front of her, the next there were three. How was that possible?

  The stranger… Eluned… turned and looked at her, and for a moment she felt transparent. Eluned squinted, shook her head, her gaze wandering back to the front.

  Someone had followed them… and Eluned had taken care of the… Drangar had chased the scout into… spy. He and Kildanor… had been sent by the Sons of Traksor… had cornered their pursuer… to monitor Drangar’s advance.

  A realization dawned in that part of her mind not occupied with understanding the confusing images: one set of memories was overlapping another, if only she knew which one was real. She went back further, to Dunthiochagh, looking for an anchor that might jolt her brain into its regular patterns.

  Eluned had found her lying on the street after… had been brought before the Baron… and taken her to rest… in the dungeons. No! She felt this was wrong. She hadn’t rested in the dungeons. She had been miserable in them. They were smelly and loathsome, and… she had seen what terrible things would happen, if she… had seen Drangar on the bier, dead yet alive still. She had… been given a vision by the gods… alerted Kildanor and the Baron to… avoid something… coming alive again. The woman who had screamed and raged… against the demons, and that Drangar was the key.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to focus her thoughts. One set of memories was real, the other was not. She remembered waking in her house, alone. Dust had settled on everything. Her attempts at contacting the Citadel had failed. Her garden had been built over. She had destroyed a house or two and killed some people. The pain lessened.

  Next thing she remembered was waking up in… a cave—No! It was a damp dungeon, no bloody cave! She had woken with her hands bound tightly and a metal contraption encasing her tongue. No one had served her tea! The taste of iron on her tongue, in her mouth—a gag meant to hold a wizard at bay—triggered other images, feelings, smells. The stench of urine and feces lingering in the corridors initiated an onslaught of other memories. Culain, the illusion, her exploration of the Citadel. They were few at first, but they heralded an avalanche of others.

  Like a dream, or nightmare rather, the false memories washed away, and all of the sudden Ealisaid knew there had never been a person called Eluned accompanying them. In fact, until Drangar had charged into Gathran everything had been normal. Now, at least for her, reality had taken its proper place again. Which forced the next question into her mind: Who the Scales was the woman riding with them?

  Eluned, or whatever her name was, had already proved capable of using magic well enough to weave an enchantment on everyone. Why it hadn’t worked on her was something Ealisaid would ponder once the current problem was dealt with.

  But what could she do?

  One thing she had learned from Nerran, through all the rudeness the Paladin usually displayed, was that a battle was best fought when the enemy was known. She had to get to know their enemy before taking action.

  Replaying the meager facts helped little; all she knew for sure was that this person was a wizard of tremendous power. How else had she managed to weave a web of lies and fabrications around them. Yet, it seemed as if it malfunctioned slightly. The others looked more tired than she remembered, and the way they reacted to low hanging branches, the lack of speed with which they dodged them, indicated that not all was as desired on the enemy’s part.

  Maybe, she thought, the woman riding before her was an illusion as well. At this point she dismissed no option, no possibility. But mirages only worked in this world. In the spiritworld any such spell was nonexistent.

  Ealisaid hesitated, and thought of giving Eluned, who had been such a resourceful ally over the past weeks the benefit of a… No! They had not traveled with that woman. Hunching over, assuming the position the others knew so well, she slipped into the spiritworld, immediately focusing on their new companion.

  Perception, she knew from experience, was different in both worlds. While one could observe general events in the bodily world from the realm of spirits, the opposite was impossible. Or so she had always thought. But when the object of her curiosity turned and looked right at her, a moment of panic stopped her momentarily. Could Eluned see into the spiritworld? Concentrating to clear her mind, Ealisaid regarded her target. And still she felt she was being watched.

  A smile crept on Eluned’s lips and remained there, knowing and mysterious. She appeared the same as Kildanor and the others in the spiritworld. Maybe the tiring journey made her see… She hesitated. Something shifted around Eluned’s smile. The smoky skin rippled, moved. The face, so plain and unassuming only moments earlier, changed. It looked as if a wax-bust had stood too long in the glaring sun. Terror, a sense of wrongness flooded her as she stared.

  The bubbling mass of skin and hair rearranged itself, not according to her expectations, not into a different human face. No, this was something different, alien, frightening. No book she had ever read mentioned a creature such as this. What was that thing? Feline, graceful, deadly, its features the stuff of nightmares, yet there was a keen, knowing intelligence in its predator eyes. The horse it was riding on was a shadow of nothing here in the spiritworld.

  “You do know that you’re flaunting your presence to any who would have half a mind to look for you, don’t you?” the creature asked, its—no, her—voice crisp and clear as if Eluned stood right next to her. And what the Scales was she talking about anyway? She did not signal her presence to anyone! The feline pointed a clawed hand at something beyond and behind her. Ealisaid turned and saw the blazing phoenix hovering above her. Who had put it there?

  “I reckon your superiors whilst you were hibernating,” the being all of them knew as Eluned said. “Aye, the name, well it will do for now.”

  Who and what was she? And what was she doing here?

  “It’d be much easier if you spoke,” Eluned said, waving dismissively at the others. “They can’t hear us.”

  How could one speak in the spiritworld?

  A chuckle that sounded more like a cat coughing. “As with everything else, you just have to want it.”

  It was that simple? The creature remained silent. Ealisaid willed herself, her spiritform, to create sound. To her surprise it worked. It was almost inaudible, but she heard the hum she had been thinking of.

  “You don’t have to move your lips, little human, will the words into existence.”

  Involuntarily she thought of a trumpet blast, which, to her shock and delight, issued forth immediately. Eluned nodded approvingly. “What are you?”

  “A traveler.” If all her questions were to be answered in such a nebulous manner, quitting now would be as good as anything else. Eluned spoke on, obviously reading her mind as well as before. “I’m here to see that your companion Drangar survives the day.”

  “What is he to you?”

  A short pause, and then Eluned said, “A means to an end, my means to end what should have ended millennia ago.”

  “And what are you?”

  “I’m what your kind falsely calls a demon.” Ealisaid’s instincts screamed at her to run, slide back i
nto her body and warn the others, but something about Eluned made her stay.

  “Falsely?” she asked, feeling as ignorant as Ysold, only she was even less clever than the child.

  “When Lesganagh brought light and warmth into the world, after the gods had defeated the firelings, he created my ancestors. We call ourselves sunargh, and my kind was long gone before the elves almost repeated our mistake.”

  “Your mistake?”

  “Child, what did those wizards teach you? No history, obviously, but then why should they? It is long gone, and your short-lived species barely remembers what they had for supper two days past. So why should you recall something that was ancient history when your grandparents were young?”

  “And you?” Ealisaid retorted. “Why are you here?”

  “I’ve always been here.” Eluned said with an enigmatic smile. “You need my help and I yours.”

  She almost asked why the sunargh had not shown its true nature immediately, then imagined Kildanor’s reaction, and couldn’t blame her for deceiving them. Instead, she said, “It was you following us?”

  “I had to make sure the foolish heirs to the prince of foolery wouldn’t make an even bigger mess than they already had.” Eluned paused, her spirit looking at the still-solid figure of Drangar hovering above his horse’s shadow. “Curious little man, don’t you think? Trying so hard to run away from everything and still being dragged back the way he came.”

  “What do you know of him and his problems?”

  “Unfortunately, not all I wish to know; even the Great Library didn’t yield all the information I need.”

  This surprised her. The Libraries of Traghnalach were repositories of knowledge, and everything worth knowing was stored somewhere in their archives. The mere thought of something not appearing in the records sent a cold shiver down her spine. “How is that possible?” she asked.

  “It isn’t, and yet it is. Sometimes the gods are struck just as blind as the rest of us.”

  “How?”