Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  The familiar hilt was in his hand the instant he thought of it, in his left the whetstone. Settling in front of his two windows, he began running the stone up and down one side of the blade, his eyes never leaving the slaughter. He had to remember it all, the horrors, and he had to hone his anger as sharply as the edge of his sword.

  In this place of silence, he heard the scraping of the whetstone, so familiar now that it lulled him despite the carnage. Ealisaid and Kildanor had said it only took a point one focused on when one wanted to leave the body behind. Drangar concentrated on the without. He wanted to be right outside of his body.

  The darkness of his prison was replaced by another. This new one, however, was murky, foggy, and for a moment he felt lost. Then he saw it, his body. It was as expected, like Kildanor had explained: a solid form amidst the shapelessness of smoke. And attached to it were hundreds and hundreds of glowing coils.

  To his surprise, the sword had made the transition with him. Did he consider the weapon a part of him? Maybe. It mattered not; all that was important were the steel in his hand and the wires piercing his body.

  He swung.

  And swung, finally finding an outlet for the pent-up frustration that had lingered within for so long. The threads came apart easily, and for a moment he dared to hope he could actually sever them all. Then, as if a ghastly hand was guiding them, the cut parts reattached to the remains in his spiritbody. Again, he severed the strands, and again they grew back together as if knitted by unseen hands.

  What the Scales was this? He howled, screamed in anger, raged like a madman, cutting and cutting, watching the bloody wires heal faster and faster. He noticed someone approaching. In the murk of the spiritworld where shapes bled into each other, identifying whom it was proved difficult, and only when this newcomer was a few yards away did he recognize Kildanor. The Chosen was singing, and in a way he couldn’t quite understand Drangar was able to hear the Hymn to Sun and Health. Something dislodged in his mind as he remembered hearing that tune before, though then it had been two voices, as was proper. Now there was only one.

  As Kildanor sung, he reached down and plucked dozens of wires from his spiritbody and didn’t bother to look up.

  Pain hammered into his mind, and instantly Drangar was back in his body. There, through his eyes, he saw a gleaming cage surrounding his possessed flesh. It was like the one the bastard Dalgor had summoned in Dunthiochagh. But this time the summoner wasn’t his cousin.

  Through the prison’s glittering fabric, he saw a man he vaguely remembered. What was his name again? Thoughts racing, retracing his childhood and youth here in the Eye, faces of those he had grown up with rushed by. Dalgor’s was the first, immediately followed by Darlontor and a host of others who had tortured him with their cruelty.

  Gryffor, yes, it was Gryffor. He couldn’t have guessed the older man was so well versed in magic, hadn’t known any of the Sons used magic at all.

  Another wave of agony engulfed him, tore at him. There was nothing he could do but stare at the spectacle without. Kildanor was doing a far better job at removing the wires than he had. It was useless to return there.

  Then, as if struck by a hammer, he realized what the cage was doing! It wasn’t meant to merely imprison him. He felt the tugging, pulling, as if his body, mind, and soul were being rent apart. Gryffor’s magic, as Dalgor’s before, was meant to separate the Fiend from his mind! Whatever Kildanor and others had accomplished before was only temporary at best. Ever since his death and return to life, the wires had returned when he was angry, or when bloodmagic nearby. Gryffor wanted to kill the Fiend, exorcize it.

  Gods, he prayed silently, let him succeed. He was tired, ready to give up a life that had only brought him misery.

  Gods, he pleaded, let him succeed, even if it means death. Death was preferable to the constant watchfulness. Life without emotions was not preferable to death, Gwen had shown him that already, and Drangar hoped it would be over quickly.

  Did Kildanor even realize what the Sons were doing? No. How could he when he himself had only understood it at this moment. He had seen executions. Criminals and traitors quartered by horse. Never had he wondered what the victims felt at the moment their limbs were torn from their body. Now he knew.

  Caught in his anticipation, actually wanting Gryffor to end this once and for all, he clung to the sight of the aging Son of Traksor working his magic.

  Then, suddenly, the pain was gone. As was the cage. The almost severed fiendish part reasserted control and surged toward Gryffor. No, gods, no! He hoped Kildanor would succeed before his clawing tearing hands reached the sorcerer, before they tore out his… the old man’s neck offered little resistance to the demon’s strength. Blood gushed, but only for a moment. It turned into crimson mist almost immediately.

  Then, accompanied by a twinned scream of rage and frustration and fear, Drangar was in control once more. Only now it was too late.

  “Stop!” someone shouted.

  For a moment he considered playing dumb, pretending he was waking just now, but only for a moment. He was tired of it all, tired of the lies, the games, tired of knowing nothing.

  The ring of blades that surrounded him at a safe distance parted on each side of him. From his left came Darlontor, robes flowing as he rushed toward him. The other man closing in on him was none other than Dalgor. Both looked scared. He didn’t blame them. Beneath the anger, he was just as afraid.

  “I had nothing to do with this!” he said, raising bloody hands in surrender. A ridiculous statement given that the courtyard was spattered with limbs and guts of those his hands had just torn apart.

  The wall of swords closed behind the two people he had, at one time, considered family. “I know,” Darlontor said.

  Stunned by the reply, he looked about, searching for Gwen’s supporting eyes. She was with Ealisaid and Rheanna, supporting both Kildanor and a being he knew well enough from his nightmares. “Godsdamned demon!” he hissed, drawing steel.

  In response the Sons around him raised their shields once more. Some turned, looked the way he was staring, suddenly swung away and now faced the demon as well. Even the men who had called for the fighting to end unsheathed their blades.

  Swooping down from the sky was a man. The stranger landed beside Drangar’s companions and raised his hands. “Don’t.” The word was spoken softly, yet it rung through the entire courtyard. “She is here to help.”

  To his surprise the Sons complied. He, however, wasn’t as willing to believe the stranger. “Why the fuck should I believe you?”

  “Because,” the demon answered with shaky voice, “I’m the only chance you truly got, son of Cat.”

  The reference wasn’t lost on him, but he just wanted less riddles. Only moments ago, his agony had almost ended, now he had to live with it once more, and wanted the bastards responsible for Hesmera’s death to tell the truth. He turned to Darlontor. “What is wrong with me?” His voice sounded less furious than desperate. “Why did you kill Hesmera? And what the fuck did you do to my mind?”

  “Not here, boy,” Darlontor said. The bastard Dalgor scoffed. “What?”

  His cousin shook his head. “Tell the truth to all of us.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Drangar looked from one to the other, wondering if this was yet another deception. He was surprised to find Dalgor’s face lacking the scorn it had held months and years ago. “Yes, I am, uncle. You have been avoiding the truth like poison, only revealing bits and pieces to us; maybe even lying to yourself. I am with Drangar on this one!” Was that really the same man who had not only threatened to kill him, but also promised to rape the Cahill women?

  “So am I,” voiced another elderly Son. And another.

  The crowd parted for his friends, comrades. And the demon. He was wary of its presence. Kildanor, he saw, was still unconscious, and the wizard who had been protecting the fiend, he realized now, was no man at all, but an elf. “So am I,” spoke the demon, its voice s
ounding stronger now.

  “Best to come clean, uncle,” Dalgor said soothingly.

  In Darlontor’s mind a battle was fought. Drangar saw it clearly on his adopted father’s face. A twitching eyelid here, deep heavy breaths, and finally the Sons of Traksor’s Priest High exhaled almost doubling over.

  “Well?” Drangar said, ready for anything, hoping that all this would come to an end now. “What say you?”

  “I was wrong about so many things,” Darlontor began. “But the gravest mistake I ever made was deceiving you, Drangar.” A brief pause, and then he spoke on. “You are Caitrin’s and my son. I kept it so well hidden from everyone, even myself. Tried to deny it was true, because your existence is an affront to everything the Sons stand for. When you ran away, we had to act.”

  “Why?” Drangar asked, feeling cold all of the sudden. “Why did you try to kill me?”

  Darlontor took a deep breath and with a blank face, looked at him. “Because on your thirtieth birthday you will become the vessel for the prince of demons, Turuuk.”

  To be continued in:

  SHATTERED WALLS

  Light in the Dark, Book 4