by Ulff Lehmann
Now her hand waved through the air. She paused, surprised at this newest discovery. The magic employed by the intruder had not dissipated at all! It was as if the solidity of the chains was still real. Not only did blood-spells change chance into fact, their effect lingered, like a sore in the fabric of the world. In the room’s memory the darkness was a continuous, oppressive weight. Again, she started analyzing the layers of magic cemented into the room, guided by the knowledge that there had been five spells at work.
From the Cahill women’s statements, she knew the room had suddenly gone dark: the first spell. The pair of shackles was number two and three. Summoning the cage number four. Ealisaid halted, frowning. There was a sixth spell here, a low throbbing presence more subtle than the others! Darkness, shackles and cage made four; that left two unexplained enchantments. What were they?
She already knew what this forced magic felt like, had experienced and employed it herself. Again, she peeled back the various layers of spellwork, trying to ignore the magics she already knew about. She gasped. Both of those she was unable to identify severely leeched life, but where one was meant to kill, no, not kill, obliterate, the other… healed? What astonished her most was the fact that this self-feeding cure had not only remained strong in the room but also had left a trail out of the turret down the stairs.
Was the assailant still here? Amidst this brutal mosaic of fact destroying all possibility she was unable to tell whether it had been one or two sources of magic. The Cahills had given an explanation, as impossible as it may have seemed at the time: Drangar Ralgon had pushed through the barrier, his burning limbs healing while he had grown willow-thin. Had Ralgon used magic to escape?
Thrusting into spiritform, she found the trail of magic easier to follow. It was there, a tarnished formlessness leading down the stairs and along a corridor to a chamber. It reminded her of heat still residing in stone after a fire. Tracing the spells inside the upstairs chamber was one thing; the almost pulsing residue was something different. More importantly who had caused this? Could it truly have been the Cahill women’s rescuer? It somehow didn’t feel right, but she had to know. She stepped through the foggy door into the cell.
Inside, she saw the shadowy presence of Kildanor and the shriveled, skeletal, yet still strong manifestation of Ralgon’s physical body in this realm of smoke. The thread—was it fading?—ended exactly where she feared it would, in Drangar Ralgon.
Stunned and reeling at the discovery, Ealisaid snapped back into her body. She had to tell Kildanor, was almost out the door when she hesitated. Could she also follow the attacker? Did his magic leave a trail as well? Brows furrowed, she turned and regarded the room once more, counting the spells again. Darkness, two shackles, cage, obliteration, healing, she paused. There was bound to be a seventh trace, the stranger teleporting away. It was such a minor spell; it required little force and may well have been drowned out by the rest of the spells, and the assailant had squirted blood into his hand before disappearing. Fighting down her excitement—six magics cast either simultaneously or in quick succession was a marvelous feat, no matter the effects. Ealisaid concentrated on finding this missing enchantment.
There! A quick slash into the world’s fabric, a wound no amount of time would heal. Briefly she wondered if she could use this doorway—for lack of a better word—or if it posed a danger to anyone. Teleportation as she knew it was basically a way to remind the body of where it once had stood. What if this blood-magic could take one to places one had never been to? Circling the torn portion of the world, she searched for any indication that someone had passed through the space afterwards. Feet had shifted debris aside, people had crossed the gash and nothing had happened. She felt secure in the knowledge that this spell, like all the others, did not threaten anyone’s life.
“Now for the hard part,” she muttered absentmindedly and headed for the stairs.
Outside Ralgon’s room she found Neena Cahill pacing the corridor; a servant lass stood next to a guttering lamp, fidgety and trying to ignore her young mistress’s nervousness. Now Lady Neena turned around and strode back toward the door, illuminated by one of the lamps, and Ealisaid saw fury distorting the noblewoman’s face. Telling her she wanted to see Ralgon when even Lord Cahill’s daughter had been banished from the room would cause all that pent-up anger to be released. Despite the fact that she had been present when Kildanor had questioned mother and daughter.
“Tread carefully,” said a voice coming from a shadowy doorframe.
Ealisaid halted, turned, and saw Caretaker Braigh step into the light. The Eanaighist looked tired. She sketched a quick bow then said, “I take it Lord Kildanor made his point about privacy.”
Her hinted irony must have shone through. Braigh smiled mirthlessly and replied, “Indeed, for a follower of Lesganagh’s”—did he hesitate before speaking the god’s name?—“he was very patient; he explained the issue rather diplomatically.”
“Well, I was asked to help. I think I can handle Neena Cahill’s tantrum.”
“Anything specific you found out?” Braigh’s question was more than just small talk; the look in his eyes told her he was concerned about something.
“Why do you ask?” Of course, the Caretaker was one of Duasonh’s friends, but was he also part of the investigation?
Instead of answering directly, Braigh beckoned the servant to them. Neena Cahill, ignorant even of their presence it seemed, whirled around once more and stalked off in the opposite direction.
“Florence,” the Caretaker began once the lass stood with them, her hands opening and closing nervously. She looked up at the priest, eyes only making brief contact before wandering to the floor once again. “What did you see when the Ladies Cahill were talking to Drangar Ralgon?”
Hesitant, the lass swallowed repeatedly before speaking. “His eyes… but you said… it was a trick of light.”
“What was a trick of light?” Ealisaid interjected.
“His eyes were shining, milady.” Turning to Braigh, Florence added, “You said it wasn’t so.”
Nodding, the priest said, “I know, and please do not speak to anyone about it.”
“But the mistresses…” Florence protested.
“I’ll have a word with them as well, too many weird things going on here already, we do not need to feed even more gossip to mouths busy enough with what this and that lady was wearing, eh?” He winked at the girl, giving his words the mantle of confidentiality. “You will speak to no one about this, agreed?” Florence nodded, confusion finally leaving her eyes. Braigh’s reassuring pat on the shoulder was all the indication the servant needed to step out of earshot again.
“Ralgon’s eyes glowed?” Ealisaid asked, running all the facts she had gathered past her mind’s eye once more. Trusting her instinct as much as the evidence, she was certain now that the sixth spell had been the mercenary’s.
“Yes.”
“Florence?” she called to the girl. “Please tell Lord Kildanor I need to speak with him.”
Neena Cahill, on her way back to the door, hurried forward. “You mustn’t interrupt!” she hissed.
“It is urgent and concerns your guest,” Ealisaid said, filling her voice with enough authority as to not undermine the noblewoman’s sense of control. After all, they were her family’s guests. Seeing the tantrum averted, she allowed herself a relaxing breath, and, just to be certain, asked, “There is something I would like to know beforehand, though, milady.”
Cocking her head to the left, Neena Cahill said, “What would that be?” Ealisaid told her, and she confirmed Braigh and Florence’s statement; there was no need to ask her mother.
Turning to Florence, the priest said, “You can ask the Lord Kildanor, tell him it is urgent.”
A few moments later, the Chosen emerged. They went into the room they had already used for questioning the witnesses. Away from prying eyes and ears and in brief phrases she summarized her discoveries, right down to the trail of magic leading straight
to Ralgon’s room. Braigh added his observation of how the mercenary’s eyes had shone brightly when some memory had triggered strong emotions.
The look of concern was plain on Kildanor’s face. “I feel nothing,” he finally said.
“Maybe,” she suggested, “you need to be in close proximity. After all, you have only experienced active magic.”
Braigh, his voice as heavy with worry as his expression, asked, “So is he a demonologist?”
To her surprise it was Kildanor who answered before she could. “No, not necessarily. There are different ways to utilize magic, some more harmful to the wielder than others. Think of it as”—he paused a moment, pondering—“going into battle. A heavily armored warrior’s attacks are slow, his strikes may be sure, but it’ll take time. Someone going in without any armor is quick, very precise…”
“But he has sacrificed safety for the quick kill,” the Caretaker finished, nodding in understanding.
She was proud of the change she had initiated within the Chosen. Maybe there was hope for him yet. “In essence, yes,” Kildanor said.
“So, what is Drangar Ralgon?” Braigh asked, turning to look at her.
The shrug she gave was automatic. “I don’t know.” Her admission left a bland taste in her mouth.
“Let’s ask him,” Kildanor said, the straightforwardness of Lesganagh once more shining through. Before either she or Braigh could react, he was out the door, heading for Drangar’s chamber. Beside her Braigh sighed exhaustedly.
Ralgon slept. The brief moment, when his eyes had fluttered open and shut again, she had wondered if he had actually played the sleeper, but seeing the skeletal man, she was certain he did not pretend fatigue. Under the concerned stare of Neena Cahill they left the mercenary to his rest and headed back to their room.
Alone once more, Kildanor said, “One thing is bloody certain, we know nothing of who Drangar Ralgon is.”
“Next to nothing anyway,” she agreed.
Braigh, who hadn’t left the proximity of the door, said, “I wish I could help you solve this mystery, but I have pressing business at the temple. With Danaissan in chains, someone has to run things, and Cumaill—the Baron—asked me to make sure it wasn’t one of the ‘idiot hardliners’.” He smiled briefly, tiredly, and added, “I’ll have someone here to care for his health, and if you need further advice, you know where to find me. “
CHAPTER 4
Today was mild, considering that last night frost had crept onto the Dunth-plain. The dead turncoats still lay where Chanastardhian and Danastaerian—no one, including High General Mireynh, had even the slightest idea how Dunthiochagh had managed this feat—arrows had pierced them. Already crows were among the corpses, feasting.
Disgusted, Anne turned her head from the grassland. Two huge black spots of cawing, fighting and ripping scavengers marred the vista. Not that after last night the path to the city was a pleasant view. Even Duncan Argram was perturbed by the High General’s order, a curious reaction since House Argram was the epitome of rape and plunder, more cutthroat warband than true nobility.
She reined in her charger, looking for House Cirrain’s colors in the ocean of banners that dotted the southern hills. There, the few tents sat apart from the main camp. Why cousin Paddy had decided upon a spot away from the rest of the army, she had no idea but it suited her well. A bite and a drink with her people was what she needed.
Just as she had her horse cantering in the general direction of her kin, she heard Mireynh’s unmistakable voice. “Cirrain, to me!” the High General boomed. There was nothing but to obey. A quick tug on the rein and she headed for the rustic tent he’d had erected closer to Dunthiochagh than any other Chanastardhian lodging. Also, compared to the others put up in a semicircle behind, Mireynh’s tent was unassuming. It was in stark contrast to the dyed cloth proclaiming quite loudly where the occupant’s allegiance lay. Only hers, and her warband’s tents, were also of a subdued grey.
She reached the High General as he was giving several light horse-captains their orders. “Alister, take your band downriver, secure the Merthain Bridge sixty miles from here!” The warleader had barely acknowledged, when Mireynh barked his next command, “Kirrich, make for the eastern hills. There are two manor-bound villages this side of the river: Dunthan and Ondalan. One is a farm holding, and one is for mining. Secure them, especially the crossing at Ondalan. There may be more fords, but of this one we know!” The warrior snapped a reply, but the High General was already addressing the next. “Faughner, you’re responsible for hunting; bring down whatever you can.” As Horse-Captain Faughner still barked his “Aye, sir!” the High General turned to her.
She saluted, more out of habit than respect. Last night’s events had made her reevaluate her opinion of the warlord. She couldn’t deny that he was a good leader, but he was also a ruthless butcher, a killer of people whom—although traitors—had sworn their allegiance to him. She was honor-bound to obey, but wished she were back home. “Sir.”
“Cirrain, good, I have something for you.”
“Sir?” Anne asked, dumbfounded.
“Lord Farlin’s squire, well, he doesn’t need one anymore after the thrashing you gave him,” he said amicably. “She’ll be your squire now.”
Out of the tent’s shadows strode Gwennaith Keelan, red curls bound into a tight ponytail. The girl stood at attention and if Anne was to judge, the girl looked somewhat relieved. Yet there seemed something else about her posture. Was it doubt? Worry? Anne wasn’t certain. “I never had a squire, sir. What am I to do with her?”
“Have you been one, Cirrain?” Mireynh asked.
“No, I’ve trained with my father and our arms-master, and on the field, sir.”
“Well, there’s nothing to it,” the High General said. “Just teach her about honor and all that.”
“Just view her as a better servant,” said Duncan Argram. When Gwen glared at him, he chuckled softly.
“Aye, sir.”
“Now I want you to scout out the places for our castles. Take some engineers and young Keelan with you.” His order given, Mireynh turned back to the warleaders he was conferring with, a clear dismissal.
To Gwennaith, she said, “Fetch your horse, lass.”
The girl gave a terse nod and hurried off.
Soon a score of riders under Anne’s leadership were off, circling the plain. Half a mile off Dunthiochagh’s south gate, along Trade Road, the engineers proclaimed a suitable spot for a siege castle. One of them, a surly woman named Ronaidh Tonnoch, dismounted and stabbed a wimple-adorned poker into the ground. They were well out of range, but that didn’t stop some Danastaerian archers from trying their luck with far shots.
At east-west running Dunth Street, its curve following the river, the team of engineers also found suitable spots, and marked them the same way. Anne had no idea why Mireynh wanted her to observe this ridiculous work. Every single builder was versed enough in battle tactics to veer out of bow range. Her experience was hardly needed.
Once all suitable spots had been marked, they made their way back to camp, and Gwennaith Keelan rode up to her. “What do you want?” Anne asked. She hadn’t meant for her annoyance to seep into the question, but she could hardly help it.
“I need training,” the girl stated.
As if she had forgotten. How could she? Certainly, the squire had warned her of Callan Farlin’s treachery, but she had no idea how to train a squire. She ordered the engineers to ride ahead, and when they were well out of earshot, said, “Dubhan, my old weapons-master will train you.”
“No, I must be trained by you, milady.”
Reining in her horse, Anne scrutinized the girl. Did she look worried? “And why is that?”
Gwennaith’s answer came hesitantly. “I am your squire.”
As if that explained everything. “So? Dubhan is a very capable teacher, far better than me,” she argued.
“But it isn’t proper, Lady. A knight has to teach his squire, or her squi
re in your case.”
Was the girl trying to say more? It certainly looked like it. Gwen cast furtive glances around, scrunching up her face. “I am your pupil,” she said lamely.
Something else was definitely going on here, and Anne would have the truth of the matter. “What is it, lass? Speak!”
“I mustn’t,” the young noble stuttered.
So, there was more to Keelan than learning the ropes. Had House Farlin bribed the girl to spy on her? Since Callan was still with the army, though bedridden in one of the tents, this might well be a ploy to get his revenge after all. “You will tell me what’s going on, or I’ll have your head spitted on my sword before you take half a dozen breaths!”
“But… my…”
What was the girl so worried about? Indeed, she was from an impoverished House, but one of a southern noble nonetheless; deception should be second nature to her. “I will keep your secret. Know what this says?” She pointed at the crest embroidered on her cloak. When the girl nodded, she continued, “Duty and honor ‘til you die. I gave you my word, and so upon my honor, I will keep your secret.”
Again, Gwennaith Keelan looked south to the camp. “Train me,” she said and swung from her saddle.
“Why?”
“Because us talking here, for everyone to see, looks suspicious,” the squire said, drawing her sword.
What treachery was she so worried about? Anne slipped from her horse and unsheathed her blade; she was bound to find out now and it seemed young Keelan wasn’t as unaware of subterfuge as she thought. “Shields?” Anne asked.
“It is a knight’s choice, milady,” the squire replied. “But, you are my teacher.”
“Which makes you more comfortable?”
“We are seafarers. Onboard a ship you always find use for a free hand, and that’s what I learned from my father.”
“We aren’t at sea, but this time I yield to your choice,” Anne said. She slapped her horse so it cantered to a few strides away, and then raised her sword into middle-guard, point aiming at her student.
