by Ulff Lehmann
Gwen shooed her mare off, and presented her a very narrow profile, her blade also at middle guard. “The whoreson Farlin did not send me to spy on you,” the girl said, thrusting forward. To use the tip of a sword for poking opponents was an unusual tactic, and Anne stepped back a pace.
“So, whose idea was it?” She slapped the next thrust aside, moved into Gwen’s reach.
The girl twisted aside and again metal rang on metal. “I assume you know of my family’s status?” A lightning fast feint to the left. Gods, the girl was quick.
“Aye, about as much loved by the rest of the nobility as my House,” she replied, interposing her steel with the strike following the trick. This poking and prodding might work on a ship, but a sword was meant to cut, not puncture. Anne decided to see the stuff her squire was made off.
A rain of slashes began, which Keelan managed to dodge or parry. “It seems my House is in better standing than yours,” the young woman panted between blocking and evading blows.
Anne hesitated, easing off her assault. “What are you talking about?”
This time it was Gwen’s turn to use the lull in action to mount a counterattack. The girl could fight! “I was ordered to your side by the High General himself, madam,” she growled. “He promised me riches in the King’s name, if I were to keep you from your warband and report any messenger that tried to contact you.”
The shock of her confession made Anne falter, and only her squire’s timely halting of the blade prevented a cut in her surcoat. “What?” she barked, exasperated, sword dangling from her hand.
“Keep up the fighting, madam,” the younger noblewoman pleaded. Again, she presented a narrow profile, her blade in middle-guard.
Anne was too disturbed by the revelation to properly focus on her footwork, and with a quick succession of thrusts and cuts, Gwen had pushed her back a good half dozen paces. “Why would Mireynh have you spy on me?” she finally asked.
The relentless attack continued, with Anne parrying reflexively. “I know not, milady. What I do know, though, is that you saved my life by beating that bastard Farlin to pulp. Otherwise he would have managed to force himself onto me, or worse. I owe you and won’t betray you.”
She brought her blade up to block the girl’s assault, was just about to reply, when Gwen continued, “You must not talk to your people, he will have other eyes on you.” Anne pushed the younger woman back; her height and strength gave her that advantage. “But I will act as a messenger should you want word sent to them.”
She sheathed her sword. “Enough practice… what shall I call you? Young Lady Keelan? Squire Keelan?”
“Gwen is sufficient, milady.”
“Let go of this “milady” “madam” business! Anne will do.”
“Very well, mi… Anne,” Gwen said, wiping sweat from her brow.
“I’m afraid the only time we will be able to talk in private is when we practice, the camp has its share of ears,” she said, letting go of a weary sigh. “I shall behave, so you don’t have to lie to Mireynh about that.”
The lass nodded curtly.
CHAPTER 5
Something had gone wrong in Dunthiochagh. The feeling of failure was so strong that Darlontor, Priest High of the Sons of Traksor, put away the quill twice, staring at the parchment before him, unable to continue with his calculations. Math and star seeing had been a means of distraction for so long, it now was ritual as much as calling. Whenever things grew too rough, Gryffor’s aggressive demands too blatantly brutal, he retreated to the study, to his charts, to his calculations. The sun rose later each day until midwinter, and then the days grew long again.
No! He shook his head, forced himself to think of the issues ahead. The council would meet once again, shortly after midday, and still there was no word of Dalgor. Was it possible his nephew would not return even if he lived? Two years ago, no, almost two and a half years ago, they had decided upon executing those who failed. Gryffor, always the most vocal of the conservatives among the Sons, had managed to convince the majority, and though Darlontor had wanted to reject the motion, the unspoken threat behind the demand had stilled his hand, frozen his spirit. Now, when Dalgor returned, he would have to send his sister’s only son to the gallows.
That death would rob the Sons of their best weapon, the best wielder of magic they had. With a start he realized that Gryffor was led not only by his desire to kill Drangar but also his lust for power. Back when the title of Priest High—there was nothing religious about this or any other position—had been bestowed onto him, Gryffor had barely been of age. Now the ambitious fool would revel in the killing of his greatest rival. If only Dalgor was as ambitious. No, Dalgor was efficient, determined, and straight as an arrow. A touch brutal at times, certainly, but the boy had his heart in the right place. It would be a shame to waste even one more warrior, and it mattered little whether the one who was killed was as powerful as his nephew or as weak in magic as the last person that had danced in the wind. He couldn’t even remember that boy’s name.
“It ends now,” he muttered, hoping he was able to convince himself that what he planned was right. Rising from his chair, he replaced the quill in its holder and marched for the door. “It ends now,” he repeated, his voice hard as steel.
“Where is your precious nephew?” Gryffor sneered, the pleasure of seeing his greatest rival fallen was plain on the man’s face. “He should have finished Ralchanh off by now.”
Darlontor remained silent, eyes wandering from one Swordpriest to the next. Many of those that he thought were on his side had already departed for their homesteads to winter with their families, and most of those who now were left looked hostile enough. Gryffor might have been everyone’s spokesman, but there were some who displayed a similar disdain.
“Do we now have to send out seekers to find one of ours as well?” Arawn asked. “He knew the penalty for failing; he knew he would die.”
“The boy ran to avoid that fate,” Gryffor replied.
Darlontor looked at Arawn. The two of them hardly agreed on anything anymore, but unlike Gryffor, Arawn did not pursue this one goal with a bloody-mindedness that brooked no other opinion.
“Dalgor,” he finally said, “is no coward. He is the best of us, and if he failed, it is because Drangar had help.”
“Didn’t need much help the last time,” Gryffor muttered.
“If I remember correctly, the report Eidyn made before he was hung indicated that someone tried to save Drangar in the Shadowpeaks,” Arawn interjected. “And if memory serves, Eidyn was one of yours, Gryffor, wasn’t he?”
“They were surprised, but at least they managed to kill him,” a Swordpriest retorted, and then, realizing what he had said, paled and turned his head.
“Drangar Ralchanh did not die in the Shadowpeaks.” Arawn took a deep breath. “Why else would we have sent Dalgor?”
Before Gryffor could reply, Darlontor cut in, saying, “It matters not; pushing the blame around will not solve anything.” Should he tell them, he wondered. No, if he could help it the secret would be told on Lliania’s Scales. The knowledge would die with him, had to die with him. “There’ll be no more killings. None will be punished for failing.”
“But…” Gryffor began.
“Your people have failed twice to end it. And both times the situation has worsened.” He looked at the younger Son, waiting for any sort of reaction, daring the little bastard to make a bid for power now that there were so few to challenge. Gryffor remained sullen, turning his head to avoid his stare after a few breaths. “Why are you so determined to kill your own? We should be united, like those who came before us.”
“They failed,” Arawn said. “When Traksor failed he died.”
“Impaled on Turuuk’s claws, not on his own brothers’ swords!” He heard his voice rise but couldn’t stop. “None of those who fought alongside Traksor would have killed their companions. Yet, here, now, for two long years, we have done just that. Our numbers are dwindling here at t
he Eye even though we damn well know that the mining camps in the Kumeens stand empty, that the miners have fled, or worse. We know something is afoot, and yet we stand here squabbling over who is to kill off those who have sworn themselves to our cause.”
“There are enough of the faithful left!” Gryffor said with such fervor that for a moment Darlontor could only stare.
“Faithful?” he asked, knowing full well how dumbstruck he sounded. “What faithful?” Now more than ever before he regretted not changing their titles to something that did not reflect a religious hierarchy. There were no sermons, no prayers, just drills and bloodletting, magic and hard work. He glanced at Arawn who seemed just as perplexed. When had this happened? When had the Sons of Traksor, these Sons of Traksor, begun to believe in the legend their forebears had created?
“We are the heirs of Traksor, sent by mighty Lesganagh himself to stand against the demons!” declared Gryffor with so much blind devotion that for a moment Darlontor thought he was trapped in a nightmare. Then, as if nothing had happened, Gryffor cleared his throat and grinned sheepishly. “A jest, nothing more.” Somehow Darlontor doubted that. “No matter, we’ll do what we have always done; you can’t rewrite the law.”
“I can’t?” Darlontor almost laughed. “Of course I can. I am the Priest High and my word is the law, and I declare that from now on failures, other than worsening the situation, will be forgiven. None of us want a second Dunthiochagh to happen, and such a grave error will be punished by death, those who merely fail in killing Drangar Ralchanh will live to fight another day.” He looked at the others, a few, he knew, were on his side, the others evenly divided between Gryffor and Arawn. “Does anyone here want to challenge my authority?” They remained silent, shocked, but no one argued his decision. He closed his eyes, signaling them the session was over.
The door shut, and thinking himself alone, he let his face drop into his hands, and groaned in despair. When had it all become so difficult?
“Gryffor’s gone too far,” a voice broke the quiet, interrupted his moment of weakness. Darlontor’s head snapped up, eyes wide in astonishment. Arawn still sat on his chair, arms folded across his broad chest. For a moment he feared Dalgor’s mentor would mock him, or worse, use his weariness against him, but when the other said no more, he relaxed.
“He has.”
“What will you do about it?” Was it his imagination or did Arawn truly sound concerned?
“Why are you so agreeable? Yours was the deciding vote back then? Should you not be on Gryffor’s side?”
The other snorted derisively and shook his head. “You of all people should know what I want. Killing Ralchanh is but a test, and all those who failed would also have failed in the coming war.”
“You sound certain.” In a way he dreaded this conversation more than any confrontation with Gryffor. Arawn was a warleader, a fighter, and quite willing to send people to their deaths, a combination almost as bad as the other’s blind belief in an elaborate lie.
“You cannot deny the signs.”
“I never have.”
“We must strike.”
“We are guardians, not aggressors.”
“Tell that to the miners and their families.”
The reminder stung. Technically the Kumeen foothills did not belong to their fief, and yet they had tried to aid the people living there. All their envoys had returned without being heard, the lords in Ma’tallon unwilling to even listen to what they considered fiery tales. The demons had been defeated and there was no need to worry about them anymore. How wrong the fools had been!
“There was nothing we could have done. We are bound by the same laws as the rest of the kingdom, and if a noble decides he doesn’t want another’s warbands on his land, there is nothing we can do.”
“Politician’s babble, if you ask me,” Arawn said, contempt lacing his voice. “We need to act, to form a united front against Gryffor’s madness and whatever is stalking the Kumeens. We need to strike first.”
“No, we can’t, we are defenders not aggressors.”
Arawn heaved a sigh. “I hoped you’d listen to reason, clearly I was wrong. Gryffor’s following grows, only together can we resist his eventual bid for power.”
“We are defenders…” Darlontor began.
“Once you realize that a good offense is the best defense let me know,” Arawn interrupted harshly as he stood. “You are a fool, Darlontor, if you cling to beliefs as antiquated as the deception of us being a religious order.” Shaking his head, the Swordpriest strode out. Before the door was fully closed, he stuck his head back in for a brief moment. “Remember my words when all of this comes crashing down around us.” Then he was gone.
Darlontor stared at Arawn’s chair, dreading both the other’s correct assessment of the situation and the fraying brotherhood he had been part of all his life. When had it all gone wrong? The answer was there, pushing to the forefront of his thoughts. Shaking his head, he forced it down once again. On Lliania’s Scales he would confess, not one moment earlier.
CHAPTER 6
“He’s awake again.”
The servant’s voice roused Kildanor from his light slumber. For the briefest of moments, he didn’t know where he was. Then he remembered. Cahill Manor, the cell Lord Cahill had given him to make his inquiries. Rubbing hands down his face hid the yawn as he stretched to get the kinks out of his back. His muttered “Thank you” was accepted with a noncommittal noise, indicating the household staff had better things to do. He didn’t blame the man. In fact, his presence was as much an annoyance to him as it must be for the retainers. With the turret room wrecked and a sick houseguest, not to mention the ladies of the manor still in some state of shock, the servants had enough on their plate as it was.
“Do you need anything else, sir?”
Kildanor glanced at the servant. What was his name again? Right, Camran. “No.” Just as the younger man was about to shut the door, it struck him. “Wait, actually there are two things. Has the Lady Ealisaid returned? And what time of day is it?”
“No, she hasn’t. And the evening gong sounded recently,” Camran answered, and remained at the threshold, waiting.
It felt ridiculous to offer his thanks yet another time, so he caught the servant’s eye and nodded briefly. A moment later he was alone. What took the Wizardess so long? She had volunteered to go back to Dunthiochagh’s Library to find out what they had on Ralgon. Was the information so extensive it took this long to sift through? He knew from experience how thorough the Librarians were in their recordkeeping, but most people’s lives were barely worth binding into a book’s pages so insignificant was their contribution to history. Once, decades ago, he had visited Ma’tallon’s Great Library, and the sight of dozens of scribes mutely writing down page after page had shocked him into realizing just how much work those who actually fashioned blank parchments into legible documents had to do. Maybe that was why Ealisaid was taking so long. He could only imagine the nightmare it had to be skimming through the unedited pages to find a reference here or there. What was worse, he thought suddenly, was that each country had its own Library, and if Ralgon had really traveled far and wide, the information found here would only refer to his stay in Danastaer. Why hadn’t he thought of this before?
Blaming his tiredness for this lack of good sense, he stood and stretched. Muscles and bones popped, reminding him once more just how stupid it was to fall asleep sitting at a table. Another, longer yawn escaped his mouth.
The door opened and in strode the Wizardess, face drawn in a scowl that was replaced by a quirk of her lips when she caught him with his mouth opened as widely as possible. Then, the moment of humor was gone, and the angry scowl once more distorted her features. “That’s great,” she flung at him. “I sit with hundreds of pages, breathing dust for an eternity and you take a nap! If you think you had a rough night, try keeping an entire wall’s worth of bowmen and their arrows invisible! And don’t tell me you were just resting your eyes!”
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When did they start acting like a married couple, he wondered ever so briefly, and only because of his years of perfecting the neutral expression at Harail’s court did he manage not to laugh in her face. It would’ve made her even angrier. Instead he said, “At least you had a night’s sleep,” regretting the words even as they left his mouth.
Ealisaid slammed the door, glaring. Then, she snorted in a display of barely restrained laughter. “We make a good team, wife works, husband sleeps, right. When did that happen?” Then, shaking her head as if dismissing the notion, the humor died on her face. “The Library is a fount of knowledge, all worthless to us.”
He cocked an eyebrow, surprised at the swiftness with which she returned to hard facts. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” the sorceress began, “for starters, the records they have are concerned with the things Ralgon did here once he crossed the border—he came from the Merthain coast, by the way—and they stop the night of the murder.”
Stunned, Kildanor looked at her, able to say only “What?” That revelation was unheard of, not a single thing escaped the priests of Traghnalach. After all, Lesganagh’s son was the god of knowledge. How the Scales could the god, and in consequence his servants, not know what went on with one person? It seemed as if his whole concept of what was right and wrong, just as it had been with magic, was turned on its head. He looked at Ealisaid and saw his confusion mirrored in her eyes.
“There was precious little to begin with at any rate. The scribes only write down events, not thoughts, and since they tend to write things as they see them… let’s just say if there is any narrative in the original parchments, it will take a deity to glean it from those pages.” She produced a piece of folded paper from her skirt’s pocket. “There are some references to Ralgon ‘the new watchman apprehended the thief in Halmond Street’. It seems as if they didn’t know his name.”
