Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  Duasonh stared at her. “Certainly,” he finally said. “May I ask why?”

  Holding the page she had just read toward him, her finger pointing on the specific passage, she said, “Bodhrein Duasonh mentions here an incident where an elven mage held off three wizards of the middling order for over a day until the attackers turned and fled; but the mage was still powerful enough to pursue and take them down.”

  The Baron read the lines, astonished. “I must have missed that,” he admitted.

  She gave him an encouraging wink. “It doesn’t refer to the city’s defense so it was most likely of no use to you.”

  A brief, grateful inclination of the head was his reply. “Must be it,” he muttered. Then, “Sure, I’ll have someone take you to the library at once.”

  As she left the study, Ealisaid once again learned what it meant if this noble said he would do something. Duasonh had hollered for a servant and had ordered the woman to show her the way to the library and to attend to her wishes. Then, to her, he said, “Arlynn will help you.” That Duasonh knew the lass by name surprised her almost as much as the freedoms he was apparently granting her.

  “Come to me, if you find something.” Then the Baron sat back, waving her off.

  The servant, Arlynn, took a few steps the opposite direction and waited for Ealisaid to follow. As she did, the two guards leaving their posts at the door to trail her rectified the apparent trust she thought Baron Duasonh had in her.

  The room she entered was unlike Traghnalach’s Libraries. Instead of a place where order was paramount, she found something more akin to a storage area. The shelves were crammed with books, parchments, maps, and boxes with even more of the same. Baron Duasonh’s office was so tidy, the books arranged systematically. Here chaos reigned.

  Ealisaid let out a worried sigh and wished she could cast a spell to sort through the writings but, true to her word, she refrained from doing so. She knew not if the Baron still held her accountable for her oath, but she would be a fool to test those boundaries just to forego some physical labor.

  “This will take a while,” she muttered.

  “Is there anything else, madam?” Arlynn asked.

  For a moment, she had forgotten the servant was still with her. “Some water and bread, if you please.”

  The girl curtsied and was out of the door, and Ealisaid began sorting through the mess.

  It was well past sundown when her search was rewarded. Having skipped supper, she relied solely on what Arlynn had brought her. At the evening gong, her guards had changed. She had asked one of them, taller and stronger than her, to retrieve some of the boxes beyond her reach. Other than that, she had worked alone.

  “Here it is!” she exclaimed.

  “Here is what?” someone asked behind her.

  She turned and saw Kildanor, his greatcoat still on his shoulders. He looked concerned. “I found the reference to battlemagic I was looking for. Listen to this:

  “‘The way the elf and his squirrel familiar dealt with that usurper has shown me that elven magic is far superior to ours. Somehow what they taught our ancestors has been corrupted. We flaunt our discoveries, thinking that we are those who understand magic best, but the way the elf repelled every single spellthrust Rian threw his way I would have expected him to be killed sooner rather than later, from exhaustion. Instead it was Rian who perished; the elf and squirrel teleported away. It is like the saying goes that the message gets more muddled the farther away from the source it is.’”

  “Are you telling me the Phoenix Wizards’ magic was weak?” the Chosen asked, bringing matters down to one quick point.

  “Yes, weak! But how am I to find out how the elves worked magic?” she grumbled, stifling a yawn.

  “Heard some are still in Samaar.” His reply sounded distant, angry.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Other than your talk of magic? Yes.”

  “I thought we had settled this.”

  “We had… we have, I mean. It’s just that what you call ‘the wrong way’ still managed to tear a gap through the Shadowpeaks and level scores of warbands.”

  She sighed. “Magic is a tool, Chosen. Nothing more. An axe can chop wood and be used to lop off heads. Don’t blame the axe, blame the wielder.” A few steps and she stood before him. “Listen, the glorious, cultivated brotherhood of wizards only existed in my imagination, and that of a few others. I know that now. It’s in the past and all we can do is to see that it never happens again.”

  That seemed to mollify him, yet there still was something troubling him. “I need to speak with the Baron,” she said,” then we’ll talk.”

  “All right,” he grumbled.

  They were at the foot of the stairwell when he stopped her. “These notes aren’t texts on spellwork, right? So how will you learn battlemagic?”

  She had pondered that question herself but had yet to come to a good solution. Her first duty was to Dunthiochagh and the Baron. In this new world she might well be the last of the Phoenix Wizards, a fact that still nagged at her, but considering past events, it would be unwise to rebuild the order. Indeed, magic might help win this war, but Ealisaid was loath to become the one person Duasonh relied on most. Also, the truth was she was not experienced enough to help as much as the Baron might want her to. “I think I can make sure the Dunth will not freeze,” she stated. “This way the enemy will have a tougher time crossing to this side.”

  “And then? The Baron will demand battlespells sooner rather than later, and since the enemy outnumbers us, we’ll need more than just flowing water. I hate to say this, but we will need magic that can level buildings.”

  He had a point, but what could she do? Like she had said before the mere destruction of two houses had caused her to lose consciousness. Then it struck her. “Were you there at the destruction of Phoenix Citadel?” His positive reply fanned the ember of hope. “Did ground cave in?”

  “No.”

  That one word turned the ember into a roaring blaze. “So, the archives still stand,” she stuttered, giddy with excitement. Seeing his confused look, she explained. “Underneath the Citadel was a massive cavern filled with books. I’ve never been there personally, but if the ground did not give that means the library is still there.

  Kildanor understood at once. “You want to return there.”

  Instead of replying, Ealisaid turned and hurried up the stairs. A moment later the three warriors followed. Two doors from the Baron’s study, the Chosen caught up with her. “The archives still stand; don’t you see what that means?” She could barely contain her excitement.

  They came to a stop in front of the study door. “Yes,” the warrior said. “I see what that means, but you won’t get in there. All that’s left is a pile of rubble.”

  “I am a wizard, Lord Chosen,” she replied with a wink. “I will find a way.

  The warriors guarding Baron Duasonh’s office stepped aside, saluting briefly. Had she not been in Kildanor’s company, she doubted they would have let her pass this easily.

  CHAPTER 10

  Luckily, the gaps she had torn into the wards around the Great Library ages ago still remained. Lightbringer didn’t have to use much force to gain entry. The Librarians were a secretive lot, always worried about intruders trying to change history. She smiled maliciously at the thought; it was not as if she hadn’t altered the outcome of events before. Traghnalach’s priests were concerned with recording true events, usually hidden from most. Victors and losers alike, colored by their experiences, wrote official history. The Librarians’ duty, however, was to provide truthful records. As if the deity didn’t remember all that went on in the world.

  Her spiritform pierced the last ward, and she floated inside the main scribing room. Even at this time there were a good dozen people here, bent over their work desks, unaware of her presence. One pair of rheumy eyes, however, caught sight of her, before she had a chance to enjoy the vista.

  “Greetings, Lightbringer,” the wri
nkled man said. “Or is it Firebringer? Warbringer? Gods, you go by so many names.”

  She hadn’t even manifested. “And you are?”

  “Grannath, Chief Librarian, the fourth to bear the title,” the old human replied.

  “Good evening, milord.”

  “Shouldn’t I address you thusly?”

  “Those days were long gone even before your kind learned to walk,” she replied.

  “As to your unvoiced question, Princess, the God of Knowledge has granted me sight beyond that of my eyes. But you should have remembered that, eh?” The Chief Librarian shuffled over to a bench set before a huge, steeloak bookshelf, and sat. “So, what brings you here, Princess?”

  “Don’t call me that.” Why did she feel so insignificant compared to this frail old man? She had seen more years than him. For a moment she focused, and, instead of the expected silhouette of a priest, saw that the old Librarian’s form shifted between human and a massive book.

  “We never met,” Grannath said. “But you must have known people like me before.”

  “No,” she admitted, “never had much use for priests.”

  “Understandable, but times change, as you well know.” A brief pause, and then he said, “Again I ask, what brings you here? It’s not as if you are in need of knowledge.”

  “Things are changing,” she began then hesitated, inclining her head toward the busily writing scribes.

  The old man snickered and pointed at a bookstand in the far corner where one pair of scribes was writing ceaselessly into a book. “They’re deaf, like all Scribes in the Libraries, so they cannot be lied to,” Chief Librarian Grannath explained. “Their duty is to chronicle events, not interpret them, hence their deafness. Talk, you’ll eventually find some part of the conversation in a footnote, most like.”

  “Things are changing,” she began anew. “And I don’t know if I can hold the danger back this time. The initial moves have been made, but my opponent is cunning, as you well know.”

  “True, the old Guardians feel the threat to the Hold, and it calls them.”

  “They never cared before.”

  “Neither do they as of now, but a good pretense is better than an outright lie.”

  “What can I do?”

  The Chief Librarian closed his eyes. Her spiritsight showed her that the book overlaying his shriveled form was in motion. It was as if someone was flipping through its pages, halting occasionally, only to resume the search. Finally, Grannath opened his eyes and looked at her. “Right some wrongs,” he said. “Right some old wrongs.”

  Lightbringer kept her face calm, despite her confusion. For a representative of the God of Knowledge, the Chief Librarian was very cryptic. Then again, had she been any different with Cat? The spirit-woman had done her bidding without knowing the answer; maybe she should, for a change, pay attention to what the gods were telling her. No matter how cryptic it was.

  “To which wrongs are you referring?” she asked.

  Grannath’s eyes looked at and through her. Again, she saw the pages of the ghostly book turning. Finally, the Chief Librarian said, “Dig into the past. If the gods gave us all the answers, wouldn’t that nullify the point of living? The past is full of mistakes, and some we can discover and rectify, but most are lost, their repercussions felt throughout the ages.” The old man chuckled. “Read a book or two, if you have to, Princess. You might find errors that can be corrected.”

  “Are you referring to me?”

  “No.”

  She felt the unspoken dismissal, sketched a brief bow before the priest, and shrunk back from the Grand Library. Reading books in spiritform was impossible, so if she did as Grannath asked, she would have to enter the temple bodily. A brief glimpse back at the towering city that was Ma’tallon confirmed what she had suspected all along, none of the original elven architects remained. This, at least, was an advantage: no supplications of people who still had far too many slave-habits imprinted on their souls.

  CHAPTER 11

  Finding Kerral amidst the bustle of slingthrower crews doing maintenance on the heavy machines and warriors changing shifts was no small task. By the time he found the busy general it was late afternoon. Kerral’s attire hadn’t changed much, and only by his snarled commands could he distinguish him from the others manning the western wall.

  “Just because there is no bloody enemy anywhere near does not mean you can doze while on duty!” Kerral shouted. Kildanor couldn’t hear the reply. The general’s answer to that was quite audible. “Yes, we’re all tired, but do you see your mates or me complain? No, you don’t because we do our godsdamned duty. Wanna leave the city undefended? There you go. Stay sharp. Ask the quartermaster for an extra fill of Broggainh tonight, you deserve it.”

  Kildanor was mounting the stairs when Kerral spotted him. “Chosen! Splendid day, isn’t it?” he hollered.

  This certainly hadn’t been the first sleepless night in his life, but as he squinted to the clouded sky, sending a brief belated prayer to Lesganagh, Kildanor wondered how this man could remain so cheerful. Weather such as this usually made everyone stay near a warming fire.

  Halfway up, Kerral intercepted him. “Tea?” he asked, holding out a steaming mug. In a quiet voice, he added, “Take it, will make the boys proud that they shared their brew with you. Anything to keep morale high.”

  He took the proffered mug, wrapping his gloved hands around it. Instantly the hot earthenware warmed his chilled fingers. A look around revealed that the nearby warriors, although alert, were observing him. He raised his hands to a toast and took a long pull. It was too sweet for his liking but the liquid immediately drove the cold from his chest. A faint aroma of alcohol lingered on his tongue for a brief moment.

  The warriors smiled toothily and turned their attention back to the plain beyond the wall.

  “What can I do for you, Lord Kildanor?”

  “You said you served under Mireynh, right?”

  “Five bloody years, aye.”

  “Ever heard of one Drangar Ralgon?”

  The look of hurt surprise crossing Kerral’s face was gone in an instant but told him the answer before the other said a word. “I was his warleader. And his friend,” he added.

  This was even better than he had hoped for. Hopefully the warlord could shed some light on the mystery that was Drangar.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “That is irrelevant for now.”

  “He won’t fight, for anyone, told me so last time we met,” the fighter said. Again, the flash of pain, gone as quickly as before.

  Trying to sound as noncommittal as possible, Kildanor asked, “What about his blessing?”

  “Blessing? Oh, that. He came through, all the time. The walls, I mean. Virtually unscathed. A few bruises and cuts, but where others lay gutted or dying, he fought on, battering down everyone in sight.”

  “He attacked blindly?” An image of how the demons had torn down their opposition flashed through his mind.

  “What? Oh no, never that. He knew what he was doing, whom he was fighting. He just didn’t stop. Straight, focused, you should know how that feels,” Kerral said, chuckling. “That’s why we said he was blessed by the God of Sun and War. Because his demeanor off the field was far from sunny, if you know what I mean. Brooding, shunning the rest of us. I finally managed to crack his armor. If only for a while.”

  Brooding? The demons of a lost childhood had haunted him for a long time. “What did he look like when he fought?”

  For a moment Kerral’s eyes lost their focus. He shuddered. “You know, whenever he got ready to charge a wall he had this glow in his eyes. Actually, whenever he got real angry at something they burned with some sort of fire. We just accepted it as part of his blessing.”

  So, the glowing was nothing new either. “You were his warleader. Did you ever see anything out of the ordinary happening around Drangar?”

  “Like what?”

  He gave a disinterested shrug. “Oh, you know,
I’ve seen people do incredible feats of strength and such when in a tight spot, something like that.”

  Kerral thought a moment then shook his head. “No, nothing I can remember, but then I was the center of my own shield wall and busy with keeping everyone together. There was no time or opportunity to observe one single berserker, other than seeing him barrel into a wall that is.”

  “Why did he volunteer? Was he after the glory?”

  Some movement on the battlement distracted the general for a moment. “Hoh, Bradwen! Stop staring into the bloody city, eyes on the enemy!”

  “Nothing to report, sir!” the other yelled back.

  “So, what? That stove more interesting? Wonder what your band will think of you when I have it taken away!” To Kildanor he said, “Warleaders, sometimes too much routine ain’t good for them. Glory, Scales no, Ralgon never wanted that. Not really. Once, well in his cups, he told me that the first time he volunteered he just wanted to let off steam…”

  “Odd way of doing that,” he remarked.

  Kerral bobbed his head, his eyes still on the offending warleader. “Aye, thought so myself. Then, a little later, he told me how combat was the one thing making him feel alive.”

  That the Chosen understood: when each heartbeat could possibly be the last one, there was hardly a better activity than fighting. That thrill usually was short-lived, and in the end, numbness replaced it. “Is there anything else that made him feel alive? I mean, had he dreams? Hopes?”

  Kerral remained silent for a moment, scratching the stubble on his chin. Finally, he replied. “He was, no is, adamant about justice. He didn’t spy on people, no, but when there was a wrong to be righted he did so.” He opened his mouth as if to say more but closed immediately.