by Ulff Lehmann
“You will spend the mornings from sunrise to high sun with either the Upholder, or the Librarian, understood?”
“Yes, milord.”
“Good, the rest of the time you will either be sharpening your skills with the blade or learning other courtly matters.” Now he groaned. How could things become so twisted? Duasonh shook his head. “None of that, now. You fucked up only a few days ago. That won’t happen again if we can help it.” The Baron took a draught of water before he continued, “You will learn dancing as well, and if you mess up any one of these tasks, it will be your family making reparations to House Cahill, understood?”
Eyes straight ahead, Jesgar bowed. “Aye, milord, I will not fail.”
“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear! Now, off to the barracks with you.”
“Aye, milord,” Jesgar said, turned and strode out with all due haste. Once in the inner bailey, he took a deep breath of cold night air. How had he gotten himself into this mess? Things had seemed so easy when he had been the Hand. Now his life had become a lot more complicated.
CHAPTER 13
It was well past sundown, but Urgraith Mireynh had no time to rest. In fact, he hadn’t slept since yesterday. The dreadful miracle of the turncoats’ foiled attempt to take Dunthiochagh’s gate and having them killed by a mostly unseen foe had caused one sleepless night already. More would follow. The gate had been open! The traitor in Duasonh’s staff had given the signal! Still the turncoats had halted their advance, easy targets. The dead caused by his own archers mattered little. Most had died by the unseen bowmen; the corpses sprouted many arrows when the sun had risen.
“Can anyone explain what the Scales has happened?” Mireynh growled. So far all they had was guesswork.
Idiot Noel Trileigh shrugged his shoulders, as he had done most of the day. “Could be magic, sir.” The fool had said this phrase so many times now the High General doubted the man’s mental health.
“Trileigh,” Duncan of House Argram snapped, “shut your trap! There’s no magic left in the world!”
The Lord Commander bowed his head in resignation. “The High General asked for opinions and I have given but one!”
“I asked for an explanation,” Mireynh said.
“If it was magic, sir,” Trileigh replied, “we shan’t find an explanation for we don’t even know what to look for. None of us do. The Heir-War…”
“I know what the Heir-War did,” Mireynh interrupted. Maybe the Lord Commander wasn’t so stupid after all. If all possible scenarios were discarded, the only solution was the impossible. “Well then, let us assume it was magic that masked the defenders and made us believe the gate was open.”
“Ridiculous,” Duncan Argram muttered.
Callan Farlin nodded his head in agreement. “Milord General,” the wounded noble said, “magic has left the world.”
Jennay of House Locklin cleared her throat. “I beg to differ,” she said. “The knowledge of magecraft has been lost to man; it is still with the elves.”
“And when, pray tell, have you last seen an elf?” Argram snidely remarked.
“Just because you’ve never seen a thing does not mean it doesn’t exist, Duncan!” snapped Muireall of House Killoy. “Elves still live in faraway places! Only those of Gathran have left these shores.”
“And who told you?” sneered Farlin, “your blind and fragile granny?”
“Shut your mouth, cripple!” Jennay Locklin snarled.
“You all shut up!” Mireynh shouted. “I’ve enough of your bickering! The thinning of your ranks has taught you neither humility, nor common sense!”
“You cannot…” Killoy began, but he cut her short by holding the royal seal close to her face.
“I can, am allowed to, and I will do whatever is necessary to win this war!” His voice became a threatening hiss. “Behave like warleaders, nobles, or your warriors will be under my direct command by morning!” He took a deep, calming breath, awaiting a new wave of protest. When the five remained silent, their eyes filled with dread, he continued, “Now, if it was magic”—he nodded toward Trileigh—“then we need to find out how to counter it.”
“I’ll have someone on the road to Harail,” the Lord Commander said.
“Don’t send a lackey to do a lord’s job,” Mireynh countered. “Trileigh, you are a learned man, aye?”
“As youngest I was supposed to become a Librarian, sir.”
This information was new to him; so far, he had assumed the High Advisor had wanted the foppish noble as his second to gain some political influence with House Trileigh. “You know your letters?”
“And my books, maps and history as best as could, sir.”
“Were you ever privy to the unedited material?” Only full members of Traghnalach’s church were allowed to see what the dumb scribes had written. He had never managed to glean information from the initiated.
“No, sir, I never finished my training. They don’t reveal the truth to novices or lower priests.”
“Good. You’ll get the information we need.”
“And if the Librarians refuse me?” The nobleman frowned.
“Then you will gain entry by force!”
Trileigh’s eyes snapped wide. “Sir, we must not do that!”
“We’ll do what is necessary!” He was tired of plodding along silly lines of protocol and niceties; his family was at stake, and only a victory could free him from the High Advisor’s grip. When this campaign was over, he would retire. He was too sick of intrigues, nobles, and wars that were no real challenge. Even Dunthiochagh would fall. Soon.
“But, sir,” the Lord Commander exclaimed again.
“You have your orders!”
The four other nobles had followed the exchange in stunned silence. Mireynh regarded them, trying to gauge how far they were willing to go. There was resentment, no doubt, because of his threat but none of them seemed truly appalled that he’d ordered the pillage of a Library. Duncan Argram even nodded in agreement. Up in Chanastardh, House Argram had the reputation of being the most mercenary, an attitude Mireynh definitely knew how to deal with. “Argram!” he said.
“Yes, sir?” the noble looked up expectantly.
“You’ll handle the foraging, take everything not nailed.”
“And if the farmers resist?”
“We need supplies, take what we need!”
Argram flashed his teeth. “Aye, sir!”
“Good.” Mireynh turned to Killoy. “Send some of the scouts west, they are to secure the bridge in Merthain.” He paused a moment, rifling through the stack of papers before him. “Send another patrol east to find a fordable place in the Dunth; we need to find a way across the bloody river. Duasonh must not be allowed free rein of the far side. As long as he has access to the mines and woods and grain he will have sufficient resources to ward off a siege. Scales, he might even put it in his head to reinforce the outer wall.”
“Yes, sir,” the noblewoman said.
“Farlin!”
“Sir?”
“You’re to bash a few engineer heads; they still haven’t given me viable options as to how we can cross the Dunth.”
“The fortresses are their priority, sir.”
“We have a score of builders; five per fortress should suffice, and still leave five more to handle the river.”
Locklin cleared her throat. “Sir?”
“Yes?” What did that woman want now?
“Won’t we have reinforcements coming through Shadowpass?”
“I sent the messenger to Herascor a day before we headed out of Harail. It will take her at least three weeks before she reaches the capital. The reinforcements won’t get to the pass for more than two months; we will make do with what we have.”
She nodded.
“But while we’re at it,” he added. He could hardly hide his annoyance. “Dame Locklin, you will attend to the woodchucks and the patrols.”
“Isn’t that Cirrain’s duty?” the woman asked.
“She’s to stay closer to home.”
“Understood.”
“Good, now get some rest.” As the nobles filed out his tent, he added, “Trileigh, at first light I expect you to be in the saddle and on your way to Harail.”
“Yes, sir!”
A while after the warleaders had left, the flap of his tent opened once more. Mireynh looked up from the preliminary siege-fortress calculations. The ground was still soft enough to allow digging, and already hundreds of soldiers had begun with the trenches. “Keelan,” he said, nodding to the young woman entering. “Report.”
Gwennaith of House Keelan gave a curt nod. “Anne Cirrain will be busy teaching me the ropes, sir. I’ll see to it she has no chance to speak to her warband.”
“Once this is over your House will own a fleet.”
“Thank you, sir.” The lass saluted and left.
For a brief moment Mireynh wondered if, by his own actions, he was becoming a traitor as well. The thought passed quickly. He was here to conquer Danastaer and save his wife and children. To ensure their wellbeing there was nothing he would not do, including using others as pawns. House Cirrain had broken with Herascor, and that made any Cirrain presence a liability. It didn’t matter if Anneijhan was the most experienced of his warleaders. His family came first.
CHAPTER 14
Twenty-fifth of Chill 1475 K.C.
For the past couple of days Drangar had done nothing more than eat and sleep. He couldn’t remember ever having such a time of leisure. Not that his recovery was comfortable. The first two days he had hardly been able to lift a spoon, much less a mug. Only slowly did strength return to his limbs. The broth he had only sipped in the beginning was now enriched by bread and meat; still the fare was better than what he had cooked in his shepherd’s hut.
Eat and sleep, he hadn’t done much else. Even thinking was too much of an effort. Occasionally Neena Cahill had come to sit with him, other times it was her parents, but Lord Cahill’s presence he usually heard rather than saw. The older man’s voice boomed through the house. Where other mansions employed bells and such, and even though they were present and used by other members of the Cahill family, Sir Úistan preferred shouting. Not in anger, but when he needed a servant to do something, the man sounded very much like a drill-warden.
Now, as he was taking a few tentative steps up the stairs leading to the room in which his cousin Dalgor had attacked him, the wall supporting his weight, Lord Cahill’s voice thundered through the manor.
“Florence, where the bleeding Scales is Ralgon?”
“I don’t know, milord,” the girl’s reply sounded anxious.
The blanket around his shoulders slipped. He caught it with his right hand, the sudden movement sending waves of fatigue through his body. It had been a foolish thing to go for a walk in the first place. Headstrong oaf, he was nothing less. “Up here,” Drangar finally managed to croak.
At once several pairs of feet clattered up the stairs. All he could do now was turn around and slump down. Lord Cahill was, despite his age, the one leading the charge. “Ralgon!” he growled. “You’re an idiot!”
“Father!” Neena admonished.
“Not now, child,” Cahill said, giving his daughter a reproachful glance over his shoulder. Then, turning back to Drangar, he said, “This young man is barely able to chew some fried chicken and yet he deems it a good idea to go wandering about a house he hardly knows! What would you call that, Ralgon? Hmmm?”
He felt heat crawling up his face. “An idiot, sir,” he muttered.
“Aha! See, child, he calls himself thus, and rightly so.” Cahill again looked back at the attending servants. “Camran, Feoras, you two take our guest back to his bed. Kohar, you’ll fetch some ropes to restrain him.”
“Father!” Neena exclaimed again as the servants hurried downstairs, and Drangar was about to voice his irritation as well, but Úistan Cahill burst out in laughter.
“No, Kohar, wait! Don’t,” he said, with a guffaw. “Fetch some tea, and some of that ham we have in the pantry.” As the youth turned to hurry down again, Lord Cahill added, “And some bread!” A few moments later, “And cheese!” Before long Sir Úistan had ordered a small feast. To Drangar the nobleman said, “If you want to be up and about, boy, you’ll have to eat, eh?”
As Camran and Feoras hoisted him up, he nodded weakly. He was unsure whether he could stomach more than soaked bread, but if ever there was a time when he should best be out and about, it was now.
The two servants lowered him into his bed, his “Thank you” barely a whisper. Why was he so exhausted? What had Dalgor done to his body? He didn’t believe the Wizardess’ tale of him using magic. It was ridiculous to even consider such a thing; his cousin had cast a spell to weaken him. How had his flesh healed itself? The Fiend rumbled in the back of his mind, a low sound like a distant avalanche. Drangar took a deep breath, imagined he was sharpening a blade. It wasn’t as good as the real thing—he couldn’t have lifted a whetstone much less a sword—but it sufficed to silence the demonic terror.
He didn’t want to believe a god was looking out for him. Too many times this had proved wrong. If not Lesganagh… there had been other times he barely remembered what had happened to him during the furor of battle, when his comrades had thought him dead. A lucky sword stroke, an axe he hadn’t dodged fast enough, or so they claimed. No, it wasn’t magic but he remembered his flesh burning, the stench of smoldering hair, and the sight of charcoal skin reforming. Maybe a god was watching over him.
That was the only plausible explanation.
“Me using magic, yeah right,” he muttered.
“Sir?” the one named Camran asked.
“Nothing,” he replied absentmindedly. How could he use magic? He couldn’t, and with that answered he let out a long breath. Exhaustion finally got the better of him and just as he was about to close his eyes, Neena and her father entered. Following them was Kohar, carrying a tray laden with food.
“Father, I think it’s not right to force-feed him,” young Lady Cahill said.
“Child, he wants to be up and about, and by the look of it the city will soon need any able-bodied fighter.”
“Look at him!” she shrieked, pointing. “He can barely remain upright! Even if he were able to stand and walk, he is in no shape to fight.”
Úistan Cahill glanced at him. “Up to some real food, boy? I sure wouldn’t get better with broth day in day out.”
Seeing the huge noble, Drangar understood why such a man would eat meat and gravy when sick. Lord Cahill’s girth wasn’t massive; he rather displayed the same build as a hardworking lumberjack. No wonder this family had been so taken by Hesmera. “Some tea would be nice,” he finally said.
“Kohar, tea for our guest, and don’t be shy with the honey, we can afford it.”
The servant filled a mug and added a good-sized spoon of sweetener. “Need some help, sir?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “Let me try first.” He held out his hands, a gesture he had seen only in the very young or very drunk and wondered if either group would make him feel welcome. Carefully Kohar put the mug into his grip but kept one hand on the handle. The ceramic was hot. For a moment he trembled, the effort too much. Growling, he battled down the fatigue, and won. Then, after carefully putting the tankard to his lips, he drank. Neena was watching him anxiously, hands clasped in front of her lips. Her father was made of sterner stuff; he scrutinized Drangar, eyes slit, hands behind his back. After a moment and a few more sips, at the quick gesture of the nobleman, Kohar took the mug. “That’s enough, Ralgon, you aren’t cured just yet, and we best make sure you don’t overextend yourself, eh?”
“Meat, sir?” the servant asked, in his hands a chunk of ham.
He was about to voice his consent, when Neena stepped forward, taking the food off Kohar’s hands. “I’ll feed him.”
“No, you will not!” her father said sternly. “He isn’t one of your dolls, and you are not his servant.”
“But, father,” she complained.
“No, he saved your life; we give him shelter; that’s enough.” Lord Cahill nodded to Kohar. “Help him.”
“Yes, milord,” the servant replied, retrieving the ham. Neena, pouting, stuck out her tongue when her father wasn’t looking.
Was the Lady Cahill he’d met just six days ago just a façade, Drangar wondered, as he took a hesitant bite of the smoked meat. He chewed, swallowed, and then waited. When the bite remained inside, he smiled and nodded to Kohar who readily held the ham for him to eat.
He had no idea how good it was to eat smoked pork. In Carlgh he had rarely eaten anything but mutton in every imaginable form. Now he almost felt able to tell which wood had been used. After days of broth the ham truly was a treat. Another bite was chomped and swallowed. “More,” he mumbled between chews, realizing the meat was almost gone. Kohar let go of the last sliver, which he gulped down greedily. Next was bread. Gods, what a wonderful taste! He marveled at the flavor, enjoyed the feeling of the chips of half-ground grain that became lodged in his teeth. He chewed and swallowed, bit, chewed and swallowed. “More,” he said, half-eaten bread spilling out his mouth. He scooped it back in and continued. Cheese!
After a while—he couldn’t even tell how long it had been since his expedition to the stairwell—Drangar looked up from his meal and found the entire room, and the corridor beyond the door, filled with staring people. Leonore Cahill had joined her husband and daughter, and beside the noble family stood a concerned looking Kildanor. Everyone was staring at him.
“What?” he asked.
“Gods,” Neena said into the ensuing silence. Every female in sight mirrored her gesture: hands raised in astonishment.
“What is it?” Drangar repeated.
“Boy, I daresay you can be glad the rationing doesn’t concern this household,” Úistan Cahill deadpanned. “Yet, that is. At the rate you’re going, however, we might be down to eating rats within a week.”
“What are you talking about?” He looked around and refused to believe his eyes. A small wedge and lots of rind was all that was left of what must have been a massive cheese wheel. Lying next to it were two hooks commonly found in a smoking room, for the haunches of meat and those hooks were by no means small. Then there was a jar of honey, a huge kettle on the floor. The container was empty, except for a layer of tealeaves on the bottom. Perplexed, he looked at Lord Cahill who shook his head. “Don’t tell me I ate all that.”
