Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Uh,” the noble stammered.

  Neena stole a glance at her father, and then turned her attention back to Drangar. Now she was giggling, her eyes wide with amazement. “Gods,” she whispered.

  “What?” he said. “What is happening?”

  “I think you best see for yourself, young man,” Lady Leonore said. Clapping her hands, she called, “Florence, fetch the standing mirror from the wardrobe.”

  The lass bobbed her head and forced her way through the throng of onlookers. A few moments later she returned. This time the others made way for her. She placed the tall looking glass at the foot of his bed and pushed the shiny surface this way and that until he saw his reflection.

  Now he understood why such an audience had gathered. It was not because of the tremendous amounts of food he had consumed, although that alone was a goldmine for gossipy servants to keep yapping about for months to come. No, the truly astonishing thing happened right before his eyes!

  Drangar remembered how spindly his arms and legs had been when he had got out of bed, skin and bone, and not much else, a corpse in everything but the name.

  His body looked like a deflated hose that was slowly filling with water. There was more substance now, far more substance, and everything was moving outward from his stomach. He saw how the massive belly shrunk, how the food was somehow distributed between arms, legs, hands, feet, neck and face. He still looked like a mangled corpse, and definitely felt like one, but now it was a corpse of someone who had not starved to death.

  “What the Scales is happening?” he muttered, his eyes as wide as Florence and Neena’s.

  “Ask a Caretaker, boy. This is a bloody miracle.”

  If this was a god’s work, why not make his hair grow back also? Didn’t legend tell them that, despite his fierceness, Lesganagh was vain? If it wasn’t the Lord of Sun and War, which god was keeping him alive?

  The Fiend growled. It almost sounded like a guffaw. In Carlgh he had rarely heard it. Now, after his rebirth, it seemed a constant threatening companion.

  If this truly was a miracle, why then did Kildanor look so concerned? He inspected himself once again. Somehow the flesh beneath flabby skin spread, filling out his body. None of the tales ever spoke of the gods bringing a man back to life. So, who was this benefactor? As he watched, muscles corded and stretched forth.

  His comrades had said that when they had seen him sustain what they had thought was a lethal blow, he had come away unscathed. Had someone been healing him even then? Monsters grew back, returning from the dead to haunt the living.

  He was no monster.

  Was he?

  CHAPTER 15

  Rheanna Scadainh looked down the almost sheer drop. This side of Shadowpass the rocks had been prepared. A wave by Gail Caslin from across the gorge signaled they were set as well. She returned the gesture and headed back to the northern precipice overlooking the rundown inn and the dirt road to the village of Camlanh.

  Fynbar was on lookout. Her fellow Rider was lounging against a rock, eyes on the path below.

  “Hail the Lady of Health and Fertility,” she said, giving the greeting a mocking tone.

  Her companion glanced over his shoulder, squinted against the light in her back, and looked again to the north. “Up here you won’t get hail, a light drizzle maybe, but no hail.” The joke had grown common during the past few days, common and boring. The season up here stayed constantly at spring, and the dark clouds that were even now looming to the west would not bring the rain or hail they seemed to promise. Each storm brought a gentle dripping, enough to feed the numerous springs, but never threatening an avalanche. Unlike what the masons, along with the Riders’ help, had prepared for the cliffs.

  “Still they come,” Fynbar muttered, pointing at the tattered procession of carts visible through the naked branches of the trees. “How are we going to keep them fed?”

  She walked over to him and squeezed his shoulder. “Kyleigh and I worry about justice; you, Gail, Gavyn, even Nerran wonder about that problem.”

  “But…” he sputtered, and for a moment Rheanna was unsure whether he took her seriously. Then Fynbar continued, his toothy grin lighting the way, “somebody has to weigh the grain so that each and every one gets the proper amount, eh?”

  Her right hand smacked her forehead. “How could I forget?” she exclaimed in mock astonishment.

  Fynbar pulled his brown ponytail straight, a sure sign of boredom. Not that she blamed him; he hadn’t done anything but keep watch while the others had either driven wedges into solid rock or searched for some sword. The avalanche had been prepared, but the blade was still missing.

  “What’s that sword-business anyway?” he quipped.

  The sword, she had tried not to think on it too much. The name Ralgon, it sounded so much like Ralchanh. Almost as if… “Stop daydreaming, it doesn’t become a woman of your age,” her friend interrupted her. “Anyone found the damn thing?”

  “Let me guess, aside from looking about counting crows and such, you’ve had far too much time on your hands?” she replied, sitting down next to him. It felt good to be off her feet, there was work to be done still, but that would be farther down the pass, closer to Dunthiochagh. She stretched her legs and groaned in a mixture of pleasure and pain as several muscles popped back into place. “I miss Talaen,” she said after a moment. The mare had been with her for the past three years, most of which the Riders had spent on the road, travelling from one place to the next and bloodying their noses in business that wasn’t theirs.

  “Gods,” Fynbar said, frowning. “You’ve been off her back for less than a week, and already you want to be in the saddle?” He punched her playfully.

  “Yeah, and before that I was down with the sneezes for a whole damn month!”

  “You refused our help!”

  “It was just a cold,” she countered.

  “A cold doesn’t leave you shivering and sweating for a month, but no, our royal highness wanted to sweat it out.” He shook his head, staring north again.

  “I told you, that life is over.”

  “So that makes you any less noble?” Fynbar grabbed the water skin lying next to him and drank.

  “Noble are those who do noble deeds, not those who are born to privilege.”

  “Ironically enough, a villein usually never has the chance to think on these matters.”

  She glared at him, wanted to lash out, but saw the amused twinkle in his eye. Most of the Riders came from Kalduuhn, as did Fynbar. In the few months she had spent in the House of Judgment in Ma’tallon, on the darkest and lowest level of the city, the place where nobles and clergy lived and worked, she had lost the rest of her preconceptions. “Nobility is the pillar upon which the rest of the realm rests, if that pillar fails to be strong all will shatter” was a common saying in Kalduuhn’s capital. The people in Ma’tallon lived by it. Those with the most work were allowed the place of highest standing. No landowner put himself above his villeins or the freeborn; it was those common people who were held aloft above the nobility. Sure, there were still villeins in Kalduuhn, but they were few.

  “Well,” she finally said, “It is only to give them the chance to think, but how shall we do that? It is an imperfect world.”

  “I’m not imperfect!” Fynbar exclaimed.

  “Behold Caretaker Fynbar, a world on his own.”

  The Rider snorted. “We’d have to get a whole lot higher before we could even dream of putting our heads into the clouds.” He inclined his head to the west. There, miles and miles away from Shadowpass, snow still fell and lay upon the peaks, the Phoenix Wizards’ magic spent. “So, what about that sword?”

  What did he expect her to say? There was no news regarding the blade. Nerran had been his usual secretive self, only saying that it was a favor for a friend. They had speculated so many times at supper that several of their fellow Riders had, after two days, decided to leave their gossiping company. “Nothing,” she said. “Nerran is silent as e
ver. I think even he hardly knows what to look for.”

  They had found the cave, as Ghonair had said, but it was empty, no sword, and the refugees knew as little as them, simply happy to be out of harm’s way. The ironic thing about their destination was that they were not heading away from danger but straight toward it. They hoped Dunthiochagh would repel the Chanastardhians, and they might get their wish, but it would still be costly. Especially to those families who herded their livestock before them; if starvation didn’t kill the beasts, the butchers would. Even those who bore the Haggrainh or even the royal crest on their surcoats had not seen any but their own sword, and those of the enemy.

  There weren’t many warriors fleeing, at least not any recognizable as such. As long as they were willing to lend aid to Dunthiochagh’s defense in whatever way possible, they would be welcome. Some of them even volunteered to help bring down the mountain. Mostly it was people from Camlanh and Amargh, since those two villages were enough out of the way to be of lesser interest to the invaders, who seemed bent on blazing down the old Elven Road, taking only those places of direct importance, manor houses and such, and then Danastaer’s major cities: Harail and venerable Dunthiochagh. Why the Chanastardhian general hadn’t sent part of his army through the Shadowpeaks remained a mystery to her, but now the idiot would be unable to correct that mistake.

  “So, we still don’t know what we’re looking for?” Fynbar broke her reverie.

  “Nope.” She shook her head. A strand of blond hair blew into her face and she tucked it back behind her ear.

  “The bore,” her companion groaned.

  “Tell that to the ones down there searching every crevice.” She wanted to say more, but heavy footsteps interrupted. Both glanced back and saw Nerran heading their way. “Hail the Lord of Sun and War.” The joke had grown very stale, but Rheanna couldn’t help it.

  “Up here you won’t get hail, lass, only a light drizzle,” the Paladin replied. To Fynbar he said, “How many more?”

  “No idea, chief, look for yourself.” He pointed at the dots lining the road.

  “All grey and brown to me, bugger that,” Nerran grunted.

  “How long are we going to wait?” she asked.

  “A few days, no more, and then we bring the wall down.”

  “What about the sword?”

  Rheanna cast a mirthful glance at Fynbar and snorted.

  “Bugger the sword, should be there and it ain’t, this Ralgon person will have to do without it, I guess.”

  Ralgon, again the familiar ring in the name struck a chord. Before her mind’s eye she saw a strong-jawed man in black ceremonial robes, greatsword on his back. “Could it be?”

  “Could what be?” the two men asked in unison.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Nerran shrugged, saying, “Fynbar, you, Gavyn, and a few volunteers will stay on this side, Gail, Kyleigh and a bunch of others will remain on the other side. By noon in two days, you will warn off whoever is still on that road, and then you’ll bring the mountain down. If the Chanastardhians arrive early, don’t bother to warn anybody, just bring it down.” He turned and headed back the way he’d come. “Rhea, with me!”

  Nerran had already decided upon the spot of the next avalanche. Given his familiarity with the Shadowpeaks none of the others questioned his decision. Up here on top of the mountains, travel ought to have been difficult, but the centuries of Wizards altering the lay of the land had opened many paths. Amidst the cracks and stone outcrops, even riding was easy. Most of the time.

  Right now, the Riders and their growing entourage of masons and stonecutters from Camlanh and Amargh maneuvered along a precipice that offered a sheer drop for at least a hundred feet. They walked in single file, leading their horses along a ledge barely wide enough to allow room for the nervous steeds. Rheanna held the reins in her left hand, while the right either searched for handholds or trailed back to give Talaen’s muzzle a reassuring caress. The footing was safe enough, yet it seemed some of the craftsmen needed more reassurance than the horses.

  Every once in a while, the procession halted because some man or other huddled against the rock not daring to advance. Only the calming words of the various Caretakers among the Riders would coax them to move again. She had expected the stonecutters to be less afraid of heights, and quickly learned that some of those accompanying them were merely people who were content driving wedges into massive stone blocks instead of climbing on scaffolding and breaking them free.

  In a past life she had never bothered with manual laborers, quite happy with ordering legions of servants around. Those days were long gone, and although she sometimes longed to lead an easier life, her last few days in the palace still caused her nightmares.

  Her home was on Talaen’s back, and her family was the Riders, with Nerran being the grumpy father most of the time. Gone was the Crown Princess, she had died in the fire that had destroyed Haldain’s royal family.

  The procession moved again, quicker this time. As she rounded a bend, Rheanna saw that the ledge opened onto a wide plateau. Those in the lead quickly made way for the others, and soon she stood next to Briog.

  “Now I know why people are afraid of heights,” the Caretaker said.

  “I know what you mean,” she replied, scratching Talaen behind her ears. The mare nickered in appreciation. “Any idea how much further ‘til we reach the next spot?”

  Briog shook his head, “No clue. Unless Nerran wants to bring down the mountain every mile or so, I reckon it will be another half day’s march.”

  Soon the group walked on.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Stop looking at me like that,” Drangar grumbled.

  “This is a miracle,” the Caretaker said, still staring at him.

  “This is no fucking miracle.”

  Braigh ignored him and looked instead at Kildanor. “What do you think? Is this not a miracle?”

  The Chosen shook his head. “I can’t explain this, but then again nothing that’s happened to him makes sense.”

  “Don’t speak as if I’m not there!” Drangar snapped. It was noon now, and aside from his hair, which was still missing, flesh and color had returned. Indeed, he had eaten a few day’s worth of food in far less time than it took an entire family to do the same, but he had no idea how this had happened. He could barely recall devouring three hams, two loaves of bread and almost an entire wheel of cheese. A bite here or there, certainly, but not the amount everyone in the Cahill household had confirmed he had eaten. He heard the Fiend’s low chuckle. Why wouldn’t the monster leave him be?

  Despite people tending to his every need, he had paid little attention to the comings and goings. His thoughts had focused on the one question: was he a monster? The tales of Turuuk’s minions, Ethain and Ganaedor, had sprung up from the past, unbidden, as if they had never left. So many memories he had thought buried and done for came back. If the two brothers had come back to life, was he like them? No, he was not. “Caretaker,” he said, his voice firmer than it had been in days. “Is there something that can explain my condition?” The priest shook his head. “And you, Chosen? Any explanation, aside from me being a living miracle?” He didn’t buy this nonsense about Lesganagh protecting him. Unless the Lord of Sun and War had suddenly become a lady, there was no doubt someone else was looking out for him. The male voice in the void had threatened him and two women had stood at his side, defending.

  Kildanor stared at him, but in a way his eyes seemed unseeing. A moment later, the Chosen blinked. “What was that?”

  “I asked if you had any explanation that does not involve the word miracle,” he repeated. He wondered why the warrior was daydreaming, but remained silent, waiting for an answer.

  The Chosen gave none.

  Caretaker Braigh moved up to him and checked his heartbeat. “I see no point in keeping you in bed.”

  “Tell that to Neena Cahill,” he replied. “She insists I need more rest.” Hesmera’s friend had defied
her parents, maintaining he was too weak still to be moving about. After her second tantrum, they all had relented. The rest had certainly been refreshing. He felt better than he had before, but now Drangar was itching to be out of the confines of his room.

  “I’ll tell her,” the priest said, leaving the chamber.

  “Have you thought on what to do?” Kildanor asked.

  He snorted. “I was half dead, man. Think I had time to worry about anything except feeling miserable?”

  “You’ve been feeling miserable ever since the Cherkont butchery. You said it yourself you aren’t responsible.”

  “Cherkont butchery, eh? Does that make me the butcher?” He sat up. “I might not be the one that was holding the reins when the killing happened, but my presence caused her death. I know why she died, but I have no idea why the Sons of Traksor want me dead. I have to get to Kalduuhn.” Or, he added silently, why he was still alive when common sense told him he should have died twice already. Maybe the thought of being a monster had its merits. Even so, he would fight it every step of the way. The Fiend would not take control again.

  “There’s still a siege,” the Chosen stated.

  He was well aware of the situation. “What of Shadowpass,” he said. “A detour of a few weeks won’t matter, I reckon.”

  “The pass will be shut soon.”

  “What?” He knew he was gaping at Kildanor.

  “In a few days the gorge will be…” the Chosen’s reply was cut short by the opening of the door. Neena Cahill stormed in, Caretaker Braigh hard on her heels.

  “This priest,” she said, pointing a thumb at the Eanaighist, “claims you are well.” She took a deep breath before continuing, “I know you, Drangar. Hesmera told me all about you, once you’ve set your mind on something, you won’t be stopped for whatever reason, but you have just recovered.” Seeing the noblewoman like this, anxious, desperate, and very worried, almost made him relent. He remained upright, watching her pace the room. “You cannot leave!” she finally said.