by Ulff Lehmann
“Who said anything about leaving?” he asked. “There is no way out it seems. Still, Lady Neena, you have to understand I need to end this sooner rather than later or everyone around me may suffer the consequences of my inaction. Your mother and you were innocents, yet the bastard cared not! I have to end this!”
She halted, stared at him, her hands wringing her shawl. “I…” she fell silent.
“I know,” he said. “I saw and heard, remember?”
“Lady Cahill,” Braigh intervened, his face determined. “You may keep watch over him, but he isn’t ill any longer. If he wants to leave, he may. If he wants to walk the streets, let him. He is healthy.”
Healthy, the word sounded wrong. Yes, his body felt all right, but there was still the Fiend’s low murmur, a humming that was never quite gone. Could he tell them? Should he tell them? He was about to open his mouth when Kildanor spoke.
“A word with you, Ralgon? Alone?”
Huffing, Neena Cahill allowed the priest to lead her out of the room. With the door closing behind them, the Chosen took a deep breath and said, “You are in danger.”
“Really?” he asked, giving Kildanor a lopsided snicker. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t joke.”
“And I am no dull-witted imbecile fighter either. I know there’s something not right with me. No one comes back from the dead, twice. And the priest calls this a miracle! It isn’t! If it was, whatever god is watching over me must consider all of this a good joke.”
“I know.” This confession halted his tirade, if only for a moment.
“That I was blessed by Lesganagh, a myth, a fiery tale spun by people who couldn’t explain how I managed to survive unscathed my many clashes with shield walls.” He paused, regarding the Chosen. “You are Lesganagh’s instruments, are you not?”
“Aye,” Kildanor said.
“And how many of your brethren returned to life?”
“None.” The answer rang with defeat.
“Why should the Lord of Sun and War piss on his Chosen and instead bring some suicidal madman who stormed one too many walls back to life?”
He wasn’t aware of having raised his voice, but suddenly the door flew open again and in stormed Neena Cahill, Braigh and the girl Florence hard on her heels. “I told you…” Her reproach halted in midsentence. “Oh,” she said, sounding a little subdued. The resemblance between her and Sir Úistan showed as she regained her composure. Standing straight, she regarded them. “Very well, he may walk about, but if you are wrong, Caretaker, I’ll have you here day and night to look after him.” To Drangar it seemed as if Braigh wanted to protest, but Neena spoke on, “I will tolerate no argument! Your decision, your responsibility. He drops”—she pointed at him—“you bathe and feed him, understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the Caretaker stuttered.
“Come then,” Kildanor said, obviously mulling over his words, as he laid an arm around Braigh’s shoulders and steered him out. “I think it’s you who needs some rest now.”
As the door closed behind the uneven pair, Neena proclaimed with more than a touch of pride, “I am my father’s daughter!”
“That you are,” he confirmed. “Now”—he looked about—“I guess I need some clothes.”
“Uh,” the young noblewoman muttered. “Florence, with me!” Then she was out of the room as well, rattling off instructions to the maid who followed in her wake.
A short while later Kohar entered; a pile of clothes and a pair of boots under one arm. “Hope they fit, sir,” the servant said, putting his load onto the single chair in the room. “They’re mine, sir. All except the boots, sir, they’re Feoras’s.”
Not that he really cared whom they belonged to. The prospect of wearing something other than a nightgown was appealing enough; the one he wore was rank with sweat.
“I need to wash.”
“Certainly, sir, water will be heated in no time.” The wiry servant bowed and headed for the door, but Drangar clearing his throat made him stop. “Sir?”
“No hot water needed. Water from the well is fine.”
For a moment Kohar stared, and then nodded. “Certainly, sir, cold water it is. Soap?”
“Naturally.” What was the point of a bath if one couldn’t scrub the body clean? “And a knife for shaving,” he added.
The servant blinked. “Sir?”
“I haven’t shaved in days,” he explained. His eyes fell on his hairless reflection. “Never mind.”
“Soap and water, and towels, it is then,” Kohar said, bowed, and left him alone, staring at his reflection. Days ago, he would have brushed fingers through his mane, now, as he touched his head, he felt only skin.
Panic took hold of him and he pulled up the nightgown. His entire body was free of hair. He had seen newborns with more locks. Again, he heard the Fiend’s mocking laughter. A shake of the head and he was alone once more. “Gods,” he muttered staring at the mirror. “What’s happening to me?”
A short while later, Kohar returned with a deep bowl, soap and some towels. Florence followed, carrying a big pitcher of water. On her heels came Neena, armed with a pitcher as well.
He frowned. “You don’t have to do that.”
“What kind of leader would I be if I shirked menial tasks,” the noblewoman replied as she set the second pitcher on the table next to the fireplace. “If you’d rather bathe, I’m sure we can arrange something.”
Was she still infatuated with him? As he poured water into the bowl, he caught her looking at him. In her eyes there might have been a glimmer of affection, but he was no good judge of women’s expressions, and with the monster lurking inside his mind he had other things to worry about. Had he known Hesmera wanted him as well, he might have made his move sooner but that was in the past now. “I think I’ll make do with this for now,” he said.
“If you need something call, Florence will wait outside.” Neena ushered the two servants out and followed them.
The water was cold but given the mist that still lingered in the streets any liquid drawn from the well was bound to be freezing. “I thank thee, Weatherlord,” he muttered listlessly. A very brief prayer, he was unsure of what to be thankful for in the first place. Water would be in the world long after he was gone, if anything could kill him. Maybe he would never enter the Bailey Majestic and be weighed upon Lliania’s Scales. What if he truly could not die? What if the dark void would wait for him once someone managed to slay him? How long would he stay there? Until he regenerated again? Would the Fiend always wait there for him?
Leaning over the bowl, he scrubbed his face and scalp. Then, shedding the nightgown, he plunged one of the towels into the water, rubbed soap into the dripping cloth and washed his entire body. It had been in Dunthiochagh when he had last washed this way. Somehow it was ironic that he again washed like this in the city that had caused all his nightmares. The straw on the floor was bound to be changed anyway, wet as it already was, so Drangar had no qualms about dripping water where he stood. He could have asked for a bath, certainly, but he had been lying about so long that soaking in a tub was nothing he wanted to do in the near future. Maybe some other time. Now, with cold water running all over his body, he could feel that the stones underneath his feet were warm. The Cahill residence certainly had all the comforts of the old world. He wished he could have met these caring, generous people when Hesmera had still lived.
As he soaked the towel once more, freeing it of soap, he realized that, probably for the first time, his thoughts of Hesmera were not tinged with self-loathing. His grief was still there, yes, but it was cleaner.
The wet towel ran down his arms, chest legs, he turned and beheld his naked, hairless form in the mirror. Would the hair grow back? He had no idea, but losing it was a good price to pay for the knowledge of who was behind the attacks and her death. Was that the only price he had paid? He waited, expecting the Fiend’s chuckle, but nothing came.
“Darlontor, you bastard,” he grow
led.
But it must have been everybody at the Eye. After fourteen years of absence his memory was a blur when it came to his childhood, and of those with whom he had lived there. Of course, he remembered the man he had called father, and Dalgor. There was Anya; she had taught him how to fight. All of them had been distant, maybe even afraid but why? They all were followers of Lesganagh. Why would they be afraid of one who was, as they all had claimed, blessed by the god? The rumor had started even before he had become a mercenary. Had he explained the source of his prowess in a night of boozing? He didn’t remember.
After drying his skin, he brushed the wet straw together with his feet. Only after that task was done, did he sink onto the bed and pulled on the woolen socks. Though finely knitted, they felt coarse on his skin. Next was the loincloth, weaved linen that, days ago, wouldn’t have bothered him. Now it itched. He slipped into shirt and tunic, both looked about as well made as the undergarment, but were like sand on his skin. Finally, the pants. It took him a few moments to adjust. In bed he hadn’t felt the surface of things as he did now. The cold water had made his skin more sensitive, but maybe it was because he had been so weak and hardly felt anything at all.
A look in the mirror showed the clothes were not made for him; he seemed too lanky, arms too long, shoulders too broad. “I look a fool,” Drangar said, sneering at his reflection. The boots, however, fit perfectly but now the itch of the wool was even more pronounced.
There was a knock on the door, followed by Florence asking, “May I enter?”
“Sure,” he replied, scratching his elbow. The girl entered and stifled a giggle. “Fetching, eh?” he said, grateful for the Fiend’s ongoing silence.
“I’m certain the mistress will have the tailor over by tomorrow.” Florence looked about the room, saw the pile of wet straw and the mess he had made in front of the table. “Feoras has a cloak laid out for you, sir, should you want to take a walk.”
“Thank you.” He still struggled against scratching every spot where the fabric was chafing his skin.
“Master Úistan asked me to tell you that you are a guest here,” the servant continued.
It was common to pronounce visitors as guests. Rights and duties came with the proclamation, but he didn’t mind. If they welcomed him, he would be more than glad to help in whatever capacity Lord Cahill deemed helpful. “I shall abide by the guest-law,” he repeated the time-honored phrase.
“I’ll clean up now.”
Drangar nodded his thanks and left the room. Now that he was free to roam the Manor, he decided to take a better look at what his new, albeit temporary, home was like.
To his left and right ran the corridor he already knew. For an instant the vision of the blackened hallway flashed before his eyes, followed by a fiendish howl. He pushed the memory aside and focused on his surroundings. Anything was better than to look into the eye of horror again.
Unlike his room the smoothed stone floor here was carpeted. In all likelihood the chamber he slept in was little more than a storage space cleared for him. That at least explained the straw. To his left were stairs leading up and down. These lacked coverings, but the finely crafted handrails embedded into the wall again showed how wealthy his hosts were. On his right a few doors led onto the corridor. None were open and he did not enter. Guest-right only went as far as a closed door, but from the lack of decorations and general plainness of the portals he guessed that servant quarters were behind them.
Downstairs he went, and at the bottom came to an open door leading into the kitchen. This massive room he had seen once before, but now, by locating the door he had passed through almost a week earlier, he finally knew where to go.
Inside, a band of scullions and cooks busied themselves at preparing what could only be supper. One of the cooks, a big, bald man, looked up when he entered. A frown creased the man’s face as he glared at him.
“So, you’re the one devouring my stores,” the man stated.
Instead of answering directly, Drangar shrugged. “I thought the entire household was in the audience.” He hoped the man would react to the joke.
The cook scoffed. “Some have to work, you know, lad.”
“Need a hand?” He might as well start with the chores now. There was no time but the present. Again, a saying he wouldn’t have thought of in Carlgh.
“From deathbed to workbench, eh? Great minds must all be bald, no?” The cook pointed at a pile of sacks. “Think you can carry these? It’s flour, it is.”
Sooner or later he would have to test his strength anyway, he decided. “I’ll try,” Drangar replied. He walked over to the pile and picked up a sack. Initially his body protested, but that moment passed, and he shouldered the bag. “Where to?” he grunted.
“Hoi, Alva, show him to the dry-room,” the cook yelled at one of the scullions.
The boy led the way. A door next to the one he had come through opened onto another stairwell. This one led down, presumably to the pantry, and up, to a room well enough off the ground to prevent mildew.
“Here, sir,” the boy said, pointing at the only door at the end of a short corridor. “It’s the dry-room. Only cats and us cooks come here. No rats or mice ‘cause of the cats. Door’s unlocked.” Alva was off again.
The work wasn’t hard. Once accustomed to the weight on his shoulder, he finished it quickly. When the last sack was stashed away he turned to the cook, Glen. “Anything else I can do?”
“Nah, lad, that’ll be all for now, if we need some wood cut I’ll make sure to call you, I will.”
Drangar gave the kitchen staff a brief salute and headed out; leaving the manor through the same door he had come through on the night cousin Dalgor had almost killed him.
CHAPTER 17
On his first day of training, Jesgar had determined that Librarian Megan was a true piece of work. Today, the hag confirmed this assessment. Back when he had learned his letters here at Traghnalach’s Library his instructors had always steered him out of her sights. Now he understood why. The woman was a bossy know-it-all and what was worse: she usually was right.
“No, no, the coastal dialect is throaty, think of how you speak with a sore throat. Only, well, you don’t have one. Understand?” She hobbled through her chamber.
No, he did not understand, but would be a fool to tell her. Every time he left the dialect lessons he was hardly able to speak, let alone distinguish regional accents. Of all nations, Kalduuhneans spoke the clearest, since the kingdom had in part been founded by elves. Danastaerians could be categorized into three dialects, close-to-Gathran, Dargh, and Janagast, with a smattering of Chanastardhian mixed in. After two days, he could already hear by the way someone was talking from which region of Danastaer they hailed. Everything, Megan had explained, stemmed from the elven tongue. Why this was so, she either didn’t know or didn’t want to tell him. Right now, he tried to unlock the mysteries of the costal dialects. Merthain and Chanastardh had many harbors, fishing villages and such, and the language there was distinctly different. True, sailors rarely ventured up any river and in Dunthiochagh’s taverns people usually spoke without sounding as if they were choking. There were still more regions to cover.
“Boy, if you don’t grasp this, you will truly despair when I start teaching you about the northmen,” Megan said.
“Northmen?” he echoed dumbly. Was there anything further north than Chanastardh?
“Aye, northmen, boy. Half their language is dwarven.”
Now the Librarian had his undivided attention. “They know the dwarves?” The stone and steel masters were not much more than a legend. Travelers who had come to the forge to get a darven blade fixed proved that they did exist. Ben, Jesgar’s brother, usually considered such things trivial but with those weapons, Ben labored for days and still had to return a marred blade to the owner.
“Few men have ever befriended the stone-masters, but the northmen have lived with the dwarves for generations. One could almost compare their situation to that of K
alduuhn, the only difference being that the dwarves never left. Well, technically the Kalduuhnean elves didn’t leave either, but they withdrew from Ma’tallon and now live someplace else.”
“Why do so few people befriend the dwarves?”
“Mainly because the dwarves know mortals, and our greed. The first men asked the dwarves for arms and armor, and it was given freely, but then they demanded more, and the dwarves refused. They locked themselves into the stone and rarely ventured out. Now, if they create metalwork for anyone, that person has to be very persistent. A petitioner has to fast and meditate for months, and then, maybe, he will get what he came for. Most just walk away, because the wait is too long. One might never know when it is over.”
“Why do they have to do that?” he asked.
“As I said, initially the dwarves gave freely what they crafted, but greed turned their art into profit where they sought only perfection. So, when they found out that every promise a human made was broken, they decreed only those with strong willpower could earn their works. Greedy people are by nature impatient, wanting to make fast profit. The wait just was too much.”
For a moment Jesgar was at a loss. If he had the chance to get a dwarf-made weapon, he would wait.
“I’ve seen that look on many a face, boy,” Megan said, chuckling. “None of you know what that waiting means. Scales, you’re already sick of our little lessons. You’re impatient.”
The Librarian had a point. Briefly he imagined what a Northman sounded like, but that thought was interrupted by Librarian Megan, who tapped his elbow with her cane.
“No daydreaming, boy,” the old woman snapped. “We have more work to do. If you truly want to be what the Baron wants you to be, you need to fit in.” When he rolled his eyes, the tap became a smack. “I may be old, but I am neither blind nor stupid. Do you think an official from Herascor would believe you were a noble from Merthain if you don’t sound like one? I think not! Now, again!”
