Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  The Chanastardhians were not only bearing stretchers to white tents where others, presumably Eanaigh’s Caretakers, received their load, but some of them carried… he halted, breath hissing through his nostrils, clouding his vision. One, no two, there were more people now, kneeling on the frozen ground retching. The load seemed easier to carry on an empty stomach, and a moment later the Hand understood why the bearers had puked their guts out.

  One person, at the distance it was hard to tell man from woman, stumbled, almost dropping his load, and suddenly there was a third arm dragging on the ground. The thunder must have ripped the enemy apart. Jesgar wondered who the lucky ones were, the survivors, or those who had been blasted to the Bailey Majestic, their bodies splattered across the camp. All the tales he had heard from Nerran’s Riders on their inspection of the castles came back to him. Briog had told him war was not pretty, and now, as he crawled closer, almost coming face to face with a head mangled beyond recognition by wood splinters, he finally understood what the Rider had meant. War was not pretty or glorious. War was slaughter; just as the Cherkont murder two years ago had been senseless it was pointless because nothing was left of the victims to remind one of the living.

  Thankfully, after Cherkont Street, after seeing those little lumps of flesh scattered about the room, the sight and smell of the mutilated head barely affected him. If this was the Wizardess’ doing, Jesgar was glad magic was no longer in the world. He even understood Lord Kildanor’s resentment of the woman. If magic could tear into people like this, and rip them apart, mankind was better off without it.

  He crawled closer. Now he heard weeping, warriors shouting the names of their companions, the despair in their voices, the joy when finding each other alive, but amidst the sobbing, lamentation, rejoicing there also were shouts swearing bloody revenge on the people of Dunthiochagh. As he inched his way toward the outrage and anger, he heard the Chanastardhians pronouncing oaths to kill everyone who would not yield and rape those who would. His thoughts turned back north, to Bennath and Maire, his only family. He knew neither of them would yield. From the blood oaths he heard them swear, he saw before him how both would be killed, ripped apart like the poor sod whose torso lay before him.

  The shouts of the enemy in front of him and the death cries of his family mixed together, and through that cacophony he heard first Nerran’s and then Baron Duasonh’s stern voice.

  “This is war, lad,” Nerran said. “People die and the survivors swear to avenge the dead. Think of your mission.”

  Then the Baron added, “Son, if you succeed we may save the city, so get out there and dig!”

  Then, curiously, he heard Upholder Coimharrin’s voice. “There’s rules and there’s rules, and you have to know which is which, for in battle there are no rules, not really.”

  Swallowing the bile in his throat, Jesgar crept on.

  “I found another one!” a voice ahead of him shouted. The man came from the Flannardh Valley, right north of the border. The accent was more Danastaerian than anything he had heard so far. People from Camlanh spoke like this. By now Jesgar could hardly feel his body, despite the woolen and leather clothes. “She’s alive!” the man from the Valley shouted. “Get a stretcher!”

  He knew he could not replace any armed man, for their wardens and captains would know their faces. Duasonh had ordered him to play the role of a member of the wagon train following the invaders. At least he looked the part, fighters barely noticed the attending hordes of followers, unless they needed a man or woman and even then, most faces would be lost in the grey of a tent or wagon. Then again, he knew how to handle a hammer, so why not a builder.

  Or a worker?

  In the ditch before him lay another body, a woman, her torso shredded so only the fair face showed her gender. For a moment he felt like vomiting, but it passed. Cherkont had been worse, he reminded himself again. The more bloodshed he saw the less it affected him. Was that how Lord Kildanor felt? He crawled a few yards farther, away from the corpse, poked his head up and scanned his surroundings. No one was watching, the warriors in sight still busy exploring the wreckage near the camp. First, he hunched, standing slowly, and then shuffled back to the body. When he arrived, a few moments passed as he adjusted his way of speech to that of a Valley-man, and then shouted, “Here is another!”

  There was an immediate reaction. A pair of Chanastardhian men-at-arms carrying torches hurried his way. “Alive?” one of them asked.

  “She’s dead,” he replied.

  The two came closer, and he averted his face to avoid the light’s glare. “Damn, you got good eyes, man!” one of them exclaimed, peering into the ditch.

  “Get shovel and pick and bury her, nothing else to do.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jesgar said and hurried toward the camp, certain both items could be found easily.

  CHAPTER 23

  Restless. Somehow things did not feel right. Drangar laughed bitterly. When, in the past almost three years, had things felt right? Nothing had made sense ever since Hesmera’s death; the now was no different from the then. Death had always seemed final, the last hoop everybody had to jump through, the last curtain to fall. Death should have been a release, even had he ended up as a pisspot in the gods’ hall for all he had done.

  He had not ended up in the Bailey Majestic, though. Was all the talk of it a sham? Were the gods just playing with them? Or was it just him who had come back and where had he gone to in the first place?

  Frustration. What could he do? Where could he go now that all avenues, all paths were blocked? Winter was scant days off. Soon the grey and brown slush would be covered by white, covering all the scars and hurt and death. No wonder it was the color of mourning. A pristine white robe hid everything. Just as snow did.

  The low grumbling returned. The Fiend. For years he hadn’t heard it, thought it gone, or was a figment of his drunken stupors. Now, it was back. Had it ever truly left him? Was he mad? Was he one of those who would talk with different voices? Possessed by another personality?

  No. He shook his head, staring at his booted feet. No, he was not one of those. If he was not, what then was the Fiend? In the turret he had, for the first time in his life, been able to guide the furor. It had felt like a wild horse, buckling, fighting for control. It was a first, like there had been so many firsts in his life of late.

  Why had it returned now?

  He recalled the many times he had lost himself in the blood red rage when he had torn into an enemy shield wall. Always anger had clouded his mind. Anger at the slights, the taunts, the maltreatment others had wrought upon him.

  Was that the key?

  In Carlgh, as shepherd, he had struggled to banish the evil memories, directing the anger toward himself.

  He stood, left his room, and walked down the corridor toward the stairs leading to the turret room. Halfway up, he paused. What use was there in revisiting the past? The spirit had shown him what had really happened the night Hesmera died, because he could not remember. Things were different here, now. He recalled everything, from the clarity of mind when Dalgor had threatened the two women and taunted him, to the cold surge of determination that had reined the Fiend back.

  The Fiend had come forth then, unbidden. Neither had he been drunk, nor had he chanted himself into madness. Madness, which was what his charging of the enemy wall had always been: insanity. It was mad to barrel into a barrier of wood and iron thorns. Back then he had lost himself to the havoc, the mayhem, the bloodshed. He heard the Fiend, almost howling in triumph. No. He would not lose himself to that again. Never.

  How long he had stood there, gripping the handrail, he did not know. Judging from the white on his knuckles, though, it had been a while. Frustration still rolled through his head. It seemed to be edging the Fiend on. He could not make out words, but the growl almost sounded like a language. Almost, but not quite.

  On his way to the kitchen he met Camran. The servant nodded his head in greeting and had almost passed him, when Dra
ngar spoke. “Is there a place where I can…” he searched for the right word.

  “Practice?” Camran asked.

  It wasn’t the word he was looking for, but it suited better than any that had come to mind. “Aye.”

  “Follow me.”

  They headed through the manor, past a couple of ornate doors and the grand hallway with its double doors leading out. The path Camran took was not one of those side passages. Rather, it was the main corridor, one of three leading away from the entrance. This Drangar had not expected. He was even more surprised when the servant stopped in front of a door that had, in an earlier age, been crafted with magnificent carvings and scrollwork, all of which looked rather demolished now. As if someone had taken a hammer to it repeatedly. “Here,” Camran said.

  By all rights the position of the chamber was perfect to be the grand hall, the place where a lord holds court, festivities were celebrated, not a weapons’ practice room. “Are you certain?” Drangar asked doubtfully.

  Camran cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve worked here for the best part of a decade, sir. Of course I am sure.” The servant opened the door. “Would this be all?”

  He caught a glimpse of weapons racks and dummies lining the far wall. The ceiling was held up by pillared arches, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this hall had indeed been meant for banquets before Úistan Cahill had turned it into an armory. “Whetstone?” he asked, still staring into the gloomy interior. “And light.”

  Camran slipped by and entered the murk. Somewhere a shaft of light pierced the twilight, a curtain set in motion by the servant’s passing. Then, with the retainer’s rushes-covered footsteps growing fainter, he followed, carefully.

  “It isn’t much,” the voice sounded from ahead and right. “The old Lord Cahill never bothered that much with windows. Glass is still costly, and to install bigger ones would mean tearing down the walls and rebuilding.” A winch shrieked and chains in desperate need of oiling creaked. “Needs more care, I always tell the master, but lamps do just fine, he always says.” The dusty air was filled with first a curtain, and then, slowly, a pillar of light. “Instead of rebuilding the walls with bigger windows he had the skylight built.”

  The room almost glowed, daylight reflected off steely surfaces of shields, breastplates, even the occasional axe head. Impressed, Drangar stood and took in the armory’s vista. This chamber had indeed been a banquet hall in a former life. There were still some hangings on the walls, their colors faded, but on one or two he thought he saw hunt motifs. On the opposite wall, crowning the fireplace, hung a banner, black antlers on white star. “What’s this?” he asked, eyes not leaving the piece of heraldry.

  “Old crest, from the days before the Heir-War, long before House Duasonh came to power,” Camran explained with a shrug. “History, long-gone glory, milord Cahill doesn’t want to part with it.”

  How long had House Cahill been in Dunthiochagh? Had they ruled over Dargh and been replaced by House Duasonh? He knew too little of the city’s past to decide, and even if this was so, Sir Úistan seemed content with the way things were.

  “When the light doesn’t suffice, there’s a tinderbox here, on the mantelpiece. Camran pointed at the cube sitting on the ledge. “Whetstones are in the wicker chests. Would that be all, sir?”

  Uncomfortable, Drangar looked around. It was as if he could almost feel the Fiend leering at the weapons. He hadn’t been near this many in years, the last time with Mireynh when Kerral… No! Anger was the key that the Fiend needed to throw off whatever chains held him. If there was one thing he should not do it was giving in to anger. “That’ll be all, Camran, thanks,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Whether the other noticed his distress he couldn’t tell, it hardly mattered. He heard the door close behind him, and for long moments he stood in the middle of the room, staring at the assorted instruments of death. The Fiend edged him on, taunted him, urged him to take a weapon and shed blood. It rejoiced when he made a few long strides to stand before the rack of greatswords, massive blades almost as tall as himself.

  Back in Carlgh the Fiend had been quiet when he had pried his sword from its sheath, Hesmera’s blood gluing metal to leather. Had his guilt really kept the monster at bay? Even with the wooden practice sword, on the Palace’s inner bailey, the Fiend had remained silent. Now it was almost singing with bloodcurdling joy. No.

  The steel was well cared for, not really in need of the stone, but running it up and down the edge, honing it, had worked before. Why not now? Drangar retrieved a whetstone from one of the chests and settled on the floor right underneath the skylight. It almost felt as if he was sitting in one of those elven gardens, walled in and still beneath the sun. Yet the only thing that sang was the steel humming to the rhythm of his moving hand.

  The Fiend quieted.

  Up and down the whetstone went, and the familiar sound calmed him better than any amount of tea or milk or… love? Could he ever love again? Was this all he would ever know? The song of steel. Would he have time to learn more? He knew no answer to any of these questions. What only days ago had seemed so clearly cut –finding the villains and avenging Hesmera’s death—had become so much more complicated. Dalgor had used magic, but so had he. At least according to Kildanor and Ealisaid. Why was it he couldn’t remember? He had forced the Fiend to obey his will, for the first time. Had it used magic in his stead? The thought frightened him. If the monster in his head could still do whatever it wished, had he really been in control?

  What about the bastards who had caused Hesmera’s death? What was it their leader had said? That they had wanted to break his will to fight but had they truly wanted him to kill her?

  The thoughts were there, much like before, but instead of anger surging up within, Drangar felt calm. Not quite at peace but hardly the despair and hatred he had focused on himself for so long. Sharpening steel truly helped.

  “Ah! There you are!” a man bellowed from the door.

  He finished the downward motion of the whetstone and stopped, turning, squinting, to see who it was. “Sir Úistan,” he said, rising as the greatsword slid from his hand.

  “Any of the blades lacking an edge?” Lord Cahill asked, walking toward him. “I’ll have Feoras peeling turnips for a week. He’s supposed to take care of them.”

  “No, sir, nothing of that sort.” He felt silly but spoke his mind anyway. “It helps me think, whetting a blade I mean.”

  “Ah, well, suit yourself. But as long as you are here, I was wondering if you’d teach my family to fight.”

  Taken aback, Drangar didn’t know how to reply. He looked at his host, stunned. “I… I don’t think I am the right person for that, milord.” Which was only part of the truth, but he was loath to admit he feared his temper; if it rose, the Fiend, he was certain, would find a way to surge forward again. “I never led people.”

  “Nonsense, friend.” Cahill shook his head. Had he even listened? “War’s almost at our door, and I cannot attend to Leo and Neena as much as I’d like. Business matters, you know.” He paused a moment, frowning. “And besides, looks like your hands still know what they are doing.” He pointed to… the sword in his grasp. Hadn’t he let go of it?

  Drangar recoiled, the blade clattering to the ground. He had let it slide out of his grip when Sir Úistan had come closer, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? Now that he thought about it, he had meant for the sword to leave his hand, had felt the leather-wrapped hilt slide down his palm. He had never heard the steel hitting the floor. Was the Fiend controlling his body even now? Or had it been some reflex his hand had not forgotten? “I… I” he stammered, this time more shocked at the sword than Lord Cahill’s suggestion.

  “If you prefer practice blades, there are some in the corner,” Sir Úistan said. “Yes, I think that would be better.” After a brief pause, the nobleman continued. “Don’t look so frightened, man.” He slapped his shoulder in a friendly manner, but Drangar thought he saw a hint of worry creep into the noble’s eyes. Or
was he just projecting his own concern into Cahill’s face? “Old warhorses like us don’t forget all our tricks.” A hearty laugh followed, but again he was unsure if this was just for show.

  “You fought in the wall, sir?” Drangar asked tentatively.

  “Wall?” Sir Úistan echoed, in a shocked voice. “Scales, no! Never been in one, only fought at tournaments. Sword, axe, lance, you know the manliest of games!”

  “You mean the dumbest of games, Úistan!” someone, Leonore most like, shouted from the door. Drangar found himself agreeing with the lady of the house. Even in his mercenary days he had looked upon those who fought for sport with disdain. Harming another for an audience’s enjoyment was what elves did. Even a brawl in a tavern had more meaning than the nobility bashing each other’s skulls in on the field of honor. There was no honor in killing for fun.

  With a start he realized the Fiend was gone.

  “What is wrong with a display of skills?” Lord Cahill was addressing him; he knew but found no words to say.

  “Juggling is a skill, pottery also, but I see no art in murder and dismemberment,” Lady Cahill said.

  “Be that as it may, my love, our guest here will train you in the art of self-defense.”

  It was rude to openly mock one’s host, so he remained silent. Lady Leonore had no such concerns; she scoffed and shook her head. “Dear, I love you, but you have no idea what art is.” Before her husband could reply, she spoke on. “No matter, we will learn how to defend ourselves, all right?”

  “That’s all I needed to hear,” Sir Úistan said, smiling. He leaned in and kissed his wife. “I have business in the city. Treat them well, Ralgon.”