Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  “I will, milord.”

  Standing there, before the two armed noblewomen, Drangar felt uncomfortable. They expected him to instruct them, to teach them not to be afraid when facing the enemy. “Truth be told you should be afraid,” he said, whirling the wooden practice blade. “Fear is what keeps you alive.”

  “But you…” Neena began. His look must have been so forlorn she fell silent immediately.

  “I was too angry to be afraid, or too mad, I don’t know.” He took a deep breath, shook his head and continued. “The bastards will come in here, looking for plunder, and it matters little you are of noble blood.”

  Leonore Cahill leaned on her piece of wood as if it were a cane. “So, what shall we do when they decide to rape us?”

  “If they already are upon you, bite, scratch, make them pay for it, pray you still have a dagger to end either your life or theirs. Chances are you won’t be able to hold them off anyway. Not if they come in packs, and I’ve heard what some of the Chanastardhian Houses are capable of.”

  “Noblemen behave like this as well?” Neena asked, shocked.

  “There’s nothing noble in the men I have seen.” Somewhere in the back of his mind the Fiend stirred. He pushed the gruesome images of his past back. The monster quieted. “Best to never let them come close.”

  “Don’t talk, teach!” Lady Leonore said, her voice as commanding as a drill-warden’s.

  What did he know of personal combat? He had never fought in a wall, had never had to push Spears and Swords back. He had broken walls and men. There were few things he remembered from his time at the Eye, but they involved shields, and by the look of it the ladies Cahill were familiar with needles only. A sweeping look around the room revealed what he needed. “Put those swords away.”

  They looked at him as if he had grown fangs and fur. The Fiend chuckled. Thankfully the weapons clattered to the floor despite their misgivings. The rack holding the weapons they needed stood at the far wall. Once there, he retrieved two staffs of adequate length, and on his way back he tossed them their new weapons.

  Leonore caught it somewhat clumsily, while her daughter, so commanding with the servants, fumbled, winced as the staff struck her fingers, and let it drop without making a second attempt of getting a hold on it. This was going to be tough. He thought he heard a low chuckle in the back of his mind.

  “Are you going to teach us the quarterstaff?” the older woman asked dubiously.

  “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “The enemy will be drunk, either with victory or plundered booze. They will charge you, yes, but not as a cohesive warband. You’ll be faced with a slavering, drunken mob. Your best defense against that are spears. Jab at them, their heads, feet, anything unprotected. It might just convince them to leave you alone.”

  “And if it gets stuck?” Neena asked, still rubbing her bruised knuckle.

  “You twist and turn and pull it out again.”

  There were two archery dummies next to the fireplace. Drangar turned away from the women and strode toward the targets, fighting his anxiety. What the Scales was he doing? He was no teacher. “Come.” Thankfully, Neena retrieved the fallen weapon and followed her mother.

  When they stood before the dolls, facing him, he cleared his throat, buying himself a few more moments. Then, using his own wooden sword as pointer, he poked first at one straw man’s head, then groin, then feet. “Most will be least protected here and here.” The stick jabbed once more to head and feet. “If you’re lucky his Caergoult will be short and you can get him in the balls also. That usually leaves them whimpering, curled like a ball on the ground. Trust me, neither a pretty sight nor a quiet death. Grab your spears.”

  Leonore must have at least seen some warriors holding the weapon before; she had her hands a good distance apart on the lower third of the shaft. Neena daintily held the thing as if it were a stiff snake. “No,” he said, stepping to her side, taking the staff off her. He had never really fought with a spear either, but he had seen—and killed—enough people who were doing so. “Like this. The forehand directs, firm but loose grip, the backhand is the one that propels the point into people’s faces.” He showed her, and then positioned himself behind her and guided her hands to the correct places. For a moment it was as if the younger woman was leaning against him. Her scent reminded him of Hesmera’s.

  In the back of his head he heard the chuckle again.

  No! Quickly, hastily, Drangar withdrew from Neena Cahill, stepped back, and slipped on the rushes. Then, closing his eyes for a moment, thinking of sharpening a blade, he took a deep breath. The laughter subsided.

  A slap sounded from up ahead. He opened his eyes and saw Neena holding her cheek. Her mother, looking more imperious than ever, stood before her, eyes slits. “Station, girl. Remember your station!” she hissed.

  Gods, was the girl still attracted to him? Shaking his head, he resumed his position at the side of the dummies. “I want you to aim, but not as if you’re threading a needle. That sort of precision will get you killed. Guide the shaft with your left, jab with your right. That’s right, feet apart, left foot before the other, balanced but flexible.”

  A few moments passed, and then they stood approximately correct. “Jab! Face!” Both points flashed forward and retreated once again. It was a little clumsy, certainly, but with him as a teacher they could expect no miracles. “Feet!” Again, both women went through the motion. “Face! Feet! Groin!”

  The sun was lower when Neena’s complaints grew too tiresome. For how long he had been listening to her whining Drangar did not know, but it had worn his patience down to nothing. “Stop!” he snapped, unconcerned about any hurt feelings. Lady Leonore, barely hiding her annoyance, glared at her daughter. “Neena,” he said, trying to keep his voice civil. “Do you think the enemy will give you a break when he comes here?”

  The younger woman looked at him with teary eyes.

  When she remained silent, he continued to speak. “They will come and they will come, and if you don’t make them realize that you are just too much trouble for them, they won’t stop until they have pinned you down on the ground, using you one after the other until you cannot weep any longer.” Her horror was plain on her face. That naiveté angered him even more. What the Scales did the girl expect? Shining heroes on horseback? His grip on his sword wasn’t light anymore. A part of his mind registered the splinters piercing his skin. He didn’t care. All that mattered was to teach that stupid cunt a lesson.

  “Stand at the ready,” he hissed, glaring at Neena Cahill. The shock on their faces, mother and daughter, only struck a distant chord. Haltingly the younger woman lifted the spear. “Too slow!” He charged before he even realized it.

  The godsdamned Fiend had slipped in with his anger. Now Neena was sprawling on the floor, gathering rushes before her as she slid a few feet further. “No!” he shouted, the practice sword clattering to the ground.

  He was out the door before either woman could react. Running. Running, away from the monster in his head.

  CHAPTER 24

  Drangar had no idea how he had obtained the cloak. He remembered little of how he got here or where here was. Blinking, gathering his senses, he realized he stood atop the wall looking south. Before him, a few hundred yards down Trade Road, he saw the Chanastardhian encampment. It mattered little who they were, the amassed number of warriors stood in his way. Of what?

  For a moment, he did not know why he needed to go south. Then, like a splash of cold water, it came back to him. Hesmera’s killers were there, the thrice-cursed Sons of Traksor. With this memory returning, what had just happened in House Cahill also slammed back into his mind. The Fiend.

  How the monster in his mind had slipped in and taken control he barely remembered. The bastard was getting sneakier. It had used his annoyance over Neena Cahill’s prissy attitude and constant complaints as a means to undermine, to take over. Was this what it would always be like? Had it been the Fiend and not himself that killed the n
obleman outside Carlgh? No, he decided. That time he had done the deed but attacking Neena, that was, despite his anger, something he never would have done. How could he even return to them? He had broken every part of guest-law, had attacked one of his hosts. Unforgiveable. They had every right to demand satisfaction. He deserved whatever was coming.

  Even if he told them there was a monster in his mind, it would not change the fact that he had attacked her. What would have happened had he not realized and wrested control back from the Fiend? Images of Hesmera’s torn body, little bloody pieces scattered across the floor, flashed before his eyes. No, they would have stopped him. The Lady Cahill would’ve called the retainers; they would’ve stopped him from doing to Neena what he had done to Hesmera. No, not what he had done to Hesmera! What the Fiend had done to Hesmera!

  Whatever their intention was two years ago, the Sons had failed, had loosened the chains. Where in Little Creek and before it had taken massive amounts of alcohol to unleash the furor, it now broke free and took over whenever he was distracted, angry. Whenever he lost control. “I must never lose control again,” Drangar muttered through chattering teeth. The cold had finally penetrated the greatcoat. Would he die from the chill? Could he die from it? Wasn’t it best for everyone if he was dead? Who would press on if not he? How would those responsible be brought to justice for Hesmera’s murder?

  A few yards down the wall he saw a group of warriors standing near an oven, hunched together. It looked as if they didn’t expect an attack and judging from the sluggish action over at the enemy camp, they were right. At least he’d be warm. None of them needed to know who he was.

  Comradely as warriors everywhere, they let him join.

  The talk, what little talk there was, was rather upbeat, considering that the besieging army was considerably bigger than all the defenders put together.

  “Nah, between the Baron and the General we can beat them,” one of them said as if continuing an argument that had started before his arrival.

  “But the General could only outsmart the bastards ‘cuz he knew their general’s tactics,” another replied.

  “Trust me, been with General Kerral long enough, he knows what he’s doing.”

  Kerral was here? He almost blurted out the question. Instead he asked, “Who’s the enemy’s general?”

  “A right bastard, mate,” the original speaker, a grey-haired warrior with a leather patch covering his right eye, said gruffly. “Shot his own men as they retreated.”

  There were enough warlords in the world, many right bastards, but he knew of only one man capable of shooting retreating troops. “Mireynh,” he muttered, fighting back the surge of anger this name always brought.

  “Aye, that’s him!” As if he needed that confirmation. Injustices were never forgotten, and he had always managed to stay out of the old bastard’s sight. Yet at the same time he had kept track of him, of how he had treated traitors. Hatred blinded, and Mireynh had given him more than enough reason to remain unseeing forever.

  There, almost unnoticeable, he felt the fiendish presence creep forward. He dared not ask the soldiers for a sword to sharpen, but the mere thought of running a whetstone up and down a blade brought the calm he needed to fight the monster.

  “I said, ‘for whom are you fighting?’” The older man’s voice dragged part of his attention back to the cold reality of the wall.

  He didn’t want to fight either for or against anyone, but that was something he could hardly tell these warriors. They all looked at him, frost-rimmed beards surrounding single-lipped mouths. Expecting, waiting for his reply. Even here, at this iron encased fire, guest-law ruled. He was their guest, he had to respect the demands as long as they did not endanger or demean him. Also, he owed them as much truth as he wished to part with. After a moment’s hesitation, Drangar said, “I fight for my family.”

  It was true, after a fashion. Hesmera had been the closest thing to a family he had ever had. After two years as a shepherd, with no one to talk to but Dog and Hiljarr, they had become as much a part of his life as any father or mother. Dog had shown him the truth, the past; he owed her to find out the rest. He said no more, waiting on his hosts to ask further or be satisfied.

  “Don’t we all?” a younger man said, his gloved hand taking the kettle from the oven’s covered top. “Tea?”

  “No flavor added?” he asked in return. Flavor was as colorful a word as any regarding the Broggainh and other spirits people spiced their tea with. If he could help it, he would deny the Fiend as much ground as he could.

  “Nah, general would have our balls if we wasted booze while them off-duty lads and lasses are on rations.”

  “What’s your name?” another asked.

  “Ralchanh,” he said, almost choking on the word. No lie, but it wasn’t quite true either. Best that Kerral did not know he was here in Dunthiochagh.

  Throughout the afternoon, warriors came and went; shivering, cursing, and clutching gloved hands around the single steel mug they shared. His presence was a surprise, but not a bother. They asked him to speak of himself, and at the same time, shared stories of their own. Being amongst warriors felt familiar. It almost had the same soothing effect as sharpening a sword but he was reluctant, evading their approaches. What could he tell them? His war-stories were old, dusty, among the things he sought to forget. Finally, accepting his silence, the soldiers spoke on, probably in the hope he would soon join in. Drangar did not. Still, this was familiar ground, and like the swing of the whetstone it brought calm.

  The Fiend was quiet. No tendrils were reaching out, but he knew the bastard was just waiting for his chance.

  Some commotion from near South Gate caught his attention. The guard had changed by now and the newcomers were as cheerful as a starved wolf. Not that he could blame them; after all they were to patrol the wall during the night’s frost. Though it had been years, he well remembered long waits, vain attempts to keep the chill out. He hadn’t held watch over an encampment, but was keeping an eye on a herd of sheep that much different?

  “Any idea what that’s all about?” he asked, his voice raw from disuse.

  The warriors gathered around the oven looked at him, shrugged and turned their attention back to the kettle on top of the oven. Grumpy bastards, he deserved respect. No sooner had the thought formed, that he felt a slight tremor stirring the air. Drangar shuddered. He growled and got surprised looks from the others. Something in his look made them take a step back, concern plain on their faces.

  The cattle had best be… No! How could the fiend sneak into his thoughts when he wasn’t really…?

  Drangar never finished the thought.

  Light lanced into his eyes. He heard himself howling in pain. The ground shook sending the warriors sprawling. One hit the kettle, sending it spinning and spewing liquid. Panicked screams from the few the scalding tea hit. A drop hit his cheek. He barely noticed. With the agony in his mind, holding his attention in thrall, there was no room to react to this minor nuisance. Light, not as strong as before—he now remembered the demons in all their loathsomeness—pierced him. Slivers, golden rays sought him, found him, and stabbed him.

  He was on the ground, fighting to breathe.

  “There he is!” a familiar voice called out. Who was it?

  Two shapes stepped into view, outlined by the flashes coursing through his brain. “Gods!” one hissed.

  “Neena said he had the same look when he went for her,” the other said.

  Lord… Cahill… his host. His mind was a swamp, every thought taking an eternity to form. He… had… attacked… Neena. Guilt mixed with despair washed away the brightness. Air rushed back into him. Above, the stars framed Kildanor, Úistan Cahill and the warriors.

  Someone else stepped into view.

  Kerral! Seeing the traitorous friend once more brought a fresh surge of rage, a new onslaught of lances reaching for him. Somehow, he could barely see through the glare, Kerral was sent packing. The hated figure retreated, was
gone.

  Someone else arrived. He only heard their voices. If only he could focus on the guilt once more.

  “… too weak.”

  “… doesn’t… worth a try.”

  “… certain?”

  “… it helps?”

  “You… better…?”

  Something calm poured into his soul. The scent of flowers in bloom filled his nostrils. Was this how happiness felt? Drangar felt himself being lifted, carried…

  “Do you have any idea what happened?” Sir Úistan’s annoyed voice woke him.

  “Milord, I can barely stand,” a woman—the Wizardess?—replied.

  “Just what exactly did you do?” a third person asked.

  “She has got to rest!” a fourth added.

  “Not before I have some answers!” That was Sir Úistan again. “He fucking attacked my daughter!”

  “According to her, he charged her, but ran before any true attack could have come, milord.”

  “Don’t split hairs on me, Chosen! She bears the bruises of his assault.”

  “Believe me, had he meant her harm, we would not discuss a few bruises,” Kildanor replied.

  “He wakes,” the sorceress said.

  The last thing he clearly remembered were golden lances stabbing him on the wall, and the demons leering. Now he lay on a cot, someplace warm.

  As he opened his eyes, Lord Cahill stepped into view. “You broke guest law; I should have your head on a platter for that.” Drangar looked at the noble, feeling smaller by the heartbeat. The holiest of laws, no one broke guest law without major consequences.

  “I am yours to command,” he croaked.

  “Sir, if we may speak with him,” Kildanor said, walking up to Lord Cahill. Looking back, he added, “Just the Wizardess and I, Culain. Escort Sir Úistan out.”

  “This is my house!”

  “Aye, it is, milord, but as Chosen and royal guard I can and hereby do order you to cooperate.”

  “The King’s dead!”

  “My mandate stands. Please, leave for now, you already have his word.”