Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  “So, you will just wait until I’m well again before you send me to blow up some other part of their camp? It may be days, a week, until I may be able to do such a thing again and it would knock me out just as long afterwards!” she shot back. “In the time I’m out of commission they may well be able to finish those castles, and then—forgive my language although you should be used to it by now, considering that you and Lord Nerran are fast friends—then, milord, you are well and truly fucked!”

  For a moment, she was stunned by her own vehemence; she took a deep breath, let it out again, and then swallowed to clear her throat, her eyes never leaving her liege. She had led Culain to believe she cared little about her condition, and that she knew and faced the dangers of forcing magic to do her bidding. While she was hovering above the stacked timber, summoning magic to shield her, she had also felt a tremendous rush as her body fueled the destruction. This rush was what frightened Ealisaid the most. One could get addicted to this and die of it. Should she tell Duasonh her fear?

  “As I said, Kildanor made your predicament very clear,” the Baron answered after a long silence. Inside the fireplace a log cracked and split, sending sparks into the air. “I was—still am—against sending you to the Shadowpeaks, but our forces are stretched thin as it is and we need all the help we can get.”

  This surprised her. Looking at him through narrowed eyes, she still saw no duplicity. “Are you serious?”

  “You already have an apprentice, so why not go all the way?” Duasonh yawned, rubbed his eyes, and then looked at her again. “My grandfather’s notes never mentioned a wizard draining his body as you perpetually seem to do when you destroy something.”

  “There are more notes?” Her eyes were slits now.

  “Aye, there are diaries, private stuff,” Duasonh said, oblivious to her irritation. “Bottom line is that to have a good weapon it needs to be tempered and I’ve let another’s suspicion get the better of me.”

  There was a knock, and a moment later Ysold entered, bearing a tray holding a loaf of bread and a steaming bowl. “Forgive me, milord, I brought her soup,” she stammered. “If you want me to leave, I’ll go at once.”

  Hearing the honorific, Duasonh, obviously lost in his own thoughts, looked up at the girl, shook his head, and then said, “No, this concerns you just as much, lass.”

  The few bites in her room had been enough at the time. Now she felt starved and gratefully took the tray. Ysold, ever the dutiful servant, remained standing.

  “So?” the Baron asked, breaking the silence.

  “So what, milord?” she replied, tearing off a chunk of bread and dipping it into the soup.

  “Can you make it to Phoenix Citadel?”

  He was serious! He wanted her to go learn battlespells at the stronghold. “Getting there will hopefully not be a problem, as for finding what we need, milord, maybe all has been destroyed. We’ll see.”

  “We?” Ysold echoed, dumbfounded.

  “Yes, we,” she said, winking at her.

  The Baron must have understood her meaning. “You want to take the lass with you?” he asked

  The best way for Ysold to learn magic was to experience it, she might not have the time to teach her properly, thus the best lessons she could give her were practical. “I do. Best to teach her at the source.”

  Duasonh shook his head. “Your mission is not to teach her the intricacies, but to find what you need, learn it and come back as quickly as possible.”

  “I’ll teach her based on my mistakes!” she retorted. “And maybe the Citadel will hold more answers than how to cast battlespells effectively.”

  “Very well, once you are back to strength, you may go.” The Baron refilled his glass. “Dismissed,” he added, draining the wine and closing his eyes.

  Back in her room—Ysold had gone to bed earlier—she awaited Culain’s return. He entered, carrying another tray laden with yet another bowl and some fruit.

  He put the food beside her and settled on her other side, taking her hand into his. Ealisaid squeezed it gently, her thumb tracing his fingers as she recounted the Baron’s decision. The longer she spoke, the more worried his look became. She enjoyed his concern; it gave her the strength to stay afloat in this unknown world. There were things she had sworn to do and fighting Dunthiochagh’s enemies was her first priority.

  When she had finished, he said, “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, love,” she replied, her eyes boring into his. “You’d only be in danger. I don’t know how much of the Citadel is still standing, what guardian spells are still intact. You’d only risk your life. Besides, you have your duty, too.”

  “But…” he said, her free hand came up to interrupt him.

  “The girl and I will be safe; the sentinels can tell apart those who are gifted from those who aren’t. We’ll be safe, and you’d be ash if you were to come with us.”

  She hated to see the worry in his eyes, wanted to tell him everything would be all right, but knew it would be a lie. War, she had heard somewhere, had the nasty habit of negating even the best-meant promises. A part of her concern must have shown in her eyes, for Culain took a shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and then said, “You’ll leave once you are back on your feet, dear, not before.” He reached over and thrust the bowl into her hands. “Now eat.”

  She obeyed in silent acknowledgement of the fact that not only her life was at risk. After all, he would defend the city while she was gone, and Duasonh needed every sword. Maybe being ripped to shreds by some guardian spell was not so different from being pierced by an enemy arrow. That Ysold and she were safe from the magic protecting the Citadel was an embellishment, a white lie. One century of neglect, who knew what had happened to the remnants of magic.

  “You emptied the bowl!” Culain said, astonished.

  Obviously, she had burned more of herself than she had thought. Again, the need to visit Phoenix Citadel became the obvious choice.

  CHAPTER 27

  “It doesn’t matter how the wood was destroyed, and the loss of manpower is of small consequence,” Mireynh stated.

  “But sir,” Killoy protested. “We need to know how to fight this threat!”

  “Lord Commander Trileigh is working on that,” he said.

  “Yeah, and before the fool finds anything worth knowing, we might all be reduced to tinder-fodder, like Farlin,” Argram commented.

  “Farlin’s dead?” That was the first he had heard of it. The latest he had been told was that Callan Farlin had been severely injured during the explosion. There had been nothing the priests could do to save his legs, but they had been confident of the noble’s survival.

  “As good as can be,” Argram said, voice dripping with sarcasm. So, there was another feud, between Houses Farlin and Argram. How many bloody feuds were there anyway? Part of Mireynh wished the destruction of the wood store had taken all the nobles, but he knew control over the army was dependent on them, despite all his bluster.

  “So, he is not dead yet?” he snarled.

  “No, sir,” Argram said, shaking his head. The High General was by no means a small man, but Sir Duncan towered over him still, and that made him even more arrogant than what noble breeding already had ingrained into him. How Mireynh wished House Cirrain was still in good graces with Herascor. Then he would have a reliable warleader at his side. She was still on his staff, but in accordance to the orders he had maneuvered her to the sidelines. So far, she had not complained, but he was sure resentment was already in the making. He could hardly blame her.

  “How many have we lost?” Mireynh finally asked.

  Killoy answered, “A score and a half, sir, but we can’t be sure since there’s still some people missing.”

  “Deserters?” he suggested. It was common knowledge he hated traitors, he made no secret of it, but deserters were a close second.

  “No, sir,” Argram said.

  One of his guards—another black clad killer in the High Advisor’s employ—pu
shed the tent’s flap aside, and half entered. “Sir?” she asked.

  “Yes? What is it?” he replied. He had never bothered learning any of their names; they weren’t worth that much respect. “Speak, woman!”

  The guard looked riled at the treatment but composed herself quickly. “Braddan House Kirrich, sir.”

  Why did the noble responsible for taking Ondalan and crossing the Dunth’s biggest tributary return now? Had the man failed at his mission?

  Argram drew himself to full height, and even Killoy straightened. Again, Mireynh wished he could consult Cirrain regarding his warleaders’ reactions. “Send him in,” he said, pouring a mug of mead.

  The bedraggled creature now ushered into the tent did not reflect the proud warrior who had left for Ondalan five days ago. Kirrich straightened, saluted and stood at attention.

  “Report!” was all Mireynh said.

  “Sir, they’re still fighting us off.”

  “And you could not have sent a messenger?” the High General growled.

  “Not for lack of trying, sir.”

  He drank deeply, and then wiped the honey-wine off his lips with the back of his hand. “Explain.”

  “Two days ago, we had the first attack to our rear, sir.”

  Now not only Mireynh looked in askance at the nobleman. There were no troops left outside Dunthiochagh to fight them. They had dispersed, deserted, returned to their homes, or rallied to Duasonh’s banner. “What kind of troops?” he asked, trying to keep his voice civil. Kirrich was no stranger to fighting, that was one of the reasons he had chosen the man to lead the sortie to Ondalan, but he had not thought the noble unable to cope with some hill-dwelling peasants.

  “Trained ones, sir, archers mostly. They use hit and run tactics, hiding in the hills to the east.”

  “Trained?” Mireynh echoed. “How?”

  “Better than our Bows, sir, much better. They can hit a man from four hundred yards, sir.”

  Argram scoffed, and immediately the High General glared at the noble, wiping the sneer from the man’s face. Then, trying to retain his calm, he turned back to Kirrich. “No bow can shoot that far, and no archer can shoot that precisely.”

  “That’s what we thought too, sir. Initially, at least, we thought it was a lucky shot. We saw a few people in the distance, too far away for a precise shot. But when several more were wounded or killed from behind our lines, I started to worry.” The warleader swallowed, and then continued, “I sent a patrol to scour the hills. Only one man returned, sir.”

  No man could make such a shot, and the elves were gone. Nobody knew how to make bows like the elves did, much less wield them effectively. These weapons still existed as heirlooms and such, similar to dwarven steel. Who in his right mind would sit months and months before a mountain, fasting and praying, until he might be deemed worthy by the living statues? And elves were as reluctant to part with their arms. “Crossbows?” he asked Kirrich. Even with a crossbow a shot over such a distance was lucky at best.

  “No, sir, no quarrel brought down my fighters.”

  “You are certain it was men attacking you?”

  “What else would it be, sir? Since the Heir-War no elf has been seen in these parts.”

  Apparently Braddan of House Kirrich had come to the same conclusion as he had, which still did not help in pinpointing the ambushers. “Aye,” he muttered. “But who else could it be?”

  “Why not send a band of Horse to flush them out into the open?” Duncan Argram suggested.

  “Because cavalry is useless in these hills,” Mireynh snapped, wanting to give in to the urge to call the man a fool. Unfortunately, the tall noble had a ruthless efficiency about him that made him reliable in leading forages and specialized killings. Plus, antagonizing House Argram was a sure way to lose a great many warbands.

  “So, what are we to do?” Argram asked.

  Again, he resisted the desire to yell at the man. Instead, clenching hands into fists, he took a steadying breath. Gods, how he wished Anne Cirrain had not turned rebel. Having the Cirrain woman here would certainly improve the situation. At least he would be able to share command with someone who actually knew warfare. Scales, even such people as that hothead Kerral were preferable to the lot he had to deal with. The solution came suddenly. “Walls,” Mireynh said to no one in particular. Turning to Kirrich, he explained, “Build a bunch of wooden barriers to protect your backs. There’s still wood in Ondalan, isn’t there?”

  “Aye, sir. Firs to the west of Ondalan, a little forest.”

  He had seen mining villages like Ondalan before. Usually the miners stripped the vegetation bare for timber to use in the pits, but most places didn’t yield enough ore to justify the planting of new woods. Ondalan had to be very rich in metals for the miners to set up a plantation. “Well, you’ve got your solution. Fetch a healer and a score of Bows and take them with you. I want the crossing at Ondalan taken so we can move a damn lot of troops on the far side of the Dunth.”

  Kirrich slapped a fist to his chest, turned about and left at a swift pace.

  Mireynh turned back to the others. “How’s the foraging?” he asked the brawny nobleman who seemed not to care one bit about how his brutishness affected those around him.

  “Got a few more wagons coming in from the south,” Sir Duncan replied. “Had some fun while we’re at it.”

  Killoy bristled at the comment, mirroring his feelings. He had not become a mercenary because of the rape and terror. War and trade was where the money was, and what better way to prosper was there than to make war one’s trade? Never before had he tolerated ravaging bastards who hardly lost sleep over the horrors they committed. The army had to be fed, and he had refused to empty the stores of every village along the way. Not all the stores at any rate, he amended. Outlying farms were a different matter. Or so he told himself.

  “I ordered you to gather food, not cunts!” he snarled.

  “You told me to do all that was necessary, sir,” Sir Duncan, replied coolly.

  “And is the raping of innocent women necessary to gain access to grain and livestock?” Mireynh drawled. He wanted to pummel the bastard noble long and hard, so the fool understood what kind of resentment this sort of action reaped. An impoverished family could still survive, but in the eyes of victims he had seen after a rape nothing survived. “I think not!”

  “Sir,” Argram began, but Mireynh’s raised hand silenced him immediately.

  “I’m of half a mind to send you and some of your troops to Ondalan, man,” he said. “Maybe I should tell Kirrich to take you and leave you there. Maybe those archers need more targets, and what your heads lack in size your cods more than make up for! An arrow through the balls won’t do much harm to your thinking anyway. It may actually improve your brains!”

  “Sir!” Argram replied, red faced. If the idiot snapped now, he would break the man’s neck. “You gave me leave to proceed the way I saw fit!” So far so good, Mireynh thought. Sir Duncan was holding his temper in check. “After the farce that the capture of Harail had been, the men were restless. I thought it best to let them rampage through a couple of farms than have them ravage some village.”

  Somewhere in this fool’s head the string of words he was blathering had to make sense. Mireynh glanced to Killoy, saw his resentment reflected in her eyes. Then he looked at the silent figure of Jennay Locklin who sat forlorn on a stool nursing a mug of heated wine. The explosion had torn apart several of her warriors, one of her cousins was still missing. She frowned, eyes set on some spot beyond Duncan Argram, but he thought he could see her cheek twitch. Was the noblewoman merely pretending to ignore them?

  Mireynh was about to give the idiot Argram a fitting retort, when Dame Locklin cleared her throat, fixing the idiot with her stare. “Duncan, you’re a moron.” Before the accused could reply, she went on, “My patrols already picked up a bunch of your people bragging about how they took the freeborn and villeins’ livelihood. It wasn’t just a few incidents either.�
� She stood slowly, surprising Mireynh how much menace the lithe woman could put into such a simple movement. “If word spreads of the atrocities your men committed, we’ll not only have one lone city to deal with, but whole villages—men, women, young and old—mobilizing against us!”

  “We had…”

  “I’m not finished,” Lady Jennay’s words cut through Argram’s explanation with ease. She leveled her gaze on him, the steel in her voice reflected in her blue eyes. “If word reaches the holdings of Grendargh Manor, and with your boastings I have no doubt they will sooner rather than later, even our hold on Lord Grendargh won’t be enough to prevent the villeins and freeborn from rising. When that happens, we have Dunthiochagh before us and a shitstorm behind us!” She had begun pacing, her eyes never leaving Duncan Argram who stared dumbstruck at the noblewoman. Locklin’s word, her entire family, carried more power than any of the other nobles, with the sole exception of the fool Trileigh.

  Mireynh was impressed; Lady Jennay carried authority like a sword and knew damn well how to use it. “Dame Locklin,” he said, and immediately her piercing stare was directed at him.

  “Yes, High General?”

  At twenty years the woman’s senior, Urgraith Mireynh was no easy target for intimidation. Even in Herascor she had no control over him, and though he knew she was aware of the fact, it seemed to do little to her ego. “You have the offenders in custody?”

  “All but one, sir.” Her gaze leveled again on a visibly shaking Argram.

  “What?” snapped Mireynh and in turn stared at the noble. He had practiced this look endlessly and doubted even Dame Locklin was able to withstand it. Slowly, Sir Duncan glanced his way, at first merely to avoid the enraged lady knight, but when Mireynh’s eyes trapped his, the idiot actually began to shrink back. “Like Lord, like men?” the High General demanded, his voice whispering like a blade leaving its sheath.

  “No, sir,” Argram stuttered.

  “Well then,” Mireynh said, smiling amicably. “Scribe!” he shouted. When the young woman entered, he continued, “Write, please.” Immediately she had pen and parchment and inkwell at hand and stood poised. “Ladies Killoy and Locklin are witnesses to Sir Duncan House Argram’s statement that he does not deserve the same punishment as the rapists, even if he is one of them.” Both women nodded. “This, then, is my verdict, all in agreement with Duncan House Argram, of course.” Again, both women nodded, while Argram paled. “Each rapist, murderer, and thief—with the exception of Sir Duncan, of course—will be administered thirty lashes by Sir Duncan House Argram himself!”