by Ulff Lehmann
The question of whose side Dunthiochagh’s lord was on, was pointless. There was a battle, a siege, a war to consider. Individual fates hardly mattered. When had the lad become so devious? Lad? Cumaill Duasonh had not been a child in decades. Behind the jovial, fatherly face, he detected steel, tempered by a cousin’s treason and the burden of responsibility.
“Drangar Ralgon is charged with desertion from duty as Watchman of Dunthiochagh; the fine for such a crime is two hundred golden Suns.”
“Two hundred Suns? Have you lost your mind? I do everything in my power to help your defense effort, and you charge such an amount?” Cahill stood, knocking the chair over in his anger. “You know what? You can have him and your bloody trial; I will not pay two hundred Suns!”
“Payable in ore,” Duasonh added. “You will still make a hefty profit with what is in Ondalan.” Sir Úistan looked as surprised by this as Kildanor felt. Just how much thought had Cumaill given this matter? Not much, at least not where Drangar was concerned but the blacksmiths’ resources were limited, a thorough inventory had shown as much, and warriors needed steel to defend the city. “The value will be at cost.”
“You’re a tricky bugger, you know that, right?” the other nobleman grumbled, righting the chair. “Deal, two hundred Suns in ore to cover Drangar Ralgon’s charge for desertion.”
Somehow the other three had shut him out of the planning, leaving him a shocked spectator to the musings and arguments that not only dealt with Drangar Ralgon’s fate in Ondalan, but also with general distribution of resources. When it was finally over, and Kerral and Sir Úistan had left, Kildanor remained seated, staring at his friend.
“You just bartered away a man’s life.”
Duasonh shrugged. “After what happened both here and in Cahill Manor, do you really think Ralgon cannot handle whatever the enemy throws at him?”
“This is not about his return from the dead, or his breaking free from a magical prison, Cumaill! This is about him losing control, about a demon or more gaining hold in this world, again!” He knew that smile, had seen it many times when watching the Baron beat Braigh at Chiath. A clever ruse, a faint that looked fatal but ultimately left victory to the apparent loser.
“That is why you will have an eye on things. You rescued him before…”
“With the help of Ealisaid and Gail Caslin. What makes you think I can do it alone? Without the Wizardess I can’t enter the spiritworld, and without a Caretaker to help, freeing Ralgon is impossible.”
“We shall see about that.”
“What is there to see? A worshipper of Lesganagh and one of Eanaigh need to sing the hymn, and the only Caretakers liberal enough to even consider singing this song with me are in the Shadowpeaks.”
Duasonh shrugged. “You’ll think of something.”
“And what if it fails?” he snapped.
“If it fails we will still have diverted the enemy’s attention elsewhere and bought the town more time to ready our defenses. When winter is here they will be buried in snow and forced to abandon. It is a waiting game, and I intend to win it. One man’s life over that of thousands? I think not!”
He hadn’t seen Cumaill Duasonh this angry, this determined in months, and quietly admitted his friend was right. “I will talk to Ealisaid,” Kildanor said. “And a Caretaker,” he added.
CHAPTER 31
“It won’t get any sharper, you know.”
He hadn’t heard anyone enter the room. His wandering mind had blocked out all other sensations, the swish of the whetstone his only companion, his focus. By now Drangar had put an edge to many of the blades dangling from the racks in Lord Cahill’s grand training hall. The whetstone halted in midst a downward stroke, and he looked up.
For a moment, in the dim light, he only made out the vague shape of… someone. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he recognized Neena Cahill. Acting on instinct, a precaution to the Fiend taking over again, he tossed the sword aside. A muffled clang rang from a few feet away as the steel landed on rush-strewn stone.
The sound made her flinch. Drangar was about to stammer yet another apology when she raised her hands, stopping him. A few moments passed, and he saw the effort it took her to regain composure. Finally, after taking a deep breath, she said, “I can be a spoiled brat at times.”
“That still does not justify my action,” he replied, adding silently to himself that it was not he who had attacked her in the first place. That was something he barely understood himself. How could he tell her that some monstrosity shared his head, and, at times of anger, that Fiend took over? “I broke Guest Law,” he added, grinding his teeth. “If assaulting you isn’t bad enough, spitting on your hospitality is.”
“Father wants to see you.” Had she even heard his words? Drangar searched her face and thought he detected some worry there. Aye, she had heard. At least the smidgeon of affection that had shone in her eyes was gone. It was one good thing that had come of this. “I volunteered,” she added. “I know you did not mean to hurt me. There was something else…” Her voice trailed off, lips clamped shut.
All he could do was stare, sensing that there was more to it, more she refused to tell him. “What else?”
“Nothing.” Abruptly Neena turned and hurried out. At the door she looked back at him and added, “He is in his study.”
Stunned, shocked, and horrified to the core, Drangar hurried out of Cahill Manor, a cloak haphazardly thrown over his shoulders. Sir Úistan was serious, and although Guest Law did not require him to go to Ondalan, two hundred Suns had practically bought his services. In the back of his mind the Fiend howled with glee. Honor bound him, just as much as money. Innocent as he was of Hesmera’s murder, it had been wrong running away, his flight had put responsibility on the Cahills. A responsibility they did not deserve. Whether the sum Cahill had paid to buy his freedom was justified or not mattered little. There was no choice, no option, nowhere to turn, not if he ever wanted to look at his image and not loathe the man he had become. Running away from problems hadn’t helped before. Scales, it had worsened the situation. Every path, every decision had led to this point of no return. It was useless to consider the causes and effects. What was done was done.
To go to Ondalan and fight invited the Fiend to take control. To go to Ondalan would mean not only a crack for the Fiend to slip into his mind, but to open the fucking gates and lay out a bleeding carpet to welcome the monster.
Drangar was afraid. What was he supposed to do? Ignore the nagging, no, the screaming voice demanding that justice be served? Or risk waking up a few days after Ondalan only to realize that no one else was left alive? He had done wrong, deserted his post as watchman, an infraction which appeared minor compared to the assault of a host, the breaking of Guest Law. Before Hesmera’s death, he had always retained control of his furor. Despite the cold he managed a twisted smile. Furor, right, back then he had thought nothing of the rage, now he knew better. Now there would be no stopping the monster within, no one to actually help him regain control.
The corner seemed familiar. He stopped, realized where he was. Old Wall’s Street and Cherkont, the butcher shop was still there, its bronze sausage sign creaking in the wind.
Why had his feet had carried him here? Yet, here he was at the crossing of Old Wall’s Street and Cherkont, leaning against a house’s wall, staring down at the cobblestoned road. He thought about the dread he had felt when walking toward Hesmera’s grave. It was even colder now, and the few shops that hadn’t boarded up their windows were doing no business at all. Not that he could blame would-be patrons. With an enemy army only a mile or so away from the city people had little interest in shopping for dresses or jewelry.
It hardly mattered, for in his mind Drangar saw the street as he had seen it the last time he had been here. Now there were no children playing outside, the people huddled together in the common rooms, sharing warmth to conserve firewood. A wagon loaded with freshly hewn timber clattered down the street, the horses’ shoes adding a
slow staccato to the squeaking wheels. Come winter and snow, children would be out again; he hadn’t seen the mother who could restrain her child when the snowballing season came. Even a siege wouldn’t change that. He took a deep breath and blew out the air, the chill creating a short-lived cloud before his eyes.
He knew he was procrastinating, pushing away the inevitable. Should he go down Cherkont to his home? Was he ready to see the house? It wasn’t that he didn’t see it every night anyway. Would it alter the decision he had to make? The decision he dreaded to make.
No, he couldn’t walk down Cherkont. Not now. Maybe later. A wagon came toward him. They had to cut trees by the dozens, he thought. With so many more bodies inside the city—he had seen a train of refugees arriving when he had passed North Gate—tempers were bound to rise. It might all be over soon, if the Chanastardhians breached the southern wall.
He turned away from the corner, rearranging the woolen coat Lord Cahill had loaned him, and headed toward Beggar’s Alley. Maybe some more walking would help make up his mind. The stores here, closer to the old canal were open, but, aside from a few scullions purchasing salt and such, they seemed as forlorn as Drangar felt.
As he passed Eanaigh’s temple, he nodded a brief greeting to a Caretaker feeding some beggars. The poor sods wore everything they owned, but with the perpetual mist emanating from the River it had to be hard to keep warm without a roof over one’s head and walls to keep the fog out. He had never been inside the temple, crimes had rarely been made public when they involved clergy, but now he felt the need to enter. The refugees, homeless, everyone needed shelter and the temple was massive.
Acting on impulse, he turned around shortly before Trade Road and headed back to the temple. The Eanaighists had to help with more than just prayer. What little he knew about Eanaigh’s faith was based around harvest feasts and the healers attached to his warband, and it didn’t prepare him for the sight that greeted him past the threshold.
For a deity who wanted nothing more than for land and people to grow, her clergy seemed more inclined to see to their own wellbeing than that of land and people. Again, the nagging feeling of doing the right, the just thing returned. The crossed bushels of corn overshadowing the comparatively simple altar were made of pure gold. At least they looked heavy enough, and if there was one thing a mercenary picked up quickly it was the ability to distinguish gold from cheaper substitutes. He heard no prayers, although as he looked around, the noon gong rang from the east. Normally there was a ceremony for the truly devout but the lack of faithful and the overabundance of wealth weren’t the only things that were offbeat.
For instance, there was a loud murmur coming from behind one of the doors behind the altar. Curious, he walked closer, and he couldn’t resist the temptation to confirm his suspicion about the corn bushels. Halting a short arm’s reach away from the effigy, he ran his left hand down the side of the stalk. Then, to confirm what his fingers felt, he rapped against it. The bastard was solid! He couldn’t tell if it was merely bronze covered in gold plate or the real thing, but even if it was merely gilded in gold it had to be worth a fortune. Bemused, he shook his head and continued to the door.
Through it, now that he was merely a yard away, the conversation rang more clearly. He guessed that the heavy oak, inlaid with slivers of fir to contrast with the much darker dominant wood, was by no means a flimsy placeholder for a curtain, but the real deal. If he could hear the speakers clearly, the argument must almost be screamed. He paused, listened.
“You are heretics, all of you!” The speaker sounded old.
“Who marks us such? Certainly not the Hearthwarden!” someone younger asked.
“It was by her decree that we executed the loathsome brood of Lesganagh!” The same rheumy intonation as before.
“When…” whoever spoke now was far more in control of his emotions so only part of his speech made it through the wood. “… time… someone?… was… felt… divine…? Have… heard… you… persecute…?”
“Such impudence! How dare you question a decision from your superior?” someone younger demanded.
“He has been voted into the office!”
“By whom? You lot? None of you have the authority to judge us!”
“Actually, children, I have the authority.” Drangar had only once spoken to Upholder Coimharrin, but he would have been able to tell that voice in the midst of any choir. The muttering behind the door quieted. The priest of Lliania had a way to get everyone’s attention. “This is a mere formality,” Coimharrin said. “You, Morgan Danaissan, and you, Girec Lannas, have been accused of murder in two instances.”
“You have no right to be here, Upholder!” the older voice snarled.
“And you have it wrong, son. This is no longer a church matter. An outsider, one of the few your illegal purge has missed, has not only accused you but his statement as a witness has been proven true.”
“Who?”
“Nerran Ghonair, Paladin of Lesganagh. There is also the statement of one Kyleigh Mondar who bore witness to an illegal attack on a group of priests of various faiths that you led.”
Drangar paid little attention to the argument; his attention was drawn back to the golden bushels of wheat. He returned to the bronze. For a moment he was unsure why he was so interested in the massive symbol of Eanaigh. The conversation he had just heard played back in his mind and he tried to make sense of the feeling of unease clawing at his insides. He was no Lawspeaker; neither was he very good at knowing the law. Even as watchman he had followed his gut when faced with a moral decision. After all the same intuition had made him angry, driven him to drink at Little Creek, and it had not been silent afterwards, until he had atoned for his crimes at the dwarves’ Place of Petition.
Whatever the accusation was, it was based on mere statements, no hard proof. To actually nail the bastards who had slaughtered, or ordered the murder of, the Lesganaghists, Upholder Coimharrin needed more than a few statements. Acting upon the same gut instinct that had driven him toward the massive golden wheat, he touched it once more.
Metal was wise, or so the dwarves claimed. It remembered. He wondered what his sword would tell someone who could hear it, shook his head to clear his mind. The past was past, he reminded himself. Then he heard the whisper. The bronze did not repeat litanies of Eanaigh!
No, it hummed praises to the Lord of Sun and War.
Astonished he pulled back. This symbol had been in Lesganagh’s temple for such a long time that it remembered the hymns! What shocked him even more was that he had heard the metal humming. The saying was true. Metal remembered!
A determination he hadn’t felt since vowing to avenge Hesmera’s death took hold of him, propelled him through the door, and before he knew what he was doing and where he was standing, he faced an astonished assembly of Eanaighists and Upholder Coimharrin. “You want proof?” he asked before anyone could force him to depart. “All evidence you need against this man”—on its own accord his finger pointed at an elderly priest in smudged robes—“and this man”—his finger wandered to a younger Caretaker—“and her, and him, and him, and her, and him”—he tried to regain his balance, his finger was pointing and shifting so fast he could barely keep up—“hangs just outside this room.”
Several of those he had indicated lost all color as they stared at him. Coimharrin frowned, scratched his head, and blinked twice as if trying to remember something. He now saw Caretaker Braigh, a man he vaguely remembered, sitting, now slowly rising from, a gilded chair. “Explain yourself, sellsword.”
“You’re considering hearing him out?” the old priest blustered, but Drangar detected a hint of worry in his voice.
“Yes, I am. This man has been at the center of three miracles, and I’d be a fool to dismiss what he has to say!”
Three miracles? What miracles? He didn’t consider anything that had happened to him miraculous. From the sound of it, some of the attending clerics shared his doubt. No matter his position on what had
happened to him, this was more important. Justice had to be served!
“Well, son,” Coimharrin prompted. “Spill it.”
“Aye,” several Eanaighists agreed.
He had never spoken before a group larger than maybe five or six people; rousing speeches were the domain of warleaders, and he had never wanted such a position. These men and women expected him to hold one. Scales, every single one of them was more versed in the ways of the gods than he.
“Ralgon, say your piece,” Braigh said.
“Why would you bother listening to him?” the old priest snarled. “He is a lowly villein!”
That simple statement broke his moment of doubt. “I am no villein!” he growled, anger rising. The Fiend chuckled in triumph. A deep breath, the memory of a whetstone running down a yard of steel calmed him. Then, with the monster rumbling in frustration, he continued, his voice and temper cool once more, “The bushel of wheat out in the temple, the gold remembers. Not hymns to Eanaigh as one would expect, but praises to Lesganagh. Not just a little voice, mind, but an entire choir! Your actions”—again he pointed at various priests—“were driven by greed! Not by devotion! Tell me,”—he stepped toward a middle-aged woman—“how much of the temple’s treasury did any of you take for yourself after you executed those who worshiped the Lord of Sun and War?”
The priestess stared blankly at him, silent.
“How about you?” Drangar sat down next to a man slightly older than the priestess. “How much was your share?”
“This is foolish!” the old priest yelled. “Metal cannot speak, sing, or remember. You are insane, young man.”
He gave the Eanaighist a cold stare. “You, old man, know nothing of madness.” Standing, he shouted, “I call out to Lady Justice! Strike me down if my words hold one lie!” Arms outstretched, he waited. “Come on, if this man speaks true, strike me down, let me return to the nothingness that once before held me!” Was he hearing voices again? Into the silence of the room, he heard someone chuckling. It was a woman’s voice, he was sure of it, knew he had heard this laugh before. He swiveled around, scanning the crowd. Nothing. No one showed even the slightest bit of humor. Except Upholder Coimharrin and although his mirth matched the chuckle Drangar heard, it couldn’t be the lawman.
