by Ulff Lehmann
“Well, I remain standing, it seems,” he declared, shrugging his shoulders. “Guess I ain’t lying.” He turned to the old Eanaighist. “How about it, priest, want to invoke Lliania’s name and swear you are innocent and she may strike you down should you lie?”
His question was met with silence, defiant and worried though it may have been.
Turning to Coimharrin, Drangar said, “I guess that settles this matter, sir.”
“That it does, that it does,” the Upholder replied. “But it wasn’t the reason why you’ve come, was it, son?”
He shook his head. “But I’d rather speak of that matter with Caretaker Braigh once this is over.”
“High Priest Braigh, son.”
Now Braigh sat down again, looking uncomfortably down at the assembled priests. “All those goodmen Ralgon has pointed out, please rise.” Drangar scrutinized the priests, waiting for one to refuse Braigh, but saw there was no fight left in them. They had lost and knew it. “What is your verdict, Upholder?”
Coimharrin looked up as if he had been woken from a nap. “Who? What? Me?”
The High Priest smiled grimly. “The verdict, milord.”
“Oh, let this young man decide it.”
Drangar’s eyes flew wide open, staring at the old priest. “You can’t be serious!” Various Eanaighists who were standing and sitting echoed this statement.
“Oh, I can’t? Why not? You were the one solving this mess, son. Lliania’s watching over you, so you should be the one giving the verdict.”
Coimharrin was serious! Drangar shook his head. This was not what he had come in here to do. He was no judge, not even a Lawspeaker. He knew nothing of laws. All he had wanted to do was to suggest that the Eanaighists offer shelter to the homeless, and now he was asked to arbitrate a verdict.
Well, fuck that, he knew how to play such a game. “You.” He pointed at a nearby Caretaker. “Were they proud?” A quick nod sufficed as a reply. To another he asked, “Did they flaunt their wealth?” Now several priests were bobbing their heads. “Were they charitable?” Now a whole group of Caretakers, including Braigh, were shaking their heads. Apparently, the wealth they had stolen had only been used to further their own needs. To the first priest he said, “Fetch hammer and nails.”
Eyes wide, casting a furtive glance to Braigh and receiving the High Priest’s approval the young man hurried off, only to return a short while later. By now the criminals were all visibly nervous. Drangar allowed himself a grim smile. “For all those who have denied charity, you will lose all your wealth.” There was murmured consent. Now he would see how much will to fight was left in them. He approached the old priest. “Will you fight on the walls to defend those you are responsible for?”
“Do you know who I am?” Danaissan snarled his defiance one last time. “I am Eanaigh’s High Priest! I will not fight!”
To the young cleric holding the hammer and a bucket of nails, Drangar inclined his head. “Knees. Then throw him out.”
The silence inside the room was perfect, for about two breaths. Morgan Danaissan was held down and the Caretaker drove a nail first into one and then the other knee. Ignoring the pained screams, Drangar walked up to the next accused. Again, he asked, “Will you fight on the walls to defend those you are responsible for?”
Now the replies he got were more positive.
It felt good doing the right thing. Though it might doom him and those who went with him to Ondalan, going there, atoning for his lawbreaking felt right. “Fear be damned,” he muttered. The Fiend would not break him!
CHAPTER 32
He didn’t linger, and the Caretakers seemed glad when he passed them on his way to the door. There was no need to stay, and frankly standing and speaking before an audience had tired him more than he thought possible. Had he really sentenced a priest to a life as cripple? In a way he still couldn’t believe it.
The Fiend was quiet, or so he hoped. In the two years he had spent in Carlgh it had been silent also. Maybe it was just biding its time, content in the knowledge that it would have ample opportunity to wrest control from him once the fighting began in Ondalan.
Drangar still had trouble grasping the concept of going to battle. It felt as alien, as wrong as it had felt right and good during his time as mercenary, as Scythe. He saw a cluster of refugees waiting. Word had spread quickly and now a throng of bedraggled figures huddled before the temple. Here was another reason why it was right to lure Mireynh’s attention away from the siege. If he failed to convince someone, anyone, in Ondalan that he was who he was, the bastard Mireynh would storm the city. He had seen what victors could do, even though he was never part of the rape. Plunder, yes, everyone did that, but rape, never.
In the back of his mind he thought he detected a chuckle. The Fiend was neither silenced nor subdued.
“Ralgon, wait!” Coimharrin called after him.
At the bottom of the stairs he stopped, watching the Upholder push through the throng at the temple’s entrance. That the old priest wanted to speak with him after what had just happened came as no surprise. Scales, he was as shocked about him being the judge as Lliania’s priest had to be. Now, standing, he pulled his cloak tight.
Coimharrin raised his hood, took him by the arm and steered him toward the Lawgiver’s Court just off Trade Road. He remembered the way from the few times he had accompanied Rob or Jasseira to confirm a witness’s statement. If he was honest with himself, he could have found the way alone, but he didn’t mind the Upholder guiding his way. At the great double doors, they stopped.
Coimharrin turned to him with a stern face and asked, “Son, before you enter I need to ask if you hide any falsehood from me or Her.”
Until recently his answer would have been a gruff rebuttal, but now too many things had happened that he couldn’t explain. To get straight, honest answers he had to be honest, and not only with himself. “No, sir.”
“Good,” the Upholder smiled. “Get in.”
Drangar did as he was told, finding both the temple’s antechamber and its main room stark, cold and devoid of any decoration save the massive iron-wrought Scales of Lliania. The bow should have been a reflex, and just as he looked at the bushels of corn he realized he had not bowed to them. Possibly because of his stunned surprise to see such wealth displayed at the temple. Here nothing could distract from what was really important. Still being led by the Upholder, he stopped in front of the bronze.
“Have a seat, son,” Coimharrin said and settled on one of the stairs leading up to the symbol of Lliania’s justice.
Drangar sat down, one step lower than the old man, as much a sign of respect as a natural reaction burned into his body and mind from his days at the Eye of Traksor. The Upholder smiled in appreciation.
“So,” Coimharrin began, “who are you?”
“I was born Drangar Ralchanh,” he replied and thought he saw a flash of astonishment pass the cleric’s eyes. “I changed it when I ran away from home.”
“Who’s your mother?”
“I don’t know, lord, I’m an orphan.” He could hardly say he suspected the spirit woman who had shown him his past to be his mother. He had never known either of his parents, so it was true. “I never tried to find my relatives, didn’t want anything to do with them.”
“Ah,” Coimharrin nodded. “It matters little. What I’m interested in is how you talked to the gold.”
A shrug wouldn’t suffice as reply, so he said, “I dunno how I did that, much less why. I mean, I touched the bugger before, just to see if it was gold, and the thing didn’t speak to me. Then, when I heard the trial going on and all this bullshit Danaissan was spewing forth, I thought of all the poor bastards freezing and going hungry. It’s unfair.”
All throughout his speech the Upholder had scrutinized his face, his eyes, nodding absentmindedly. “All of us, villein, freeborn, and nobleman, have felt injustice before. But most just shrug it off and go on. Have you felt this urge to right wrongs before?”
Involuntarily the memory of breaking Pol Haggrainh’s neck came to mind. “Aye; killed some third-rate whoreson of a noble near the village I lived close to. The bastard was trouble, used his station to get what he wanted and terrorized decent folk. Made him focus his anger on me, and when he attacked me I snapped his neck. Figured it was better that they go hunting for me than having him bugger the villagers some more.” Why the Scales was he so comfortable talking to this man? Sure, he was a priest, but in his life he had spoken to so many clergymen that having a conversation with this one should not have been any different, but it was.
Coimharrin nodded then motioned for him to continue.
“Twelve years back I hit a rough spot as a mercenary, hired myself out to a village, Little Creek, somewhere south, beyond Haldain.” When he thought back at his life, he realized just how much he had seen of the world. Most people knew little more than the few miles surrounding their homes, destined to die in the same house they were born in. Even though there were no wizards warring or demons plaguing the land anymore, mankind’s appetite for conflict was just as great as it had been a hundred years ago. Danastaer, Kalduuhn and even mighty Chanastardh had enjoyed peace since the Demon War. Traders traveled, merchants and mercenaries also, but most people stuck to the sliver of land that had spawned their grandsires.
“I’m old, son, you ain’t. It’s my right to stare dreamily into the distance. You can’t yet afford such silliness,” the Upholder grumbled at him interrupting the reverie.
“Sorry, sir,” Drangar replied, then continued, “Some brigands were harassing the people of Little Creek and their lord didn’t give a shit; he probably was in league with the marauders. The village isn’t on any maps and has so little significance that the tax collector rarely bothers to go there. Some half dozen cottages, nothing more. One of their farmers talked me into helping them, offering a nice bit of money that would have helped me until sword-arms were back in demand. I was broke, so I accepted.”
“Nice of you.”
A sad chuckle escaped his lips. “Yeah, I was a real hero back then. I dealt with the brigands, and then when they celebrated their victory the oldest of them comes to me, and bluntly says I can leave ‘em now. Without the pay due. I was pretty drunk, and while he calmly sent me packing, I grew angrier and angrier. Been furious before, usually in battle, earned me my nickname.” He snorted at the absurdity of it. “Scythe, they called me.” Drawing a deep breath, he stretched, releasing the tension in his shoulders. “They never saw what I did in Little Creek, and I’ve never spoken of it until now. I took that place apart.” The shock was plain on Coimharrin’s face. He could hardly blame the man. “Can’t recall most of it, everything’s a red haze, something like battle craze or so. It must have been my fury that fueled me, can’t remember.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. Though he had pieced together much of what had happened, he did not feel comfortable telling Coimharrin about his suspicion that Little Creek was the first time the Fiend had taken over. “The old man’s beheading I do remember, but that’s about it.” He paused again; saw his own disgust mirrored on the Upholder’s face. “You asked.” The priest motioned for him to speak on. “I woke the next morning, by the stream near the hamlet. Or what was left of it. A few bricked fireplaces, and not much of anything else. Walls were torn down, roofs collapsed, and no one alive except me.”
“Gods!” Coimharrin exclaimed spreading his arms, hands skyward in the traditional gesture of Lliania’s faithful.
“I didn’t run, not like I did when Hesmera was murdered,” Drangar said. It still was hard to speak of all this, but it became easier. He paused, considering what he had just said: Hesmera was murdered. Weeks ago, he would have told everyone he had killed her, but it seemed he had come to terms with being merely a pawn in the slaying. He shook his head and spoke on before the Upholder could urge him again. “I buried them; none had survived. I tried to remember the slaughter, it only returned to me in nightmares. When I realized I could not wipe this memory away like most killings in combat, what with the nightmares returning—not even booze washed it away—I decided I had to clean myself, my soul. Could have gone to a temple, sure, but I thought they would just fuck with my mind. So, I went to a Place of Contemplation. Figured that if I could meditate and fast until a dwarf arrived, if a dwarf arrived, I would be a changed man. Ten months later a Smith came.”
“Lliania has an eye on you, I daresay.” The Upholder stood. “Too bloody cold for my liking, but that’s the law, to sit here and listen.” He turned. “What you did in the temple was Her will. You’ll hear from Her again.”
“How?” Drangar asked, rising as well.
“I dunno,” the old man chuckled. “Probably you touch stuff again, or point fingers, or feel the need to drive nails through a criminal’s knees. She has an eye on you, and I doubt you’ll go any place without Her blessing.” When the priest walked toward the back door, he moved to follow, but Coimharrin waved him off. “It’s past noon and I’m hungry, and not in the mood to share. You know the way out.”
Back on Trade Road, Drangar pondered the very one-sided conversation. Not even Hesmera had known why he did not drink alcohol; it had been that way long before they had met. Alcohol did not explain his sudden lapses of memory or his violent outbursts. It felt odd, thinking about his faults in such an objective manner. He had considered the issue of Hesmera’s death separate from what had occurred at Little Creek, but throughout the talk with Coimharrin it had become obvious that there was some connection. Scales, even his ruling over a High Priest of Eanaigh had something to do with this. He just couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
He walked south toward Old Bridge. Aside from armed patrols and a few wagons transporting either stones or firewood, the streets seemed empty. When he passed the burnt-out temple of Lesganagh, he halted, looking upon the building like it was the first time he had seen it. Actually, as a watchman he had tried to avoid inspecting the place. Too many memories of things he had endured at the Eye were connected to the Lord of Sun and War. Only one tower was in a less decrepit state. The gong tower sported a ladder that led from the temple’s arched roof to the tall, rectangular platform. At dawn, noon, and dusk someone, certainly not a priest of Lesganagh, struck the gong. It was a ritual seen in cities throughout the lands, performed by Lesganaghists as part of their ceremony. It also was a convenient way to measure time, the only reason why the perfectly aligned tower had not been reduced to rubble like its smaller counterparts to the east, south, and west.
“If I was blessed by you, why do I go about judging people in your daughter’s name?” he whispered, looking at the defaced but still recognizable sun disk embedded into the face of the temple’s western wall.
The only answer he received was the lament of some mad vagrant. He left Lesganagh’s temple behind, continuing his way south. The two linked side streets opposite the Palace, commonly known as Island, were busier than Old Bridge, the usual hub of activity. Now, he heard the insane ramblings clearer. The snide remarks of adults and children drifted his way also.
“I am Eanaigh’s voice.”
“You’re begging, cripple.”
“Bastard lied to us.”
“Begging bastard lied to us,” chanted a choir of boys.
“All was done for the good of the church!”
“Begging bastard lied to us!”
“Look what they’ve done to me.”
“Should’ve killed him. Let Lliania judge him properly.”
“Nah, let him suffer some, he can’t suffer more than those he had burned at the stake, or those he had tortured.”
“Aye, think of Braigh.”
“Tortured him too!”
“Begging bastard lied to us.”
Now, in the frozen and trampled mud, Drangar saw the faint trail of blood. The mad beggar had to be Danaissan. He had clawed his way onto the Island, and now the people were mocking him. He deserved no less.
“Justice be done,” he muttered
as he turned away.
Crossing Old Bridge wasn’t the pushing and shoving it usually was, even in winter. Only the permanent booths remained, and even those were unoccupied. Why he chose this way, he couldn’t explain, but just moving his legs and feet helped his mind. Now it wasn’t just Lord Cahill’s request that created turmoil. Upholder Coimharrin’s comment about Lliania watching over him messed up matters even more. To him, at this moment, not many things were certain, and it seemed to get worse whenever he tried to make sense of anything. Hesmera’s murder, Cousin Dalgor and the Sons of Traksor wanting him dead, now his sudden judgment over an entire cabal of corrupt priests. If things hadn’t already been confusing by the time he had been trapped in the darkness—caught between life and death—they surely were now. If the Goddess of Law and Justice was the one watching over him, why the Scales had everyone at the Eye claimed Lesganagh had blessed him? If they had supported him he might have understood their statement, but not one of those who had told him that the God of Sun and War blessed him had ever been supportive.
“Get your mind away from this shit,” Drangar grumbled. “Clear your mind!” Good advice but how could he? The longer he traveled down the path of his life, the more things he had considered definite became muddled. He knew he wasn’t losing his mind, although with this mess it was a tempting way to escape. This wasn’t like it had been in Carlgh, or even on the road when he was running from what he thought was his evil deed.
“Focus on something else,” he growled again, slapping both hands against his forehead. “It can’t be that difficult.”
He was atop the city wall, next to gatehouse and barbican overlooking the southern plain, before he realized he had actually mounted the stairs. A few warriors, some bearing Duasonh’s and others Danastaer’s coat of arms, cast a casual glance his way before returning to their game of dice near a small oven. One of them had his eyes on the enemy camp.
