by Ulff Lehmann
“Have you entered this spiritworld on your own?”
“Yes.”
“Good, and the hymn?”
“That is more difficult.” He knew Cumaill would realize that this was an understatement, but he also knew that the Baron would do everything in his power to prevent Ondalan from becoming a disaster. It was time for a change of topic. “Why hasn’t Sir Úistan been at court? Why is he not one of your advisors, for that matter? He seems capable enough.”
“Oh, he is, but aside from Jathain harassing his estate, there were some… other problems in the past.”
So far, he had gleaned little information about what had caused the rift between Houses Duasonh and Cahill. If he was to guess, there was more to it than Jathain being a greedy bastard. “What about it? Seems you two do get along.”
“That was never an issue. But we aren’t here to discuss family matters. Will you be able to free Ralgon should the demons take control?”
“He still has to consent to the verdict,” Kildanor stated, hoping to spare the mercenary the struggle that was to come. The shedding of blood, enemy blood, did not worry him, the unleashing of the monster within Drangar did.
“Ralgon agreed, and frankly there is nothing we can do.”
“He agreed?”
“Aye, says it is a matter of justice. With his actions yesterday, it seems Lliania favors him, though I don’t know why,” Cumaill said.
“What the Scales does that mean?” Gossip rarely passed anyone in the Palace.
“You haven’t heard?”
“Heard? What? I was busy learning to walk in spiritform and detailing how we razed Phoenix Citadel. You have the Lady Ealisaid teaching me and being taught by me at the same time.”
“It seems that the stories about Ralgon being blessed by Lesganagh are just that, fiery tales. Rather the Scale lady seems to have an eye on him.” Before the Chosen could reply, Duasonh spoke on, “He was in Eanaigh’s temple when they were trying Danaissan and his goons for the Dawnslaughter. Ralgon showed up. He didn’t really accuse them of murder, but he pointed out their corruption. Coimharrin let him proceed, saying he was on the right path. Ralgon judged them, but instead of killing them he had Danaissan crippled and the rest volunteer to defend the city.”
Impossible, was the first thing going through his mind. How could he judge and have an Upholder actually respect that call? “Bullshit!”
“I have twenty or so former Caretakers in arms atop the wall who’d say otherwise.”
“I happen to like this man, and I don’t want to see him used as a tool. Not by demons, nor anyone else,” he said boldly.
“We are all tools, one way or the other. I serve the city, you the Lord of Sun and War,” Cumaill replied lightly. Then his expression grew stern. “And unlike you, I did not have a choice. You will do nothing that interferes with the diversion, understood?”
“It is dangerous…” Kildanor began.
Only to be interrupted. “Hopefully for the enemy.”
“And what if the demon inside of Ralgon turns on us?”
“Then you cut him to really tiny pieces so that he will not return from the dead. Do to him what happened to his woman, symmetry in the end,” Duasonh said, but the Chosen detected a trace of doubt in his friend’s voice.
“You really think he can stand the pressure? Remember what a wreck he was five days ago.”
“Heard he was walking South Wall yesterday, talking with warriors and such, and that Úistan plans to train with him; if that doesn’t bring him up to speed nothing will.” Cumaill paused, withdrew another paper from his desk and glanced at it. “Speaking of speeding things up, has Lady Ealisaid managed to contact young Garinad yet?”
“You mean aside from riddling me with questions about Phoenix Citadel and trying to get me into the spiritworld?” Just how much work did he expect from everyone around him? He had barely thought this when a flicker of light underlined the dark gashes underneath the Baron’s eyes. Cumaill Duasonh did not expect anything from his people that he himself was not willing to give: everything. Kildanor shook his head, the wars he had fought had ended decades ago, there was the memory of bloodshed, the hardships of killing and seeing loved ones die, but the pressure the leaders struggled with every day he had forgotten.
“She has been trying to figure out how to communicate with someone outside the spiritworld, but no success so far. Also, she wants to depart for the Citadel to see if any instructive books have survived the destruction.”
Someone rapped on the door, and without waiting for Duasonh to reply, the portal swung open and General Kerral marched in. Although the warlord was billeted in a decent inn, he still wore the same clothes Kildanor had seen him in last. The spots underneath his eyes were less pronounced than Cumaill’s, and he had shaved. Thanks to Bennath Garinad, his armor was in better condition, but compared to noblemen who played at being warriors, and despite his initial reservations, Kildanor knew this man was the real deal. Brusque and not one for small talk, Kerral began speaking the moment the door fell shut behind him. “Morning, sirs. I was inspecting the wall and our friend Mireynh. Seems their work is back on schedule.”
“Morning, general,” Duasonh said. By now everyone was used to the man’s entry. Once the pomp had worn off, which coincided with the Baron shaking Kerral down to size, the general was a no-nonsense man who did the best he could. “What work are you talking about?” Cumaill asked.
“Seems a whole bunch of the bastards were cutting timber the past two days, milord. They used the kindling to weaken the soil at the two Dunth Street locations and have dug in fairly well. So now the rampart is finished in the east and west and they’ve start fitting the wood into the ground.”
“Any chance our war machines can reach them?” Kildanor asked. As a swordsman, he had never bothered with anything that could not be stabbed directly into an enemy’s guts. Cumaill glanced at him and shook his head slightly.
“No, sir,” the general said. “We fired a ranging shot, like you, milord”—he bowed to Duasonh—“asked us to, but as predicted, the bugger fell short.”
“Can the range be increased?” Kildanor asked, and again received a headshake from Cumaill.
“Dunno, sir, could be done given time, the good thing is that Mireynh’s slingthrowers have to be well inside our effective range to do some damage.”
Archers, the Chosen knew, were no good either.
“Good thing Jathain never reached Harail, or they would have come far better prepared,” Duasonh said.
“Maybe,” Kerral replied. “Were I in his place and had known the easy way into the city was no longer available, I would’ve called the entire march off and wintered in Harail.”
“We need to wear him down.”
“Aye, milord, hopefully Lord Cahill’s plan…” A knock interrupted the general.
Cumaill yelled, “Enter!”
The door swung open and Lord Cahill strode in.
“Úistan, good morning,” Duasonh said. Since when were they on a first name basis?
The noble approached the desk and halted, folding broad arms across an equally broad chest. “I need more men. My own retainers are too few to hold the city when the enemy returns.”
“We barely have enough as it is,” Duasonh said.
Cahill shook his head. “The city needs the diversion, but for it to work I need more men at arms. I have the drovers, a score Swords, and a handful Bows holding the Ondalan ford, but we can’t hold the village with them, much less form a wall when the enemy returns.”
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“I already agreed to give you two hundred Suns worth of iron, what more do you want?” Sir Úistan leaned closer and said, “Listen, Cumaill, you know I am doing the right thing, don’t let the past cloud your judgment in this matter.”
“Our parents arranged the marriage and you two ran away.” Gods, was Cumaill still smarting from something that had to be long past?
“Listen, I did
not come here to discuss some slight you said we had put behind us. Stop acting like a petulant child!” Kildanor had to agree with Sir Úistan, reawakening an old conflict now was stupid. Maybe it was exhaustion talking.
“He’s right,” the Chosen muttered absentmindedly, realizing too late he had spoken his thoughts out loud.
“Gods, we were friends once, Cumaill. Let bygones be bygones, there is more at stake here than some argument over long lost sweethearts. Leo’s married to me, of her free will. Took us long enough to reconcile with her parents.” Sir Úistan stood before the table, hands resting comfortably at his sides. “We talked about this, mate.” How could this loud man be more reasonable than Duasonh? And why didn’t Kildanor know about this lost love, if it ever was that? Most importantly, why the Scales was Cumaill still worrying about something that happened when he was barely a man?
Letting go of a long-held breath, the Baron finally nodded his head. “You’re right.” The Chosen saw his friend wanted to say more but Cahill spoke up immediately. “But I cannot conjure warriors, as much as I would like to.” General Kerral cleared his throat. “Yes?” Duasonh looked at the warlord. “Speak your mind.”
“My lord Baron, a handful of archers has been holding the ford ‘til now, saw it myself. Lord Cahill doesn’t need a shield-wall; he needs more bows, nothing else. The terrain is rugged enough to stop any cavalry charge.”
Cahill nodded his head in agreement.
“But as you well know, general, we have no Bows to spare either.”
“The poachers,” Kildanor said, remembering a constable mentioning them a few days ago. “We have a score of archers locked in jail. They’ve been there since before Jathain fled.”
Cumaill ran his hands down his face, rubbing tired eyes. “Just how many more of my cousin’s skeletons will I find? Very well, you shall have them, kill them should they try to flee.”
“Splendid! We still need a few days preparation, but then the Chanastardhians will wish they’d never been born!”
“Your purse equips them?”
“My mission, my money, Cumaill. You know I won’t cut any corners. This is my ore and village we are talking about.”
“Remember the ore is secondary, and the goal is to divert Mireynh’s forces by putting Ralgon out as bait?”
“That’s what we’ve been talking about, isn’t it?” Sir Úistan grinned. “Two Chanastardhians one arrow, so to speak.”
“If only it were that easy,” Cumaill said. “Very well.” He used a bell pull and a moment later a servant entered. “Fetch the Chief Constable.”
A brief nod, and a quick “Yes, milord,” and the man was gone, closing the door behind him.
“Now that this is settled I’ll take my leave. I need to practice with our bait,” Lord Cahill announced grimly, sketched a bow and left.
Kildanor hoped things went according to plan, be it the sparring with Ralgon or the unleashing of the Scythe in Ondalan but with demons nothing was certain. If he wanted to help Drangar, he had to train more.
CHAPTER 35
Nerran was right. Encountering a dwarf was something she would remember until she died; none of them had ever considered attempting to gain the goodwill of the dwarves. Rheanna still marveled at the meeting as she left Shadowswamp behind and saw Dunthiochagh’s walls before her.
Closing, still a mile or so off, she saw the massive North Gate open and release a torrent of riders that divided, heading east and west. Their pace seemed unhurried, but she knew that at such a distance anything but the harshest gallop looked fairly slow. In the west—thankfully the sun was still high enough to not blur her vision—she saw another group of riders returning. A quick glance to the east showed the same.
These sights quenched her worries about the enemy already having crossed the Dunth and corralling the city. Half a day behind her, came the biggest group of refugees yet, and they would have walked straight into the Chanastardhian battle line had they made it to this side. As long as they held the northern shore, the siege was doomed to fail, bridges could be destroyed and even if the south of Dunthiochagh fell half the city remained free.
The closer she got, the less concerned she grew. Autumn and winter were no seasons to campaign at any rate, and the swiftness with which most of Danastaer had fallen spoke volumes of the enemy’s tactics and the kind of help they must have received. Traitors everywhere were the reason the towns, manor-bound villages and Harail had fallen. Still, before her lay a city that defied its northern cousin’s invasion. How Halmond had succeeded in claiming this region for his own was best left to the historians, not her business, really. To now reclaim an area Chanastardh had annexed and later released was wrong, unjust.
Her intuition regarding issues like this was good. It had to be good; otherwise she would not be Upholder, something that was usually awarded to older priests. Then again, Rheanna had more experience with injustice than most.
Her arrival at the again opening gate coincided with the returning Horse. The riders, hardy men and women, looked exhausted. Dark rimmed eyes, matted, greasy, unkempt hair; the only prim thing was their armor. Even the horses looked weary. Both steeds and riders slouched, she found no other word for it, and the chargers were on the verge of stumbling with every step. Mixed units, she noticed. Baron Duasonh’s coat of arms was on roughly half the arriving warriors, while the others bore either the royal seal or that of some other noble.
She waited patiently as the riders filed through. The last from both east and west were the Horse-Captains. They looked even more tired than their troops, following the Baron’s example of being always available to anyone. Briefly, she saluted the pair, and then rode into the city. Behind her, first portcullis, then fir and oak doors crashed shut.
Finally, within Dunthiochagh, Rheanna decided against taking the weapon to Sunsword Kildanor. After all, the blade strapped to her saddle wasn’t the Chosen’s but Drangar Ralgon’s, and she was burning to meet him. There weren’t many people who had gone through the ordeal of fasting and meditating for a sufficiently long time to prove their quality. The similarity between his name and the one she still associated with law and justice were too apparent, she just had to know.
Cahill Manor was a fortress unto itself; even the gatehouse sported two armed guards. The wait was longer than anticipated and for the first time since the Riders had left for the pass she froze. Standing or rather sitting still with nothing to do caused rider and horse to shiver. She walked Talaen around until, finally, the gate opened. Dwarven steel in her left hand, Rheanna stated her name and business, and was allowed inside at the sound of the noon gong.
“Lord Cahill is in the Great Hall, milady,” a dark clothed servant said when she repeated both name and business inside the manor. “I’ll take you there.” Curiously the man was attired more like a man-at-arms. Now, that her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, she saw he wore a studded leather tunic over a linen shirt, bracers guarding his wrists, and a belted knife at his side.
“I’m not here to see your master,” the Upholder replied. “I need to see one Drangar Ralgon.”
“They’re both there, milady.”
Curious, she thought, and then said, “Very well.”
Down a corridor they passed another servant, a young woman, similarly attired as the retainer leading her.
“We’re here, milady,” the young man said, stopping.
“Rheanna, or Rhea, or Anna, not that ‘lady’ and ‘milady’ nonsense, all right?” she said, her past life was past. “And you are?” No! Wrong tone, she reminded herself. “Sorry,” she stammered. “What’s your name?”
Turning his head but keeping his back to her, as if reliving a similar conversation, he said, “Kohar, I’m Kohar.”
They stood before an ornate double door. Kohar raised his hand; she held him back. “I don’t want to intrude if they are eating.”
“Trust me, no one has eaten here since Master Úistan took over,” he replied, and then knocked. When no reply
came, he unsheathed his blade and banged the pommel repeatedly against the wood. At first, she was stunned at his audacity, but upon closer inspection she saw this wasn’t the first time a retainer had hammered against the door. The carvings were dented in various places, an artisan’s nightmare come true.
“Yes?” a commanding voice shouted.
Kohar smiled at her. “When he’s in there practicing he hears nothing else.” Then he opened the door and poked his head inside. “Master Úistan?”
“What is it?” the voice boomed back. Lord Cahill, she suspected, would have made a perfect warlord.
“Lady Rheanna Scadainh to see Master Ralgon, sir.”
“Fancy name. Know her?”
“No, sir,” someone else said.
“What’s her business?” Cahill asked.
With an annoyed sigh she pushed past Kohar. There were times, many in fact, when she hated all this etiquette. She had never liked it back at court, curtsy here, coy smile there, pretending everything was fine when in fact it wasn’t, and she liked it even less now. Especially since she suspected things were less formal when no guest was around.
Inside the massive former dining room were two men, each similarly attired in padded armor with wooden practice swords in their hands. Instinctively, she looked at the bald, weary looking one. “As Kohar said, I am here to speak to Drangar Ralgon. Nerran Ghonair sent me.”
“And who is that?” the bald man asked. His voice was not booming, not Lord Cahill then!
Hastily, she shifted her focus to the amused grinning bear of a man, bowed, and said, “My apologies, milord, for mistaking him for you!”
“Nerran is a Paladin of Lesganagh,” Lord Cahill said to the other man, Ralgon, and then turned to face her. “And what does good old Nerran want with my guest?”
“Nothing, sir,” Rheanna replied, and held out the dwarven sword. “He merely wants to return this, once I can confirm it is his.”
