by Ulff Lehmann
Ralgon stepped closer to her, followed by Lord Cahill who stared at the weapon. “Gods,” he muttered, glancing at the bald man and then at the sword. “This is yours?”
It took her less than a breath to summon Lliania’s might to see the truth in things said and done.
A brief nod, and then he replied. “Yes.”
He spoke the truth, and Rheanna was about to hand the weapon over when she looked into his widened gaze. She refrained from uttering an oath herself as she saw Ralgon’s eyes. The names weren’t the only thing similar. The green grey piercing stare of the man was so familiar it was uncanny. Gods! She had looked into the same eyes before, back when she was still little Princess Rhea. Justiciar Ralchanh must have been this man’s grandfather.
Ralgon placed his hand next to hers and said, “You know, if you want to return this, now would be a very appropriate time to let go.” She couldn’t help but continue to gape, the eyes, the voice, so much like Justiciar Ralchanh, her father’s judge. “Anytime now, would do nicely.”
With a start Rhea realized what she was doing and released the weapon, her gaze still on Ralgon’s face. The quick smile, the shake of the head, she was certain this was Justiciar Ralchanh’s grandson. Yes, he lacked his grandfather’s hair, though she saw that a fire had shorn clean every inch of his face. No lashes, brows or hairs that were worth mentioning. It was growing back, his scalp already showed a hint of shadow returning, but it was by no means something that reminded her of Amhlaidh Ralchanh, Justiciar of Lliania, and her father’s high judge. Should she tell him? Would it do more harm than good? Haldain as she remembered it was gone. What was Justiciar Ralchanh’s daughter’s name? Thirty years had passed, and Rhea had barely been ten when rebels and invaders had slaughtered the royal court. Caitrin! Yes, that was her name. She had been half as old as the fiercely determined Cat, as her father had called her.
“Something wrong, Upholder?” Ralgon asked.
Should she tell him? “No,” Rhea said, “I’m fine.” The revelation wouldn’t help either way. From what Hranthor had told them, this man had suffered enough already. “I wish you a good day,” she said and nodded to the bald warrior. “Milord.” A bow to Lord Cahill, and she headed for the door.
Outside, Rheanna took a deep, steadying breath. Gods, Caitrin Ralchanh must have escaped the massacre, same as herself. Did she change her name as well? Though what would the daughter of the king’s judge have to fear from revolutionary forces? The claims of injustice had always been only a rousing motive, one with no solid truth to back it up, of course, but enough for a discontented people to turn into a raging mob. Most of what had really transpired in those days she had learned from the Great Library; she had been too young to understand what had been going on back then. Was Cat still alive? Was she really Drangar Ralgon’s mother? Or was she imagining things merely to feel that not everything good from Haldain, from her past, had been burned to the ground?
Coimharrin! The old coot had been friends with Ralchanh! Maybe he knew more. As another armed and armored servant ushered her out the gate, Rhea decided to speak to the aging Upholder. He might well know more.
CHAPTER 36
“Don’t worry; you won’t go to Ondalan unprepared.”
How could he prepare for this? The wooden sword in his hand felt as unfamiliar, as unwanted as the one he had used weeks—it felt like years—earlier.
“We will have you in fighting shape soon,” Lord Cahill added, clapping his shoulder in a friendly fashion.
The Fiend chuckled. What exactly did Cahill know of the raving killer he had been during his mercenary days? Had he only learned of Drangar’s past from what his wife and daughter had told him? If so, Hesmera had, in all likelihood left out the worst parts, which, in its essence, only left tall, heroic tales that were as far from reality as the Fiend was from benevolence. Scales, Drangar resented the very thought of fighting. What if he did not stop when the Chanastardhians were done? In the past—how he loathed thinking of his time as mercenary—there had always been a modicum of control, restraint, something that reined in the furor. Now… What would happen now?
“Come on.” The smack of wood against the padded armor was light, yet forceful enough to turn his attention. “I haven’t got all day.”
They had spoken of his doubts, at least as much as Drangar was willing to reveal. Yes, honor and law demanded he made up for the wrong. The argument had played over and over in his mind. Yes, he could have told Cahill he had not been master of his senses, which, after all was true. When would apology become a convenience that he could blame on the Fiend, when in fact it wasn’t?
Then there was the price. Sir Úistan had paid the fine for his desertion, something he had not even considered. He wasn’t just morally obliged to serve the noble; money had become an issue as well. Doubly bound through law, there was no escape. No, he stopped the thought as it arose. He did not want to escape. He had broken laws and had to pay.
Again, Lord Cahill slapped the side of his armor. “Pick up your shield.”
“Don’t like shields, hamper movement,” Drangar replied without thought.
“We will be charging a village held by enemy forces, you will need protection.”
Protection did not matter. His life did not matter.
Drangar took a steadying breath. Without preamble the Fiend had slithered into his thoughts once more. Calmer, he looked at Lord Cahill. “My lord, I have never liked to fight with a shield, never stood inside a wall. I barreled through them, tore them apart.” Were those his words or the monster’s? Where was the line? Would he even know when the Fiend took over? “It was your plan to have me fight for you. I would rather chop wood for the rest of my life to repay my debts, but you made your choice and I must abide by your demands. You want me to fight.” Another calming breath. A mocking laugh echoed through his mind. The Fiend waited, ready to slip past, but not today!
“You don’t mind that I?” Cahill asked, lifting his shield-arm.
Drangar shook his head. It was best to remain silent, lest he tell the noble more than he was willing to reveal. It seemed hardly to matter what he feared, not to Sir Úistan at any rate. They fought.
“You are still holding back,” Cahill taunted once more, his blade flashing forward.
Drangar slapped the weapon aside. What was it someone had told him when he was young? It was best to learn defense first to understand how to get around it. He couldn’t even halt to check if it still was him in control of his body. There was barely time to worry about it either. Lord Cahill was relentless, his approach methodical. Drangar had realized this early on, the noble had never fought in a shield wall either, had probably never seen any real battle. The movements were fluid, speaking of long daily practice bouts. Was it possible that…? “On which fields have you fought, my lord?” he blurted out the question just as his own weapon was struck aside.
“What?” Cahill asked, blinking as if coming out of a dream. A moment later he said, “You mean battles, aye?”
Drangar nodded briefly, worrying that his concern—that Sir Úistan had never seen real war—was coming true.
“I’ve been bred for combat, weapon’s practice from the day I turned eight.”
The bugger was evading the answer. Shocked Drangar searched his mind, worrying the Fiend had crawled past whatever bars held him. Then he realized the derisive thought was his own. “And the battles?” he prodded.
“Real wars, I am sorry to say, none.”
He hoped his shock and outrage did not show on his face.
“I was in many melees, the champion of several tournaments.”
Thankfully he stopped the mocking snort before it escaped. Sir Úistan, the man he was to follow into battle, had never fought a real one himself! The irony would have been funny had Drangar not been worried sick about what future Ondalan held. How could this person lead any force against an enemy who was prepared, experienced?
His doubts must have shown, for suddenly Lord Cahill bur
st into motion, slamming into him, shield leading the charge. Drangar tried to twist out of the way. Too slow, and too late came the impulse, and suddenly it was he who was flailing on the rush-covered floor. “I may never have seen what you call a real battle, boy, but do not underestimate my abilities!” Lord Cahill snapped. “Yes, I only fought for entertainment, but I do know how to fight!”
Shame, mixed with anger, swallowed him briefly. A deep breath, so long in the making, finally came. Closing his eyes, Drangar searched his mind for any sign of the bastard Fiend. For now, he was master of his body; the only trace of the feline monster was its mocking laughter. Had he just insulted the man whom he owed allegiance?
“Up with you, let’s be at it again.” Cahill’s eyes were calm as he stepped back. “We have time to tickle your skills awake again but no more.”
Getting up, he brushed the straw off his clothes, feeling as ashamed of his insinuation as he felt inadequate for the task ahead of him. This time, when their blades crossed, parted and met again and again, he noticed the focus and determination in Sir Úistan’s eyes. The noble hadn’t fought any wars, but this did not mean he lacked the skill it took to survive and win.
Other bruises soon joined the first bruise he had gotten from the fall. Úistan Cahill did not hold back. He always stopped and explained Drangar’s mistakes, standing back, going through the motions with him. The gruff exterior cracked, showing that Cahill cared for his wellbeing, that the noble wanted him to survive Ondalan. He was a teacher in the truest sense of the word, grumbling, yes, reprimanding, certainly, but also full of praise when a sequence was mastered.
Drangar felt good about himself. There was no scorn or worry or fear in Lord Cahill’s eyes, despite what he had done to Neena. Instead he saw some sort of raw admiration, pride every time he improved. Old skills returned, but whereas they had been drilled into him back then, hammered into his mind and body with uncaring precision, here was a man whose company he enjoyed; a feeling that despite all that had happened was seemingly returned.
“I may never have been at war, son,”—how odd it felt to hear the term from a man he hardly knew, odd and good—“but have you ever seen what nobles do to each other at a tournament?”
Drangar shook his head, panting.
“Brutal, I tell you.” Sir Úistan seemed hardly exhausted.
Maybe his preconceptions about noblemen should be revised. A tap at his blade. Just how bloody long could this much older man last? Indeed, Cahill was the right age to be his father. Not that it mattered. Again, the salute, and then they were at it again.
Something heavy was banging against the door. Sir Úistan stopped, panting, grinning like a madman. Drangar was sure he wore the same elated expression on his face. As he caught his breath, searching his mind for any trace of the Fiend, he realized the monster was gone. It would not last, that much he was certain of, but right now it felt good to be alive.
A woman pushed past Kohar, and though introductions were made, Drangar hardly paid attention. The way this Upholder scrutinized him, searching his face, was much more distracting than the fact that his sword had been returned and Sir Úistan was practically drooling. He thought he saw a glint of recognition in her eyes, but despite his good memory for faces, he could not place her.
Absentmindedly he muttered phrases practiced so long ago when everybody, including Hesmera, had salivated over the sword. No one wanted to know about the path of destruction that had led up to his fasting and meditating. No one cared about this side of the sword’s story, his story. Finally, Upholder Rheanna—he had caught the name in the last few moments—left, the same confused, thoughtful look still in her eyes. Drangar shook his head, still unable to remember either name or features. Had he killed one of her relatives? Not the first family his blade had rent apart.
The Fiend chuckled.
“Dwarven steel!” Sir Úistan exclaimed, managing to distract him. The Fiend fell silent once more. “I’ll be damned!”
He managed a weak smile. “Aye, I’m one of those who made it through the ordeal.”
“May I hold it?” The noble seemed as giddy as a child, which, given the amount of weaponry stored inside the great hall and hung upon its walls, was hardly surprising.
This time his smile was genuine. He remembered how excited he had been the first time he encountered a piece of dwarven smithcraft. “Certainly,” Drangar replied, and held the sword’s belted hilt toward his host.
The reverence with which Cahill drew the weapon, eyes twinkling with delight, reminded him of how special the blade really was. “Three fullers,” Sir Úistan marveled, inspected the two edges, and held it aloft to look along the steel. “Perfect, just perfect.” He was, Drangar decided, very much like a child discovering a new toy. “Good balance?” the noble asked, but before he could reply, Cahill placed the flat of the blade onto the outstretched index and middle fingers of his left hand, just below the hilt. “Gods, even with its length it’s excellently balanced!”
The more he watched his host marvel at his sword, the stronger his sense of pride in the weapon returned. It had been here in Dunthiochagh when he had last considered the weapon a prized object and not one of nightmares, and now, with Lord Cahill practically drooling over it, the humility of owning something truly special came back. Now Sir Úistan had the weapon in a two-handed grip, going through a series of basic attacks and parries. “Is there anything this baby doesn’t cut?” he asked.
“Stone, sir.”
Cahill stopped in mid-swing and stared at him. “You tried to destroy it? After your woman’s death?”
His hands clenched into fists on their own accord. He wasn’t responsible for her murder, but the void she had left, sometimes almost crushed him. A nod was the reply Lord Cahill had to live with. Drangar closed his eyes.
“Gods, this is incredible!” His lids flickered open again and he stared at the nobleman. Sir Úistan had removed the glove from his left hand and ran his index finger up one side of the edge and down the other. “No notch, nothing, whatever you tried to do, the blade wasn’t even harmed.”
He shrugged. There was nothing he could say to enlighten the noble. Instead, he asked, “May I ask a question?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Why? Why do you force me into fighting for you?”
An enigmatic smile played on Lord Cahill’s lips. “Have you ever seen what happens to a boat in a storm, with no one steering it?” A pause, an expectant look, and then the reply followed. “It drifts, rolls whichever way the waves and wind go, sometimes in two different directions until someone takes control, or it is rent apart.”
“But I don’t want to fight.”
The look Sir Úistan gave him was serious. “Neither do I, son. Neither do I. But sometimes we have no choice. Sometimes life chooses for us, and if we don’t step up to the rudder and weather the storm, we will be swept away.”
How could he explain that it wasn’t just the fear of fighting? How could he tell this man who obviously wanted to help him that there was a monster inside of him, waiting to lash out and kill? Drangar remained silent.
“I know what you’re thinking, son.” He knew Cahill did not. How could he? “The problem is that other options don’t exist. The wind’s blowing one way, and the current is going in the same direction. War is here, and if the wall is taken it will only be a matter of time before the bastards cross the Dunth, and when that happens, you will have to fight. This Mireynh surely would appreciate you…”
“Mireynh?” Now that his suspicion was confirmed, the reasoning for him going to Ondalan was apparent. “You want to bait him,” Drangar said. “To distract him. But how would he know it is me fighting at…?” His voice trailed off, realization striking like a blow to the stomach. Through the noise of blood rushing through his ears, he heard the Fiend purr, satisfied.
“No,” he said instinctively, a reflex born of the purr that suddenly turned into arms tugging, pulling, and drawing him in. The image and sound of
a whetstone running up and down a blade, not so old as to be forced back up from the recesses of his mind, calmed him. “No.” The word came through teeth that were as clenched as his lids. A moment later, feeling the monster’s pull and mirth lessen, Drangar opened his eyes again. Only to stare at vomit mixing with straw by his feet. He looked up; saw the worried look on Sir Úistan’s face.
“Are you alright, son?” The noble sounded like a concerned father.
No! There had never been a father in his life, and underneath all that sympathy, Cahill wanted to use him as weapon in Ondalan. To lure Mireynh out, the bugger had to be convinced the person in the village was the Scythe. To fight like that again, he would have to let go of all restraint, let the monster take control. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t.”
What followed passed him by in a blur of words, arguments that were as reasonable as they were inappropriate. How could he explain something he barely understood? How could he make Cahill believe the unbelievable? Half the time he didn’t believe it himself. What of the other half? Was he going mad? Or was madness the key?
Justice had to be served, another part of him shouted above the din of conflicting emotions. He had attacked Neena; that the Fiend had been in control was a mere formality. Lord Cahill had paid the price issued by the Baron as fine for his desertion. He had been remiss of his duty back then, another wrong to be righted.
Sir Úistan’s eyes, he thought, displayed both a calculating mind and a caring heart. Gods, he liked the man, and felt liked in return, and not for the sake of the name the Scythe had made for himself. If it were just a matter of training, any one teacher would have sufficed, and the gods knew how many other duties his host was ignoring to prod his fighting skills back into shape. To go back and be the Scythe? “Please, don’t ask this of me. I will fight, but I will not, cannot become the man Urgraith Mireynh knew.”
“Why not?” The question was simple.
“I am not the same person I was.” He didn’t want to be that person ever again.
