Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Lord Cahill’s training room,” she supplied. “Too dangerous to enter, sir. He don’t care about the door.”

  “Is your master in there as well?” He nodded to the portal and the room beyond.

  The girl shook her head. “No, sir, Master Drangar is practicing. Does that a lot, he does.”

  The door opened and Kildanor beheld the stubbly face of the one person he had, a few weeks ago, never expected to see drenched in sweat again. For a dead man Ralgon looked very healthy.

  “About bloody time,” the former mercenary said. “You brought my stuff, thank you.” Then as an afterthought Ralgon added, “If you don’t mind, I could use a sparring partner.”

  CHAPTER 42

  From a distance the young man Gwen had pointed out looked every bit the hardened worker from a supply train. Anne did her best to not stare at the Danastaerian spy. Every once in a while, when retreating from her squire’s flurry of blows she darted a glance in his direction. Her bold new friend had arranged his presence here right now.

  Friend… In the past only members of the wider House Cirrain, men-at-arms, retainers and such, had become her friends. Gwennaith Keelan, her squire, was the one outsider she trusted. The intrepid girl had discovered the spy yesterday when she herself had tried to gain unnoticed entry into High General Mireynh’s tent. Actually, if Gwen’s story was true, the spy had discovered her when she had slithered into the unoccupied tent, disturbing his own work. A knife at her throat and a few heated whispers later, the pair had decided to join forces.

  The young man was versed enough to know what to look for, and Gwen knew her way about the nobles of Chanastardh, far better than the Danastaerian. As a result of their joint venture Anne now knew the reason why Mireynh had separated her so determinedly from House Cirrain’s troops. Something must have happened that had made her da switch sides in the conflict with the northmen. None of the missives the pair of spies had sifted through gave a reason, mentioning only that the issue was on a need-to-know basis, and Urgraith Mireynh, with all respect, did not need to know.

  What was going on at home? What had been the cause for proud and dutiful Wadram Cirrain to turn against the crown to which he had been so loyal?

  As much as Anne wished for answers, she knew they would not come quickly. If Mireynh didn’t know what was going on in the Highlands, how could she? According to Gwen—who now was attacking her once again, leading with her sword instead of her shield—the spy could arrange for a diversion, a false message freeing her of the restrictions she was currently under.

  Could she betray king and country? A few weeks ago, the mere idea would have been absurd, a silly joke and nothing more. When Mireynh had given the order to shoot the Danastaerian turncoats when they retreated from a foiled attempt to take Dunthiochagh’s southern gate, her opinions regarding loyalty and honor had changed. Why should one remain devoted to someone who clearly cared little about the wellbeing of others? Sending the Danastaerians first to fight their fellow countrymen had pronounced the High General’s sheer hatred of traitors more clearly than any of his actions before. It was a gruesome act that had cost four hundred men and women their lives, people who had merely desired for their families to keep on living. Though she couldn’t understand why her father had allied himself with the people House Cirrain had fought for generations, she guessed it had to be important enough for him to break his vow.

  In a curious way Anne understood those who preferred dishonor and life to an honorable death. The turncoats had wanted to survive, something she understood. The people who had delivered Harail had done so out of greed, the bribes and promises had been good, and she was certain King Drammoch had intended to keep his word. High General Mireynh, however, had shown the traitors what he thought of them.

  The volleys that had met the retreating turncoats were, in her opinion, as much treason as the opening of gates for an enemy. Sure, Mireynh was a good leader, but even the public whipping of Duncan Argram and his soldiers for the rape and murder they had done could not, for Anne, tip the scales in his favor. She owed Mireynh nothing.

  “Lead with your shield, girl!” she snapped, pushing Gwen’s blade aside with her own shield and thus baring the squire’s back to her sword. “This is no boat! Remember, on foot, if you have a shield, use it! And if you don’t have a shield, make sure to be faster than your opponent!”

  The squire swore colorfully, spewing out obscenities like a hardened sailor. “Shields are so slow!”

  Anne nodded. “Aye, that they are but you can use them in ways you can’t use a sword! Let me explain.” The conversation was part instructional and part show for another possible spy of Mireynh’s. It might have been easier if Gwen and the Danastaerian had continued their clandestine meetings by themselves, but Anne refused to merely give and receive messages through her squire. The young lady was certainly quick on the uptake and amazingly adept at this sort of intrigue, but she wanted to rule out any chance of error. “You!” Anne shouted, pointing at the rather well muscled young man who was passing into their field of vision again, carrying a set of spades on his shoulder.

  He pointed at his chest.

  “Aye, you! Stop what you’re doing and come here!”

  The spy dropped the shovels, looked about in confusion then came toward her. “Milady?” he asked in a thick, Valley accent.

  “Gwen, hand him your shield and sword,” Anne ordered.

  Now the Danastaerian arched a brow, looking from her face to the squire and back, as if asking aloud what she had in mind. He looked clumsy when handling the shield. Anne wondered if the man truly was such a good actor or had really no idea how to use a shield.

  “Hold it like this,” she explained, stretching her arm so he could see how to work the straps and handle. “Right, good job.” Did every real drill instructor sound so stupid? She didn’t even want to know how they felt; training Gwen was easy enough since the girl already knew how to handle a sword, but a bare recruit was something else entirely.

  What was that? Was he smirking? She looked again. Yes, a slight curve marked his straight lips, nothing more and unnoticeable for anyone farther away. Good, he knew how to handle a shield. This was all an act. Relieved, she assumed her teacher’s pose again.

  “Now, I want you to keep the shield close to your chest. Good, like this. Hold it. You will stand firm while I charge.”

  The look he gave her almost asked, “Are you sure?” Up close she saw his impressive size. Though this exercise was not only to show Gwen how to use a shield offensively, but also to communicate with the spy, a little struggle would be productive.

  “Pay attention, Gwen! You need to learn this!” Then she charged.

  It was like hitting a stone wall. Her run, though guarded, was forceful, not unlike a real assault on a standing enemy. The spy just held his place as if her velocity and strength meant nothing.

  “Good gods,” Anne said, when able to breathe once more.

  “Did I do something wrong?” the Danastaerian asked innocently. He surely looked that way as well.

  “No,” she replied, and to Gwennaith, “Never charge like that when the foe is obviously stronger than you.” A quick glance about to see if others were watching, and then she straightened. Thankfully nobody seemed particularly interested. “You have experience?” she whispered.

  The spy shrugged. “Some.”

  “We need to be up close.”

  By his nod, she knew he understood, and rammed her shield against his. “If you are in tight quarters, Gwen, see if you can dislodge your enemy’s hold.” Straining against the spy’s block, her voice hushed, she said, “Your name?”

  “Garinad, Jesgar Garinad,” the Danastaerian replied, whispering. “And yours?”

  “Anne Cirrain.”

  “Good.” For effect, but still forceful, he leaned forward. “Your squire told me you want to get out, correct? “He gave a push, widening the distance, but only for a second, because Anne was right back where she started.
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  “Aye, as I am practically a hostage and my father an outlaw, my first duty is to escape.” Louder, she said, “Gwen, when you are shield-locked with an opponent try to circumvent the barrier. Slice and stab but be careful. Your enemy will do the same.” And to Garinad a whispered “Play along, I won’t harm you.” A quick nod was all the reply she needed and accompanied by a series of barked “Tendons” “Shoulder” “Feet” she faked the cuts and stabs to the announced places. “Long swords are better for sawing.”

  “Haven’t been here long,” Garinad whispered, as he dodged her assault. “How is the courier marked? If he bears a special crest at all, that is.”

  “Usually when you are locked in battle this way, try to get away, because if you don’t and are not wielding a short sword, the stronger combatant usually wins,” Anne instructed. To the Danastaerian she said, “Royal colors, usually accompanied by two guards on horse.” She thought for a moment. There had been a series of messengers riding back and forth when they were still in Harail. “Bright red ribbon tied to an arm of each.”

  “Anything else?” the spy asked.

  Now it was her turn to dodge, though his attempts to stab and saw were clumsy, as if the man hardly knew how to handle a sword. Then again, only a very bad or unlucky spy would have to fight his way free. “No,” Anne hissed, sidestepping a slow cut to her foot. “How do you communicate with your master?”

  At that Garinad smiled. “It’s a secret.” He gave her a wink then pushed.

  Anne found herself being forced back slowly but surely, as if her strength was nothing to the Danastaerian. Only a few things in battle could surprise her. This was one of them. “Don’t!” she hissed.

  Looking crestfallen, but only for a moment, the spy held back. “Sorry, milady,” he said aloud. “My da always says I don’t know me own strength.”

  “I don’t expect to be pushed by underlings, understood?” A quick look about revealed that the few people who had stopped briefly to observe the training had now returned to their work. “Gwennaith, remember, you are of noble blood. Never let a freeborn or villein push you around.” To a few stragglers, she snarled, “Get moving you sons of whores!”

  “I am truly sorry, milady,” Garinad said demurely. He bowed, whispering, “I’ll contact Gwen when I have news.”

  “Out of my sight! Next time consider your actions more wisely, understood?”

  “Yes, milady,” he said, returning sword and shield to Gwen. “Good day to you both.” Then he hurried away.

  Later that day, when they were in her tent, cleaning and oiling weapons and armor, Anne asked, “Can we trust him?”

  Gwen ran an oily hand through her locks and answered, “If not, we would already be dangling from a tree or sitting around in chains.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Well, he caught me sneaking into Mireynh’s tent, could have gutted me, but didn’t. And most of the missives were written in some gibberish, so there are secret messages being sent here from Herascor.” The girl’s arguments were sound. “Besides,” Gwen added, as she slid her oiled sword into its scabbard, “how could he know your father’s name? It’s not as if the Highlands are that renowned.”

  The same thoughts had crossed her mind, but the unease remained. Right now, she was considering matters she had always considered contemptuous. Her father had turned against the crown? It still seemed impossible. A Lesganaghist through and through, Wadram Cirrain believed in strength and honesty, as did she. Straight as a beam of sunlight, in battle or judging character, it made no difference. What had happened to make him join the northmen? She asked Gwen.

  “I don’t know,” her squire replied after a moment of contemplation. “Not my place to guess. What would it take to make you turn your back on tradition?”

  A good question, one she had been avoiding for almost two days now. Family, though it now seemed her family’s actions had made her into a virtual prisoner. She was a rebel, not because she had desired a change, but by association. No, Gwen had asked what could make her turn rebel. The answer, when she looked into her heart, came easy enough. “Falsehood, a sense of betrayal.”

  “Like what happened when the turncoats got slaughtered?”

  She hoped her smile masked the anger and disappointment she still felt when thinking about Mireynh’s order. Apparently, the issue had been decided even before the Danastaerians had marched for Dunthiochagh. She clearly remembered the last fragment of the conversation the High General had had with the First Bow Company’s Headman. It didn’t matter why Mireynh hated traitors. It didn’t matter why the turncoats had retreated from the open gate. The little speech, one sentence really, their leader had given before ordering the slaughter merely justified his command. Of course, warriors would not retreat on a whim, but if a tactical withdrawal were necessary, would Mireynh give such an order? The man seemed no fool, but his blind hatred for traitors was just that, blind. He could have asked the warleaders why they hadn’t penetrated the defense. Instead, he had chosen to kill his allies. It would have been straightforward had he refused to let them join his army. “Dishonorable commands,” she finally told Gwen.

  Her squire nodded. “Whatever happened at home, your father couldn’t live with it and turned around.”

  “Same as me,” she whispered, realizing, maybe for the first time, she had already turned her back on Urgraith Mireynh, maybe even on her homeland.

  Gwen must have had similar thoughts, though she didn’t reveal her reasons. “I’m with you, milady,” the young woman said. “I may be a pirate in the eyes of the others, but I have my pride, and neither bribes nor threats to my person will make me submit to others.”

  “Should we manage to get away, your family will also be in disgrace.” At that Gwen snorted.

  “They might even be outlawed,” Anne continued. “If we can escape, you’re better off if you come with me as hostage. This way the King will not hunt down your folks.”

  “First we need to get away,” Gwen stated.

  Mail and plate oiled and stashed away, they wrapped themselves into the coats and stared at the small fire dancing in its pit. “With all those splinters lying around one would think they could spare some for us,” Gwen grumbled then changed the topic. “That Danastaerian never moved.”

  Her reply was a sigh. “Big bastard, he. Sneaky as a mouse, though. Never heard him until his blade was on my throat. Would’ve thought people in his line of work were more, I don’t know, wiry.”

  “Aye, he’d look mighty fine in a suit of armor on a horse,” Anne mused, staring into the flames. She looked up when Gwen snorted. “What?”

  “In love?” her squire asked, eyes dancing with mirth.

  “Wha… me… no!” Only too late she realized she was stuttering like a girl barely of age.

  “A man has to win me,” Gwen declared proudly. “Courtship and all that, you know?”

  Anne kept to herself the reply coming to her mind. In all likelihood Gwen already knew no scion would ever ask for her hand, at least not with the permission of his House. The Keelan name carried enough weight when it came to fishermen, but in Herascor the nobles were laughing openly at Gwen’s family. In all likelihood she would marry the son of a rich merchant to whom the House was indebted to pay off some bills. The merchant got the name, and Gwen… if she was lucky, a decent husband. If not, only the gods knew.

  “You look like my da,” the squire said through her musings. “Whenever I tell him the same thing.” Her face grew stern, all humor forgotten. “I grew up knowing my name was worth spit. Your House at least owns its lands, has no deeds waiting to be paid off. I know all that and didn’t become a squire to play at being a knight. I want to decide whom to marry, and as Knight of the Realm I can, so my father can’t marry me off to the next fishmonger. But I will not be used by the likes of the bastard Farlin!”

  She didn’t know what to say, and the silence between them grew, until long moments later, Gwen, her face pale, whispered, “Maybe it�
��s better if I desert with you. This way I can forge my own way without a thought of my House.”

  Maybe it was better for her, Anne thought, though with no knowledge of what was going on at home, it could be prudent to wait. “I know it’s your decision, but don’t make it just yet. Things may change. The Danastaerian might offer another option.” She changed the topic. “Tomorrow I want you to talk to Paddy; he needs to know what’s going on.” Time had been scarce the past two days, and her warband was more isolated than she even knew. Not that she was aware of the reason for her father’s cessation. Too much uncertainty made for poor choices. When Garinad knew more, proper plans could be made.

  CHAPTER 43

  Despite the siege and the warriors, as well as the constables of the Watch patrolling the streets, crime went on, and the resident priests of Lliania were swamped with legal affairs. For one day now, Rheanna had waited on her fellow Upholder, Coimharrin, and although she held the same position as he, the old man was her superior. Besides, she knew just how peculiar he was.

  A steady stream of petitioners and fellow lawmen had come and gone. She was bored, wishing she were back in the Shadowpeaks. The thought frightened her, though. Driving wedges into rock formations to bring down mountainsides was as exciting as sitting through yet another litany by Morgan Danaissan. Lesganagh is evil this, Lesganagh is evil that, the world does not need Lesganagh. She scowled at the thought. How wrong that fool and his cronies had been, and still were. After all, there were enough fools left in Danastaer. Dunthiochagh was only the beginning. There would be more justice to be meted out when the Chanastardhians were gone.

  The door to the Court flung open, and in stormed one of the younger Lawspeakers. The lass was barely of age, if Rhea judged correctly. “It’s true, it’s true!” the young woman shouted, falling silent when she realized there was only one other person sitting inside.

  “All off at the moment,” Rhea said then added, “Close the door if you please.” When the Lawspeaker had done so, she asked, her curiosity peaked, “What is true?”