by Ulff Lehmann
Cumaill’s eyes grew wide and judging from the intake of breath the two priests were just as surprised. The girl Ysold blinked, looked about and said, “Garinad’s in place, shall I alert the priests?”
“Not yet, girl,” Duasonh said, his eyes not leaving Kildanor’s. “You aren’t joking, are you?”
He snorted and shook his head. “No.”
“You can only tell the rightful monarch of Danastaer?” Coimharrin asked. Then followed with, “Hand me that platter, will you, healer boy?”
“Indeed, only the King may know aside from us Chosen.”
“Was it always like that?” Braigh asked.
He shook his head. “No, during the Heir War it was the king of Janagast, until that realm and ruler fell.”
“So, it has to do with the location, not the nation?” Cumaill refilled his mug. “Wine?”
“No thanks…”
“I’ll have some, milord,” Coimharrin interrupted, chewing once again.
“And yes,” he continued, ignoring the Upholder. “Had the claim to the land remained with Chanastardh, the king in Herascor would have known.”
“Well, you want to be Cumaill the First?” Braigh asked. Kildanor was unsure whether the Eanaighist was serious.
“King of what nation?” Duasonh replied. “The ruler of a city under siege declaring himself king, splendid idea.”
“I can’t break my vow, mate, sorry.” Into the silence that followed he asked, “What are those Deathmasks up to?”
“Chaos, horror, and mayhem, boy,” Coimharrin replied.
“If this works you’ll be on horseback by tomorrow morning,” Duasonh added.
“This soon?” he asked, surprised by the speed with which events were unfolding.
“As to your question,” Braigh said, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Well, when we lured the first spearhead into our trap, we killed many of their people; the disgusting bastards slaughtered the rest. And to make matters worse, they neither asked for permission nor bothered to retrieve the corpses and burn them.”
Ysold was with them and following the conversation calmly. She must have heard the plan several times before, if he considered that she was the Baron’s unseen messenger relaying communication and notes to young Garinad. Despite her apparent knowledge of the plan, the girl looked slightly pale.
“Bottom line,” Coimharrin grumbled, “they will let the dead rise from where they lie and order them to attack the Chanastardhian camp. Mireynh will have the time of his life.”
“The gods allowed this?” he asked, stunned once again.
Braigh said, “The priests of Lesganagh summoned demons to fight demons.”
“That was different!” Kildanor shot back, angry now. “Don’t you dare bring up that Danaissan propaganda again! None of you were alive during the Demon War.”
“Still,” the Upholder said, raising an appeasing hand, the other was holding his mug. “It is almost the same, really. If you consider what the Deathmasks did before, raising the dead from the battlefields. They had to be stopped same as Lesganagh’s clergy. Can’t have people messing with the cycle of life, it’s just not right.”
“And now it is right?” the Chosen asked, voice rising.
“We have no idea what is going on up north, mate,” Cumaill intervened. “Lady Ealisaid isn’t here, and little Ysold is far too busy and inexperienced to travel there. For all we know this rogue Deathmask might be raising an army of undead right now. Or he already has done so and it is marching our way as we speak.”
“Fight fire with fire,” Kildanor said. He held back from stating that this sort of tactic had been what Lesganagh’s priests had done during the Demon War.
“They’re creating a distraction so that Garinad can get into the High General’s tent and put our missive into the courier’s pouch,” Ysold explained. “Sounds disgusting, walking corpses and stuff.”
Braigh leaned forward. “As it should have been done during the Dawnslaughter, the Deathmasks police their own, and with one of them gone rogue they will do whatever they can to help stop this deviant.”
Kildanor regarded the priest. “You’ve done some serious soul-searching, haven’t you?”
“Had a good man show me the way,” Braigh replied.
“Beat the shit out of you verbally, you mean, eh?” a voice grumbled from the door.
Duasonh rose as Kildanor and the others turned. “Nerran!” Cumaill said. “Good to see you hale and healthy.”
“Aye,” the Paladin replied. He nodded a quick greeting then asked, “Who’s the lass? And why’s the wee thing staring holes into the air?”
Ysold had indeed gone back into the spiritworld. In brief Cumaill explained the situation and the girl’s role in the plan. Nerran shook his head in wonder then said, “Great, so the bastards will get a taste of their own medicine so to speak. Walking dead attacking the enemy camp, ingenious.”
“Is the pass closed?” Cumaill asked.
“Aye, no one will get through there without some serious digging, lads,” the Paladin replied, smiling broadly. He looked at Coimharrin. “Did our princess deliver the weapon?”
The old Upholder looked up in surprise. “Ah, yes, she did. Marvelous piece of work, and the owner…” he trailed off.
“The Deathmasks are on the wall,” Ysold said. Kildanor looked at the girl sitting still on the chair. She must have perfected this means of communication.
“You should get some sleep, mate,” Cumaill told him, and then addressed the disembodied Ysold, “Tell them to proceed.”
Kildanor nodded, wished them a good night, and left the study. Tomorrow he’d accompany Úistan Cahill’s suicidal warband to the ruins of Ondalan.
CHAPTER 48
Flying would have been easier, but since Gaedhor could not, Lloreanthoran had agreed to ride as well. At home, horses were used by those unable to fly or teleport, beasts of burden for the lower classes. For the humans, most of whom seemed to walk any distance, animals were a luxury. His brethren would have scoffed at the thought, but he understood. Humanity may have risen above their prior existence, but they still were primitives. In a society where every harvest was a battle against the elements, something that eased the work was highly valued.
Having been born three centuries after the freeing of man, the only knowledge he had about the cheapness of human slave labor came from books, and even those were heavily tainted by the chroniclers. When summoning magic to do one’s bidding had been too straining, slaves had been used. The lazier his people had become, the more slaves had been put to work. Even now slaves, prisoners of war from an age when humanity was a footnote and elves dominated history, did some of the labor, mostly sewing and manual jobs. He smiled at the irony.
“Something amuses you?” Gaedhor’s voice sounded worried. Whether it came from the danger the human thought them in by traveling through Gathran alone, or his concern about the bit of magic his daughter had picked up last night; Lloreanthoran couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered. He had proven that he was no threat, had even helped with the chores that needed to be done around the stronghouse.
A quick glance sideways showed him the swordpriest eyeing the forest, right hand always close to the sword belted around his waist. “Just how different things are between us and you,” he finally said.
“I’ve heard of the intrigues your kind is famous for.”
So that was what the elves of Gathran were remembered for. Not the music or poetry, not even the architecture, no, it was the tales of intrigues taking decades to come to fruition that had survived.
When he remained silent, Gaedhor spoke on. “Trust me; we’re not that different from you. Bastards are everywhere, trying to get the better of others. Though I have to admit our backstabbing usually takes place within a few months.”
“Shorter lives, faster intrigues,” he replied, feeling not really inclined to share his opinion with the human.
“Never understood why things went this way, after all, you can�
�t pay your way off Lliania’s Scales. Bastard in this life, pisspot in the next and all that. Doesn’t make any sense not to follow the laws.”
He made a non-committal sound, staring at the path ahead. Gaedhor had a point, but there were no rules written by the gods; priests interpreted dreams and omens, and if they chose to ignore them, they knew what they would get in the end. It was all about freedom of choice in this life. A master could treat his slaves better than some lord treated his villeins, and although slavery was something frowned upon in some parts, the slave owner might end up among those celebrating with the gods, while the lord served as the slave owner’s chamber pot.
“Why not treat others like you want to be treated in the first place?” Gaedhor prattled on.
He reined his horse to a stop and pointed at the tip of what could only be a massive rock buried in the ground. “See this? It doesn’t strive to be better, it just is. If everyone were the same, we’d be stones. We may not like what our peoples do, abhor it even, but they do it despite the consequences. Why? Because it has worked for them for generations. Is it smart? No, it breeds resentment and anger. Is it wise? No, but it is the way we are.”
With more diversions added to the mix, things in Graigh D’nar would not have been this extreme. It wasn’t his people, he realized, that had to change, they couldn’t, it was their homeland. The boredom of predictability bred intrigues because it was the only thing that could distract them. He wondered if humans, thrown into the same situation, would behave the same. Scales, even the gods bickered amongst themselves.
Gaedhor sighed. “Maybe you’re right, but when the leadership weakens, others will fight for supremacy.”
“You are not referring to Ma’tallon,” he stated.
“No.” The swordpriest spurred his horse forward.
Obviously, there was something going on within the Sons of Traksor that he wasn’t supposed to know. In time, he knew, he would find out anyway, now that the Eye of Traksor was close.
He hadn’t known how close, and as they came around the next bend the forest vanished abruptly, giving way to a grassy plain. Dusk wasn’t far off and the setting sun bathed the whitewashed structure in front in dull golden light. Rising above the high curtain walls was a plinth, possibly a tower. The edifice cast its shadow like a dagger across the wall onto the meadow. It reminded him of a sundial, massive in scope, but he wasn’t sure humans had discovered the art of timekeeping. His people had lived with that knowledge for centuries before mankind began walking on its own, but for them, long-lived as they were, keeping track of time was a waste of time.
As they came closer he made out more details. His first impression proved wrong, the walls weren’t whitewashed. Instead they looked as if the entire fortress was chiseled out of one solid block of pale stone, not unlike Dragoncrest Castle. Whether this was true hardly mattered, he hadn’t seen the like of this since the olden days, and not even Ma’tallon, arguably one of the proudest architectural achievements of elves and man, had been raised as a whole. He turned to look at Gaedhor. “How did you…?”
“I don’t need to know, and neither do you.”
Perplexed, he again inspected the wall before him. Merlons, as white as the rest, looked as clearly defined as if they had just been assembled. There were frescoes adorning the wall’s surface as far as he could see, circling the entire structure. Some of what the murals depicted he knew: the making of the world. The God of Sun and War’s legend and accomplishments were, naturally, located in the part they were passing, east, a time-proved honor to him whenever his glowing orb rose from the depths of night. Eanaigh, his mate was on his left, and both he had seen mirrored by Glennaigh and Jainagath in the west. The unequal twins, Life and Death, were depicted similar to icons of his people: two children holding hands yet drifting apart. While the parents to all the gods were shown as majestic as befitted their statue, the children clung fiercely to one another. Maybe this was because mankind was closer to both. Maybe, he reasoned, this was purely the artist expressing himself.
When they were only a score of yards away from the gate, somebody yelled, “Hail, Gaedhor! Isn’t it a little late for a visit? Who’s that with you?”
Only now did he see the artfully hidden arrow loops. They were all along the wall. Yet, there was something wrong about them. Not that he was able to explain his unease, but somehow the Eye emanated a trace of the same solidity as Gaedhor’s magic back in Machlon. “He’s here to see the Priest High,” his human companion repeated the agreed upon words.
“What’s he want from Darlontor?” the sentinel asked.
He caught Gaedhor’s confused glance, and then the Son of Traksor said, “That is between him and the Priest High,” stressing the title.
“Suits me, I don’t give a shit.”
Now Gaedhor’s shock was plain on his face, but only for a moment. They spurred their horses toward the slowly opening portcullis. “Something is wrong here,” the human muttered, voice barely audible over the hoof beats.
Compared to the mess that greeted them in the circular bailey, the Eye’s outer walls felt like something from a different world. Appearances fell away the moment they crossed the threshold. Everything was cluttered, dirty. Not in a state of disrepair, he spotted a few tidier areas standing out from the general chaos the way mold shows on bread. Only that here the good parts were the ones calling attention to the decrepit state the fortress was in. Halting beside him, Gaedhor looked as stunned as he.
“Something’s definitely wrong here,” the human whispered.
A woman spoke. “Something, no. Everything, yes.” Out of the shadows stepped a willow-thin female, grey hair bound into a braid, her cloak obviously weighing her down.
“Mistress Kevonna,” Gaedhor said, dismounting. “This here is…” A trembling hand shot out from under the cloth covering her, stopping his sentence.
“Not here. Stable your horses then come to my quarters.”
Lloreanthoran glanced at the Knight Protector who offered a shrug as reply. When he turned back to where Kevonna had been standing he found the place empty.
“Let’s take care of the beasts,” Gaedhor muttered, disbelief clear in his voice.
Surprisingly the stables were in a much better state than the bailey. After they had tended to the animals—he had the feeling of being watched although no one else was inside the building—they hurried up the stairs into the circular building that was the fortress. Gaedhor led the way. Here and there people loitered at strategically important points, their curious stares following them. He kept his hood up, a precaution they both felt necessary, especially with the dubious state the Eye of Traksor seemed to be in.
He remembered what his guide had told him earlier today. Were the Sons of Traksor suffering from a weak leader? The evidence pointed to that conclusion, but maybe the decrepit state of the bailey could be attributed to people busying themselves with preparations for winter. Now, with watchful eyes surrounding them, he dared not ask.
“We’re here,” Gaedhor said, coming to a stop before a steeloak door. It opened before the swordpriest’s hand reached the wood.
“Come in,” Kevonna said, glancing up and down the corridor as they entered.
“Why the secrecy?” the young man asked when the door had closed behind them.
“So far you’re only one of ours coming to talk to me,” the older woman said. The room’s illumination revealed the corpselike state she was in. How she remained standing, or living for that matter, was a mystery. By all rights she should have been dead. “You can take your hood off, elf,” Kevonna wheezed as she lowered herself onto a chair. “I have a good idea why you have come. Both of you.”
“You know?” he asked, surprised she had seen through the disguise. He pulled the cloth from his head.
For a moment it seemed as if life returned, bouncing into her rheumy eyes. Then the deathlike stare returned. “I know you have come here to find your people’s heritage.”
He scoffed. “
Heritage indeed. There is danger afoot.”
“I know.” Gaedhor cleared his throat and she turned to him. “Speak.”
“Why weren’t we given the aid I requested?” he asked. Lloreanthoran felt the man’s temper flare. “We’ve been under siege from these monsters for a fortnight.”
Kevonna sighed, a rattling sound that shook her frame. “Neither the messengers you sent nor those I ordered to investigate matters made it back.”
“And what are you doing about it?” Gaedhor snapped.
For an instant the old woman looked as if she might jump up and start pacing, but the moment passed quickly. “Things are more difficult than they have ever been, boy.” She paused; a wistful smile crept onto her brittle face. Then she said, “You’re the spitting image of your grandda. He learned patience when he grew older.” A shake of the head, she closed her eyes, and the wizard feared she had nodded off or worse.
Finally, she continued, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ll send Darlontor here; don’t speak to anyone else.”
He had the impression that she wanted to say more, maybe give an explanation of what was going on here, but she didn’t. The Sons of Traksor were a secret order, and though he respected the need for unity and discretion, he felt that in times of need such measures should be dismissed. That they didn’t reveal their secrets to him he understood. What he didn’t understand was why they kept things even from their own members. He looked at Gaedhor as Kevonna left the room. The human looked as bewildered as he felt.
CHAPTER 49
A part of her was aware of the blood evaporating around her prone body. Soon her own life force would feed the spiritwalk, and she still hadn’t seen the most important part of the past.
In the previous days Lightbringer had pleaded and bargained with the gods, asking them for advice. She had known beforehand this was a madman’s errand, not that she wasn’t considered mad by some. How could she give when all she had left were memories? What would they have taken had she agreed to the sacrifice? In all the millennia she had been alone, she had done what her conscience demanded, not what the gods ordained. Sure, they approved; Cat had told her as much. They did not help. Neither did her ancestors speak to her, those who had remained true to the gods, and sat at their sides. Why should they? In a way she was as corrupt as those beyond the Veil of Shadows. The humans called them demons. To them she might be a demon as well.
