by Ulff Lehmann
Elves had learned magic from her, not the life-sacrificing abomination she used; still she was unable to do any other sort of castings. Blood, it always had to be blood.
“Why?” She wasn’t even sure she had just asked that question; it might have been one of the people she was watching from above. As Lightbringer scrutinized the humans in heated discussion, she realized none of them had asked the question. Cursing, she focused on the debaters again. Going back in time was tricky enough, and she didn’t want to sacrifice more human potential. If she lost track of what occurred, she might have to jump back to the point at which she had been distracted. More blood wasted because of her carelessness.
“I’ve made sure Cat will be safe, my liege,” the tall, grey-haired man said, bowing low.
“And you, dear friend?” King Ryanh of Haldain asked.
“We have walked this far, trying to bring justice to all, only to have our efforts painted as hypocrisy, and to be called corrupt and liars by those who already are. I won’t abandon you now.”
“What about our children, husband?” the queen of Haldain said. Did people at court really speak in this stilted manner? She couldn’t remember.
“If you send them away they will be hunted, if you hide them here they will be hunted, milady.”
“No chance for them then?”
“Can’t Cat take them with her?” the King asked.
The Justiciar cast his eyes to the floor. “She has already left for Ma’tallon.”
Lightbringer smiled, the scene below her changed, colors and light blurring together until she was somewhere else at some other time. Cat had gone here, a long journey even on horse. In all likelihood she was at Lliania’s Court, at one of the central edifices, a pillar of the community, with the various layers above the original elven buildings. Any building on ground level was truly a pillar.
Cat was easy to make out; she towered over many of the Lawspeakers, Upholders, and Lawpassers, her raven hair flowing down her back and around her neck like a silken hood. She was older now; three years had passed since the young woman had fled from Haldain, her family and everything she had known gone. The robe she wore was that of a Lawspeaker. Apparently, Cat was following her father’s example. She was talking to a man who seemed to be almost of the same age. He wore a tabard embroidered with the Sun and Sword of Lesganagh.
Lightbringer drifted closer.
“You will enjoy your stay in Machlon, milady,” the man said. “It is a small community with little crime, so there’ll be only land disputes to settle, mostly that is.”
Cat didn’t look excited. “I will go there because I am told to go there. Once my term there is up, I will return here and take the vows of an Upholder, sir.”
“I know Machlon isn’t much, but I promise that you will be welcome there.”
“What little justice I can bring to the place will also serve Lliania,” Cat said listlessly. It was obvious she would rather be assigned to a bigger place.
“From what Lawsayer Matthain has told me you should be honored to be given an appointment at all.” Lightbringer grinned; the lad was a Lesganaghist through and through, straight as an arrow. “As an outlander you should consider it a great honor to be assigned anywhere.”
“Right, I could be cleaning latrines for the rest of my days,” Cat spat.
“Could be worse, trust me.”
“Oh, and how is that?”
“You could be a follower of Lesganagh in Danastaer.”
“Is that supposed to cheer me up?” When the man remained silent, Cat grumbled, “The thought of people being burned alive, inside their homes, is a very cheerful image, indeed.” At that the man glared at her, turned and hurried off. Cat snorted. “Imbecile. Has no idea to whom he is talking!”
Again, space and time blurred around her until she reached the hamlet of Machlon. The place hadn’t changed over the past few decades. Underneath her the fields were ripe with crops, the harvest not too far off. The forked road, around which the village was built, was teeming with people. Merchant carts stood here and there in each direction. Some carts were headed west toward the Kumeens, others were traveling north, but the bulk of the traders seemed to be heading toward Mondaen and farther east. On the pathetic village square a lean woman, Cat, stood between mobs of liveried merchants. A greatsword, still scabbarded, lay across her shoulders, her arms casually draped over each end. Despite her very martial pose, she looked calm, lips curved in a slight smile. Her eyes wandered from one party to the other.
“Well then,” she said. “Another Trannday another brawl, it seems. Why is it that whenever the both of your caravans, honored Malcolm,” she inclined her head to a man whose face was as red as his surcoat, “and honored Padraigh,” she nodded to the leader of the other faction, “are in the same area there are fights?”
Both men shouted, “He started it!” Immediately followed by “Liar!”
“Silence!” Cat roared; Lightbringer found no other word for it. “Either you two will behave before one of Lliania’s Lawspeakers or we will let Her Scales decide on who is right!” Now the red in both men’s faces was replaced by a very pale grey. “Good,” Cat said, jovially. “I will hear both cases—separately—and will see who’s telling the truth. When this is done I will sentence the guilty party to pay the good people of Machlon reparations for the inconveniences suffered throughout the years. Any objections?”
“Lady!” Malcolm exclaimed.
“Speak,” she replied.
The merchant looked first at her then at his competitor. “Padraigh, let’s bury the axe now. Let us make reparations and continue before this gets out of hand.” Cat smiled. “I’m not admitting that I am wrong and you are right, but the good people of Machlon have suffered enough from our… misunderstanding.” He looked at the Lawspeaker’s feral smile. “You know how she is, man,” he pleaded. “If we do not settle this once and for all she may well sentence both of us to not only pay the people here but elsewhere as well.”
“Damn right I will.” Only Lightbringer heard the mutter. The anger she had seen in Ma’tallon had been replaced by cold, calculating determination. Cat would do right, no matter the cost. She wanted to show the Lawsayer in Ma’tallon she was good at what she did and judging from the admiring glances the villagers cast at her, she truly was.
An odd tingle crawled up her legs. She had been in the past too long; maintaining the spell further would soon damage her. With a thought, she cast her mind back through time into her body.
Her eyes fluttered open. Around her the remainder of the blood was sizzling away, the last vestiges of power fading. If she wanted to unearth more of the past, more lives had to be sacrificed. For the first time, her resolve wavered. Was discovering the identity of the boy’s father worth the innocents she had to kill?
Annoyed, she stood, brushed off the flaking remains of blood covering her body. “I need to find out who his father is,” she muttered, not truly convinced she was doing the right thing. Were her machinations that different from those of her kindred?
CHAPTER 50
The Blacks, one Bitch, one Bastard, had let the messenger pass, and now Urgraith Mireynh sat at his table. For once the rickety construction was clear of its usual clutter, the pouch containing the missives from Herascor as well as reports from Harail before him. He refilled his mug with watered-down mead and smiled wistfully. Where to start, he wondered. In his opinion it was all a bunch of shit, threats, and orders to play favorites with one noble or another. The High Advisor hadn’t even permitted him to receive letters from his wife, only the casual addition to missives saying they were well off, considering the circumstances, of course. Since he had left Herascor ten weeks earlier, the threat of their executions weighing around his neck like a noose, there had been no confirmation if Isa and the kids were still alive.
Children! He shook his head as if waking from a dream. Ten years ago, when that bastard Ralgon had presented him with Kirran’s head demanding two rewards, he h
ad thought he would never again have a family, the last tie to his beloved Jess lying severed before him. Meeting Isa had changed that, but he still craved revenge for his son. Ralgon had butchered Kirran, claiming it had been Mireynh’s orders to return with the traitor’s head. Had he really given that order? Had it been his command that had doomed Jess’s and his boy? Jess was still alone in the Great Roundhouse, waiting on a son that would never come to her in a man’s shape. Would she even recognize him? Lliania’s Scales had weighed him and found him wanting, Mireynh was certain of it. What would Kirran be? A spittoon? A mug? Maybe Jess was drinking out of what their son had become. Maybe Isa and the kids were already within the Halls of the Gods, feasting alongside Jess.
Even if one of the missives contained another assurance that his family was still alive, doubt was all he had left. That and a thirst for revenge. “Damn those traitors,” he growled. And damn Drangar Ralgon, he added silently.
There was nothing to be done, a delay in reading the letters would not lighten his worry or ease his anger. Sir Duncan was right, his anger at traitors, especially at Ralgon, was not helping morale. Maybe his path would someday cross the bastard’s again, and when that day came he would make sure to nail his son’s killer to the nearest tree, upside down. With a sigh he forced the painful memory aside and reached inside the pouch.
Mireynh had just begun to break the King’s seal, when somebody screamed in alarm. No sudden thunder, no tearing sound disturbed the night, like it had a few days ago. Still, bellows of fear resounded throughout the camp.
His Black Bastard of the day poked his head inside. “Sir, you are needed.” He sounded urgent.
Mireynh shoved the paper back into the pouch, its seal showing barely a crack, winced as he stood, grabbed his coat and hurried out. The shouts grew louder by the heartbeat. Black Bitch and Bastard stood rigid to his left and right, hands clasping their sheathed swords. “Is Duasonh attacking?” he asked, irritated.
“No, milord,” Black Bitch replied, her voice grim.
“Well, what is the emergency then?” he snarled at the sable clad guard. Gods, how he hated these stoic assholes. They were the High Advisor’s creatures, and the only sign of respect they gave him was the way they addressed him.
“The dead! The dead have come to haunt us!” a soldier from a bit further off shouted. “Run! They want revenge!”
“The dead?” Mireynh echoed, skeptical.
Black Bastard pointed to the east. There, in the glare of a cooking fire, a handful of beings moved toward the camp. He blinked, stared at the attackers, tried to discern who they were. It could have been anything, but if the Danastaerians were attacking under cover of night, wouldn’t they move faster? A piece of wood burst, showering the fire’s surroundings with sparks, and for a moment he saw that the group’s leader was riddled with arrows. The ones following this monstrosity also looked like pincushions. “Gods,” he hissed. From elsewhere more alarmed voices were raised, mixed into these were shrieks of dread, the same dread that seeped into his bones.
The dead were afoot. Another flare clearly displayed the ragged coat of arms of a Danastaerian noble. He swallowed; his victims, the soldiers, the turncoats he had ordered killed when they first got to Dunthiochagh had returned to avenge their deaths. He had betrayed the traitors and now they had returned to make him pay. They had trusted him, and he had rewarded that trust with arrows.
The Black Bitch must have seen him flinch. She put a hand on his shoulder, and it took him his remaining resolve not to shy away. “Sir, this has nothing to do with what you did.”
“Help me!” someone shouted from the west.
“Gods, no!” another voice came from the south. Now the screams seemed to come from all around.
“They are rising from their graves!”
“Lesganagh protect me!”
“Eanaigh aid me!”
Joining those shouts of horror was the occasional gurgle of people struggling, dying.
“Stay away from me!”
“Help me!”
“What is this madness then?” he snarled at the guard.
“Deathmasks unleashing their power,” the Black Bastard replied, his voice calm.
“What can we do against the dead?” he growled, trying to keep his fear in check. “Kill them?” He scoffed.
“Bleddyn! Gods, Bleddyn! Leave him alone!”
“Help me!”
“Only one thing we can do, milord,” the Bitch said.
“And what in the Gods’ names is that?” he barked.
“Hack them to pieces,” the woman replied. “Hack them to pieces that can do no harm!”
For a moment, Urgraith Mireynh, High General of Chanastardh, stared at her, eyes wide with revulsion. Seeing that her face looked as impassive as always, he realized she was serious, and in a way her suggestion made sense. If the dead could walk, relieving them of anything that could propel a body was a practical, if not an elegant, solution. “I’ll fetch my sword,” he grunted.
“Very well, sir,” the pair replied.
A moment later his pain had evaporated in the anticipation of doing battle, and he returned, blade in hand. “Let’s go!”
They hastened to the nearest melee, if it could be called such. A few soldiers were futilely poking spears at the walking corpses, while others shrunk back in dread. Now, up close, he saw the bodies had only partially rotted due to the harsh cold. Arrows, he recognized the fletching as Chanastardhian, were still lodged in throats and shoulders, some sheared off by a final drop to the ground. The corpses wielded no weapons, reaching out to grab opponents and choke the life out of them. Already a few warriors lay dying, victims of the walking dead as well as the tricky ground on which they had slipped. If one’s gait was halting to begin with, one’s footing hardly mattered.
“At them!” he yelled, raising the sword he had last swung when Ralgon had murdered Kirran. His Black Guards advanced with him, silent as always. The mindless monsters didn’t even react, raking their partially rotten, partially frozen hands at warriors, not caring what went on behind them. “At them!” he shouted again.
The first one they attacked together, striking at legs and arms, butchering the half-frozen corpse like the experts they were. It didn’t surprise him that the Black Guards’ faces remained impassive. They struck with precision, cleaving one piece after another off the dead before them. He knew he would rather face death by hanging than be dismembered by these butchers. His aim was true, though his strikes less precise than those of the guards. “At them!” he shouted again, this time, raising his voice so that those around them would snap out of their stupor and follow their example. “Flesh and bone and marrow and blood, feed the ground with dead, piece by piece!”
Their attack and his battle cry had the desired effect. Soldiers who had, a moment before, just stumbled away from the lurching carcasses halted and drew whatever weapon they still had. The ones who had poked the corpses with spears recovered their swords and axes and went to work. Somehow the horror of being attacked by death incarnate was less frightening when one knew that death could be dismembered easily.
Mireynh chopped off a corpse’s arm by the shoulder, almost gagging at the stench. The dead stumbled on; intent on another man. Even the lobbed off arm moved onward!
He pinned the appendage with a booted foot and began to cut it into pieces. Link by blackened link, the fingers came apart while wrist and elbow still moved, trying to pull the arm on. Next the hand came off and lay still. What harm a severed arm with intact elbow could do, Mireynh didn’t know, but he remembered what the Black Guard had told him. Piece after piece came clear until all that was left was food for crows.
Bitch and Bastard had made short work of another two walking dead, while the warriors around him had scattered the remaining pair. Elsewhere the shouts of fear and confusion sounded just as strong. Aside from him and the Black Guards, he had a score and half of men-at-arms. “You two,” he growled, pointing at his watchdogs, “with me!
The rest, fan out, help the others, once a pocket falls tell the survivors to do the same.” Again, to his guards, he said, “We will get the bastards in the south and form a proper defense!”
For the first time he thought he saw a hint of emotion in the two sentinels’ eyes when they barked, “Yes, sir!”
The tents a hundred yards to the south had been roused by the noise, but by the look of it the Wardens and Captains were struggling with what was happening. Some seemed frightened. It usually took only a few snarled words to snap them out of their dread-trances, and after a quick order at what to expect the warbands charged toward the dead.
At one point, Mireynh heard Anneijhan of traitor House Cirrain barking out orders. He frowned, cast a confused look at Bitch and Bastard’s impassive faces then headed for the commotion. Anne Cirrain had gathered warriors to form a shield-wall, sending them to the front once it was assembled. “Get moving, you oafs! Your comrades need you! And remember what the Sword said: only groups are to engage, chop them down! Now go!” She was already pointing to the next handful of arrivals. “You! Rouse more men, fuck the armor, shields and swords will do! We’re dealing with corpses for gods’ sakes! Lumbering, mindless foes too slow to catch you if you’re smart! You four! Go with them! March!”
Seeing the woman remain calm, issuing orders like a veteran warlord made him regret once again that she was under house arrest. What an addition Anne Cirrain would have made to his staff! He could almost picture her on top Dunthiochagh’s wall, directing the assault and escalade. Damn her father, why did he have to go rogue? Mireynh called over to the warrior-woman. “Keep up the good work, Cirrain!” To his watchdogs he said, “Let’s go, more people to be roused, we can’t do much good here.”
