by Ulff Lehmann
“Dewayn and Morwen,” Lord Cahill said, returning the nodded greeting. From the rim of his vision he saw the Chosen was just as surprised as he was in realizing that one of the archers was in fact a woman. Now that he saw their faces it was obvious, but from a distance he’d had no doubt that both of them were men. That one of the archers was female made her look even fiercer on second glance. “They lead the score of bows who’ve held the crossing so far.”
“Running out of arrows soon,” Morwen said, her voice unexpectedly soft, gentle.
“We brought several sheaves,” the noble replied.
“Good, the bastards hardly show their faces, or any other parts of their bodies for that matter. We pushed them back three days ago when they tried to charge. A good three volleys and we had them convinced to stay behind the walls.”
“They learn to keep out of sight,” Dewayn added. “Odd thing though is that they don’t try to outflank us either. No idea why they don’t head east.”
Lord Cahill shrugged. “No matter. How many are there?”
“About threescore in all, but they’ve been sending the wounded back to wherever their camp is,” Morwen replied.
“Could be less then?” Drangar asked, trying to sound confident. By the look on their faces it worked.
“Aye,” Dewayn said. “Buggers stay in the farther part of Ondalan; can hardly get a good shot at them now.”
“How many riders?” the Chosen interjected. Grateful to Kildanor for taking command of the situation, Drangar fell silent. He was merely one actor, a crucial part, in a larger play, directed by Sir Úistan and the Baron. Wishing he were anywhere but here, he listened to the plan for the tenth time. They were to let at least one rider escape to bring word of his presence here. Mireynh would send his best-suited leader to capture him. The daughter of House Cirrain, courtesy of a false letter, was exonerated of charges of rebellion, and would be the old bastard’s best choice to claim his head.
“A dozen,” Morwen said.
“How good’s your aim?” Kildanor wanted to know, eyeing the two archers critically. Drangar barely knew how to shoot—he did not want to be here anyway—but to put his life into the hands of shaky-handed drunks was something he didn’t fancy either.
“It does not hurt to be cautious.”
“Good, I can vouch for their skills,” Úistan Cahill said.
“Prove it,” the Chosen grunted, fishing a coin out of his belt-pouch.
“That won’t be necessary, Lord Kildanor, I told you I vouch for their skill.” He heard the stern sincerity in Cahill’s voice, but the Chosen seemed unconvinced.
“They have to fire into melee, and I am not fond of being pierced by arrows, and I reckon if that happened neither would your men or you.”
Cahill looked angry. “My word will suffice!”
“With all due respect,” Dewayn said. “I wouldn’t want to be in the front line either, if I was unsure of the archers’ aim.” The man was sensible; Drangar liked him.
“If you please,” Kildanor said, tossing the metal disk. Dewayn caught it expertly. “Shoot this from her hand at fifty paces and you may cover us.” The archer handed the copper to Morwen. “If you miss, you’ll have to answer to her, I reckon.”
Throwing a murderous look at both Kildanor and her companion, she took the coin and strode away from them. Drangar followed her as she headed north toward the mountains. The air was remarkably clear, the fog had dissipated, and instead of the cold moisture of the night, a crisp chill surrounded them. At fifty paces Morwen stopped and held out the coin with her right hand. He halted a few feet to one side of her. Was it wise to ask such proof from anyone? They could have taken Lord Cahill’s word for granted and moved on. Of course, having archers fire into melee was disaster in the making, but to demand this lethal demonstration? He just wanted to be there should anything go wrong. Too many things he had no control over, the least he could do was try and be useful.
A few long moments later, Drangar heard the unmistakable twang of an arrow leaving the string. The coin vanished from Morwen’s hand in a heartbeat. He hadn’t even seen the arrow speed past. The woman archer kept her hand in its position and came toward him. “See for yourself.” He did. Only the slightest nick to the skin of her index finger was visible. She shook her hand and smirked. “Satisfied?”
“I was satisfied before this mummery began, it’s the Chosen you have to convince,” he replied.
They attacked at noon. The score of archers were hidden in the cliffs above the tributary, while Drangar followed Kildanor who led the first group across the ledge. What remained of the grass crunched underneath their feet, but the greatest source of noise was the breaking of ice that had formed inside the wagon ruts along the dirt road. At the first burnt-out building this side of the river they cowered against the wall, waiting.
“Stay calm,” the Chosen said, lurking next to him.
Was that laughter he heard? Drangar took a deep breath, regarded the older warrior, and nodded.
“Don’t lose your temper,” Kildanor muttered. “Stay in control. You can beat this thing.”
Amidst the gurgle of the nearby river he thought he heard another chuckle. The Fiend was just waiting to break through, break free.
“Camran?” Kildanor hissed.
Lord Cahill’s retainer glanced back at him. “Sir?”
“Your side clear?”
“Aye, sir!”
The Chosen’s gloved hand grasped his arm. “We have to split up, can you handle it?” Drangar nodded tersely. He hoped he could. “Take four men with you and make a run for the next building to the west. I’ll signal Lord Cahill, and then my group will take that house over there.” He pointed at the closest building to their left.
“I am no warleader,” Drangar said.
“Takes focus to command, it’ll help,” the Chosen said in a tone that was meant to reassure, but in his nervousness, he hardly noticed.
He was no good at taking care of others, Hesmera, the Cahill women. He could barely be responsible for himself. How the Scales was he supposed to worry about another four people when he was busy fighting the Fiend?
Another amused snort.
The bastard would not win. Clenching his teeth, staring to the west, Drangar nodded grimly. “I’ll do my best.”
“Go!” Kildanor whispered.
Another moment of hesitation, again the dreadful doubt and worry crept into his mind. Could he really do this? He felt his lips turn into a snarl. Yes, he would show the bastard who was in control. One moment he was crouching there, back pressed against the cold wall, listening to Kildanor and his small group of warriors hurrying to their position. Then he dashed across the junk-strewn road, and only when the wall of this new shelter was at his back did he check whether the others were following. They were right behind. Úistan Cahill had said all of them were his retainers but judging from the way they moved it seemed more likely these roughs were his private warband. Given the splendor he had seen at Cahill manor, he didn’t begrudge them their position. Nobles were always hiring men-at-arms for their own protection, why should Sir Úistan be any different?
The fourth man skidded to a halt, using the wall to stop his run. So far, the Chanastardhians had been very lax in their guard-duties. That, Drangar knew and feared, was about to change. He almost felt the old excitement creeping back into his mind, wondered briefly if this was also part of the Fiend. Was this the yearning for battle, or was it the monster? Had somebody told him he would enjoy being in midst a fight a few months ago, he would have scoffed. Actually, hadn’t he told Kerral only last month that he had wanted nothing to do with the war? Now he was here, about to fight. No, he decided forcefully, this was not who he was.
“The lord signals us to advance” the man beside him said.
“Can he see us?”
“Aye, over there,” the retainer said, pointing.
Drangar turned and scanned the far side of the river. Lord Cahill was indeed watching; the spo
t he had chosen offered good protection yet allowed him to observe what went on in Ondalan. The shooing motion was unmistakable.
“He wants us to attack, sir!”
“I’m no sir,” he grunted in reply. No, this, all of this, was wrong. Not unlike an animal scratching on a door to get in, Drangar thought he heard the Fiend claw at the barrier that held it back.
“We need to go!”
Control, he had to control himself and lead the men. If he stayed as focused as he had when training with Kildanor, the Fiend had no chance.
“Come on, let’s go,” Camran hissed, making the choice for him. All he could do was watch as the four retainers dashed across the street. They dived across a makeshift barrier and moments later he heard steel ring on steel. The battle had begun, and he still stood there, struggling to come to a… Someone’s death howl made the decision for him. He didn’t know if it was friend or foe dying, nor did he care. These men were his responsibility and his inaction had driven them to charge by themselves. Drangar took off at a sprint.
He raced toward the battle, nothing but the fight in his mind. No anticipation, no dread, no Fiend, just the calculating mind that had carried him through the prolonged engagement with the Chosen.
Shouts of alarm rang across the ruined city. Drawing closer, he saw the barricade was only stout at its foundation, its edges worn, splintered by a multitude of arrows. He hardly heard the cries from the other side, was barely aware of shouts raised in the east. Remembering what it had felt like in Cahill manor, how he had controlled the monster. Maybe that was the key! He’d had a focus then: saving the ladies. If only he could focus like that once more. Untouchable, the Fiend roared in its chains, clawing at the cage doors, he knew it wanted to tear into the enemies, now heard it purring in his mind. It told him he could not die, would not die as long as it was in control. No! He was in charge, even if that meant he died! The purrs and growls within subsided; still, he felt the Fiend pacing like a trapped animal.
The wall was close now and flimsy enough for him to barrel through—right into the confused milling of fighting warriors.
What happened now felt both strange and exhilarating at once. The moment his feet touched the ground, Drangar almost felt a shift of vision. He was both looking through his eyes and observing the scene from above. It felt similar to how he had experienced the past with the spirit; the only difference was that he seemed to be in two places at the same time. With ease he parried a Chanastardhian’s clumsy overhead swing, used the parry’s momentum to gain more power for his counter-slash into the soldier’s unprotected side. The man’s armor withstood his attack, but he was open for a clean thrust. Instead of following through, however, Drangar saw a pair of enemies charging for his back.
Immediately he turned, much to the surprise of his opponents. Dodging a halfhearted stab, he brought his sword up into Eagle Guard. Stop playing, the Fiend roared, urging him to just kill and kill and kill. A mental glare shut it up. He was in control, no one else! Strike, parry, thrust, parry, counterthrust, the melee was maddening. Three opponents to pay attention to, three warriors to defend against. He struck and parried, slashed, thrust, dodged and parried again. Was this how he had sparred against Kildanor? The first opponent went down, blood gushing from his neck, spraying onto his face. The Fiend howled with joy; its pounding increased in strength.
Kill, kill, kill!
Through clenched teeth, holding against one man’s shield bash, trying to deny the enemy an opening, he growled, “I will not be yours!” Drangar jumped back, watched the Chanastardhian perform a pirouette. With renewed strength he waded in again. Only this time he fought both, Fiend and enemies. His vision shifted back into his body as he struggled with the relentless attacks of his opponents and the howling Fiend within.
He let go of a breath he couldn’t remember holding, slashed his blade in a downward angle at one man. The sword clove through his foe’s shield, scattering wood and steel and blood. The Fiend roared once again. He wanted to shout back at the monster inside, fight it down.
Only barely did he evade a thrust by the other opponent, his own sword still lodged in the shattered remains of the first man’s arm and shield. Drangar let go of his weapon, turned at the one attacker left and stepped into his reach.
Kill him! Use your hands!
He stumbled, barely dodged another desperate lunge, and then hesitated. “No!” he snarled, unsure whether it was the Fiend or the Chanastardhian he was addressing. “Surrender while you can,” he told his foe. “Put down your sword and surrender.”
Something in his face must have told the man how close to death he was, for the Chanastardhian blanched and dropped his blade. “You!” Drangar roared. “I am in command, not you! You’ll never be in command, ever again!”
The enemy soldier’s bewildered look let Drangar know with no uncertainty how he must have sounded. He didn’t care if the bastard thought him mad. Nor did he care about the startled looks his companions gave him. Turning around to retrieve his weapon, he found the crippled foe struggling to stay upright, the blade still lodged inside his arm. As he came closer, Drangar discovered that he had not only slashed shield and arm, but also the man’s leg. The Chanastardhian gushed blood from two wounds, and no bandage or healer in the world could stop Jainagath from claiming him. He walked up to the dying man, came to a halt next to where he was kneeling. “It’s quicker this way,” he muttered. “May Jainagath take you safely to Lliania’s Scales,” he said, trying to sound soothing as he put his hands on either side of the man’s head. “Her judgment is fair, and we will meet again in the Halls of the Gods.” With a sudden twist he broke the Chanastardhian’s neck.
When he looked up from the corpse, he saw the others staring at him. “No one deserves to suffer a slow death,” he muttered, and retrieved his sword.
CHAPTER 53
How much had she slept in the past days? Ealisaid couldn’t remember. Long periods of studying texts bled into even longer periods poring over other tomes. She had learned battlemagic; at least she understood how battlespells worked effectively. A catalyst was needed, to nudge the potential into becoming something else. It all boiled down to what could be. The way she had obliterated the enemy’s wood supply had been an effective display of strength, but it had also drained her. To unleash potential meant to make the world believe it was something it was not. Like the valley she had created when testing her illusionist abilities. The Palace could have been a beautiful valley at some point in time, so the potential was there whether she had consciously thought of it or not.
With enough force of will she could certainly have made the glade become real, literally transforming the Palace into what she had envisioned. It would have killed her; instead she had let her heart guide her spellcasting. The same had almost happened with the wood. She had forced the timber into shards, much like a slaver lashes slaves, she had driven the wood apart, putting more and more of herself into the effort. Had she instead suggested to the felled trees that the water within them was freezing, a very real possibility this time of the year, the result would have been the same, but her health would have been intact. When she had first made love to Culain she’d had no one to confirm or deny her initial thoughts about magic, and this had made her doubt them and instead rely on her “inner strength” once more.
Inner strength! She scoffed at her foolishness. Yes, it was an inner strength, her body feeding the magic. She glanced down the long passage of bookshelves at the central table with its pile of ashes at one side and realized what had happened to the Wizard who had died there. Her gaze wandered up to the library’s domed ceiling. “He gave his life to protect this place,” she whispered, awed by the selfless dedication of this unknown mage who had fed his very being into the spellwork that had reinforced the structure. With a quick gesture Ealisaid summoned a magelight and sent it up. In the steady glow she discerned how cracks had been mended, long rifts filled with different colored stone.
From the look of it,
the ceiling would definitely have come down; there could have been no other outcome. To achieve the impossible this unknown Wizard had burned away his life to change the odds. While around him his brethren had still been at each other’s throats, this mage had given his existence to protect the books. “Thank you,” Ealisaid said.
When little Ysold had said she thought her way of destroying the Chanastardhian timber had been wrong, the girl had most likely seen the harm she had caused to her body. Power had a price, she knew that, but she didn’t understand why anyone would go that far when they knew a similar result could be achieved in a less self-destructive way. Back then she hadn’t known better; now she did. The spells she had found were mere guidelines, food for thought really, to direct one’s castings. The words and gestures were a mere line to attach a thought to. If one was focused or single-minded enough, it was possible to achieve the same results without them, but that carried with it the danger of once again forcing possibility into the desired shape.
Her legs and back ached; she couldn’t even remember how long she had been sitting on the floor, and she hardly felt the weight of the book in her lap. With a confused shake of her head, she closed the tome, put it aside, and disentangled her legs. The tingle of blood flowing through them hardly surprised her. Initially she had carried the books to one of the reading desks scattered throughout the great hall, but in a way the repeated walks up and down the lines of shelves had only hampered her research. Sitting cross-legged had become almost as much a part of her as combing her hair with her fingers.
When Ealisaid was finally able to wiggle her toes inside her boots, she knew her legs would carry her again. She retrieved the tome, hugged it to her chest, and stood, feeling muscles and tendons pop up and down her back. As she replaced the book, she wondered how to proceed. Knowing the castings and formulae was one thing, being able to actually cast battlemagic quite another. Were she to return to Dunthiochagh now, her sprouting knowledge would do little good. If she wanted to help defend her hometown, she first had to practice.
