Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  She arrived to the sight of Dubhan, her old weapon- master, hammering young Gwen across the ground. The squire was hard-pressed, her shield-arm trembling as the old warrior battered it again and again, saying, “Come now, lass, is this the best you got? Me da is a better fighter than ye, and he’s been dead a long time!” It was the same line he had used on her a dozen or so years ago, and as far as she knew Dubhan’s father was still very much alive. At Gwen’s age she had already fought against the northmen, alongside her da. She saw Paddy stirring the cooking pot and walked over.

  “The girl should have stayed onboard her ships,” her cousin muttered when she reached his side. The other warriors of House Cirrain greeted her with waves or brief nods, which she returned, grateful to again be among friends again. Gwen had proven to be trustworthy, but she had grown up with these men and women and they, unlike the squire, were very much used to fighting.

  “She learns quickly,” Anne replied.

  “Come on, lass! Try to fight back! This isn’t a dancing lesson, girl!” Dubhan was taunting her, and it seemed to work because all of a sudden Gwen lashed out, beating aside the weapon’s master’s sword with her shield whilst stepping into his reach. A trick Anne had taught the girl.

  Unfortunately, she had learned it from Dubhan and the old warrior merely grinned, disengaged and slapped the flat of his wooden sword against the squire’s shins. “You gotta be faster than that, lass!”

  “Aye, she is a fast learner, but she still thinks this is like fighting on a ship,” Padraigh grumbled. “Won’t do any good during the escalade.”

  “We’re not going,” Anne replied.

  “Oh, why not?”

  By now the other warriors were betting on how long it would take Gwen to hit the ground again. Alayn, who with fifty summers was the only really old person in the band, walked over and joined them. “Boring shit, betting against the poor lass,” he muttered then, “Why not what?”

  “We ain’t going on the escalade,” Paddy answered.

  The old fighter scratched his scarred nose. “We still being secluded?”

  Anne shook her head. “No, it’s not that, we’re better suited to deal with the militia hounding our woodchucks.”

  “Hmm,” Alayn said.

  “Yes, girl, that’s it!” Wood whacked on wood. “Focus your anger but stay alert for the unexpected!” Dubhan yelled. Gwen grunted but kept attacking.

  “All right, cousin,” Paddy said, “what’s bugging you?”

  Was her expression that obvious? Then again, Paddy was like a brother to her and probably knew all the expressions she could make. Anne sighed. “We are not on good terms with Herascor again.”

  “Never thought we were, lass,” Alayn said while her cousin nodded in agreement. “The way the other bastards kept avoiding us like we had the plague was enough of a hint. And when your girl told us we only got our suspicions confirmed.”

  “She told you everything?” Anne looked at the pair, surprised. “About the Danastaerian? The plan?”

  “Hold your sheep there,” Paddy said, putting a placating hand on her shoulder. “What Danastaerian? What plan?”

  “The lass only told us what was afoot, and that we were to wear blue ribbons in our bonnets,” Alayn added.

  From the other soldiers came amused applause and Anne turned to see that Dubhan was sitting on the ground with Gwen laid about his lap, and that he was spanking her with the wooden training sword. “Don’t ever charge a foe blindly! Understood, lass?” Each word was accompanied by a whack. Anne grimaced, remembering having received the same treatment. When she had complained to her father, he had added to the pain by giving her another score of slaps. The lesson had sunk in well and deep. Gwen was struggling against the weapon’s master’s grip, quite ineffectively, but her constant wriggling made Dubhan put one leg onto her upper back so she could not escape his grasp. “Take your lessons like a warrior! If you ever charge headlong into an enemy without looking up, you will never look at anything ever again until you stand in the Bailey Majestic.” This speech was accompanied by more smacks.

  Dubhan let go of her, and Gwen jumped up, red eyes glaring first at her tormentor then at the laughing Cirrain warriors. Her sight settled on Anne and she limped over.

  Anne glanced at Padraigh who had in all likelihood received the same sort of lesson from Dubhan. Paddy winked, anticipating what was to come. Seeing the young woman’s hurt pride, and remembering how she herself had felt back then, she decided against beating more sense into her. She closed her eyes and shook her head briefly. Gwen was a goodhearted girl, and the lesson had surely settled.

  To her surprise, Gwen said, “I’m sorry. I got so angry I just wanted to lash out.”

  “Lash out as much as you want, but keep some thought behind it, lass,” Paddy said in her stead. He must have understood what was going on in her mind.

  “You won’t forget your head the next time, will ye?” Dubhan had joined them and put a big hand on the squire’s shoulder. Gwen shook her head. “Good lass. Sit on the ground for a while, the cold will help.”

  “Thank you for teaching me, Sir Dubhan,” Gwen said.

  Anne saw that the laughter that erupted now confused the girl. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but join. “Dubhan isn’t a knight, Gwen. He’s just good at beating things.”

  “Very good,” Paddy added. “There are only a few of us he hasn’t smacked a time or ten, trust me.” Another round of laughs followed, and despite her obvious pain Gwen smiled.

  A quick look around assured her they were alone; since House Cirrain’s tents were separated from the main camp it was difficult to get close unnoticed. Still, she had to be cautious now that she knew Gwen had informed them of what was generally afoot. With all of them under close observation, the squire’s nightly trips across the well-patrolled encampment had been risky enough. They only knew trouble had been brewing, not what sort of trouble.

  “Gather round,” she said, barely loud enough for the men and women to hear. “Ardeen,” she addressed the scout. The older woman looked at her. “Keep the perimeter in view.” Ardeen nodded and positioned herself so that she could keep an eye on the area.

  Anne braced herself, knowing what she was about to tell would astonish maybe even shock them. “Gwen told you we were being watched,” she began. The warriors around her bobbed their heads, waiting. “Being watched is a mild term for what’s really going on, ladies.” Padraigh cocked an eyebrow, his gaze boring into hers. “Young Gwen here was ordered to become my squire so that the High General had someone to spy on me.” Their expressions hardened, and before one of them voiced their anger, she hurried on. “The lass didn’t. She’s been feeding Mireynh false information.”

  “Why?” Dubhan asked.

  “We found out why four days ago,” she replied and looked at Gwen. “The night our timber store was obliterated I ordered Gwen to use the confusion and sneak into Mireynh’s tent. Turns out she wasn’t the only one with that idea. Inside she was intercepted by a Danastaerian spy.” No outrage or anger at the subterfuge, thirty pairs of eyes scrutinized both her and the squire.

  “May I?” Gwen looked at her. She nodded; after all it was her story to tell.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Danastaerian revealed that your House has switched sides and is now fighting with the northmen against Herascor.” Into the ensuing stunned silence, the squire continued. “He didn’t know or couldn’t reveal what had happened and why, but he asked me to relay that information to Lady Anne.” The young woman’s pointed look signaled her to continue.

  “We still have no idea what is going on back home, only that we were seen as threat.”

  “Bollocks!” Alayn grunted.

  “A warband of thirty, what sort of threat can we pose?” Paddy added. “This is bullshit.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, but the fact of the matter is that we are Herascor’s enemies,” Anne replied. “The gods only know if my father’s messages have been inter
cepted.” Now, she knew, came the hard part. “We can’t get out of here; sooner or later the King will demand our arrest. Paddy and I would be held for ransom, the rest doesn’t matter.”

  “Impossible,” Dubhan said. “Most of the idiots out there are hardly worth their gear, and with bastards like House Argram’s men you only get more resentment from the people. They need us, no matter how small a band we are.”

  “I think Mireynh knows that,” she answered. “He can’t do anything about it, though.”

  Her oldest friend Natheira raised her voice. “If we’re under observation, how come they’re going to send us hunting those archers harrying our woodchucks?” The question was greeted with various agreements.

  Anne held up her hand and silence fell once more. “Because Mireynh thinks House Cirrain has rejoined the King.”

  Alayn scoffed. “You forged the King’s seal?”

  She shook her head. “Hardly, the Danastaerians did.”

  “The spy?” Paddy and Dubhan asked in unison.

  “Aye, we’ll have a chance to get out of here without appearing traitors,” Anne replied.

  “Bollocks!” This time it was Runnaidh the Bow snarling the curse. “We’re traitors no matter which way you spit.” The others, even Paddy, agreed. “And given how Mireynh had those chaps who assaulted the gate on the first night shot down, I don’t need a good imagination to see him doing the exact same thing to us should he become uncomfortable with us.” Another round of nods and spoken assents followed.

  “What is the plan?” Dubhan wanted to know.

  “We’ll switch sides,” Anne stated, and before the budding tumult grew, she continued. “We don’t stand a chance of escaping; if we were to leave now, Mireynh will know he’s been fooled.”

  “So?” Paddy demanded. “What gives?”

  “What’s what?” Alayn added.

  “Right now, we’ll prepare to hunt those skirmishers,” she said. “If all goes as planned, Mireynh will receive news from Ondalan; something he cannot—no, will not ignore. He won’t go personally, at first. Instead he will send his most reliable warriors there to deal with the problem.”

  Runnaidh snorted. “You think he’ll send us?”

  “He has seen how experienced we are and knows that our House has lived in constant warfare for generations. He’d want good people to catch this bait.”

  “And if he decides to attach us to someone else’s command in order to keep us in check?” the Bow insisted.

  At that Dubhan scoffed. “Think, lad, just think.”

  “You want us to turn against them?”

  “I wouldn’t mind gutting some Argram bastards,” Alayn mumbled. “And besides, what does it matter, we’re getting a chance to escape imprisonment and execution. In a few weeks, if a message reaches Mireynh saying that we are too big a liability, then we’re fucked.”

  “He’s right,” Paddy said. “Besides, the general already murdered some allies. Personally, I don’t want to fight under a dishonorable bastard like him. I don’t like traitors either, but those poor sods had agreed to fight for their new liege.”

  “Even if they failed, and Mireynh made a show of all this no retreat business, the killing was pointless,” Alayn agreed.

  “Aye, no honor there,” Natheira said. “None of us would have followed the order. Remember what we have lived and breathed all our lives: duty and honor ‘til you die.”

  There was general consent, even stoic Runnaidh nodded, saying, “Aye.” Anne was relieved.

  “So, cousin, when do we start making a show of hunting skirmishers?” Padraigh asked.

  “Soon.” She stood. “Come Gwen, we need to get our gear.” A score of yards away from the tents, she breathed a sigh. Ondalan would decide a lot of things. If they survived, the next goal had to be to return home and find out what the bloody Scales was going on.

  CHAPTER 55

  A day and a night Kildanor had spent in Drangar’s company and still he worried about the wisdom of taking the man into battle. He understood the necessity of the thing, true, but that realization did not ease his concern. The Scythe was what the others wanted to unleash in Ondalan, he was certain it was the demon they would get.

  From the look of it, Drangar knew that too.

  Obviously, Úistan Cahill had come to a somewhat similar conclusion. “I want you to lead the first group into the village,” the nobleman said a few miles off the crossing. “You wonder why, and rightfully so,” Cahill added. His face must have betrayed his surprise. “Our friend needs confidence, aye, and he has got none. I only wanted him along so he would regain some, it was never my plan to use him as diversion.”

  “I’m well aware of it,” Kildanor replied, trying to hide his discomfort. Cumaill had maneuvered them into a position more dangerous than the Baron could possibly realize. How could he? How could any of the others? To them, demons were a thing of the past, to him a grim reality. No one else had seen the monsters at the end of the golden cords that had held Drangar in thrall. True, Cumaill had a great deal of other things to worry about, most importantly the siege. On the road, with nothing better to do than to watch Ralgon for any signs that the Fiend might take control, he’d had enough time to ponder what he would have done in the Baron’s stead. The sad reality of it was that his actions would not have been any different.

  “Even if the city was not under siege,” continued Sir Úistan, “I would have taken him along to do battle, a competition most like. He is afraid, I can see that, but we only need to fear the unknown.”

  How utterly wrong the noble was. Kildanor knew his own fears: monsters he had seen and fought, blood drenched creatures straight out of a nightmare, and one of them actually waited for Drangar to lose his temper. If Lord Cahill only knew the truth. The chances of the nobleman believing in ghosts of the past were nigh impossible.

  “To find out what happened, and why, he needs to show strength, realize he is strong.” Cahill must have thought his silence was agreement. “He saved my women, now it’s my turn to save him.”

  There was a morsel of truth in the words. Drangar had to be strong of mind to actually face whatever truth the Sons of Traksor would tell him but to unleash the Scythe? Madness! Kerral had told him some of the story, and Ralgon filled in the blanks. The rest he had pieced together from what Ealisaid had told him about forcing magic. Demons, he figured, forced magic to do their bidding, creating fact from possibility, and instead of sacrificing their own life force they butchered others, used their blood to power the spells. Somehow Drangar had tapped into his Fiend’s ability, not only to free himself and the Ladies Cahill, but also before that. The blood fueled the Scythe’s prowess, he was certain of it.

  It mattered not. He was here to help the man he now considered a friend. “We need to be careful,” Kildanor finally said. “We’ll be badly outnumbered.”

  “The Scythe will even those odds,” Cahill said, smirking grimly. “If he fights like he did with you, I worry little.”

  He was tempted to reply with a derisive remark. What did Sir Úistan think Drangar in furor was? The noble might have fought in various melees, show-fights with no true casualty. He certainly had never been in a real battle, wall against wall, with warriors stabbing and weeping and dying. Kildanor was equally sure that whatever the noble knew of Drangar as a fighting man was even more watered down that what Hesmera had told the Cahill women. For a heartbeat he, again, was tempted to reveal the truth. Instead he bobbed his head and remained quiet. Even such a revelation would not deter either the assault on Ondalan or the carefully laid out plan to distract Urgraith Mireynh.

  Drangar’s expression was a mixture of dread and determination, and Kildanor thought his friend knew just how precarious the situation was. He wanted to give the man some responsibility. Cahill’s reasoning was sound, for any normal man; the mercenary, however, was not one of those. Given time he would have thought of a way to bolster Ralgon’s confidence without unleashing the demon. Now all he could do was lesse
n the impact.

  “We have to split up, can you handle it?” he asked, waiting for any sort of reaction. The concern in Drangar’s eyes seemed to grow, and he didn’t blame him. A nervous swallow, a deep breath, maybe even a whispered prayer, he heard no words of disagreement, only saw the resigned nod of the head. His next few words had little impact, if Drangar heard them at all. “Take four men with you, 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. “You’re responsible for these men,” he said. “Lead them well.”

  “I am no warleader.” The reply sounded hollow, too quick to be spontaneous. Had Drangar been offered command before? How weak was the man’s confidence?

  “Takes focus to command, it’ll help.” His reply was just as automatic, something he used to tell green commanders before their first battle.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Go!”

  There was no time to watch the other’s progress. Only when his back was against the crumbling brick wall, did Kildanor chance a look to the barricade Drangar was supposed to be assaulting. The four retainers had already plunged ahead, the mercenary, however, advanced haltingly. As he watched a change went through the man, and he hurled himself across the barrier.

  His hope to see more of what went on there was shattered by the clash of arms and shouts of alarm erupting from that western fortification. They were echoed throughout Ondalan, and suddenly there was no more time for contemplation.

  Whereas Drangar and his people had managed to surprise the enemy on their side, it was the Chanastardhians who almost got the better of Kildanor’s small warband. One man, a jovial fellow whose name he did not remember, went gurgling to the ground. Then the enemy was upon them.