by Ulff Lehmann
The shepherd had just forded Old Stream when he heard two horses whinny behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion: Kerral and the fool Haggrainh.
“You dare insult me!” the noble shouted as the pair rode up next to him.
Drangar walked on. “Didn’t you warn him?”
“Aye, I did.”
“Then get lost.”
“No villein will treat me this way!”
“I’m no villein,” Drangar muttered.
“I order you to stop,” Haggrainh shrieked.
“Lord Pol, I urge you to reconsider,” Kerral said with a much calmer demeanor than Drangar remembered of the warleader.
“The day I consider what some upstart has to say, will be the day I die.”
“Get lost, boy.”
“I am no boy, and I command you to stop.”
Kerral, who was riding to Drangar’s left, abruptly brought his horse to a stand. “I warned you.”
The shepherd took a few more steps, which Haggrainh’s horse matched, then halted and glanced at the idiot noble. “I want no trouble, boy, get lost now and I won’t get any.”
“You will address me by my title and name, peasant!”
For a moment he wondered what he could do that would not incur Lord Haggrainh’s wrath on the folks at Carlgh. He had heard people talk about this idiot’s uncle and knew he was a rather benign landowner. To spare the villagers he’d have to take a beating, but by Lliania’s bloody Scales, if he were to take a beating it would be for something other than protecting the lass. “Who’ll mourn you?”
“What? You threaten me!” Drangar heard a trace of fear tainting Lord Pol’s voice.
“I don’t threaten.”
“How dare you!” the idiot shrieked, drawing his sword.
Years had passed since Drangar had last been in such a situation, but endless practice didn’t go away no matter how much he wished it. As rider turned horse, a maneuver any trained charger would have performed with ease, he had ample time to drop his pack. When the noble finally was in a decent position to strike, a flash of anger surged through him. For a moment Drangar felt the Fiend roar. No matter the pain, the hurt, the revulsion, the monster within was only a breath away from breaking through. This time he barely held it back. Was he really blessed by the Lord of Sun and War? The ever-present Fiend shouted a different story. His hand balled, fist flashing forward, punching the horse’s throat. The steed collapsed, wheezing for air, trapping Haggrainh. “I will defend myself!” Drangar growled the snarling furor into submission. He had sworn never to kill again, but this was different.
“Please, kind sir, don’t hurt me,” Lord Pol whimpered.
The Fiend pounded; he felt its anger. Pitiful oaf, it screamed. Two years of meditation, and still he could barely contain the red fury. “Like you didn’t want to hurt the girl?” Drangar bellowed. This man was not true. He felt it. Injustice followed Pol Haggrainh, visible through the badly applied mask of nobility. How he hated such falseness.
“I swear I won’t do it again!” By now the young man was weeping freely.
Drangar cursed his sense of justice, knew the villagers would never be safe from the bastard. Even though the Fiend roared in triumph, he made the decision without its furor. “Let her Scales judge you,” he muttered, stepped over the struggling horse, and broke the man’s neck. This was no murder; it was justice, plain and simple.
Then, without looking back at Kerral who gaped at the scene, Drangar shouldered his pack and continued his walk north. He had overstayed his welcome; it was only a matter of time before Pol Haggrainh would be missed.
From the next hill, he looked west. Lesganagh’s glowing orb crowned the distant wooded hills; night would come soon. He’d never bothered to find out exactly how far it was from Carlgh to his hut. The fields ended a mile or two from the village, and beyond only grassy plain and tree-topped knolls awaited him. He had seen it all before, and aside from a few wood gatherers not many people traveled off the dirt road that stretched its way along the River Flannardh coming from the west.
His boots were wet, thanks to the fording of Old Stream. Best he got a few more miles behind him before he camped. As he trudged on, he heard a horse’s steady hoof beat coming up from behind. Kerral.
“I want no company! Get lost!” he flung at the rider when the warleader—who the Scales had made him general?—had closed the distance.
“You killed him!”
“Better me than the villagers, eh?”
“He was the Lord’s nephew,” Kerral said.
“Probably was for the best,” he replied.
“Mate, you killed a noble.”
“Not the first. And I ain’t your mate.” He picked up the pace; fell back into a warrior’s march. “Besides, he would’ve threatened others with that sword of his.”
Kerral talked on, but Drangar ignored the prattling. He focused on his breathing, his steps, and soon the chill in his feet was gone. A few hills later he had to pass a small lake, soon the frost would make fishing impossible. He chuckled, when would he have the chance to fish here considering Haggrainh’s men would definitely come looking for Pol’s murderer within the next week. At least the villagers wouldn’t be blamed for the killing.
He jumped across the small stream that fed the lake, and moments later heard water splashing. A quick turn of the head told him Kerral was still following. “Want to avenge the oaf’s death?” he asked.
“No, he had it coming.”
“Aye.” He continued his march.
“I need to talk to you, my friend.”
Drangar snorted. “We haven’t been friends since your show of integrity.”
“You wanted me to fall with you?” said Kerral.
“That’s what friends do for each other.”
“You did what you thought was right, and I did the same. We were both younger then. You never gave me a chance to explain.”
“Treason can't be reasoned away.”
“I’ve changed, look what I am now.”
The shepherd cast a sideways look and shook his head. “Offal stays offal, no matter the coat it’s dressed in, think of that idiot Haggrainh.”
“I didn’t follow you to be insulted, Drangar. I wanted to renew our friendship,” Kerral snapped.
“You want a hug? Sure,” he murmured and then ignored the warrior. After a few steps with Kerral still riding beside him, Drangar turned again. “You are deaf and stupid, obviously. Get lost!” he snarled and forced himself away from the warrior, continuing his way home.
In silence the two went on, Kerral, the man he had once called brother, whom he had, in fact, admired as a warleader, rode beside him. Drangar glared at him every once in a while, hoping he would leave, but the rider didn’t.
Kerral had changed. Gone was the carelessness in his brown eyes, and although his pose was still arrogant, it was proof that the man had learned to carry the burden of commanding more than just a warband. Straight and alert he sat on his charger. Drangar noted the scar on the right cheek and remembered how the man had almost lost his eye in the bloody melee that had ensued when their shield wall had broken.
Whenever Kerral saw him looking, he tried to strike up a conversation, only to be ignored. Drangar kept going north, marching, and putting one foot before the other. Left, right, left, as if following the silent beat of a drummer. He walked the warrior’s disciplined pace, burned into his body by a life as unforgiving as Lliania’s Scales. Eyes straight, always on the horizon.
He didn’t mind the silence, had lived with silence for two years. Only the march mattered, and the longer it went on, the less important Kerral’s presence became. He was part of Drangar’s past, yet another part he yearned to forget.
Still Kerral followed.
Something was driving the general; why else would he follow him through the night? It mattered little. Drangar shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories climbing to the forefront of his thoughts. The old Ker
ral, the young warleader, had been impatient. This new Kerral was not, and would not turn his horse south.
They walked through the cold night, their breath creating clouds before mingling with the frosty mist that rose from the plain. The silence only disturbed by the sound of feet and hooves crunching on frozen grass.
Why had he come? Was he going to turn him in? The questions ran through Drangar’s mind repeatedly. He had tried so hard to get away from his past, now he had killed, again, and here was Kerral, his former brother-in-arms, his one-time friend, his captain, bringing back what he’d rather forget. They hadn’t seen each other since his disgraced departure many years ago. That they had recognized each other in the Boar at all showed him that those years were not enough.
Would any amount of time be enough?
As the sun rose, they neared his small hut, the huddled shape angular against the hill. Had this ever been his home, he wondered. Sure, he knew the place, could have found his way here blindfolded, but did this return feel like a homecoming? No.
In the morning’s stillness Kerral’s gasp sounded louder than it probably was. Why had he followed him here? Certainly not to gloat. His curiosity overcoming resentment, Drangar turned. “What do you want? You’ve been pacing me all night, without a reason. Were you looking for me?”
“No.”
The shepherd shrugged, surrendering to the other’s persistence. Maybe the company would do some good, though he doubted it. “Guess I can be polite and ask you in.” He pointed to the corral behind the hut. “Put your mare there.”
While Kerral took care of his horse, Drangar slipped his provisions from his back. When the general returned from the corral, they entered.
Drangar glanced at Kerral. What did he want? The general looked about the cluttered dwelling, in all likelihood curious of the simple life he led. It mattered little what the other thought, and he began to unpack, ignoring his former friend.
That Kerral had followed him all the way from Carlgh showed that the mercenary-warleader had become even more determined than Drangar remembered. He was like a bloodhound. The thought reminded him of something, something he had almost forgotten in the solitude.
He looked up from his opened pack, leaving the provisions alone for a moment. “Did anyone follow you to the village? Aside from that fool, I mean.” There already were enough people chasing him, and Haggrainh would add his own to the lot. Maybe it was time to move on. The sheep would take care of themselves, and some lucky bastard might find them before the wolves did.
Surprised, Kerral chuckled. “Apart from two hundred men, who still camp south of the town? No.”
“Two hundred men?”
“Not all men,” said Kerral, grinning. “Women, too.”
“What for?”
“War. Rumor has it Chanastardh is expanding.”
Drangar winced. “I wondered about the lack of merchants at the market.”
“Carlgh is the first town on this side of the frontier. It’s right in the Chanastardhians’ path.”
“When?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Kerral said, “No idea. I came here to draft warriors. Most of the army is supposedly gathered around Harail, and they aren’t ready. I’ve heard the call to arms has gone out, but I think it’s too late.”
“Who’s in charge of this nonsense?”
“The Lord High Marshall.”
“He sent you north?”
“No, I got my orders a while ago.”
Drangar walked to the fireplace, fumbling in his pocket for a flint. Kneeling, he struck it against one of the stones lining the wood, igniting a fire. “Don’t ask me to fight,” he said. “I’m done fighting other people’s wars.” He got up and retrieved some provisions from a chest standing in the corner. Then he cut dried meat, cheese, and several slices of bread.
“But this is your home too, isn’t it?” Kerral sat down on one of the stools near the table.
Drangar shook his head. “I’m from Kalduuhn, and the Chanastardhians won’t fuck with them.” He frowned and removed two wooden tankards from the chest, filling them with milk. He handed Kerral one, and sat on the opposite stool.
Kerral looked at him, into his mug and grimaced. “Milk? Still no alcohol in your life?”
“No.” He shoved food into his mouth, pointedly ignoring Kerral.
The general took a swig. Then, after a few moments of trying in vain to get Drangar’s attention, he broke his fast as well.
They ate in silence. Drangar stared at the wall beyond Kerral, chewing his food and washing it down with milk. Why the Scales did war follow him wherever he went? Had all the years not been enough? He felt a wave of hidden memories threaten to swallow him again. He cursed his sense of fairness and thanked Lliania, the Lawmaker, for this questionable blessing. Where had she been when he had needed her?
Drangar stared at his former friend, watched him munching his bread. Confusion was plain on the other’s face. Had he truly changed that much? The thought crossed his mind briefly; he grimaced and shook his head. Of course he had. Who wouldn’t have?
Once, people had called him Scythe, the wall breaker. Now he was just a shepherd, but even that life seemed at an end. Like every life before, this one came to an end with blood on his hands. Even now Haggrainh’s face was obliterated by the faces of all the others he had killed.
He didn’t want to remember! These memories were better left untouched, but what choice had he, having Kerral opposite him? Was he really blessed by the God of Sun and War?
He remembered his father saying the god Lesganagh had blessed him upon his birth. Lesganagh, God of Sun and War. Lesganagh, the Forbidden God, whose cult had been outlawed for decades, due to the scheming of its priests. The god still had influence over the world, though, for the sun still shone and wars were still fought. Given how death haunted every step of his life, Drangar doubted Lesganagh was responsible for the blessing. Too much death. Far too much death.
Yet another thing he tried to forget.
Kerral broke the silence. “What happened to you, friend?”
Drangar glared at him. “We haven’t been friends in a long time.”
He shrugged. “Still, what happened?”
Drangar gulped down the last bits of cheese and stood. “Life happened.” He knew that if he opened up to Kerral now all the effort of the past years would be even more wasted than they already had been. “Leave, please! You have overstayed your welcome.”
“But…”
“I invited you into my house, gave you food, knowing no good would come from it. Damnation, my old self would have killed you the instant you followed me! Consider yourself lucky, but don’t count on guest right any more. I’ve done my duty. Get out; go back to your war. I want no part of it!”
Kerral winced. Turning toward the door, he said, “It was good seeing you again.” Leaving the house, he mounted his mare. “I won’t tell them where to find the body.” Nodding to Drangar, he turned the horse and rode southward, back toward Carlgh.
He stepped out and watched him. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER 5
Twenty-ninth of Leaves, 1475 K.C.
He liked this vista: the grassy plain, the few wooded hills. Sure, it was different from the Eye of Traksor in Kalduuhn with the far reaches of Gathran surrounding the stronghold, but it was peaceful. Drangar looked south until the receding Kerral was an indiscernible dot against the horizon.
“I don’t want to fight,” he muttered, his right hand resting on the doorframe. But what did he want? This question hadn’t occurred to him before. Until now he had been content with his attempts to forget the past, the pain, and the loss. Certainly, the time up here in the border region of Danastaer had helped, but now that he considered it, he wasn’t sure it had truly done much good.
The screams, the blood, the faces, they were still clear in his mind. “The bastard Pol Haggrainh would’ve let the villagers feel his anger, better me being hunted than them being tortured.” Unlike his nep
hew, Lord Haggrainh was lenient, but the death of a noble, especially a relative, wasn’t something that one could just overlook.
Now he had to decide where to go. Drangar ran both his hands through his hair; it clung to his scalp, plastered there by dust and sweat. “Haven’t taken a bath in a while,” he mumbled, berating himself. There had been times in the past two years when he had washed in the pool on the western side of his hill daily. Now he couldn’t even remember the last time. Dirt was a breeding ground for all sorts of vermin, and in the past he’d seen his share of the little buggers on people who did not see to their hygiene.
“I’ve seen animals take better care of their pelts than some folks,” he scoffed. Something itched on his chin. He scratched, and for the first time realized he had let the stubble grow into a beard. Dunthiochagh, he’d had a beard then.
Unbidden, the memories surged up and he beat them back down, focusing on better things; there were so few that weren’t linked to something he longed to forget, even his training with Anya, the Eye’s master-at-arms, was tainted by the sneers and grimaces of the other children. Anya had been one of the few who could match his strength for a while, until he had turned ten. “Why is every good memory chased away by a bad one?” he wondered aloud.
A whinny, a bark, and the bleating of sheep came from the north. How did the animals know when to return? He scarcely had to look for his herd; Dog and Hiljarr watched over the little buggers better than he’d have ever been able to. It still fascinated Drangar how the charger had picked up the skills of a shepherd’s dog in a few months. “Maybe Dog’s shown him,” he said, repeating the conclusion he’d come to almost two years ago. How canine and horse communicated at all was a mystery he dared not consider.
The bleating came closer and Drangar walked around the hut to check if Kerral had left the gate open. He had, and now the shepherd observed Dog and Hiljarr chasing the sheep into the enclosed area. When the last animal was inside, he hurried over to close the opening. “I’m good for something, at least,” he told both charger and the canine. Hiljarr whinnied and Dog barked, as they always did, and he was not sure if the pair merely reacted to his voice, or if they understood his words. “How’ve you two been?”