by Ulff Lehmann
Hiljarr cantered toward him, halted, and pushed his snout against his face. He scratched the stallion behind the ears and received a satisfied snort. The horse had been a grateful noble’s gift, after Drangar had rescued his foolish daughter from a competing House. They had been companions ever since. Now, after almost five years, Hiljarr had become as a brother to him. The stallion was loyal and well trained. He had carried Drangar to many battles, had even fought in a few of them when there was no time to form a wall, and had defended his rider against enemies when he was prone on the ground. After that fateful day two years ago, Hiljarr had traveled with him all the way to the Chanastardhian border, and since then he had enjoyed being a sheep-horse.
Dog, on the other hand, remained where she sat and looked at him. Was she arching her right brow? He shook his head and said, “Things are changing, you two. We need to go.” Where to? If war was coming to Danastaer, the entire area would be crawling with warbands of one country or another. And some other warleader might not be as decent as Kerral and draft him into an army.
“East there’s Dhomac, another puppet to Herascor,” he said. “West to Madain?” He thought a moment and then shook his head. “No, they’re with Chanastardh as well, and I really doubt Drammoch’ll leave me be.” Hiljarr snorted. He scratched the charger’s nostrils. “You damn well know there’s still a price on my head.” He barked a grim laugh. “Just how much past can I run away from?” Sunlight broke through the gathering clouds and illuminated the ground. Drangar knew how painful it was to look straight into Lesganagh’s glowing orb, so he averted his gaze. “If you really blessed me, Lord of Sun and War, couldn’t you have given me a clear path to follow?”
As expected, there was no reply. None of the gods ever did, no matter how much he begged, pleaded, and prayed.
Drangar turned south and west and looked toward the cloud-enshrouded Shadowpeak Mountains. You had a path once. What was this? He’d heard the voice, but he saw no speaker. Hiljarr snorted and he let go of the stallion. “Go eat, mate.”
As the horse cantered away, the shepherd headed back into his hut and began to rummage in his chest. “Where is the bloody thing?” he muttered. “I know I put it in here.”
Instead of the knife, the first thing he retrieved was a wooden box wrapped in oilcloth. Carefully, he peeled away the layer of fabric and cast a wistful glance at the small container. It was a memento of Dunthiochagh, but then, so was his reflection whenever he looked into a mirror or a pond of water. Why had he taken this thing with him? He scoffed. “Because you’re a fool, Drangar Ralgon,” he said. “You’ve always been a fool.”
A flick of his wrist and the box bounced off the wall. It laid there, lid open, and the emptiness inside glaring back at him. Where were the rings? For a moment he was shocked at the thought, also trying to suppress the memory that threatened to surge up. Drangar balled his hands into fists, forcing the images back, away from his conscience. There! The golden loop was still on his finger. “I forgot it was there,” he said. “I actually forgot something!” The ring’s counterpart would still be in Dunthiochagh.
There was a shuffle behind him, and he turned to see Dog sitting in the doorway. “Why can’t I just get rid of this stuff?” he asked. “Why can’t I only remember the good parts? Why is everything tainted by bad memories?”
The canine looked at him, sympathy edged into her face. She padded forward and placed one paw on his shoulder.
“I could toss away this band, you know,” he went on. “But that won’t change a bleeding thing! Her face, her laughter, all would still be here with me!” Drangar swallowed back tears. “Gods, why can’t I forget?”
You can’t. No one could.
Drangar swallowed. “Who’s there?” he tried to shout, but his voice broke with the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him. The gurgle that sounded through the hut made him laugh, despite his pain. He grabbed a rag and blew his nose. “I sound like a stupid boy.” Still, the question of whose voice he had heard remained.
“Stop your weeping,” he growled. “Find the bloody knife and shave!” The sound of his voice, so like Anya’s, like a drill-warden’s, brought some semblance of calm, and he focused on finding the blade.
It wasn’t in the chest, although Drangar remembered putting it there. “Where’s the damn thing?” Before he reached the bottom of the container, he stopped. Some things he was not ready to look upon again. The only place left for the knife was the cluttered hut itself. The makeshift table he dismissed, after all he’d just sat there with Kerral. Lifting dirty plates, rags and blankets, the shepherd talked. “Stupid chest, I know I put it there!” “Gods, this place is a mess.” “Damned knife, where are you!” “When she gets back I get an earful.” He stopped, realized what he’d just said, dropped the mugs he was holding, and stared at his hands as they began to tremble. Without him noticing, his mind had drifted back, again. “Bleeding Scales! Why? Why can’t I forget?”
He half expected to be berated again, but this time the voice remained silent. Drangar bent down and picked up the mugs. That was when he saw the knife’s wooden handle underneath a pile of dirty clothes. “There you are.” Testing the edge, he realized it needed sharpening. As he placed the knife on the table, he looked around for the whetstone.
At least the stone was where he remembered it to be.
He retrieved the item from the makeshift shelf, and as he stepped back, he caught sight of the small box again. The belt-knife had been a gift of hers. It was as tightly bound to the past as the ring on his hand and the box. Feeling tears well up again, he scrunched up his face and shook his head. “No more!”
The blade was in his left hand before he had fully taken seat on the stool. His hand moved the stone steadily back and forth. He was used to this motion, had sharpened weapons often enough in his life. Always at the eve of battle. Was battle all he knew, he wondered. Sure, he knew history, legends, but he had never finished his schooling. Only a jumble of fragments remained of what the Sons had taught him. Yet, despite the sting those memories brought forth, the steady motion of his hand, the sound of stone on steel calmed him. “Strange thing, this,” he muttered. “Why does this relax me more than the silly prayers and meditations?” He continued his task.
He had no idea how long he had sat there sharpening the knife when he finally checked the blade. Satisfied, Drangar got out of the hut and headed for the spring. Upon his arrival at the bottom of the hill, he knelt on the cold rock surrounding the little pond and bent to wet his beard.
Upon seeing his bearded face again, his inner peace evaporated as the ghosts of his past surged up again. For a moment he was tempted to retrieve the whetstone and start on the blade once again. “What’s the point?”
The past is the past, live with it.
“Who’s there?” Drangar’s head snapped up and he looked for the unseen speaker. The only other being close to him was Dog, and for a moment she looked sad.
“I am trying,” he said.
No, you’re running, like you’ve always done, the voice scolded.
Was he hearing things again? It wouldn’t have been the first time; he’d heard things before, not only in Dunthiochagh. They had taunted him, mocked him. What was the name of the village? Gods, he remembered the villager’s faces, every single one, men, women, children, the old, the infirm, all were as visible to him as the bearded mask of loathing that looked back at him from the pond.
“Damn you!” he snarled and punched his reflection. “I need to wash.”
There was still some soap left, he knew, inside the chest. He had caught sight of it when looking for the knife. The jog to his hut and back again dried the tears, and as he returned, Drangar saw Dog was still sitting where he had left her.
Take a bath, the voice commanded.
At least it didn’t tell him to kill anyone, he thought, smirking; then he undressed. He piled his boots and clothes against an outcrop and jumped into the pond.
The chill stole his breath. �
�I thank thee, Broggagh, Weatherlord. Thank thee for this well. Thy rain feeds it. I thank thee, Eanaigh, thy soil nourishes it,” he wheezed out the old prayer while splashing about.
Soon he was lathered in soap, rubbing and scrubbing. He dropped to his knees, submerged his body. Then the soap was back in his hand and he washed his beard anew. When he was satisfied, Drangar stepped out of the pool and grabbed the belt-knife once again. Even though the blade was a memento, the water’s cold prevented any memory of Dunthiochagh to rise to the forefront of his mind. He waited until the ripples of his passing had faded and he could see himself in the water again, then set knife to whiskers and began to shave. One stroke and part of his left cheek was free. Drangar glanced at his reflection in the water. He looked abominable, he thought, bringing the knife up to his cheek again. He had looked like that two years ago, a ragged shell, empty and hollow.
His thoughts drifted back to the little box, and he wondered why he had taken it with him. “I can’t forget you,” he whispered.
Swallowing back the tears, Drangar let the knife slide down his chin. There the motion stopped. The blade lingered on his throat. One thrust, just one thrust.
It would be a slow death, but what was the agony of bleeding to death compared to his misery? “No death is as slow as life,” Drangar muttered.
One thrust.
He had seen people die from such wounds. A gurgling struggle for breath as the lifeblood flooded out the throat. First it was frantic, but with the loss of blood the gurgling, wheezing, and moaning became slower and slower. Hands that had once been able to lift a sword or a loved one were now weaker than any grandfather’s. And as the gasping for air subsided the body convulsed.
One single thrust.
It was as if he heard a teacher preach to him: “Taking one’s own life condemns you. When you approach the Bailey Majestic, the doors will be barred. You will drift alone, suffering for your folly for all eternity.”
More suffering? Could there be more than the guilt and pain that already weighed him down so much that he could hardly breathe? The Gods were real, just as real as his nightmares. He didn’t want to be shut out from the afterlife. He didn’t want to suffer eternally, a lost soul haunting whatever oblivion awaited those who killed themselves.
The doom that awaited those who took their own lives made him shiver. “I can endure this pain, I have to. No eternity of nothing for me,” he muttered as tears ran down his newly bare cheeks.
Carelessly, he let go of the knife, trembling. How often had he tried to take his life? To just be done with it all? He was afraid, he realized. A few years ago, he would have scoffed at the idea, but here, out in the nothingness between two countries, he could only look at the truth. He was frightened of himself. As the thought crossed his mind, the image of the village, he’d forgotten the name, rose up again. Senseless deaths born of his furor, but he could still remember the slaughter, could remember it had been his hand that had held the blade and killed the villagers. What was the name of that place? Like the names of his so-called friends, people long gone, he couldn’t remember what the village was called. Oh, he could recall his anger, and how he struck down old and young, but not the name!
You can't wash away the past.
There! The voice! Drangar turned and glared at his surroundings. Aside from the hill, pond, and the wide, grassy plain, and Dog, no one was there. Was it beginning again? He’d heard voices in Dunthiochagh; at least he thought he had. His nightmares were full of them, and if it wasn’t the one with the village it was the one where he killed…
No, he didn’t want to remember!
You have to see what really happened, the voice urged.
“I know what happened,” he said hoarsely. “I killed.” Drangar slumped onto the floor and looked at Dog. “I killed so many, and for what? Look at me, will you? Scythe,” he growled, “they called me. Wall breaker. I want to forget.”
The canine remained still and gazed at him.
“I’m afraid of myself, afraid of the world, afraid of what the world will do when they know. On the field it’s easy, you know. There’s the enemy, that’s whom you have to kill, but how many left behind people who loved them? How many widowers and widows did I leave behind? How many lost their brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers? I never stopped to consider them.” He paused and grasped knife and whetstone. He began to sharpen the blade again, and again it calmed him. “What if this is all I have?” he muttered. “What if I stand on Lliania’s Scales and my life is weighed and all I have to show is that I was good at killing people? Enriching the world with those who were left behind?”
The past is what it is.
“Yes, I know I can’t change what was, but I’m afraid to look ahead when all I see is what was, how I was. How can I look onto the path when all I see is her, when all I want is to turn back and prevent what happened? I can’t even stand the sight of my own face. I want to focus on the good, but all of it is smudged by the bad. The Eye, the village, Dunthiochagh. Like all the gold at the rainbow’s end has been replaced by offal!”
Retrace your steps.
“I can’t go back!”
You don’t want to go back.
Who was talking to him? Had he gone mad and was now talking to his conscience? Astonished, Drangar looked at Dog. He had a conscience. “When did this happen? The Scythe feels remorse,” he gave a sad laugh. “What do you think, Dog? Should I go back?”
A bark was her reply.
“Aye, I should have never left.”
You can’t run away from pain.
“But I tried,” he stated.
How could you do otherwise? You never learned to feel.
“It’s a small wonder I ever loved.”
Dog barked again.
“Thanks for confirming it.”
Drangar stood, gathered clothes and boots, and headed for the hut. “Dunthiochagh it is, then,” he said and Dog yapped her agreement from beside him.
For a moment, as he entered the hovel he’d lived in for the past two years, Drangar stood, unsure of what to do. The decision to head south and west had come somewhat easily, but now he faced the dilemma of what to take with him. Most of his belongings, no matter how meager they were to begin with, he dismissed right away, others he wasn’t sure about. He got dressed and looked about the cluttered room. The knife, he needed to shave. Some clothes, although he doubted he’d need them once he reached the city beyond the Shadowpeaks. Food; there were inns along the way to the wizard-wrought canyon, certainly, but it was best to be prepared.
As he pondered his departure, so unlike the one from his home in Dunthiochagh, the despair and frustration, even the pain receded. Good, he didn’t want to relive it all. He’d always kept busy before, whenever the hurt became too much.
You’re running again, the voice scolded.
“What do you want me to do?” Drangar asked aloud. “If I go and face a Lawspeaker, I’ll do so upright, on my own terms.” He realized he really wanted to be judged. “I can’t carry on like this, no more running, I’m tired of it.” No, not only tired, fleeing from the past would not turn it aside. He didn’t know what he wanted. “I never actually paused to consider what I want,” he told Dog.
With renewed vigor he stuffed a few spare clothes into his pack, added some dried meat and cheese, and then began to search for the bridle. It had been a long time since he’d ridden Hiljarr.
When all the necessities were stacked against the hut’s outer wall next to the door, Drangar went back inside and stood there, staring at the chest. War was coming, and only the gods knew what kind of people were traveling the countryside. A sword might give pause to the lone highwayman or group of bandits. Part of him began to simmer with renewed self-loathing, as he retrieved the weapon from the bottom of the trunk. It was only sensible, he told himself. When he held the scabbard in his hands, his thoughts returned to Dunthiochagh. “No! I don’t want to remember,” he growled.
You must.
�
�I can’t,” he pleaded with the unseen speaker.
Dog barked.
“No, I take this with me for protection,” he insisted. “Nothing more.” Drangar tried to pull the blade out of its sheath. “No,” he groaned. “Gods piss on me!” He hadn’t cleaned the steel! Maybe it was for the best, he thought then tugged again. Offering some resistance, the weapon slid free. “This is just a tool,” he snarled, found the mercenary within, and began to scrub and oil the blade, his mind focused on the task, not the circumstances. Why he’d taken the sword with him in the first place, he could not remember.
It was ironic how some actions stood out, no matter how hard one tried to rid his mind of them, whereas others possibly as important just vanished. He poured oil into the scabbard and slid the weapon back into place; it would be pointless to carry a sword and not be able to draw, much less wield it.
When Drangar left the hut for the last time, he walked to the corral and opened the gate. Hiljarr’s head perked up, and the stallion moved to intercept the sheep. He stopped the charger with a quick whistle. “Leave them be, mate,” he said. The horse looked at him, then at the sheep, and finally back at him, obviously confused. Drangar shrugged and went to fetch his gear; another quick whistle and Hiljarr cantered up beside him. For a moment the steed seemed to hesitate when Drangar tried to put the bridle on, then relented.
“Yea, we’re leaving, time to…” Drangar paused. What was it time for, he wondered. Look the truth in the eye? He couldn’t even stand his own reflection, much less turn to face the past. “We’re leaving.”
Hiljarr saddled, and blankets bundled at the rear lip of the saddle, the shepherd slipped the scabbard into the leather hoop, and checked his purse one last time. It was enough to get him to Dunthiochagh. “No need to plan for more,” he muttered and swung onto the horse’s back. He clicked his tongue twice, turned the stallion, and whistled for Dog. The canine barked once. Then the three headed south and west toward the cloud-dimmed sun. “Let’s get some miles behind us,” Drangar said, “before the rain comes.”