by Ulff Lehmann
Looking at Duasonh, he smiled. “Well, now I fetch him.”
Kildanor arrived at the small shrine to Eanaigh that preceded Braigh’s chambers, and heard the sound of battle. Again. Sword in hand, he rushed through the chapel, nodding to the goddess’s statue in acknowledgment.
He hurried through the open doorway, and stumbled over an assassin lying on the floor, a gaping wound crowning his forehead. Kildanor struggled to keep his footing, finally dropped forward and rolled into a crouch, sword at the ready. Again, the ring of weapons echoed through the high-ceilinged room.
He had never been to Braigh’s quarters, but judging from the trail of blood on the floor, only the initial engagement had been fought here.
Braigh’s steel reinforced quarterstaff bashed into an opponent’s skull as Kildanor entered the bedroom. The priest didn’t stop with his forward movement, used the staff’s velocity to swing around, and hammered the bloodied weapon into the second man’s crotch.
Kildanor winced despite himself, and, thinking Braigh done with the battle, moved forward. The priest, however, was far from finished. As the second assassin went to his knees in a whimper, holding his groin, the Eanaighist whirled around again. The clean end of the quarterstaff drove into the man’s head with a sickening crunch.
“Praise the Lady of Health and Fertility,” Kildanor said with a chuckle and immediately brought his blade up to fend off Braigh’s instinctive thrust.
“Damn you, Lesganagh-spawn,” spat the priest, glowering. Then he relaxed. “What is it?”
“All this killing in her name and now back to business, eh?” Kildanor shook his head in amusement. Then the mirth left his face. “Cumaill needs you. This wasn’t the only attack!”
Braigh didn’t even bother to reply. Instead, he rushed out the room, gathering his herb-bag on the way out.
When they left Eanaigh’s chapel, sounds of battle reached their ears. The Chosen drew his sword anew and Braigh’s stance showed that he was ready to fight as well.
Kildanor shook his head. “See to the Baron first.”
The priest nodded and hurried off.
How many people were on Jathain’s side? Kildanor rushed toward the sound of the fierce melee. He passed several confused and frightened servants whose pleading eyes almost ground his run to a halt. A quick gesture, a few snapped words sufficed to send them to their quarters.
As he reached the grand staircase, the clash of arms grew cacophonous. Kildanor stopped and surveyed the melee. Below him, two score of warriors were fighting each other, several more lay bleeding or dead on steps and floor. The Chosen’s impulse to immediately rush down and join the skirmish was halted by his inability to distinguish the combatants. All of them wore Dunthiochagh’s coat of arms over chain mail, two score of tabards adorned with House Duasonh’s falcon.
Some combatants seemed as confused as Kildanor. How could he help those loyal to the Baron? How could he tell friend from foe? Just how many were merely following orders? Certainly, the traitorous Jathain had not subverted half the Palace guard. Warriors were drilled to obey. Some might be directly in league with Duasonh’s cousin, but who was merely following their superiors?
“Only one way,” he muttered. Pushing the noise to the back of his conscience, Kildanor reversed his sword, turned east, knelt, and placed his right hand around on the hilt.
Then, eyes closed, he began to pray, “I hail thee, Lord of Sun and War. Here on the field I stand, to fight for thy glory. To rise in battle like thy glowing orb doest above the ravages of the world. I beseech thee; show me innocent from foe, to fulfill the duty thou hast bestowed upon me.”
For a brief moment he felt the deity’s infinite power touch his soul. Fire coursed through his sword into his hands and arms. His lids were forced up.
The prayer finished, Kildanor stood and turned back to the battle, in time to see a shadow-shrouded man go down. As the guard died the gloom lifted off him. It took Kildanor a moment to orient himself. He saw shadowed guardsmen battling, hesitantly, opponents who shone like blazing fires while others glimmered in a subdued halo. Lesganagh illuminated Jathain’s followers, outlined the warriors simply following orders, and clouded those on Duasonh’s side.
The Chosen jumped into action. A single leap brought him the fifteen feet down into the melee, straight onto one of the blazing traitors. With his sword still in a reversed two-handed grip, Kildanor punched his blade through the man’s helmet, pierced skull and spine, and pushed until three feet of steel were firmly embedded. Jathain’s follower didn’t even have time to scream before he smashed to the floor.
All three sides took a shocked step away from the Chosen. “Stop this nonsense now!” he barked, eyes boring into the combatants as his sword came free with a sickening crunch.
“I rescind your orders!” Kildanor bellowed. “Drop your weapons and stand back!”
All of the dimly lit warriors obey, and a handful of illuminated ones complied, but several of the blazing warriors did not. The occasional clang of metal on stone told the Chosen that some turncoats weren’t firm in their support of Jathain. After a short, hesitant moment the men and women turned toward the reformed, unarmed warriors.
This he could not allow!
With a grunt the Chosen began his bloody work. Honor demanded he confront the traitors frontally, but there never was honor in betraying one’s liege; he was Chosen, his was the God of Sun and War. As unforgiving as the blazing sun, he waded into the melee, cutting throats and stabbing unprotected backs before Jathain’s agents could slay anyone else. Then he made his way to the gateway that led to the inner bailey. The ones he despised most were those who betrayed.
Kildanor slaughtered the guardsmen loyal to Jathain. With each strike he recounted those of the Choosing that were lost. With each deserter he slew he also finished off those whom he had never been able to kill, those he wanted to kill, had wanted to kill for almost one century.
“Ethain! Ganaedor! Traitors! Liars! Murderers!” His grunts accompanied each sword stroke.
He began to weep as he struck the fighters. All the pent up, repressed emotions welled up. “Ethain! Ganaedor!” He thrust his sword into the back of another. Chosen they had been! Chosen! And they had fallen! “Damn you on the Scales!”
CHAPTER 13
Tenth of Chill, 1475 K.C.
“Any word from the seekers?” The old man bent forward in his chair.
“Yes, sir, they returned this morning,” the younger man said as he bowed low.
“Were they successful?”
“No, he left before they arrived.”
“An unfortunate accident.” The old man paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Send them to Shadow Valley, he will be there,” he finally said. “Tell them that the punishment for failure is, as always, death.”
“They know, sir.”
“Of course they do.”
The young man thought he heard a sigh accompanying this last statement. He bowed to his superior, left the cluttered study, and didn’t see the Priest High bow his head in resignation. He also did not see the older man open the highest drawer of the cupboard behind the high-backed chair and withdraw a sheet of parchment.
The old priest looked at the painting so meticulously drawn by a child’s hand. He shook his head and sighed yet again. “I am so tired of this,” he whispered.
Anne Cirrain rode at the head of the small column of warriors. Although she had never been this far south, she certainly had heard of Danastaer; its wine was one of her favorites. The country’s short but intense past was also well known. Her teacher, Tomrinh, had been one of those who had fled the Lesganagh Purge a few decades ago.
Tomrinh had been a friend of her great-grandfather, a man whom Anne had only heard of in tales told by both her father and her granny. He had been a Paladin, appointed and led by the Sunmaster of Lesganagh himself. Sometimes she wished she lived in those days. She dreamed of it at night: a lady knight in shining armor doing Lesganagh’s biddi
ng.
Instead, she now rode to war for an aging king, for a cause she didn’t fully comprehend but great-grandpa’s legacy lived on: duty and honor ‘til you die. There was no one of House Cirrain who did not live by this motto; it was embroidered on the coat of arms that crowned the mountain, plow, and sword. Anne smirked when she recalled her pitiful skill at needlework, how she had failed to stitch properly the thread into the words she knew so well.
“I was born a warrior, not a housewife,” she muttered.
“Uncle Wadram always told Aunt Rose so, I remember,” said her cousin, Padraigh.
Anne looked at the older man riding next to her. She nodded. “Mother should have known it as well, with me suiting up my dolls in coin-armor, Paddy.”
Padraigh chuckled. “She blamed me for years, you know.”
“And falsely so, for it was father who hammered the copper himself.”
“The ass never said a word in my defense!”
Anne shot him a vicious look. “Don't insult our Lord!”
Padraigh raised his hands in defense, letting go of the reins. “I meant no slight, Anneijhan. I was merely expressing my dismay at being accused the culprit.”
Anne chuckled. “He gave you that sword, you know.” She pointed at the weapon at Paddy’s side.
“Aye,” Padraigh nodded and started to say more when he caught sight of their forward scout galloping toward them. “Looks like Janh found something.”
“Someone, more like it,” said Anne, pointing at the rider in pursuit of their own warrior.
At Anne’s signal House Cirrain’s small warband halted, the handful of bowmen stringing and readying their weapons. It was a standard procedure for the warriors from Chanastardh’s mountain region. Fighting skirmishes with the highland barbarians every day, the men and women were so accustomed to warfare that their war leader needn’t order them into defensive formation.
As Janh and the other rider closed in, Anne discerned the King’s coat of arms emblazoned on the second man’s tabard. A small motion of her hand sufficed to let her archers lower their weapons. They relaxed; a few of the veterans voiced their disappointment. So far, this trek had been nothing but riding, camping, and riding again. The warriors were unused to the dullness, had expected more from the invasion.
“Another dandy,” murmured Dubhan, Anne’s former weapon’s master, much to the amusement of the entire group.
Anne glanced back at the scarred man and shook her head in mock anger. “You don't know your betters, Dubhan,” she scolded. “Then again,” she said after a moment, “none of the fools from Herascor can be considered thus.”
The warriors roared with laughter.
“Some people would consider your words treason,” Paddy said, a broad grin distorting his face.
Anne stuck her tongue out at her cousin then said, “Some people might consider your face treason.”
When the two riders arrived, they were still laughing. Seeing her mien revert to her official, stern face, they quieted and stood at attention. Anne glanced at Paddy and winked; she hated the superficial behavior of her peers and enjoyed making fools of them.
“Forgive me if I don't bow as is appropriate,” she said, ignoring her warriors’ suppressed laughter. “What is it your lord bids us do?”
“Lady Cirrain,” the rider said after a quick bow. “High General Mireynh bids you to make haste for Harail.”
“They’ve taken the city already?” Paddy gasped.
“Aye, sir.”
“What about my warriors?” Anne frowned at the messenger.
The messenger bowed again. “They are to meet the main army on the road leading from Harail to Dunthiochagh.”
“Why not head to Dunthiochagh directly?” Janh interrupted. “To go south first will cost us several days.”
Anne turned to the scout, her face grim. “We have our orders.” To her entire band she said, “I’ll meet you on the road in a few days.”
The messenger turned his horse and headed south a few yards, granting Anne a few moments of privacy with her people. She appreciated the gesture.
“We’re now part of a larger army, folks,” she said. “Things are run differently.”
“What about you?” Paddy asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Why not go through the Shadowpeaks?” Janh insisted.
“Because Mireynh ordered us,” Anne snapped. “Would you question my father or me?”
“No, of course not.”
“I expect you to afford Mireynh the same honor; he is High General.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Janh said.
“Now that this is settled,” Anne sighed, “Paddy, lead them well, and remember our motto.”
Paddy winked and saluted her. “Duty and honor ‘til you die,” he said, the others following suit.
Clasping her cousin’s arm, she nodded at him. “Be well,” she muttered, then turned her horse and followed the messenger who trotted a few score yards ahead of her.
Their ride along the Old Elven Road to Harail was fast, faster than she had expected, and over the next few days they changed horses several times. Anne noted that Mireynh kept a tight leash on his army. She was unaccustomed to seeing the other noble houses’ warbands behaving in such an orderly fashion. On the few occasions she had been to Herascor and had seen house warriors, they were either boisterous know-it-alls or no better than common thugs.
The men and women she now saw did their duty, refrained from harassing the locals, and were far more disciplined than she expected. There even were constables enforcing order.
Anne had heard about High General Urgraith Mireynh only in gossip. Rumor had it Mireynh was a mercenary with quite a reputation: short tempered, yet cunning in battle. He had only recently accepted the position of High General, a post that had been vacant ever since Halmond had been crowned first king of Danastaer.
When Anne looked back at Chanastardh’s and Danastaer’s history, it surprised her that King Drammoch had ordered the invasion. Why conquer a country that was strongly connected by heritage to its neighbor? It made no sense. Had Drammoch ordered Mireynh to quell the highland tribes she would have understood, but this campaign confused her. Not that it mattered. Drammoch had made the call to arms, and House Cirrain, like every other noble family, had answered.
Glum thoughts of the situation with the highland tribes and the reduction of her father’s forces filled Anne’s thoughts as they rode on. At dusk they finally reached Harail. By that time, she was not only exhausted but weary of soon being in the company of nobles she regarded with more disdain than the highlanders. At least the tribes had honor.
Then Anne grew excited. She had never been in the city that had been built by Chanastardhian warriors who had remained loyal to their leader, Halmond, High General and first King of Danastaer. Back at the time of the Wizard War they had fought for Halmond and had followed him to his new kingdom. She saw houses that featured the same architectural style as many buildings in Herascor. Harail seemed quiet, almost peaceful, if one ignored the scores of Pikes and Swords patrolling the city. Each of the various groups sported the tabards of one House or another, an exception being the groups of constables who wore tabards bearing Drammoch’s royal crest: a roaring mountain lion holding bow and sword above a blue and red shield. These were the King’s Men. Here in Danastaer, if the rumors were true, that appellation had an entirely different meaning than in other kingdoms.
Anne grimaced. The gossip had even reached House Cirrain, which in itself was surprising enough, if one considered that news from the court in Herascor reached them several weeks later, if at all.
As her way took her closer to Harail’s palace, excitement gave way to anxiety. Warfare was nothing new to her, she had grown up among warriors, had hardly ever seen her father or any other member of the household unarmed. Still, having seen combat ever since she could fight, Anne did not know why Mireynh had requested her presence and ordered Paddy and the others ahead. All she could
do was to wait.
CHAPTER 14
There were still skirmishes in the streets. Pockets of guardsmen loyal to Jathain had not yet given up the fight, but most of the city was secure.
Kildanor leaned against a merlon on the battlement of the outer bailey. After a night and half a day of constant fighting he was so exhausted that sleep threatened to overwhelm him. At his side, strangely enough, was Braigh, whose bloodied staff seemed to support his entire weight.
The Chosen glanced at his unlikely battle companion and shook his head weakly. “Who would’ve thought?”
“Aye,” the priest whispered, a scowl distorting his face.
The two men fell silent again, and left each other to their own musings. It had been a long night indeed. A long and bloody night. In less than a day, about one third of Dunthiochagh’s defenders had died.
“We don’t need the Chanastardhians,” Kildanor grumbled. “We can take care of our own killings.”
Braigh looked at him and managed a smirk. “We always could, unfortunately.”
“Aye,” Kildanor grunted. “You fight well.”
“Who would have thought?”
“Indeed.” The Chosen turned to look across the city.
“You fight better.”
Kildanor shook his head. “Decades of practice.” Despite his dislike for the man, and the church he represented, he had to admit that Braigh was a worthy brother in arms. Despite his misgivings about Eanaigh’s church, he could not help but respect him.
“Surprised?” Braigh looked back at the Palace where survivors took care of the dead and wounded.
“A little.”
“So am I, my… So am I.”
Kildanor arched a brow. “Friend? Hardly.”
“I can see another reason for… the…”
“What?”
“The banishment.” Braigh breathed deeply and shook his head.
“Oh?” What was the man on to now?
“Fear.”
Kildanor had expected any other reply, but not this. It seemed as if the battle had pushed some of Braigh’s usual hostility aside. There was no aggression in his voice now, only exhaustion, mixed with anxiety.