by Ulff Lehmann
The clatter of running booted feet made the men halt and turn around. A city watchman ran headlong toward the audience chamber. In the dimly lit corridor the man seemed unable to discern the three men, and only in the last instant was he able to avoid them. He came to a skidding halt before his liege and bowed, gasping for breath.
“Lord Baron,” the guard panted. “Lord Baron.”
“Catch your breath, son, and then talk.”
Kildanor was always happy to hear Cumaill talk to his subordinates more like a father than a lord. Yet another thing that made him a better man than the King.
Before the man was able to give his report, another guardsman rushed toward them. This one bowed and despite being out of breath, reported without pause. “Lord Baron, some witch has just destroyed Malhain’s Carpentry on Beggar’s Alley!”
“Boughaighr’s Alley,” Kildanor corrected, being well familiar with the population’s nickname for the street that ran west from the Palace toward the old city wall and the more recent additions to Dunthiochagh.
Duasonh had apparently overheard the disrespectful name. “A witch?”
“Aye, sir,” said the other guardsman. “Red hair. Blazing eyes. Just like in them stories.”
A third and a fourth guardsman hurried toward the small group. Duasonh turned to Kildanor, his face grim. “Take these men with you and investigate this witch. I don’t want the whole city watch meeting here.” His words were followed by a thunderous crash. “And be quick about it!”
Kildanor ran toward the inner bailey even before Duasonh’ second sentence was finished. His senses tingled; attuned to magical forces ever since the Heir War, the sensation surprised him. This was not demonology, it didn’t feel as vile, but there was a tint of the same brute strength in the air that had always surrounded the demons after Danachamain had opened the Scales-cursed gates.
He raced down Boughaighr’s Alley when another explosion shook the city. It sounded almost as if siege weapons attacked Dunthiochagh, but the noise was fiercer. Again, an ill sense assaulted him.
He dodged an abandoned cart and saw the destruction. A woman amidst the chaos raged, screaming at empty air while throwing spells left and right. Not only the carpenter’s shop had surrendered to the onslaught of magic, but also the adjourning two merchant houses and the house of folklore known as the witch’s hut, despite it being quite a stately building.
The motions the woman went through reminded Kildanor of those the Phoenix Wizards had used. He had to act fast before she caused even more damage. There was no time for an elaborate prayer, so he did the only thing he could think of. He raced toward the sorceress, hoping she wouldn’t discover him and treat him the same way she did the houses. In an instant he was upon her, but before his fist connected with her chin the woman collapsed.
She looked starved, but that didn’t hinder Kildanor from ensuring the witch stayed down. As he caught her in his arms, the Chosen delivered a blow to her temple, a method they had applied often to subdue wizards during the Heir War. He then picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and headed back to the Palace.
Lightbringer felt Cat’s approach long before the spirit arrived. A quick incantation masked the pool of blood that still formed the center of her cavern; then with a second spell she made herself appear wrapped in the cloak Cat had always seen her in.
The spirit-woman slid through the sediment into the chamber and hovered before her. “They killed him!” Her voice caught between whimper and scream. “They killed him!”
Her sigh should have been enough of an indicator that she had just about enough of the spirit’s whining. “You have to trust me,” Lightbringer said with as much restraint as she could muster. She needed the ghost.
“They killed him!” Cat hollered.
The woman of many names stood straight and let some of her power flow into her appearance. It had the desired effect. Cat shrank back and cowered against the far wall.
“Do you trust me?” Lightbringer knew her voice was akin to a thunderstorm’s roar, but the spirit tested her patience. “You have your part and I have mine, and I won't suffer your childish wailing. You know your duty, Cat! Do it! Guard him! Now go!”
Had ghosts been able to weep, Cat would have done so, but she couldn’t and merely stared at her. Then, with an almost defiant nod, the spirit vanished from the cave, leaving Lightbringer alone. She glared at empty air and then dissolved the illusion covering her and the pool.
As she settled into the cooling blood, Lightbringer felt the Phoenix Wizardess accessing magic in the old way, the wrong way. For a moment she was of a mind to teach the woman a lesson, but decided against it. There would be others to teach, and she had to use the children’s sacrifice in a more constructive matter.
First, she had to make sure that the squirrel’s message had been heard.
CHAPTER 21
Unlike the Veil of Fire, the Veil of Dreams was a spiritual barrier. Set beyond what the Phoenix Wizards had called the Border of Thought, the Veil of Dreams had been created by the elves of Gathran centuries ago. The realm beyond used to be their haven, a refuge for when the world became too cumbersome. After the Heir War, as mankind called it, the Realm of Quiet had become a permanent home for them. They preferred to remain unseen and invisible to the troubled world.
An advantage had been their ability to shape the Realm to their own liking, not bothering with insignificant details such as moving earth or wood around. In this realm of peace, beyond the world, lived the former rulers of Honas Graigh. For them it was an easy living, free from all the troubles of lesser beings, especially man. Here they enjoyed their existence, their continuing feuds and backstabbing, their magical experiments. They were long-lived, and had since forgotten the fear of death. They were patient. Intrigues spawned into being and took longer than a human’s lifespan to unfold; experiments were forgotten over the opportunity to torture a spy.
Lloreanthoran was a respected member of the Council of Mages, who was rare for his kind, preferring his laboratory to an elf’s execution. At one of these occasions Lloreanthoran was disturbed in a discussion with one of his colleagues.
The intruder was no other than his assistant, Kyrreandros. Although young in age, by elven standards, the lithe elf showed no respect to his elders as he pushed his way through the cheering and yelling audience. They demanded a slow execution for the hapless, foolish assassin, nothing unusual; Lloreanthoran realized his people hadn’t changed, for they still enjoyed seeing fools suffer for their mistakes. No one cared about the man’s employer, all knew his identity anyway, and since the execution was part of the annual routine, a game, it was pure, unblemished entertainment.
Lloreanthoran attended these events only because protocol demanded his presence; thus, he was quite relieved to see his apprentice, even though the worried scowl on the young elf’s face troubled him. He watched as the apprentice shoved his way through the crowd that willingly parted before him, recognizing his trusted assistant. Sometimes Lloreanthoran wondered if this young man would ever achieve the status of full-fledged mage, for the youth still lacked the discipline of harnessing the mighty powers of the arcane. For the moment the worried look that seemed to grow more anxious from moment to moment was his prime concern.
Finally, Kyrreandros stood before him, trying to drag in some air. “Master,” he panted.
“There, there my friend, calm down and take your time to breathe before you speak,” the elder elf said and looked at the horde of cheering kinsfolk as the hapless assassin was flayed alive, his irritation growing.
After a while the apprentice pulled his master’s robe. “It’s important!”
Grateful for the diversion, Lloreanthoran ushered his apprentice out the Hall of Judgment. After they had left the building behind, he looked at the young elf. “What is it?”
“Something happened,” Kyrreandros answered.
“That much I gathered,” the mage said. “What did happen?”
“You must c
ome to the study… it’s there.” The apprentice was confused and Lloreanthoran wondered what had upset the young man. Indeed, he was born to this place and had never ventured into the world beyond, but being familiar with magic to some degree at least, he should have been used to strange events. He shrugged and walked to his house, a small building outside the city of Graigh D’nar.
He had lived here from the beginning, but Lloreanthoran still didn’t feel comfortable with the sunless, starless sky that surrounded this elf-created realm. Birds sang in trees and a breeze whispered through leaves and grass, but the lack of the sun, sign of Lesganagh, Lord of the Gods, bothered him. Day and night were always the same, as was the afternoon rain and even a little snow every few months. He had participated in creating this new world, but had to admit he would rather perish in the real world than continue life under this monotonous sky. On rare occasions he tried to use his divining-crystal to look on his old homeland, but his attempts mostly failed. He had studied with and taught the now extinct Phoenix Wizards, traveled bodily through the Veil of Fire. He craved knowledge, but now was bound to this plane, not by spell, but by word.
He looked at the shimmering buildings, created by him and other elven mages to reflect their destroyed home, Honas Graigh. The houses were faultless, like the spells that had created them, but to Lloreanthoran this flawlessness was what bothered more and more people with every passing year. They were too perfect. In Honas Graigh all the smaller houses had been built by elven labor, not a twist of hand and a syllable uttered. He had built his own home back then, of course he had added some magic afterwards, but it was his house, a house he still loved. Many elves felt the same way and grew bored with their self-created land, calling it prison. Boredom birthed trouble and trouble spawned more intrigues, his people’s favorite game. It was escalating. In the past, time had worked in their favor; now it worked against them.
They reached his house. When he created it, he hadn’t attempted to copy his home in Honas Graigh, yet it was neither as symmetrical nor as perfect as other buildings. There were nooks and crannies, Lloreanthoran had even convinced the perfect growth of the plants to change their ways. His home was magical, like all the other buildings in this elf-wrought prison, but unlike these houses, his actually seemed alive.
The two entered, heading straight for the study, not bothering, as they usually did, to stop in the kitchen for tea. Despite the lack of straight lines, the interior was comfortable. Other buildings might have their insides altered by magic. Their size on the outside not reflecting the space within, which magic had turned into realms of their own; but still this oddity among magical perfection accommodated a huge library and rooms to suit the inhabitants’ every need.
When they had reached the large worktable, littered with notes, books and ingredients, they halted. “I ask again, Kyrreandros. What is it?”
Instead of answering, the apprentice walked to a cabinet and retrieved a small mirror. Lloreanthoran hadn’t seen the artifact in quite a while and wondered why his student chose this object. The counterpart of the looking glass was somewhere in Honas Graigh’s vicinity, probably lost in the woods, abandoned. Then he saw that the mirror’s flickering surface and looked closer. Symbols were forming on its frame, writings that appeared when the counterpart was active.
The wizard surprised his apprentice when he grabbed the artifact, traced its frame with thin fingers, and whispered words that were unknown to the youth. He could see his pupil frowning as the mirror’s surface changed and the image of a squirrel appeared. The young elf’s frown deepened when he began to talk. “Bright-Eyes! It has been a long time, old friend, hasn’t it?”
The squirrel replied, “You left me behind, so watch whom you call friend! Who’s the whelp?”
As Lloreanthoran replied, he realized how much he had missed his familiar. Yet another thing he regretted to have left behind. “This is Kyrreandros, my apprentice.”
The squirrel leaned his head to the right. “Looks very apprentice-like to me. You trust him?”
The wizard arched a brow. “He wouldn’t be my apprentice if it were otherwise.”
“You, apprentice!” the squirrel said. “Bugger off!”
The older elf cast an irritated glance at the mirror, looked over his shoulder to see Kyrreandros’s consternation and nodded. “Fix supper if you please.” He then turned back to the mirror. “You need to control your tongue, Bright-Eyes.”
“Oh, yes, it wasn’t you who was left out in the world with not even half a brain to function at more than the basic level, and if that isn’t reason enough to be righteously angry, that war with all them nasties should do the trick.” Bright-Eyes raised his paw and pointed at Lloreanthoran. “You and your stupid people took all the baggage with you and left, but your sewage you left behind!”
“What are you talking about?” the wizard asked, but feared he knew what Bright-Eyes meant.
“Let me put it this way, you ran like scared squirrels when your precious city was hit, but you forgot something that made the human wizards’ war look like child’s play.”
“The Aerant C’lain,” he said without thinking.
Bright-Eyes nodded. “Indeed, and now trouble is brewing. The soulward has been corrupted, creating a mindstorm. Whatever is going on there, it’s bad, so you better get your ass here and help!”
The connection was severed, and Lloreanthoran stood in his study, looking at the hand mirror until Kyrreandros’s arrival broke his reverie.
“Who was that?” the younger elf asked as he set down a tray with glasses and a pot of tea.
“That was Bright-Eyes,” he said, his eyes still on the mirror. “He was my familiar.”
“From back in the days before the Veil?” The apprentice poured him a glass.
“Indeed.” Lloreanthoran took the beverage and shook his head. “It’s been almost a century since I’ve seen him. I thought he’d die once I passed the Veil.”
“He didn’t,” Kyrreandros said, stating the obvious.
“I need to think. Return to your studies,” he said, sitting down on one of the comfortable chairs.
CHAPTER 22
It was dark and cold.
The gloom surrounding Drangar was not what he had expected. Somehow, he thought that the Bailey Majestic was just that, a gigantic open area where the souls of the dead gathered before they were called forth to face Lliania, Lady Justice, and be judged by her ever-truthful Scales. He had certainly never heard a priest speak about the Bailey Majestic as being a vast emptiness.
“I felt those bastards shoot and stab me,” Drangar said. “I’m dead.”
Of course, there was no reply, nor did he expect one.
It was cold and dark.
“Maybe even the gods don’t want me,” he muttered, his voice fearful. “Don’t I feel splendid now?”
He felt adrift, floating on a boat down some river. Sometimes it was as if he could hear surf slapping against a wooden hull, but neither did he sit on a bench, nor was he surrounded by wood.
Someone touched his arm; he shrank away from the gentle caress, all too aware of the nightmares that haunted his sleep. Would he need to sleep here?
The touch lingered; escape was futile. Now he thought he felt it more distinct, a rub, as if someone scrubbed him.
Drangar moved to take hold of the unseen cloth, but, as expected, couldn’t grab it. Nor could he touch his own arm. If this was death, it was far more unpleasant than any being ever imagined.
“All just lonely souls drifting away in nothingness. None of us able to reach out to the others, none of us being heard,” he muttered. “We came from nothing and leave for nothing. It’s pointless. Life is meaningless. There is no Round Hall, no grand feasting chamber, and no glorious celebration. Nothing!”
He wanted to smash something, pound his fists into walls, but could only chuckle bitterly at the futility of it all. There was nothing to break. Nothing left but regrets, guilt, and despair.
“What’s the p
oint trying to rid yourself of something you can never get rid of?” he muttered, somehow dreading that Hesmera’s spirit would rise before him just like she had in his nightmares.
He remained alone. Aside from the feeling of cloth on his body. Now his left hand was meticulously cleaned.
“If I was to take a bath I’d appreciate some warm water and a few lasses to care for me,” he grumbled. “Not that anyone can hear me.”
If this was the Bailey Majestic one of Lliania’s Lawlords, her heralds, would have already hailed him. Even in his hut he had had Dog and Hiljarr to talk to and keep him company. He missed the two. Not that they were talkative—Drangar felt like weeping at the thought—but at least they were good listeners.
“Have I been a good listener?” he wondered aloud. “I think I was. Of course, there were times when I cared little about what others had to say, but I think in general I was a good listener.” He chuckled sadly. “Attentive some might say.”
“Not that anyone ever did. Not that anyone now has the chance to tell me. Why is it so gods-be-damned dark?” he shouted.
Silence. Dark and cold silence.
“And I didn’t even kill myself,” he whispered.
The ghostly cloth wandered up his arm, and for a brief moment he thought he heard the melody of a song. Drangar strained to focus on the tune, words sung in whisper.
The Lamentation of the Sun.
He remembered. How could he ever forget? This song had been on his mind, his lips, and his heart all the way from Dunthiochagh to Carlgh.
These fingers held a weapon high
Now this soul runs free
These fingers held a shining light
For all the world to see
Though darkness falls and your light fades
The Hall of Gods, for you it waits
Don't fear suffering, don’t fear pain
Lesganagh will shine on you again
Still wars are lost and wars are won
Your fate lies always with the sun