by Ulff Lehmann
I must see him! The dog barked.
Kildanor turned to the warriors who stood at the ready, awaiting the warden’s command. He was known to the city’s military but held no official rank. Theoretically, any Pike or Sword or Bow outranked him. Thus, it was natural for the guardsmen to look to their superior for guidance. To his surprise the warden turned to him.
“Sir, what’ll we do?”
“Close the gate, do your duty. I take care of them.” He nodded toward the two animals.
“Make it so,” the man ordered.
The Chosen walked over to the curious pair and, following a sudden inspiration, held out his hand. The dog trotted toward him; a slight tug at the rein caused the horse to follow. When the two animals reached him, the canine let go of the rein. Kildanor caught it, shaking his head in astonishment. A moment later he walked back to the Palace, horse and dog followed him obediently.
“You can't allow this mutt into the chapel.” Braigh’s voice was firm.
He hadn’t expected anything else. Not that he necessarily disagreed with the Caretaker. So far, none of the servants had been able to restrain the animal, he was reluctant to use brute force on it, but after all, this was a shrine dedicated to his god, not Braigh’s.
“It won’t leave,” he stated, pointing first at the growling mutt, then at the corpse. “He probably was its master. His presence here isn’t proper, but what harm can it do?”
The dog watched the exchange with an intensity that Kildanor had never seen in an animal. He turned his attention back to Braigh, brows raised. “My guess is it won't leave this spot until we allow her access.”
At this the mutt whimpered, drawing both men’s looks.
“The second rite is about to begin” Braigh sounded weary.
Kildanor shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t see the danger of having a dog near him.” He nodded to the corpse lying on a table. “And I doubt it’ll gnaw on him, either.”
The dog growled.
“It isn’t right.”
“You sound like a priest of Lesganagh I once knew.” He chuckled, then realized how embarrassed Braigh had to feel and regained a measure of composure.
“You think this is all a joke, don’t you? I celebrate this nonsense because Cumaill asked me to.”
The Chosen began to respond but was halted by the priest.
“Are you aware that merely guiding this corpse through the ritual has caused me to fall out of favor with my superiors? And you stand there and mock me!” spat the Caretaker. “You might as well start laughing into Duasonh’s face!”
“I was unfair, please forgive me.” Kildanor surprised himself with these words. He genuinely had come to respect Braigh, but he was all too aware of how old habits are very hard to kill. Still, this halted Braigh’s tirade and left the Caretaker gaping.
“Very well,” the priest relented. “The mutt can enter when the second rite is done.”
“Thank you,” Kildanor said, and meant it.
He paid the ritualistic homage to the dead, as custom demanded. Lesganagh’s faith might be banned, but Braigh, who was now a crucial part of a rite given to the world by Lesganagh ages ago, didn’t mind. Nor did Kildanor expect him to report this or anything else to his superiors. A part of him felt for the Caretaker; after all he knew what it was like to be persecuted. He began to like the man.
As he bowed to the naked corpse a second time, he halted, bent closer, and inspected the cut that had laid bare Drangar Ralgon’s innards. Squinting, he tried to clear away the sleepiness that already threatened to overwhelm him. Were his eyes deceiving him or was the dim light playing tricks?
“Did anyone else touch the body?” Kildanor asked, looking up at Braigh.
The priest frowned at him, while he rinsed the bloodied cloth he had used to clean the corpse. “No one.”
“Odd,” the Chosen muttered.
“What is it?”
Kildanor straightened and scratched his scalp. “Must be the light.”
“What is it?” insisted Braigh, stepping closer to the bier.
“I’m not sure, but I think this wound was wider when we brought him in.” He pointed at the large gash that split the corpse’s midsection wide open.
“I’ll be damned,” Braigh muttered and began to pace around the table. “I think you’re right.”
Turning to the priest, Kildanor said, “You and me both.”
The Caretaker shook his head, obviously as confused as the Chosen felt. Braigh stopped and looked from Ralgon to him and back again. “It’s unfortunate we can't ask any priests of Lesganagh about this,” he said. “Maybe Lord Duasonh, Cumaill, has something in his library.”
“Did I hear a trace of regret there?”
The priest’s smile was weak, but he nodded.
“Maybe I’ll find something,” the Chosen said. “I think we should halt the ceremony for the time being.”
“Not like he will leave anytime soon,” said the Caretaker with a smirk.
At that Kildanor broke out in quiet laughter. “Aye.” Still chuckling, he left the chapel.
It was dark and cold.
Voices drifted toward him. Or so Drangar thought. After the years in his hut he knew loneliness, but he had chosen that life. At least he had chosen life. He had been weak, frightened, and alone; and there had been no one to soothe the pain.
The one who could have held him was gone.
Now he stood or floated in blackness, hearing voices again. The voices were faint, unlike those he had heard after Dunthiochagh. He couldn’t discern the words, but they were around him. Much like this void, intangible and uncaring.
Drangar had never bothered with timekeeping, those were things for farmers, and in this blackness, he had nothing to judge its passage anyway. It could’ve been days or weeks, although it hardly mattered. He was dead.
“Maybe there are no gods at all.” He had lost count of the times he’d said this sentence. It didn’t matter.
Even if they were around, what could he expect from any of them? The last time he had truly prayed had been in Dunthiochagh. Anything that had meant something in his life had found its end in that city. In a way, he had died there as well. He should have died there. Now it was too late for any regrets, Lliania’s Scales would not judge him.
Maybe his life, his soul was too heavy even for her.
CHAPTER 25
Jesgar was both excited and confused. Why would the Baron send him on a mission when he was not yet ready to perform as a courtier? He enjoyed that Duasonh trusted him, but he was anxious all the same.
“Don’t worry, lad,” Lord Nerran had said with a bright smile, “you’ll learn something.”
So far, the only thing he had learned was that he knew nothing about horses. He was sore, his back ached, and his legs felt as if the skin was in tatters.
At noon the Riders arrived at Falcon’s Creek, the first of four garrisons maintained by Baron Duasonh along the Harail road was still a mile or so away, but stood clear against the blue horizon. Nerran stretched his back and winked at Jesgar. “Ever been this far out?”
“No, milord,” he said, feeling slightly ashamed. “The farthest away from home was the Shadowswamp.”
“Which is almost at our doorstep nowadays,” grumbled the older man. “My da used to tell me of the times when there was no swamp, and you had to go around the Shadowpeaks. When I was a wee lad there still was some snow on some of the highest summits. Now there are just those abysmal clouds and the endless rain.” He spat. “Bloody wizards.” Lord Nerran looked at the fortress and frowned. “See anything amiss here, lads?”
Despite being addressed as part of the group, Jesgar knew the question was directed at him. He looked at the crenellated walls, the massive towers and gatehouse, and then to the flag of House Duasonh whipping in the autumn breeze. Nothing seemed amiss, no obvious damage to the structure, and he made out a handful of guards, mere smudges against the merlons, but moving nonetheless.
“No smoke, the color
s are flying, and the place is guarded,” he finally said.
“Aye,” Lord Nerran agreed, “but I want to be sure. You four,” he pointed at a few Riders, “circle the place and report anything unusual.” After the horsemen had given their affirmative, he turned to Jesgar. “You’ll get over there and take a closer look.”
“At once, milord,” he replied and dismounted. The first thing he did when his feet touched the ground was to stretch his legs to loosen cramped muscles. Then he was off, sprinting toward the fortress. Moving unnoticed through a city at nighttime was nothing like approaching a fortified position unobserved while several sentinels were holding watch. It was a challenge, and Jesgar was willing to rise to the occasion. He rushed along a bank of thornleaves that lined a hilltop, and then used a stone outcrop of another tor to cover his further advance. A bird, probably a hawk, called from behind, and another replied from up front.
He was near to the fort now and saw Lord Nerran and his twenty Riders had closed the distance and were chatting animatedly with the guards.
“And? Can you see me lad?” the older man shouted up to the warriors manning the gatehouse.
“No, milord,” came the reply. A few moments later the man added, “The chaps on the towers don’t see him either.”
“He either got lost, or he is really of some use as a scout, sir,” said another voice.
Bastards, Jesgar thought.
This was a test, nothing more, the hawk calls had probably been a prearranged signal, and Nerran already knew all was in order.
“We’ll wait until the boy Garinad shows up,” Lord Nerran announced. “I want to speak with the warleader. And some wine for me lads.” This last statement brought forth a small cheer from the Riders. Jesgar observed them as they dismounted and tied their horses to a few lances driven into the ground.
“I’ll show them,” he whispered and crawled on as the warriors settled on the ground, waiting for their wine. When the garrison’s warleader and a page carrying skins of wine arrived, he slowly made his way toward the north side of the castle. He might know little about scouting and the outdoors, but he knew shadows, and how to look out for people watching over places.
To his frustration there were few enough spots where one could close in on the battlement, but finally he discovered a slight ravine that brought him within two paces of the earth-and-stone wall. So far, none of the guards were aware of his approach. Jesgar was proud of this achievement. Still, there were those last two paces. He huddled at the end of the gully and watched the sentries. There was a moment when the guards’ attention lay… now!
He jumped up and hurried as silently as possible to the wall. Stealth on uneven, grassy ground was so different from the alleys of Dunthiochagh that for a moment he feared the guards heard his dash. No alarm was raised. He didn’t quite know what to do next, but guessed the Riders would almost be done with their wine and Lord Nerran’s conversation with the warleader was also drawing to a close. Then he had an idea, and crept along the wall, always making sure he stayed out of sight of the sentinels.
When he reached the northeastern corner of the stronghold Jesgar noticed something odd about the masonry. It was more uneven than the rest of the castle’s foundation. The rest of the wall, so far, was smooth to prevent an easy escalade, but here it seemed as if this spot was meant to be climbed. He looked up, and saw this spot could only be seen by the northwestern tower, and in all likelihood the shadows cast by the rising sun wouldn’t betray this crude ladder to any observer. Casual inspection wouldn’t discover it either, and he had yet to meet the guardsman who, after a day of endless routine, would still pay attention to something he had always seen and perceived as normal.
His toothy grin preceded him, as he climbed the makeshift ladder. When he reached the top and swung over the parapet, the sole guard jumped back in astonishment. “You may raise the alarm now,” the spy-in-training panted. “Lord Nerran and your warleader want to see this.” Then, with a calm he did not really feel, Jesgar grabbed the woman’s water-skin and drank.
“Well, lad, you proved one thing,” the Paladin said when they were back in the saddle. Jesgar looked at the man and frowned. “You’re as sneaky outside a city as you are inside.”
Their stay at Falcon’s Creek had been longer, because of his discovery of the hidden ladder. Lord Nerran had insisted that the craftsmen amongst the warriors start immediately on the repair of the wall. So, by late afternoon, accompanied by the sounds of hammers and chisels, they rode to Silver Meadows.
“You didn’t really need me, did you, milord?” Jesgar wanted his suspicion confirmed, not that he minded, but still. Some things are better out in the open, and he reckoned this was one of those.
Lord Nerran looked at him and shook his head. “Not really, lad, but I am glad you’re with us now. Justified your being here already. The Baron thought it wise to give you some time away from the city.”
“So, I could learn?”
“That, but he wants me to teach you some heraldry.” Jesgar’s confusion must have shown, because the old warrior chuckled and shook his head. “Stuff about coats-of-arms, lad. Who is who and what is what, that sort of hogwash. Baron Duasonh wants you well-versed in this stuff so you can tell by a little stitching on one’s tunic which House and which country he hails from.”
He groaned. “More to learn!”
“Listen, lad, you’ll always learn new things anyway, every day. And your discovery of that little stair shows me you have a decent mind, why not use it? If you don’t want to use it…” He looked at his men. “We won’t stop you if you want to bugger off like a pansy-assed coward.”
His shock must have shown as well, for Lord Nerran and his score of Riders laughed. “No, I am no deserter.”
Lord Nerran cleared his throat, guided his horse to Jesgar’s and patted him on the back. “Lad, you wanted to become part of this, best get used to learning lots.”
He nodded, and rode on in silence. There was so much he did not know, and although the task was daunting, he wanted to learn. Riding with these hardened veterans, being in their company, and feeling accepted as an equal, was worth it.
CHAPTER 26
Ealisaid awoke with a splitting headache. Her mouth and throat were parched, her tongue felt like a lump of meat. Also, her arms were tied behind her back, and her fingers seemed encased in solid iron. As she tried to move her arms the slightest fraction of an inch, she discovered that the pain in her head was nothing compared to that of her shoulders. The chains that bound her arms were attached to some hoops in the wall and she had basically spent however long it had been since the alley on her knees with her body held in place by chains and arms. Struggle was useless, and most of her magic needed gestures.
From what little she could tell, there was also a strange taste on her tongue. Not only taste but feeling as well. She could breathe; moving her tongue, if only to probe her teeth, was impossible. If she strained her eyes, she was able to see the black wires that lay on her cheeks and penetrated her mouth. She could guess what those were for, and it also explained the metallic taste. Whoever her captors were, they had effectively crippled her, magically and physically.
The dim illumination of her cell was amplified by the glow of a flame that came closer; she heard footsteps. The hallway distorted the echoing sounds, but she guessed two people were coming her way.
Then, as the torchlight flickered bright, Ealisaid could discern a pair of shapes in its glare. “She’s awake,” one of them, the taller one, said. Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she saw the two men more clearly. One was built well, muscular, with short-cropped hair, and a look in his eyes that was honest, and hostile. The other man, slightly smaller than his companion, had broad shoulders, graying black hair, and his midsection proof of the well-fed life he led. Their attire was similar: dark, earthen colors. Yet the bigger man also had House Duasonh’s falcon embroidered on his lapel.
“So she is,” the younger man said.
“A
ny suggestions?” the other replied.
“Aside from the usual? No. And I’m quite sure had you wanted that, she’d already be dead.”
So, the pair was not contemplating her death, but they might have done so before, and the idea that common men had thought about killing a Phoenix Wizardess was plain insulting.
“How dare you!” she wanted to shout, but her tied tongue only let mad ramblings past her lips.
“Well, Lord Baron,” the younger man said, his voice edged with menacing humor, “we could tell her what happened.”
The other man nodded, “You’re right.” He faced her. “You are in the Palace of Dunthiochagh; I am Cumaill of House Duasonh, Baron of Boughaighr, and Higher Cherkont. I don’t know how you got here; I don’t care who you are; I don’t care what you have been doing here, aside from killing fifteen people and doing a whole lot of damage to quite a few buildings. Know this, woman; you will remain here until I judge you. If you’re hoping for a rescue, know you are the last of your kind.”
Ealisaid stared at the man claiming to be Baron Duasonh. She could see some resemblance to the Baron who ruled over Dunthiochagh, but this man could surely not be him. The Baron was a young man, in his early thirties; this man had seen more than forty summers at the least. The last of her kind? The man wanted to unsettle her, break her. She could not be the last of the Phoenix Wizards. Even if she had been unable to contact anyone in the enclave, there had to be others like her.
As she contemplated this, the one accompanying the impostor Baron stepped forward. “Know this, wench, I am Kildanor, Chosen of Lesganagh, and what Lord Duasonh told you is true. The Wizards are no more; I killed the last of them in the Shadowpeaks. How you managed to escape the War is beyond me, but I don't care. You will stand trial for the people you killed and for the property you destroyed. For that you need to be alive.” He smiled as he said, “Your choice, gagged and starving, unable to use your magic, or you give us your word of honor—Baron Duasonh thinks it means something. I know better, but it is his decision—to refrain using magic and eat. What say you? Nod if you agree to the terms, or remain as you are. If you break your word I will hunt you down and kill you without a trial.” She gave a slight, hesitant nod.