Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  Ealisaid woke when someone shook her shoulder. Her back ached, and when she straightened her neck she felt the popping of her spine. A shadow, highlighted by a blinding glare, leaned over her, but the Wizardess could not tell who it was. She blinked away the grit in her eyes, and then wiped her hand over her lids.

  The glare was still there, but now she was able to discern the warden who had gone to relay her message to Baron Duasonh. “You awake?” he asked as he withdrew his hand.

  She nodded.

  “The Baron will see you now,” the man said and turned to leave her cell. Ealisaid tried to stand, but the moment her legs left the awkward angle they had been, they cramped. Stifling a whimper, she clutched the doorframe and leaned against the cell wall. She couldn’t remember ever having rested in such a weird position, and now knew why people did not sleep this way. It was hardly worth it. But the agony helped keep her mind off her misery.

  “You coming?” the warden said. He had already reached the door to the guardroom, and she bit back the vicious retort forming in her mind. Teeth clenched, she nodded and hobbled toward the portal, hugging the right wall as she went. The more she walked, the more she moved her legs, the lesser the pain became. When she stood next to the warden at last, panting as if the twenty-yard walk had instead been a climb up the Shadowpeaks, the Wizardess felt better.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  The warden took a quick look at her, and then walked into the room. She held back a comment about chivalry regarding a lady when she realized he saw her as nothing more than a prisoner, and a murderer. The same moment she heard the thump of something heavy hit the ground, and when she entered the room, she saw Ale-Breath sprawled on the floor. Underneath the disgusting man lay the remnants of a chair, and next to him were splinters of what must have been a mug.

  “Did I not order you to be lashed?” the warden shouted.

  Ale-Breath shook his head and looked at his superior, his eyes glazed from drink. “Huh?” was all he said.

  “I’m sick of you!” The warden grabbed the guard by the collar and pulled him up as far as he could before his muscles surrendered to the watchman’s bulk. “Forty lashes and a night and a day out in the open with only your fat carcass and breeches to keep you warm!”

  Instead of leading Ealisaid on, the warden hollered for the next pair of sentries. When the two arrived, he pointed at Ale-Breath. “Get this piece of shit out into the courtyard. You,” he pointed at the taller of the two, “administer the lashes. Forty. Then you are to hogtie him as he is, breeches only, and leave him there for everyone to see. The Baron does not suffer drunkards in his guard; make that clear to all who’ll be watching this.”

  After the two warriors had dragged Ale-Breath out, the warden turned back to her. “Procedure,” he said, as if that word explained it all. The man turned and walked out the chamber into a larger corridor. Ealisaid followed.

  CHAPTER 36

  Something moved in front of him. Drangar frowned and looked on, trying to decide whether his imagination still played tricks on him, even in death. No, the blackness before him pulsed, deepened. It looked as if someone was trying to push through a layer of heavy fabric.

  Now he could discern dim light shining through the darkness. It heaved and strained against the barrier holding it back. Pinpoints of luminescence pierced the dark, leaving him staring at the spectacle.

  A few moments later more light broke through and Drangar saw the faint outline of a person. It was vaguely feline. Its features seemed strained, torn, as if the darkness’s mere presence snapped and clawed at it. Drangar watched, curiosity winning over confusion.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  The being looked his way, and despite its attempt to look compassionate Drangar recoiled at the sheer malevolence the entity’s face held. A large part of him despaired at the sight, but a small fraction of his conscience, the part of his soul that had always lashed out when he had been drinking too much, the part that fed his furor, reveled in the creature’s presence.

  Here in this dark void he had more control over his mind than ever before. His daily rituals, the meditation, even his baths had given him the mastery needed to suppress the piece of his soul he hated most.

  The creature’s sneer was replaced by a mask of frustration and anger, as it pounded against the fine netting of darkness that held it back. In the formless space Drangar occupied, he couldn’t feel any of it; but he saw the strain on the feline beast’s face. Yet despite all the attention this monstrosity put into breaking through this veil, he felt its eyes burning into him.

  Fear like nothing he’d known welled up inside; he struggled to move legs that weren’t there, desperate to get away. His will seeped away and he stared at the fiend in frightened horror.

  “What do you want from me?” he howled.

  The creature didn’t answer; instead it clawed at the seemingly indestructible netting that held it back. Then, when Drangar thought the monster would give up, it smashed into the barrier again, howling. Its voice was inhuman, worse than anything he had ever heard. It was the scream of the dying mixed with so much hate, anger, and frustration all muddled into a bone-chilling wail.

  Terror renewed in his heart and Drangar desperately tried to turn and flee. “Who are you?” he roared, trying to banish his own fear.

  “Your future,” said the demon—it had to be a demon—its voice a growl that would have frozen anyone’s blood. Even in death Drangar felt the vile power emanating from the being.

  Then a soothing presence enveloped him.

  Dog was the only living being to witness Drangar’s corpse thrashing and twisting on its bier. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and hopped onto the table. The moment her paws touched wood, the frantically whipping body ceased its movement. The canine stepped forward, paws touching the cleaned, marred stomach. Immediately, Dog collapsed and lay still, breathing shallowly.

  “You need to help me!” Cat repeated, ghostly eyes glaring at Lightbringer. “Now!”

  “Very well,” the ancient witch said. “I can bring you to his side, but from the moment you enter the Veil you will be on your own.”

  Lightbringer thrust her clawed hand through Cat’s spiritform and began a low, humming chant. Mere heartbeats later the spiritform was gone.

  “Stay away from him, creature!” snarled a female voice.

  The black netting holding the demon grew more solid, forcing the struggling fiend back. Drangar tried to discern the origin of the female speaker, but aside from the feeling of comfort surrounding him there was nothing.

  “Harlot, you can’t change what is predestined,” snapped the demon, teeth flashing against the black of the veil.

  “The time has not come!”

  Drangar’s confused look wandered from the comfortable darkness around him to the demon. The net pulsed as the creature tore at it with renewed vigor.

  “Yet! Damn you, shrew, don't interfere!”

  “No,” the formless shadow around Drangar said with calm conviction.

  Suddenly, a wisp of light escaped from the veil, lanced toward and pierced him and the surrounding shade. Drangar screamed like he had never screamed before. Agony, pure white pain roared through him.

  Mindless, senseless, he writhed in anguish.

  This was his soul the demon tortured! A small part of his conscious woke, despite the torment. He grew aware of the shadow’s howl echoing his own inhuman scream. How was this possible? Detached, the tiny sliver of his mind that remained unaffected by the pain observed and analyzed his tormentor. He was a spirit, and spirits shouldn’t be able to touch one another.

  He hadn’t even been able to touch his own arm, and this being of light could cause indescribable pain. Even the sword that had gutted him had not caused so much agony. The female’s scream was cut off, and he felt alone again, the presence that had enveloped him was gone.

  Drangar expected the pain to vanish, but it remained. Stronger than before. That portion o
f the attack the shadow had shielded him from thrust into him as well. It consumed the last shred of reason, and he screamed, louder than before.

  The Chosen of Lesganagh entered Harail through a hidden passageway. Halmond, Lerainh’s grandfather, had it constructed back when Harail had been a small village. Halmond had wanted this to be the Chosen’s way into the royal palace, and had never passed the secret on to his son.

  “I doubt the High General had regicide in mind for us when he had this place built,” Kildanor whispered, using Halmond’s Chanastardhian rank.

  “He’d turn and thrash in his grave if he knew what his grandson has done to strengthen the realm,” Orkeanas replied.

  “I said it then and I say it again, I should have drowned the brat like a sick puppy when I had the chance,” Kildanor growled, fury distorting his voice. He didn’t know whom he was angrier at, himself or his brethren who had prevented him from killing Lerainh forty years ago.

  “Enough of that,” the First ordered.

  They had reached the end of the tunnel and the flickering, hissing torches cast their shadows against a seamless wall. Engraved into the wall was the sun and sword symbol of Lesganagh. There were few people who remembered this sigil; even Kildanor hadn’t seen it in a long time. He resented being back in Harail. He resented being back among the ranks of the Chosen. Despite Orkeanas, despite everyone else, he felt he did not belong with them. New faces, most of them, and from the sidelong glances they gave him, he felt that they resented him too. They didn’t say as much, but their looks told enough. He was the outcast, the prodigal son. Twenty-four had started out at the eve of the Heir War, following the mandates of Lesganagh. Twenty-two had fought off the demons, again according to Lesganagh’s wishes. Then there had come nothing but endless routine, guarding the land, the realm’s protector, Halmond and his scions. He had not sat by idly to wait for things to unfold; he wanted the Chosen to intervene, to change who ruled. They had banished him when he had told them Lerainh was endangering everything. He was an outcast, and now, despite all their misgivings, all their differences, he stood here to pass judgment on the man he, Kildanor, had already found wanting so long ago.

  “Where’ll he be?” Galen asked.

  Galen was one of the oldest, chosen during the Demon War. Kildanor turned and beamed at the older-looking man. There was a resolution in Galen’s eyes he had not noticed before. Of all the Chosen, he had expected Galen to be on his side when he had wanted to put Cumaill Duasonh on the throne. Galen had been the last to voice his concerns about the regicide, and only after Orkeanas’s prompting.

  “They won’t keep him in the dungeons,” Kildanor said. “There are rules, remember,” he added. “A king must not be touched; the same goes for nobles.”

  “We saw some pompous asses dangling on Gallows’ Hill, mate,” Galen replied. “Guess they barely resisted.”

  “They’d also put Caddoc and Vailin to the sword there,” Sellic, one of the youngest Chosen, said.

  “You hang people that refuse to surrender,” Galen said. “At least that’s what I’d do if I was in their place.”

  Much had changed, Kildanor thought. He felt it. There was dissent in the ranks. He looked at Galen and inched over to him. “Come to regret past mistakes?” he whispered.

  “I understood the need for unity, but the last few weeks have been proof enough you were right,” the other replied. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s done is done, friend, just make sure he won’t make any more mistakes like that. You’re the voice of reason, now that I’m gone.” He had always liked the man, more so now.

  “Reasonable? You?” Galen chuckled well humoredly. “You’re the most cold-blooded of us. Straight and searing, like His rays. Orkeanas is too proud to admit his mistake. You know that. Yet, the sun can't rule alone, he must be tempered by the cold of the moon. Lesganagh, Eanaigh, two sides of the same coin. There’s no one here to temper a rule of Chosen.”

  He shook his head. Galen was right, of course, but he felt certain the invasion and what came at the heels of the Chanastardhians could have been avoided if Lerainh had been killed decades ago. He was about to say as much, when blinding sunlight outshone every torch in the tunnel. The surge of illumination glared for a mere heartbeat, and was followed by a slight grating of stone on stone and a soft breeze that carried with it the stench of rotting straw, urine, and shit. The way was clear.

  A hush went through the line of Chosen, and Kildanor followed Orkeanas’s lead as they rushed through the dungeons. The First sent two of their number ahead to clear the way, and a few long and anxious breaths later, two muffled thuds signaled the score of remaining men and women that the path was free. A few passed him, people he did not know, replacements for the dead.

  Elara, who had joined their ranks shortly before he had left the court, halted before him. She looked dangerous, green eyes flashing like emerald daggers, hair as shortly cropped as any man’s. “Welcome back,” she whispered and was off again.

  Apparently, Galen wasn’t the only one who had come to their senses. He glanced at his brethren. The older-looking Chosen put a firm hand on his shoulder. Then all but the two of them were through.

  More out of habit than necessity, Kildanor and Galen formed the rearguard, and when they entered the small watch-room the others had already surged ahead. He noticed the same cruel efficiency he had used against the insurgents inside Dunthiochagh only a few days ago. Then they were on the stairs and headed up, fast on their brethren’s heels.

  The pair passed more corpses, but so far, no alarm had been raised. Everything was quiet. It had been a long time since he had been inside the royal palace, but his memory of the place was good enough. After this set of stairs, behind a heavy steeloak door lay the great entrance hall. They had to cross the thirty yards or so to reach the main stairway that led to the second floor, which had long hallways leading east and west to the respective wings. Lerainh’s quarters were in the eastern wing, and Kildanor suspected the monstrous king was being held there.

  They stormed through the entrance hall. A dozen bloodied corpses lay on the floor, and four Chosen remained to cover their way back. From the look of it, Kildanor could tell some of the Chanastardhians had not gone down without a fight, and he wondered why no one had heard the struggle and acted upon it. His hand shot out to stop Galen, but the other must have thought the same thing and was standing still.

  Kildanor wanted to order the other four to easily defensible points, but saw that the quartet was already in position. “What the bloody Scales is going on?” he whispered his voice barely audible.

  He wasn’t sure if Galen had heard him, for the other was turning slowly to inspect all entryways. When he wanted to repeat his question, Galen held up his hand, motioning to remain silent. From the banquet hall to the west came the clash of weapons and the frantic cheers of several people. “Duel?” Galen asked quietly.

  Kildanor strained his hearing, concentrated on the din of voices and weapons. Someone was certainly taking a beating. He nodded his confirmation, and then continued up the stairs, motioning the rearguard to pay attention to the doors leading to the great hall.

  When they reached the second floor, they saw another set of dead guards, and another pair when they made their way toward the eastern wing. The two hurried down the corridor. Next to every other door stood one of their number, and when they reached the king’s quarters, a place Kildanor had guarded so many times in the last century, they found Orkeanas.

  The First of the Chosen of Lesganagh kneeled before the gilded door, deep in prayer. The pair slowed, and when they stood next to their leader, Orkeanas opened his eyes and looked up. A first, quick glance at Galen, then he took his time to inspect Kildanor.

  Kildanor had never seen the man so sad. He knew pride and devotion burned deep inside Orkeanas’s eyes, but now they were replaced by grief.

  “You were right, old friend,” the First finally said. “We should have listened to you. I was wrong. W
e should have made Duasonh king. We have to save what we can.” He looked at Galen, whispering, “Wise choice, Lord.”

  Fire returned to the leader’s eyes, but instead of the bright, flickering flame of purpose he had always associated with Orkeanas, he now saw sadness, guilt, and determination. Then, straightening his shoulders, the First stood and touched the door.

  His fingertips caressed the wood, and in a heartbeat, flames leapt up from the gate. There was no protest from the material, no popping, no tearing; the fire came and went far too quickly for that. No sooner had the searing begun than it was over, and the trio saw the bloated form of Lerainh, King of Danastaer, sitting on his bed, quilted covers held up to his mouth, gaping in horror at the slowly whirling ashes of his doors.

  Then, seeing the intruders were his Chosen, he leapt up and rushed toward them. It was then that Kildanor showed his face, gave Lerainh one of his grim smiles, and a mocking salute. “Your Highness,” he spat.

  “You’ve come to rescue me!” the king pleaded as he stepped back from the blistering heat of the door.

  “Lerainh, third King of Danastaer,” Orkeanas began, as he seemingly grew taller. Kildanor had seen this display of divine power before, but it surprised him how much disdain and loathing were in his leader’s voice and posture. “Lerainh, Lord Protector of the realm, first guardian of the Hold, you have been found wanting.” Kildanor thought this pomp wasted on the King, would have preferred to kill Lerainh and be done with it. He had never been a friend of ceremony, yet this was Orkeanas’s task, to judge the monarch and follow Lesganagh’s orders. “You have failed in your duties, Highness, and must be tried.”

  Lerainh whimpered, like so many children probably had when they had been called to the King’s chambers. When Kildanor thought of all the bodies that must have been carried out of these chambers by willing servants, week after week, his fury toward the ruler rose once again. Now, the King was on his knees, pleading for mercy, but Kildanor did not hear him, would not hear him, all he saw was a man who deserved worse than death. “Guilty,” he managed to growl, and had his sword almost out of its sheath before he felt Galen’s restraining hand on his.