Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  Kildanor turned left at a corner; just a few more steps and he had reached the chamber. He opened the first door on his left and knew the moment he caught sight of the room’s interior it was the wrong one. He had spent so much time not thinking about Harail and the palace that he had forgotten some of its features. The suite he was looking for had windows on two walls, north and west, this one’s were just to the west. Kildanor poked his head out onto the hallway and looked down both directions, still focused on the sounds of battle. The corridor was free of guards, at least for now, and he ran to the north, the way he had originally been going.

  The next two doors he dismissed, for there were at least another pair of doors, judging from the frame of one to the west, and a second entry facing north. He tried the first one.

  It opened into a small chamber, which was occupied by a young woman with flame-red hair. She wore chainmail and held a sword with both hands. “I don’t have time for this,” he muttered and pulled the door shut again with such a force that it splintered and cracked as it wedged into the frame. It had to be the other one; he wasted no time checking to see if the lock was in place and slammed his body into the portal. The wood gave way after creaking under the onslaught, then he was through. Halmond’s study was directly underneath.

  Kildanor paused, looked about the room, and found what he needed. On the east and south wall, a hideous tapestry still mutilated the plaster. It told the tale of the Demon War. Halmond had had it commissioned right after the costly victory, and when the piece had been finished the King had decided to let it grace the diplomat quarters.

  It was truly a particular piece of utter tastelessness, but had the length he needed. Sounds of guards were coming his way from the east, if his ears served him right, making the descent more hurried than planned. He grabbed the tapestry’s end near the door and pulled. The cloth felt heavy in his hands, and the nails holding the monster up offered enough resistance for his plan to work. He pulled away more of the wall hanging as he walked toward the window that should be directly above the one in the study. It would be a close call, the cloth might not be long enough, but the time was up. The sound of the sentries was closer, and the woman imprisoned in her own room was cutting her way through the door. It had to be now.

  Kildanor sprinted to the window, tapestry on his shoulder, eyes buried by his left arm. He jumped, felt the splintering glass shred his cloak and surcoat, cutting his face and scalp. Then, for a short moment, the cloth snapped taut and then gave way. The chill night air briefly caressed his bleeding face, before he slammed into the wall. The impact drove the air from his lungs. His boots scraped along the glass of the window below, and just as he began to wonder how he could get into the room, the tapestry ripped out more nails and his descent began again. Plaster rushed past him; he heard shouts from up above, his nose scraped against the upper stone of the window frame, and then his feet touched the sill.

  Despite the commotion upstairs, Kildanor heard the din of battle raging in the castle. He looked up and saw a woman looking down. The head withdrew and shouted something unintelligible into the room. As he kicked in the window, its lacquered wood splintering, he saw the guards upstairs heaving out a heavy cabinet. He let his body follow the thrust of his leg and tumbled into the room. A wooden cross that held some piece of armor slowed his fall, and all came crashing down onto the floor.

  “Bruised but still in the fight,” Kildanor muttered as he stood, groaning. “That’s what I call breaking and entering,” he chuckled. The moment of mirth passed, and the Chosen looked about the room.

  It was Halmond’s study; his guess had been correct. On the steeloak desk were several maps atop each other and next to them a low pile of weighed-down parchments. There was no time to sift through the letters. He grabbed everything and turned to face the door as it was thrust open.

  Two black clad women rushed in, swords drawn. Kildanor shoved paper into his tunic and unsheathed his blade. The light from the corridor illuminated enough of the room to reveal the limited space available. But the pair knew what they were doing. One moved to the left while her partner remained to block the doorway. By now there would be warriors coming down to join the black clad women, and possibly even some marshalling on the ground.

  From the sound of it the fight was still going strong, but as he assessed his options, he felt the first Chosen dying. In Dunthiochagh he wouldn’t have felt anything; distance was relevant to the bond. Here only a few score yards away, the loss of life, the release of Lesganagh’s Call, the searching soul, all was felt. It wasn’t a new sensation, far from it. During the Heir War the first Chosen had died, but they had been the first to die in line, and their Call, their spirit, hadn’t been so filled with knowledge and memories as the ones who came after them. Now, the death of one of his brethren felt like a shout uttered by a choir.

  Kildanor recovered his senses quickly enough to parry the advancing woman’s blow. He hadn’t felt the death of another Chosen in three decades, was not used to the death-wail anymore. From the sound of battle, he knew the others were unhindered by the pain of a Chosen’s death.

  He parried another slash, and another, and fell back, trying to think. There were two options, rejoin the others, or flee into the night. Neither was easy, but his chances were best if he stayed with his brethren. A lone fugitive in the streets would be caught much easier than a score of Chosen.

  The woman came at him again. This time he drove her blade to his left with a two-handed slash of his own. For a moment the warrior looked confused, gave him the chance of surveying the room. He stood near the scattered armor. He beamed a smile at the Chanastardhian, went to his knees, switched his sword into his left hand, and grabbed the breastplate with his right. His opponent was still on guard, eyes on him. The study’s table was between her, her companion, and the armor; he guessed neither had seen him take the plate. They probably suspected him to throw a knife, but he did not give them the anticipated attack.

  Instead, Kildanor pulled his right arm back, and then let the breastplate fly toward the face of the unsuspecting second woman. His throw was rewarded by an unhealthy crunch as steel bit deep into her face. The same moment the piece of armor cruashed into one woman, the Chosen jumped toward the other, his sword still in his left hand. His blade blocked the enemy’s slash, then his fist connected with her jaw.

  He was out of the study in a heartbeat and rushed toward the ongoing melee. Another Chosen fell, the Wail unbalancing him for a few steps; then he stumbled into the great hallway.

  The Chanastardhians had their backs to him. The stairs were littered with the dead and dying, and his fellow Chosen were slowly pressing forward. These were the warriors of Lesganagh, and as such they fought. Unyielding, merciless, like the sun itself. Galen and Orkeanas formed the center; he had to stand with them.

  Kildanor used his chance to wreak havoc among the defenders. In battle the only rule that mattered was winning. And if the wars and battles he had fought had taught him one thing, it was how to win. He slammed into the defenders, barreled one man to the ground as his sword lashed out left and right into the throats of two more. Before the enemy had time to react to this new threat, another man went down in a gurgle of blood. The sun didn’t care whom it burned, and neither did he.

  Galen saw the opening and shouted something to the Chosen standing to his left. They wheeled about, their swords driving the defenders back. Kildanor cut down three more and then closed the line.

  “We need to get out!” he panted.

  “Do tell,” Ultan, the Chosen next to him, replied as he thrust his blade into an enemy.

  Another Chanastardhian attacked. He parried, turned the blade to his left, and punched the woman in the face. Before he could finish her off, he had to bring his sword up to parry an overhead swing from a man coming from behind her. He blocked the two-handed sword, chanced a quick kick into his downed foe’s stomach, and then focused on the man wielding the greatsword.

  There was a commo
tion to his right, and he felt more than saw his brethren wheel about. He followed, retreating to the right, back to the stairwell; the Chanastardhians seized the advantage and pressed on. He stumbled across a corpse, regained his footing just long enough to deflect the greatsword again. Still their line retreated. A puddle of blood made him slip; his next parry was clumsier than the last, the Chanastardhian knew how to use the weapon and had the strength to deliver arm-numbing attacks. He chanced a quick glance over his shoulder.

  By now the line of Chosen had turned into a V, with Orkeanas as the center. The main door that led out of the palace was next to him, and now Kildanor knew and felt what was about to happen. Despite his opponent’s attacks he wept, parrying blow after blow with tears running down his cheeks.

  CHAPTER 39

  Callan Farlin fit Anne Cirrain’s assessment perfectly. The nobleman indeed resorted to betrayal at the first opportune moment. Urgraith Mireynh saw the man draw a dagger from his boot, and would have interfered immediately had he not caught a glimpse of the Cirrain woman’s apparent notice of Farlin’s action. So far, she had shown skill and intuition, and her change of posture assured him she was indeed prepared for the man’s hidden weapon. He would let the battle play itself out, for now. If House Farlin’s scion was as inept in the use of the dagger as he was with the maul, there was no real danger for Cirrain.

  As he watched the woman fight, Mireynh considered the missive he had received just before supper. The letter was still tucked into his tunic, and its contents disturbed him. Of all the nobles in his army Cirrain was the only one who behaved like a warrior. She knew how to handle weapons, without a doubt. Wielding a maul with skill was hard enough, and if this knowledge was any indicator there would be few weapons she was unfamiliar with. She had an eye for detail, as evidenced by her noticing the concealed dagger, and she had a cool, rational head on her shoulders. Had things been different he would have made her a warleader.

  Things had changed, though. House Cirrain had broken with Herascor and allied itself with the northmen. The High General had no idea why, but that hardly mattered. His orders were to keep House Cirrain’s warriors under close observation, use them in fatal missions, and keep any news and messengers away from them. Cirrain was to be kept from her men at all costs, and should the need arise, she was to be arrested and transported back to Herascor where she’d most likely be used as a hostage against House Cirrain’s rebellion.

  He scowled. There was nothing he could do. Should he disobey, his wife and children were doomed. There was no option; the High Advisor had been very clear on this. Obey or suffer the consequences.

  At first, the position of High General had been nothing more than that of any other leader. His duties were like the ones he had had before: see to the training and drill warleaders. Army stuff. He had been able to talk with King Drammoch, had enjoyed having the monarch’s confidence, but things had changed, and he still had no idea what had really happened. Not that he was or had been in any position to influence things. Now, it mattered little; the King had assured his obedience by taking his family hostage. Obey or suffer the consequences.

  It would be the same with House Cirrain.

  How the woman could fight! Now Farlin’s dagger clattered to the ground, his left hand shattered by a hammer blow. Now that his treachery had been revealed, protocol demanded that Callan of House Farlin die.

  “Finish it,” Mireynh said. He saw several nobles get up and leave the Great Hall, most likely friends or supporters of the foolish man who was about to meet the gods and be judged by Lliania’s Scales.

  Although his attention was still on the battle, he glanced at those who were leaving and tried to commit their faces to memory. With so many Houses, he had a hard time remembering all of them. So many details. Which House was of importance, which wasn’t, who was allied with whom and why. A dozen other things he had to pay attention to when assigning duties and warbands.

  Back in his mercenary days, things had been so much easier. Feuds had always been short-lived, usually ending with a brawl or the head of one aggressor mounted on a pike as an example to others not overstep their bounds. With all these nobles’ alliances, it was difficult even to get the army mustered without having fights break out between two rivals. How Drammoch kept the peace, Mireynh did not want to consider.

  Cirrain was about to finish off her opponent when the door the nobles had left through was flung open again. One of them, Duncan of House Argram, rushed back in, sword in hand. Mireynh rose and was about to shout a challenge to the nobleman when he saw a battle was being fought in the hall and stairway beyond.

  “The castle’s under attack!” Duncan Argram shouted, then turned around and rushed back into the melee.

  “To arms!” Mireynh barked as he rose. His right hand wandered to his belt only to discover that he had not brought his sword.

  All about the Great Hall nobles and squires jumped up, drew their blades, and made for the hallway. Some hurried, the High General noted, others dawdled. He saw Anneijhan Cirrain halt her final assault on Callan Farlin and rush in the opposite direction. His first impulse was to send his watchdogs after her, but he knew they would not leave his side. Then the woman turned to face him, gave him a brief nod, and rushed on through the servant’s entrance. She was running to get reinforcements, Mireynh realized.

  He walked over to the injured scion of House Farlin. “You should be dead, boy.” The noble looked up at him, dread in the young man’s eyes. “Prove yourself now and you may live, be a coward and I’ll let Cirrain finish you.” The aristocrat nodded his head and stood.

  With his injuries the man would not be able to fight, one shoulder and one hand shattered, so the best he could do was to direct part of the defense, and Mireynh saw understanding in Farlin’s eyes as the noble moved toward the fight.

  “Damn those cowards,” the High General grumbled and picked up the discarded maul. The weapon felt good in his hands; he could smash a foe to pieces with it, provided his back played along. For a moment he considered joining the melee, but dismissed the idea. As much as he hated admitting it, he was too old for this. There were younger, more enthusiastic people fighting and dying in the hallway. What they lacked in experience they made up in numbers, but whoever had infiltrated the castle was good. Mireynh looked at his two guards, pointed toward one of the tables, and was surprised when the two men turned to fetch it. A few moments later the pair had put the table into position.

  From his heightened vantage, the High General could observe the chaos unfolding before him. Already he could tell many Houses would mourn the death of their children. Despite inferior numbers, the enemy held his warriors at bay. The nobles were armed, but few of them were in armor, whereas their opponents were ready for battle. In the mass of flailing weapons and bodies, he could make out the Danastaerian royal colors on a few of the blood-splattered surcoats. But there was something wrong with the symbols; it seemed as if part of the seal had been torn off.

  Another two men rushed down the stairs to join the fray, and he recognized one of them. The Chosen were attacking the palace! One of them was a match for a dozen warriors, and without their armor his nobles hardly stood a chance.

  “Hold them!” he shouted. “Don't attack!”

  For a score of nobles, it was already too late, but those who lived seemed made of sterner stuff. They had already formed a vague line, but at his order the last of them joined the group. One of the few who wore armor was Duncan Argram. Mireynh saw blood on the man’s tunic as well, but from the way the nobleman moved he guessed that none of it was his. Also, unlike his peers, Argram wielded a massive greatsword and knew how to use it. The blade was red with blood. If the man made it through the night, the High General would keep an eye on him. Apparently Cirrain was not the only one with experience, and House Argram was loyal to the throne.

  The door behind him was thrown open. A quick glance confirmed Cirrain had returned. A steady patter of marching feet filled the hall, but his
attention had already returned to the skirmish in the hallway. Two score of warriors passed his table and assembled in front of him.

  “Wait for it,” he heard Cirrain shout. Another forty warriors joined those already standing between him and the door. He saw the noblewoman walk past the troops toward the tattered line of men and women holding the Chosen at bay. She reached the rearmost rank, leaned over to a taller man, and spoke with him. The man nodded and she walked back to the warriors. Mireynh saw the noble pass whatever message Cirrain had given him along the lines.

  A few moments passed. Duncan Argram cast a look of grudging respect toward Anne Cirrain, nodded his head briefly, and then held his sword up in high guard. “Now!” he screamed.

  As one the warriors charged while the assembled nobles closed ranks, stepping away from the door to allow the armored men and women into the breach. Mireynh couldn’t help but admire the woman who stood behind the warriors and directed them. There was something about her that spoke of unyielding determination and authority. If her father was like that, no wonder Drammoch feared the man.

  Not only did she direct the advance, she also found time to pull nobles back into the safety behind the armored line. Callan Farlin was next to her, directing the wounded to the healers assembled in the room.

  The High General saw more guards pouring into the killing field from the west. He saw Duncan Argram cleave a Chosen in two, advance again, and engage another one. Judging from where he was standing, Lerainh’s bodyguard could not last much longer. Still, the price his troops paid for every yard they gained on the Chosen was steep. Already he saw the lines thinning, but reinforcements streamed into the Great Hall.