Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Certainly,” the Caretaker said.

  Both Ealisaid and the priestess turned to look at Kildanor. The Chosen seemed hesitant. “I’m not sure,” he finally said.

  “What do you mean, you’re not sure?” Caslin asked.

  “You heard me,” Kildanor snapped.

  “There is more to this than you are letting on, man.”

  “If meditating is like prayer, then I know it.”

  “It’s close enough,” Ealisaid said. If Kildanor didn’t want to reveal what troubled him, it certainly wasn’t her business to find out.

  “Sit down.” The two obeyed. “When you pray, I assume you close your eyes, am I correct?” Their response was an affirmative. “Well, then close your eyes.” She thought how to explain the next part of what she wanted them to do. “Breathe deeply, in and out. Focus on my voice and your breathing, nothing else.” For her the process was, by now, second nature. She had traveled the Palace in spiritform several times and knew what she was doing. “Picture in your mind the corridor. Yourself. And yourself looking down on you.” She thrust into the spiritworld briefly, like she had done in the chapel, and looked around; she was alone in the hallway. Her conscience slipped back into her body. “Think of nothing but the corridor, and looking down on you.” Again, her body slipped away.

  This time she saw a flicker. No, two flickers where Kildanor and the Caretaker should be. Ealisaid tried to touch the two shadows. She felt her hands brush against their flecks of spiritform, grabbed, and pulled. Both stood before her, confused and disoriented. She maintained her hold on them and drifted to Drangar Ralgon’s cell.

  This was the most uncomfortable Kildanor had ever been. The sorceress had said to look down at himself and he did. Or rather he tried to. He felt as if dreaming, drifting from wakefulness to sleep, in the heartbeat moment before one lost conscience to restful slumber. Part of him wanted to sleep. If this was the spiritworld, ghosts had to be sleepy all the time. Still, he couldn’t really see his body sitting on the floor. He couldn’t even see the floor, or anything other than murky twilight. Someone grabbed his hand and yanked. From one moment to the next he floated in the corridor.

  He saw Gail; the priestess’s face a mask of mild confusion. Holding them both was the Wizardess. Instinctively he tried to take a deep breath, but there was nothing. Ghosts didn’t need air, and in all likelihood neither did he.

  Kildanor looked around. Below him he saw his body, slumped alongside Caslin’s against the cell door. It seemed real, and yet everything around him, even the others, felt as if there was no true weight behind them. Almost like mist, or smoke. Nothing he did here would have any impact on the world; he couldn’t even speak. There was no sound, no substance, only light, smoke, and darkness. The spiritworld was a dream, a nightmare, a reflection in which nothing was real.

  Yet how was he able to feel the witch’s touch? Her grip on his arm was strong. Now she pulled them along, through the cell walls, into Ralgon’s room. She halted their flight before the man’s body, and what he saw turned his initial understanding about the spiritworld upside down.

  Ralgon sat in his cell, above him floated his… what? This was no spiritform. Kildanor looked from Gail to Ealisaid; both of them were the shape they had in life, but, like everything, they were translucent. Ralgon was as solid here as he was outside the spiritworld.

  The Chosen scrutinized the body floating spread-eagled before him. It looked almost as if… as if he was crucified. His arms were tense, as if struggling against some bonds. The legs seemed coiled, ready to jump. Occasionally his chest heaved, his muscles twitched and his back arched as if in terrible pain. Kildanor looked to Ealisaid and nodded and pointed toward Ralgon’s form. The Wizardess understood, and the three glided forward.

  Now, as they floated closer to this solidity amidst a world of smoke, Kildanor saw something odd. Had he not been in the spiritworld he would have thought it a trick of the light, but here that was impossible. A thin line protruded from Ralgon’s chest, right above the heart. He leaned closer and saw the line was smooth, like a wire, its length not merely a few feet; it appeared to reach into the mist-like ceiling and beyond. Following a sudden insight, Kildanor reached out and touched the wire.

  CHAPTER 45

  Eighteenth of Chill, 1475 K.C.

  His eyes fluttered open and he saw Cumaill Duasonh standing next to his bed. Not even during Jathain’s treacherous attack had Kildanor seen his friend look so concerned. He wanted to speak, but before the first word formed on his lips a memory flashed through his mind.

  He saw rivers overflowing with blood. In them beings of unspeakable grace lounged. Their heads, the only part of their bodies completely visible above the surface, bore the hard curves and features only seen on cats.

  Unable to turn away, he looked on, his position rising. He saw that the rivers weren’t natural, but built channels and holes, similar to a bathing house. And above the blood-covered felines, mighty energies were woven into a blinding tapestry.

  Unseen hands guided his sight toward the higher levels of the blood-bathing house. There, beyond countless elevations, bodies hung from the ceiling, their wrists and throats slit, their blood first gushing, then slowly dribbling into basins, which in turn fed the pools through blood-channels.

  “Demons!” Kildanor whispered. He remembered the gruesome rituals the Demonologists went through during the Demon War, but never before had he seen the beings that had taken possession of so many and killed even more.

  He blinked and the vision was gone. Instead he saw Duasonh frowning at him.

  “What happened?” the Chosen asked, his voice raspy.

  “Caretaker Gail called me. It seems that during your little excursion you did something rather foolish.”

  “I… I touched something… a straight wire… out of Ralgon’s body,” Kildanor whispered.

  “The Wizardess Ealisaid said something like that. She also said your spiritform began to fade. Then she thrust all of you back into your bodies. Caslin summoned the guards and brought you here. Then she called me.” Duasonh scratched his chin. “What the bloody Scales were you thinking?”

  “I… I… it felt the right thing to do,” he replied. “How long was I out?”

  Duasonh shrugged. “It’s past sunrise now.”

  “An entire night? That long?”

  “Caslin said you’d be out for much longer,” said Cumaill.

  “What of…”

  “Ralgon?” Duasonh shook his head. “Same as before.”

  “I need to…” What? He wasn’t sure what needed to be done, but he knew speed was important.

  “What?”

  His head ached, but he had to get up, had to get to the Wizardess, had to sever the spear. Kildanor didn’t know how he knew the line was a spear, he just knew. “I need to get back to the dungeon!”

  “What?” Duasonh barked. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You heard me, old man,” snapped Kildanor.

  “Whatever for? You look like shit, mate.”

  Kildanor smirked at his friend, “I still look younger than you.” His humor faded quickly when the headache reminded him of his ordeal, and for a moment he was lost for words. How could he explain what had happened when he himself wasn’t certain?

  “I wouldn’t be so sure right now,” Duasonh replied.

  “I have no time to explain, I need to do something, now!” he said and righted himself. His head felt as if some giant had mistaken it for an anvil. For a moment he felt consciousness slipping, but he pushed the pain aside. “Get the Caretaker, will you, Cumaill?”

  Duasonh nodded. “Certainly.”

  When the Baron had left, Kildanor forced himself to focus on what lay ahead. How he would sever the spear he didn’t know, but there was no doubt in his mind that the demonic link to the world had to be cut. Slowly he rose from his bed. There was a moment when he felt faint. He took a deep breath, gathered his resolve, pushed away the dizziness once again, and straightened hi
s legs and back.

  For a moment the room spun around him. Kildanor closed his eyes. He would not give any ground to the demons!

  His eyes flicked open again, and although he could now see unhindered by loss of balance, a small sense of vertigo remained. The door opened and Gail strode in. “What the Scales do you think you’re doing?” the priestess asked. “You are in no condition to strut about. Get back to bed!”

  “I need to clear my head,” he replied.

  “Sleep some more.”

  “There’s no time, Caretaker,” he hissed. “The connection between the demons and Ralgon is getting stronger. We must save him!”

  Duasonh entered and stood next to Caslin. “You can barely stand, mate. How do you want to fight this thing?”

  “I don’t intend to fight it, Cumaill.”

  Priestess and nobleman looked at each other and then at him. After a moment Gail said, “You need rest.”

  Kildanor breathed deeply and took a shaky step toward them. “This is why everyone was afraid of the Church of Lesganagh. It chose to do something while every other faith sat on their asses and discussed what needed to be done against the demons! If there’s no time to contemplate, you act! We need to get in there and cut this link.”

  He didn’t care whether the others were offended by his words; there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Being diplomatic was for diplomats, not Chosen. “Gail,” he continued before either one could speak, “you have your goddess’s favor?” The priestess nodded. “Then give me something to clear my head!”

  “You need to lie down.”

  “Fuck that! I’ve seen what Caretakers can do with herbs!”

  “Are you sure this is the right way?” Duasonh asked.

  “Damned if I know. You’ll never know until you do it; all the preparation is worthless if your enemy does something unexpected. Then you adapt.”

  “This is no war!” Duasonh snapped.

  “Wrong!” he replied. “Those men in the Shadowpeaks wanted to use Ralgon as a sacrifice to the demons. They failed. But only in part. There is a link between the demon realm and this poor sod in the dungeon. I don’t know if Drangar Ralgon is blessed by anyone, but he is important to the Demonologists. Neither of you were alive when Danachamain let the fiends loose on the world. I was, and I will do whatever is necessary to prevent their return.”

  The Caretaker thrust a mug into his hand. “Drink this.

  He obeyed, gulping down the concoction of water and leaves. “And now?”

  “We wait.”

  Whatever Gail had given him, it worked. Kildanor felt better, and before Cumaill could argue with him, he strode out of his room and headed for the dungeon.

  CHAPTER 46

  Where was the bloody dog? It was already past noon, the witch was waiting, and still Kildanor hadn’t found Ralgon’s mutt. Some people recalled seeing the beast somewhere: the inner bailey, the outer bailey, the pantry of all places. It seemed as if the animal had vanished. A cook told him of sausages he had left for the dog, just yesterday in fact. Where? Outside the kitchen. That really wasn’t much help, and time was slipping away.

  A stable boy finally yielded the answer. “The mutt’s with that white horse you brought in about a week ago or so, sir.”

  He had no idea why Ealisaid wanted the beast with Ralgon, could hardly believe his ears when she insisted, but her seriousness convinced him. Upon entering the stables, he saw the massive white charger in a nearby box munching oats. He walked toward the animal and it perked up its ears. The horse turned its head to face him and whinnied in greeting. “A little late for a snack, don’t you think?” he said. The reply was a snort that blew dust into the air.

  “Now where is your little friend?” He looked up and down along the lines of boxes, but aside from two cats he saw nothing. A nibble on his shirt brought his attention back to the stallion. The horse looked at him and then nodded to the back of its own box.

  Kildanor was surprised; he knew smart horses, but this one put them all to shame. In the box’s corner sat the mutt. He opened the door, squatted on the floor and motioned for the dog to come to him. “Here boy! Come here! Damn this, I should’ve brought some sausages.”

  I’m a girl.

  His mutterings stopped, and more or less surprised, he looked at the canine. This was the same voice as before, the same voice he had heard back when the dog had led the horse after him. Now the nonsense Ealisaid had been talking about didn’t seem so silly after all: a woman’s image overlaying the dog when Drangar Ralgon was thrashing on the bier. “What are you?” he asked.

  Almost out of time, I fear.

  “We need to…”

  I know, take me to him.

  He shook his head, laughed in confusion, and then led the way through the inner bailey to the keep and into the dungeon. Several servants and warriors ogled the two of them, but Kildanor was in no mood to reprimand them. The mismatched pair went through the lighter outer door into the guardroom and then through the heavy steeloak door into the corridor, from which the individual cells branched off left and right. The dog followed willingly, and kept his quick pace, despite her rather underfed looks. They reached a group comprised of three people: Cumaill Duasonh, Caretaker Gail, and the Phoenix Wizardess Ealisaid.

  The Baron looked at the mutt and his frown deepened. “What the bloody Scales do you think you are doing?”

  “Saving a soul, mate,” Kildanor replied.

  “With a dog?”

  “Aye, now shut up!” The Chosen knew addressing Duasonh this way was wrong, but at the moment he didn’t care. He was tired beyond belief, and the dull headache was returning, a reminder of the nightmarish vision. “Sorry,” he muttered, then turned to the other two. “I can’t explain how I’ll get that spear out. Damn, I don’t know for sure.”

  “Why the dog?” Duasonh cut in.

  “Because she needs to be here.”

  “Why exactly is that?” the Baron persisted, looking at the Wizardess.

  “Ask him,” she replied

  He turned to his friend and sighed. “You remember how she,” he pointed at the sorceress, “told you the dog’s presence somehow calmed the turmoil around Ralgon?”

  “Think I’m a dimwit?” Duasonh snapped. “Of course I do.”

  “No, I don’t!” he grumbled. “But she also told of the image of a woman overlapping the dog in the spiritworld, aye?”

  “Yes,” Duasonh asked.

  “Magician’s babble if you ask me. But still…”

  “She told you what she saw, and you believed her enough to go and check on him in the spiritworld, eh? So now you revise your attitude? How political of you!”

  Kildanor wanted to reply, but Duasonh went on, ignoring him. “If my grandfather had that much lack of faith and understanding in magic I’d be lording over a pile of rubble! Do you think blood, bone, and mortar held the city together? No! Magic was used to fight magic; I want to use our lady wizard here to blast the Chanastardhians straight to the Bailey Majestic, but this dog?”

  “The mutt is important, Cumaill. She told me.”

  “Who told you?” Duasonh glanced at Ealisaid, who in turn merely shrugged her shoulders, a confused look on her face.

  “The dog.”

  Duasonh guffawed.

  “Trust me. Now let me explain what I want to do, if you please.” Kildanor was tired and annoyed.

  “Go ahead,” Gail said, casting a reproachful glance at the Baron.

  “We go in again, into the spiritworld,” he began, his voice crisp, businesslike. “Once we are with Ralgon…” all of a sudden his vague idea formed into a full-fledged plan. “Once we’re with Ralgon, Gail will pray to the Mother and I to the Father. Wizardess, your duty is simple, keep us in the spiritworld.” He paused to see if the two understood.

  “Which prayer?” Caslin asked.

  “You know the Hymn to Sun and Health?” This song had been forbidden for the past decades. It was a duet praising both Lesganagh and
Eanaigh; naturally it had been banned alongside Lesganagh’s priests and faith.

  Caslin nodded.

  “We’re going to sing that little ditty.”

  A frown creased the priestess’s face. “Little ditty? Do you have any idea how long your little ditty is?”

  “I see you do know it,” he grinned. “Well, I have no idea what the dog will do, but it’ll be important, I’m certain.”

  “When should I pull us back?” the witch asked.

  “When the spear is out of the body, you’ll know.”

  “You are bloody insane,” Duasonh muttered.

  “Thanks for noticing.” The Chosen bowed mockingly. Then, serious again, he said, “Cumaill, I know this is damned odd, but everything about him is. Yes, he most likely is the murderer of this Hesmera, but it seems Lesganagh has a higher purpose in mind for him. How else could you explain him being slaughtered and almost sacrificed to the very demons that now have pierced his heart and are filling his mind with madness?”

  Duasonh gave him a look that showed he had convinced him. When the Baron was just a lad he had looked at Kildanor the same way whenever the Chosen had not only won an argument but also made the other see and understand the reasoning behind said argument.

  Then he had another thought. Cumaill Duasonh was worried. The Baron hid the feeling well, but how else could his behavior be explained? He had refused to become emotionally attached to anyone, had cut himself off from the other Chosen to prevent the pain of loss he still felt over Ethain and Ganaedor. Cumaill was his friend, but he had never thought strong Baron Duasonh relied on him so much.

  Kildanor pulled his friend to the side and whispered, “Don’t worry, mate, I know what I’m doing.”

  “In all my life you have been the one constant,” the Baron replied. “Teacher and friend, that’s what you have been and still are,” he continued.

  “I’ll always be your friend, until Lesganagh calls.” He gave Cumaill’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “You need a wife.”