by Ulff Lehmann
At that Duasonh laughed heartily. “Damnation, I think you’re right.”
“That Wizardess is a fine-looking woman,” he mocked.
The Baron grinned, slapped the Chosen’s hand off his shoulder and left, muttering, “You take care in this spiritworld, let me worry about the womenfolk. There’s a merchant or ten who’d dearly love to see their daughters share my bed.”
“Not to mention your wealth,” Kildanor called after him.
He turned back to the others, determined to finish the business at hand quickly. “Ladies, shall we?” He hated to rely on the Wizardess, but it seemed the only way. Maybe Cumaill and Gail were right in that he was too prejudiced.
Didn’t you forget something?
The dog! He almost had. “Just a moment,” he said to the others and hurried down the corridor to the guardroom. The key ring was right next to the heavy door barring entrance to the dungeon. He grabbed it and returned to Ralgon’s cell. Finding the right key was more difficult than retrieving the thing. Kildanor tried one then another, and finally he found the correct one. The door creaked open and the dog slipped in.
Don’t worry. I’ll do my part.
“Very well,” he said, locking the door and returning to the others. “Now,” he took a deep breath. “Let’s begin.”
Entering the spiritworld this time was easier. Now that they knew at least in part what to do, their spiritform floated in the corridor with only a few instructions from Ealisaid. The sorceress took hold of their arms and they glided toward Ralgon’s cell. Kildanor grew more accustomed to this world of mists and shadows, and now the dual-presence of Drangar Ralgon felt truly out of place. When this ordeal was over he decided to ask Ealisaid about it. For now, however, he had other things to worry about.
They reached the body. Kildanor saw the spear claimed more space now; it wasn’t a mere needle in width anymore. Ralgon’s chest was pierced by a solid finger’s breadth of gold. Even though he couldn’t hear Gail singing, he felt the Caretaker had begun the Hymn to Sun and Health. He was grateful for the first section being dedicated to Eanaigh. This way he could gather his thoughts and bring to mind the melody and words of the song.
His mind drifted to the last time he had sung the Hymn, to the last harvest Lesganagh’s and Eanaigh’s church had celebrated together. Despite the misgivings already coursing through the Hearthwarden’s church, the Hymn had brought upon all participants a warmth that none had felt since.
With the memory bright in his mind and heart he heard Gail’s song as if he was standing next to her. The words burned their way into his being, and then the moment, the brief unison, the mere two words “bright world” sung together, came. He joined in and took the words on from there. Or was it the words taking him along the way? Kildanor wasn’t sure, but it felt as if the Hymn had taken over; a vibrancy, light, and life filled him. Gail joined him with the final two words of his verse, and then both sang together. Strength, warmth, life, growth, death, and rebirth filled his soul, and judging from her expression also the Caretaker’s.
The crescendo, the final entwining of words, spirit, and notes came, and Kildanor knew what to do. Holding the final note, as Gail did, he reached out and pulled the spear from Drangar Ralgon’s chest.
CHAPTER 47
One moment Drangar saw the feline beasts stretched in their bloody baths; he didn’t know why he was seeing such things, such demons. Fear, anger, sickness, all these coursed through him, and still he could not look away. He wanted to die, the pain in his chest was immense, and again and again he screamed at the monsters.
The next moment both pain and visions were gone. Air ran unhindered into his chest, no pain, no fear to stab him. The bleak, shadowy surroundings slid away and he slammed into… something. Now that he was the monsters’ prisoner no more he could shut his eyes again. For a moment Drangar merely enjoyed the blackness that came when his lids closed. He felt a hand caress his cheek and opened his eyes. Looking down at him was Dog, her paw on his face.
He was in a cell. It stank of feces and urine, but that rank stench was like summer flowers to him, compared to the place he had seen. Dog touched his face again, and in a heart beat he felt himself being dragged into the air, through the cell, another cell, a wall, and through solid earth. A glowing hand traced his shoulder and he turned to look at a luminous woman. Her face, framed by long blonde curls, was calm as death, but the love emanating from her told him she was very much alive. Her smile warmed his heart and he felt at ease, trusting her immediately.
“Come,” she whispered and took his hand into hers as they glided southward, leaving the courtyard behind. “There’s something you need to know. Something that can't wait.”
“Where are we going?” He looked down at the city as it changed before his eyes. People walked backward, the sun set in the east only to rise in the west, and the slower their journey across the city, the faster people and sun and moon moved. Autumn turned to summer to spring to winter to autumn. Twice he saw snow cover the trees to be replaced by bright red and brown leaves turning into fresh green to little buds. They were going back in time. Two years into the past, into his past. Why would this woman show him his past, his terrible deed to the one person he loved?
“You must see the truth, boy,” the woman said. “You must know the past before you can let it rest.”
When they arrived over Dunthiochagh’s merchant quarter it was summer. Birds sang mirthful tunes, awakening the depressed minds of many a poet that inhabited it. The buildings that dominated Dunthiochagh as they leaned into each other, that cast such a bleak pallor across streets and alleyways, seemed lighter, taller. Despite the gloom that lasted six months and was the city’s foremost feature, flowers shone skyward, their colors easily discernible from the gray background of shingled houses, from the roads of paved stone and mud hardened by boots that trod them day in and day out. Seen from above it was spectacular. Foreigners reported how marvelous Dunthiochagh was, how splendid.
To Drangar it was a nightmare come true.
Groaning, he looked at the ghostly woman. “Why here? Haven’t I suffered enough?”
Without replying, the luminous being moved on, continuing their way, but now time didn’t change as they drifted across the bustling town.
Children’s voices wafted up as Drangar gazed down at the city that he and Hesmera had made their home before that fateful summer day. He recalled several places; naturally the memory sprang to his mind. It was pain intermingled with pleasure that now invaded his soul. Drangar recalled the friends he had made in the city watch, and apart from the decent pay it was the wonderful nature of those he had worked with that had prompted him to call Dunthiochagh home. The first home he had had since leaving the Eye. He saw the building that housed the watch of the merchant quarter, the building he had been assigned to. It was noon, the midday gong rang across the city, and he heard merry laughter welling up from the house.
Noontime. How he had enjoyed spending that time of day with his comrades. Glaithan, the ever sarcastic but gentle swordsman, whose mouth was as mean as a mallet and whose heart as big as the ocean, always willing to shock people with his rudeness before holding them so they could release their grief. Rob, the stern and serious man from Harail who had come to Dunthiochagh to begin a better life; he always claimed to be a former guardsman of Danastaer’s king and the anecdotes he told when he was drunk credited his stories. There were more. Drangar had forgotten their names, but the memory was vivid and as they descended toward the house, he heard his booming laughter.
“What?” he looked at the woman again.
“Just watch, listen, and learn,” her gentle voice pierced his confusion. “You will see the past as it really was.”
They drifted closer, until they floated well within the house and observed the events unfolding within. It was the first time that Drangar actually saw himself. Not a reflection but a living and breathing human being who had no idea that tragedy was going to strike.
; Drangar slammed his hands onto the table, laughter welling up his throat again. “And then, you’re not gonna believe this, and then the merchant said, while his wife was watching him from a safe distance,” he grinned at the assembled watchmen, “and I swear to Lesganagh this is true, he was buck-naked and this woman was right beside him… he said he was investigating a rather serious matter of his trade-partner’s swindling. At this moment his wife sped out from her hiding place and screamed at him, wondering aloud who was swindling who?”
“Well, maybe the woman was his trade-partner,” Rob suggested, causing the men and women to laugh even harder.
“And what happened then?” Jasseira, a woman whose life had taken almost the same path as Drangar’s, asked with a chuckle.
“Drangar gave her his dagger and said that he could not kill him or mutilate him, otherwise he’d be locked up,” Glaithan answered. “And the woman thought he had given her permission to unman her husband. She jumped straight for him and only Drang’s arm prevented her from doing the obvious.”
The ghostly Drangar heard his nickname, and smiled despite the circumstances. He looked at his younger self and saw his eyes gleaming with pride and mirth. “Well, we helped that good woman getting rid of her cheating husband legally, why watch her dismember him?”
That comment caused his companions to roar and applaud, and the mercenary turned guardsman stood up and did a very passable imitation of an actor’s bow. “My duty for today is over, ladies and gentlemen, and now I will head back to my lovely wife-to-be and take away all daggers.” He winked at them. “Just in case…”
He chuckled and left the building, whistling a merry tune as he walked down sunny Trann Street. Despite its rough exterior, Dunthiochagh was a peaceful place and the mercenary enjoyed it more than he would ever admit. West onto Trade Road and then north across Old Bridge. Unbeknownst to him a pair of ghostly observers and two not so spiritual beings followed him closely.
Drangar looked at his guide. “Who are those two shady folk that trail him… uh, me?” Seeing things from above made observations easier and he had discovered the pair almost immediately. Their clothing was common for Dunthiochagh where every citizen dressed according to the rules he set for himself, until a certain point of decency was reached; beyond that only the brothels were terrain where one could get away with less.
It was their demeanor that set them apart, haughty yet cautious the two men followed Drangar, every few paces they exchanged glances and watched their surroundings. Now and then they examined one of the booths lining the bridge, but the happy watchman didn’t pay attention to what was going on behind his back.
A couple of children dashed out of a dock street and slammed into Drangar, who stumbled and went down, a surprised six-year-old girl gaping at him as he tried to regain the wooden sword that had found its way to the ground. Her companions regained their senses a little quicker and taunted the child as the lass stood up and reached out for her sword. Drangar wiped the dirt off his clothes and eyed the would-be warriors with a gleam in his eyes. “Attention!” he yelled.
The surprised children jumped back, staring at him. “He must have been a warrior,” muttered one of them.
Any comment on that remark was silenced by Drangar’s vicious glare. “Did I permit you rabble to speak freely?” he asked winking at the youngsters and they understood. In the shadow of the Palace’s battlement he began to play a role he had known for almost half his life.
One after the other the children assumed an erect standing position and one of them yelled. “Warband assembled and arranged, warleader-lord sir!”
Even the observing Drangar grinned hearing the boy yelling nonsense at his ”superior”.
Trying to hide his mirth, Drangar looked his warriors up and down and then yelled in his best warleader’s voice, “Turn left!” which some of the kids immediately did while others had trouble finding out which side left was and it took a couple of shoves and pokes by their fellow ”warriors” to actually get all children in line. By that time, Drangar couldn’t hold back his laughter.
“Listen up, lasses, lads!” he yelled, and the equally amused children looked at him. “If you want to be warriors you have to know where left and right is. A good warrior always pays attention to his surroundings and is careful not to bump into anything or anyone. A good warrior has discipline! Got that?”
“Yes, warleader-lord sir!” the enthused children cried in unison, still standing in a somewhat straight line. By now the act had caught the attention of several passersby and the warriors on the battlement. Some people halted and observed him and his ”troop”, while the guards hollered down good-natured advice.
Again, both Drangars grinned. “Good, now head home and learn about directions and how to be disciplined. Dinner is waiting for you. Dismissed!” The ghostly Drangar was mouthing the same words as his corporeal counterpart. Their faces now stern and serious, the children attempted to become disciplined warriors for about twenty heartbeats, then the stumbling of one caused the line to break and the good-natured yelling, screaming, and shoving continued.
“So much for discipline!” a guardswoman shouted. The younger Drangar turned around, gave the warriors a merry wave and continued his way back home, the two pairs of observers following shortly afterwards.
“Have you noticed the two following you?” the woman asked Drangar as his younger counterpart walked into Beggar’s Alley, politely greeting people he recognized.
“I have,” he answered, frowning. “What about them?”
“You’ll see,” the woman answered like an oracle, and Drangar knew complaining wouldn’t help.
The watchman made his way through Beggar’s Alley, drinking in the vibrant activity of the place as many others would have enjoyed a rare wine or dish, but Drangar had never known such peace before. Rigorous schooling and learning had marked his childhood and when he had been old enough, he had carved himself a position in a world that was still torn asunder by war. He looked at two women in front of a goldsmith’s shop who eyed him curiously, and then blushed as he bowed to them, the imitation of a courtier. Hesmera was used to his antics, and even though it bothered her that many women adored her handsome man, she knew well that he did everything for her. She was sure of his love, as he was of hers.
As he passed the Drunken Unicorn, a tavern that hosted bards from across the world, or so its proprietor claimed, he wondered how the owner could have chosen such a silly name for his business. Then again, the name was far better than others he had seen during his travels. The Drunken Unicorn was a far better name than The Thoughtful Wolf or The Drowned Mermaid, but where did people get ideas for such names? He shrugged and continued on his way, a broad grin on his face. Even little things amused him nowadays.
Finally, after turning into a quiet street that was just off Old Wall Street, the constant mutter and tumult that had accompanied grew silent, and even though he somewhat missed the liveliness around him, he enjoyed both the growing calm and the closeness to home.
Home, the word rang well in his heart, and he truly felt it. This was his home, Hesmera’s and his home. It was not the temple-like fortress he had grown up in, a fact he was grateful for.
As the younger Drangar walked up to his house, his older self and the ghostly apparition remained aloof, staying atop a house that formed the corner of Old Wall’s and Cherkont Street, watching as the guardsman approached the door.
“Aren’t we going to follow him… me?” the older Drangar asked, looking at his companion.
“No, we will wait here and then take a different path. You have to see the truth,” the ghost said.
Shortly afterward, the two spies reached the corner and stopped, observing the guardsman as he was greeted by his beautiful lover. They watched as they embraced each other, the woman’s voice ringing with laughter that could be heard all the way up to their position.
Drangar sighed, wished he could still hear that laughter, wished he could still feel Hesmera’s arm
s wrapped around him.
“The past is the past, let it rest, dear,” the ghostly figure said, sadness plain on her face.
Hearing the familiar words, Drangar tore himself away from the scene and he stared at his guide. “Who are you?”
“Nothing but a memory,” she muttered. “But I can’t rest, yet.” She pointed at the two men below, “Listen closely.”
The shepherd turned his attention to the pair that lurked behind a barrel, placed at the corner to gather rainwater from the house’s shingled roof.
“Here the bastard lives,” exclaimed the smaller of the two men, his voice dripping with disgust and contempt as he observed his apparent target.
“And he has the woman with him, too,” the other supplied.
“Now is our chance.” The first speaker’s right hand wandered to the hilt of the dagger he wore at his belt.
“Patience!” the other hissed, placing a calming hand on his companion’s. “That’s not what I have in mind.”
“Oh, and what do you have in mind?”
“We shall break him; make him lose his will to fight! Then, we shall do the deed!”
Drangar frowned. Make him lose his will to fight? Bastard? Who were those men and what had he done to them?
“We’ll meet the others,” the second said. “Let’s go!”
Both of them turned and meandered through the throng of people that still crowded the streets; the two spirits followed them slowly.
More than once Drangar turned to look longingly at the street where they used to live. “Gods, I still love her,” he whispered.
“The past is what it is. Learn from it.”
CHAPTER 48
A while later the two men reached a hut huddled against the western city wall. This was the rough part of town, he remembered. The watch rarely came here. Killings were commonplace, and gangs that controlled the various parts of the slum meted out justice. The building barely deserved the name hut, even for a place like the West Gate slums it seemed almost too decrepit, a perfect hiding place. Signaling a beggar who loitered in the shade of a nearby tree, the pair made for the door.