by Ulff Lehmann
Drangar groaned. The past would always come to haunt him, it seemed. “I guess you know my name?” he said.
“Aye. What is this dark place you were talking about?”
He brushed his hair back and tucked strands behind his ears. “I could use a bath.” How could he talk to this man, this Chosen, if he didn’t understand any of what he’d gone through? He looked at Kildanor, but the man didn’t move, eyes locked on him. Drangar exhaled. “Listen, mate, for however long I’ve been in this new cell, I’ve been trying to figure out what has been going on… I don’t think you’ll understand.”
“Try me,” the warrior of Lesganagh replied.
“Very well,” he said, stood, and began pacing the little room. It wasn’t more than four yards across and less than two paces deep. Cells weren’t meant to be comfortable. “I think I died, but I didn’t come to the Bailey Majestic, I never made it to the Scales of Lliania. I was in,” he said, thinking, “in a place of darkness.” He looked around. “Much like this place, only there was no floor, or ceiling, or anything. I drifted, or something. I felt someone washing me, I think, and I heard the Hymn of the Sun. Then there was this voice, threatening, vicious bastard I’d say. I don’t know, he tried to… I don’t know… I felt threatened by him, and he pulled me toward him. Then I felt at ease—sheltered you could say—and another voice shouted at the first one. This one was… I know this makes me sound like a lunatic, but the voice sounded like Dog’s, like the voice I’d heard on occasion. They were fighting, and Dog’s voice struggled and lost, and I felt drawn toward the fiend-light again.”
“Fiend-light?” the Chosen interrupted.
Drangar didn’t know how many times he had walked the few steps between the two walls that separated his from another pair of cells. He didn’t care either. He looked at the Chosen, frowning.
“The threatening voice was hidden behind some sort of light, and a net, like a fishing-net. I really didn’t want to go there… fiend-light, felt fiendish.” He scoffed and resumed his pacing. “Well, there came another voice, and she said the sunargh, that’s what she called the creature behind the curtain, had to obey the rules, or some such thing. That new voice was different from Dog’s, in a way.
“Then I fell from the dark place, and found myself held by those cat-things.” Even now, as he spoke about his experiences, Drangar felt he was retelling a nightmare. But he had gone through them, of that he was sure.
“I saw the demons,” Kildanor said.
Drangar whipped his head toward the Chosen. “You did?” he asked. This man had seen them; it wasn’t a nightmare!
“Aye, the cat-things are demons.”
“I thought they were defeated during the war,” he said.
The tales of Traksor’s victory over Turuuk and the battles in Danastaer had been fed to him on a regular basis when he was a child. “How can they be demons if they were defeated? They’re gone from the world…” He halted in midsentence. “The Sons,” he whispered. “They were right!”
“Sons?” Kildanor asked. “What Sons?”
“The Sons of Traksor.”
Life held symmetry. Kildanor had always believed this, but that the Sons of Traksor were mentioned in the ramblings of a man who had been dead surprised him. He remembered the missive, the warning the Sons had sent north before the invasion had begun. The warning Jathain had intercepted. Drangar Ralgon knew of them. The man’s familiarity with them was obvious from the ease with which he mentioned their name.
“What do you know of these Sons of Traksor?” he asked.
Ralgon stiffened. There were some bad memories associated with the name, Kildanor was sure of that. “I was raised by them,” the prisoner said. “Ran away from their nonsense when I was fourteen.”
“What did you mean when you said the Sons were right?” He knew this line of thought was sidetracking him, but he was interested.
“They say the demons will return and they will be there to fight them.”
“Why would anyone want to sacrifice you to them?”
“Sacrifice me to the demons?” Ralgon sounded incredulous.
This question had plagued him ever since the five Demonologists had gone up in flames. Maybe the victim would know. “Aye, the men who ambushed you had prepared a demon-circle to sacrifice you.”
Ralgon seemed surprised. “Damned if I know…” then he paused. His left hand rubbed his mouth and chin as he stared into the distance, thinking. “Did the Wizardess tell you what I’ve told her?”
“Not really. She just said I should fetch an Upholder and that she believed you.”
What Ralgon told him now was strange and frightening, and the Chosen didn’t know what to make of it. Until the report came to the part where the ghost had taken the prisoner to observe the mysterious group planning the drug induced murder. At this point Kildanor held up his hand, halting the prisoner’s tale. “They wanted to break your spirit?”
Ralgon nodded, “Is it possible that the two events are connected? What if the Demonologists wanted to sacrifice me even then and failed? It wasn’t the first attempt on my life at any rate.”
A mercenary would see many killings and many people who would want to end his life, but he deliberately said ”attempts”, which implied intent beyond the regular slaughter of battle. “How many?”
Shrugging, Ralgon replied, “I don’t know. A handful each year.”
“When did these failed murders begin?”
“Shortly after I left the Eye.”
“The Eye?” Kildanor didn’t like feeling as if he were an ignorant pupil.
“The Eye of Traksor, the fortress of the Sons,” the former mercenary answered.
He took the information in stride and continued voicing his thoughts. “So, we can assume the Sons protected you until you ran away?”
“That would be my guess as well.”
Too many things had already been said, and Kildanor had to know if Drangar Ralgon was telling the truth. “I’ll fetch an Upholder,” he said and rushed out of the dungeon.
Upholder Coimharrin wouldn’t be happy to see him, and with Nerran’s riders cleaning up Eanaigh’s Church he could hardly blame him. The news of Caretakers, adherent followers of the Ban, being killed by the Paladin of Lesganagh and his Riders had quickly spread through Dunthiochagh.
“Good day, Upholder,” he said when the priest entered the antechamber of the Lawgiver’s Court. No town was without a Court of Lliania, and he had to admit that the massive scales, symbol of the goddess, gave weight to her priesthood. No deal was legal without her priest’s blessing. Coimharrin, rumor had it, was one of the few priests considered worthy of being named Lawpasser, but as long as the old one in Harail was still alive, the man had to be content with the position of judge in Dunthiochagh.
“Ah, yes, what a splendid day. Bloodshed in the streets, in the House of Health, Eanaighists dropping like flies,” the Upholder grumbled.
The Chosen could imagine how the man felt; he had probably felt the same way during the Dawnslaughter. “My lord,” he began, but Coimharrin held up a hand.
“The Eanaighists began this nonsense, again!” the priest ranted. “As if that legal abomination of thirty years ago hadn’t been enough, now the fools dared arrest people without either the Baron’s or my consent.”
The statement caught Kildanor by surprise. “Sir?”
“The bloodshed began when those oafs tried to arrest Paladin Nerran and his… gang,” Coimharrin said. “They have the right to police their own, but they can't detain others. They don't have that right!”
“But…” he began, only to be interrupted again.
“That foolishness three decades ago? They struck like thieves, assassins. They only claimed legality after the deed was done, a quite convenient fact, don’t you think?” the Upholder asked. “But the Lady’s Scales know every soul,” he said absentmindedly, and regarded Kildanor. “Well, son, what do you want?”
This turn of events came unexpected, and Ki
ldanor took a deep breath to gather his wits. The Upholder actually approved of Nerran’s actions! “Well, sir,” he began, feeling slightly out of place. He was older than Coimharrin, by at least forty years, but the priest wore the aura of confidence like a cloak, and wielded his knowledge of law and justice like a weapon. “You really think the Dawnslaughter was wrong?” he couldn’t help but ask.
“Think, son? I don’t think it was wrong, I know it was wrong. But what can you do? When there’s no plaintiff, you don’t have a trial. They were very thorough.”
For a moment he didn’t know what to say.
“So, son, you didn’t come here to discuss the finer points of sword-point-law with me.”
“No, sir, I need your help.”
“The Chosen making deals now?” Coimharrin scoffed. “A divorce maybe? No? Spit it out, son, never heard of you lot being tongue-tied!”
He felt himself blushing. For a century no one had made him feel like a bumbling farmhand. “I need to know if someone is telling the truth,” he finally said.
“That simple, eh?” the Upholder seemed disappointed. He turned and walked into the antechamber. Kildanor followed.
Instead of heading out onto Boughaighr’s Alley, however, Coimharrin strode toward the house next to Lawgiver’s Court. Confused, he followed, into the building, a small foyer, and then into a homely kitchen. A young woman stood next to the hearth, stirring the contents of a pot.
“Father, why didn’t you tell me we have a guest for supper?” the cook said.
“Guest?” Coimharrin asked and looked around. “Oh, you want to eat something, son?”
“No, sir,” Kildanor replied.
The Upholder helped himself to a bowl of porridge and added some butter and bacon. “Good, more for us!” he exclaimed and began to eat.
“Shouldn’t we be going, sir?”
“Going? Where?” the priest asked, his mouth full.
“To the Palace, sir,” he said, feeling as if he was talking to a doddering fool.
“Is it urgent, that truth business? Life or death, that sort of thing?”
“No, sir.”
“Good! Let me eat in peace, son. Have some porridge if you’re hungry.”
Kildanor sighed; it was going to be a long day, again, but he quickly discovered he was hungry.
CHAPTER 54
Jesgar wasn’t sure whether he should just enter his home as if nothing had happened, or if he should knock. Ten days had passed since his imprisonment, and part of him knew Ben would be furious. Another part kept hoping his brother would be more worried than angry. As he rode closer, he heard someone working the forge. It almost felt like nothing had changed, but the fact he rode a horse would remind his family he was a different man.
He guided his gelding to the back of the house. This was his home as well, and he would not tie the mare to the front like a common visitor. The steady beat of the hammer, interrupted by the hissing of iron lowered into the barrel of water, hardly slowed when he halted in the yard.
“Need new shoes?” Bennath’s voice drowned out the hissing metal. “If so, come back tomorrow!” The hammering resumed.
Jesgar dismounted and immediately the sound of his brother’s work ceased. Ben’s soot-tinted face poked out of the smithy. He had been afraid of disappointment, but instead his brother’s face showed a mixture of surprise, amusement, and relief. “Ah, little brother, you’re alive,” the older Garinad said, white teeth piercing the soot in a broad grin.
This he hadn’t expected, and he was even more taken aback when Ben seized him into one of his bone-crushing hugs. After being in the saddle and among Nerran’s Riders for days, it somehow didn’t feel as tight as it used to. Jesgar smiled and returned his brother’s affection. “Good to see you too,” he said.
Ben released him, took a step back, and inspected him. “You look well,” he finally said, tousling Jesgar’s hair.
He felt as if he’d been transported back almost ten years to when his big brother had seemed like a moody, yet benign giant. Of course, he was older now, but Ben could still make him feel like that youth. Maybe to him, Jesgar would always be this boy. He looked at his sibling. “Lots of fresh air.”
Bennath shook his head and snorted. “Go on in, Maire should have supper ready. I’ll be with you soon.” He turned and headed back into the smithy. On the threshold he glanced back at him. “Good to see you,” he said then resumed his work.
For a moment, Jesgar couldn’t do anything but stare at the smithy’s empty doorway. Ben had never treated him like this before. It felt more like the reunion of two friends than the return of the prodigal son he had feared. Had he ever been an embarrassment to his family? At times it felt like it. Ben had never been happy with his work with the hammer, and he had always felt useless in the smithy and the household. Yes, he’d been good at carrying coals, refilling the barrel, working the bellows, but any fool could do that.
Still pondering his brother’s unexpected welcome, Jesgar entered the house. He had never been much of a cook, but he was a good eater, and could tell by the smell wafting out of the kitchen that whatever Maire was preparing was delicious. Ben had agreed on sharing the workload, but when his wife had sampled her husband’s first, and thankfully last, attempt at cooking she had chased him away from the stove.
“Mommy, I’m home,” he said, as he stepped through the door. It had been ages since he had called his sister-in-law mommy—Ben had slapped that habit out of him—but now it felt right to call her thus.
A fierce slap was her reply. His left cheek stung almost as much as his legs had a few nights ago. The right cheek followed, as Maire’s hand made the return trip to her side. “This used to be funny when you were a boy!” she snarled. “And before…” she fell silent.
“Gods, I’m sorry, Maire,” he stammered, realizing how painful this reminder of several stillbirths had to be for her.
His sister-in-law shook her head. “Don’t. You meant it as a jest, I know. Still, the slaps should remind you in the future.” She then drew him into a long, bone-crushing embrace.
He hugged her tightly. “I missed you.”
Maire stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “As I did you,” she said and took a step back. “You’re leaner.”
“Courtesy of porridge and several days of riding,” he replied. Seeing her astonishment, Jesgar added, “I’ve been as far south as Dragoncrest.”
She drew him to the big table and pushed him onto a chair like she had done when he could still have been pulled and pushed by her. He came along willingly, happy with the bit of familiarity. Maire was like the mother he’d never known and after the arduous journey, he enjoyed being coddled. “Tell me all about it,” she said as she went about the kitchen.
“Well, I rode with Nerran Ghonair, accompanied him on an inspection of the fortresses,” he said as his brother’s wife placed a mug of heated wine before him. He took a sip and continued. “Our journey took almost a week and… listen, can I tell it when Ben’s here? I don’t want to repeat the stuff.”
Maire agreed, and soon his brother entered, washed hands and face, and joined them in the kitchen. Supper was served and now, with all three of them together again, Jesgar really felt like he had come home.
The talk turned first to his journey—he told them what he thought was safe to be told—and then what had happened during Jathain’s revolt. It seemed that word certainly had spread, but most folk knew only the rumors that had circulated in the taverns. When Ben asked about the influx of troops that had entered the city by nightfall, Jesgar related to them his encounter with General Kerral and his band of survivors. The General had gathered the remnants of the various warbands that had scattered when Harail had fallen, people who refused to surrender to the Chanastardhians.
“He’s a little loud for my taste,” he said at the end, and knew for him to state such a thing, the man was really noisy. Jesgar was, like his brother, not a demure man, and his comment was rewarded by a bellowing laugh
from his brother and Maire rolling her eyes. He looked at her and saw her head shaking with a mixture of resignation and amusement.
“You must’ve gotten along just fine with this Kerral then?” she asked as she refilled her mug.
“Not really,” he said.
“Yeah, right,” Ben threw in.
“I’m serious! You learn modesty when you’re with the Riders,” he said. “On the road you’re on your own, and with Chanastardhian outriders haunting the countryside you’ve got to be careful, especially at night.”
“Little brother, you don’t expect me to believe that for one moment, do you? You couldn’t stay silent for more than a few breaths if your life depended on it.”
“Ben,” Maire whispered, putting a hand on her husband’s arm. “You should…”
But her attempt to prevent another Garinad fight came too late. Jesgar stood and glared at his brother. “You have no idea what you’re talking about! You wouldn’t even hear the trumpets of the gods if they were playing a march next to your thick skull! You’ve been half-deaf for the last decade because of your constant hammering! How would you know how quiet I can be?”
He was furious. Sure, Ben had kept the family warm and well fed, but like their father before, he had been too busy to care for anyone emotionally. That had been Maire’s duty, much like it must have been his mother’s before her.
“Had you gotten your head out of that furnace, you would’ve known I barely slept in my bed at night.”
“Boys!” Maire tried to intervene again.
“You selfish bastard!” Bennath Garinad shouted. “I worked night and day so you could live like you did! Without me you wouldn’t have been able to ever carouse through the night!”
“I hardly ever did that!” he retorted. “I had better things to do!”
“Like what?” Ben ignored his wife’s attempt to soothe his temper. Jesgar had seen things like that happen before. Ben loved Maire and he would never hurt her, but when the older Garinad’s temper flared, nothing could stop it. Aside from…
“I worked!” Jesgar growled. “I worked at the Library!”