Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Doing what?” Ben asked, his voice sounding calmer.

  “Whatever needed to be done! Carrying pisspots, washing linens, scrubbing floors, that sort of thing!”

  Now even Maire looked surprised.

  “And you buggered off whenever I needed help with the forge?” Ben asked.

  “I did not!”

  “In all fairness, love,” Maire said, taking a firm hold on her husband’s arm. “He did help us most of the time!”

  “So, what did those Librarians pay you?” grumbled Ben, slightly quieted by his wife.

  “No money, if that’s what you think,” Jesgar replied, bracing for a new outburst.

  “What?” Ben roared. “You carried shit for them and they didn’t give you money?”

  “Wait, love.”

  “Wait for what? My lousy little brother worked for them priests and they didn’t pay him? Next he’ll tell me he also sucked their cocks!”

  Jesgar didn’t believe his ears. The next moment he was up on his feet, hands balled into fists. “You… I…,” he stammered. “They taught me to read and write, you idiot! That was my payment! Letters! I didn’t want to end up like you! I helped you in the forge because I knew you needed the help, but I never wanted to be a smith! I’m sorry, Ben, but the smithy is your dream, not mine!” He stormed out the kitchen, ignoring Maire’s and Ben’s shouts. He would come back, certainly, but for now he wanted to be alone with a few mugs of ale, maybe a brawl, and surely a woman.

  The Tankard wasn’t a big tavern, nor was it clean, but it served the best ale in Dunthiochagh. Since it was in the seedier part of town, not many merchants or nobles frequented it. Jesgar had been to the Tankard several times before, but never with such a clear goal in mind. Sure, he had had a drink or four, or watched drunken lowlifes demolish each other and the furniture, and he certainly had met fine lasses here as well, but he wanted to get pissed, bash a few heads, and get laid. After the first few stouts he wasn’t quite sure if he should fight now and fuck later or the other way around. After a few more he decided drinking was the best pastime.

  Then he made a new friend.

  Dalgor was, he was sure, a fine fellow, and he said so repeatedly. He didn’t know much about his new best mate, but he ordered more beer and paid as well. He talked with his new best mate; later, Jesgar wasn’t so sure if…what’s-his-name…spoke as much as he did, but that seemed perfectly all right with him.

  When he got out of bed—he had no idea how he got there in the first place, but then he barely remembered anything except the good time he and his new mate had had at the Tankard—he remembered he would meet Dalgor again tonight. Everything else was a haze; he greeted Maire and Ben, ate a meager breakfast, and was off to the Palace.

  CHAPTER 55

  It was well past dusk when Kildanor and Upholder Coimharrin entered the dungeon. On their way down Trade Road the priest had commended the actions of Nerran’s Riders. “Sometimes justice lies at the tip of a sword, son. When words and reason can’t help anymore, you know?” He was still talking about the finer points of justice when the pair reached Ralgon’s cell. Kildanor, lamp in hand, lit the way until finally the mercenary was illuminated. Coimharrin stopped his monologue and stared at the prisoner.

  “I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

  The Chosen was confused, and he said so, “You know him?”

  Coimharrin shook his head. “I don’t think so, but he has the same eyes as someone I knew once.”

  Ralgon looked at the priest. “Really now?” He shrugged and turned to Kildanor. “Is this the Lawman?”

  Before he could answer his companion said, “I’m Upholder Coimharrin, son, and the Chosen here asked me to see if your tales hold some truth.”

  “Truth is a matter of perspective, as you well know,” Ralgon, much to Kildanor’s surprise, replied. The man wasn’t only a murderer and mercenary, but also a philosopher.

  “Yes, yes, quite right you are, son,” agreed Coimharrin.

  “Nonetheless, you said something about a journey into your past, and the Upholder is here to verify your story,” Kildanor interrupted. Maybe his tone was rude, but he didn’t want the old man distracted by discussions about truth and what it meant for every soul. “Upholder, please focus on the matter at hand.”

  The priest turned his head and frowned. “The boy’s right, Chosen. Even if I confirm that he is telling the truth, it is only his truth, his perspective. I can’t tell you if what he says is genuine truth.”

  Kildanor frowned, “It doesn’t matter if it’s only his truth; we need to know what is going on!”

  “Gods protect me from impatient men,” Coimharrin said.

  Ralgon chuckled. “Chosen,” he said, looking at him. “For the idiots who began the Dawnslaughter back in the day, their truth was that Lesganagh’s priests were evil, so what they did—at least to them—was right and just. Put one of them before an Upholder and he’d tell you it was true. So, anything I’d say would still be clouded by whatever doubts you have.”

  “Listen to him, boy, he’s got the gist of it.”

  “So, you’re saying I should believe him anyway?”

  Coimharrin shook his head. “No, you just have to judge for yourself if you do.” The priest hesitated and looked at the prisoner. “He seems quite together, not really bound to hallucinate”—at this Ralgon scoffed—“so we can assume what he’ll tell us will be his relative truth.”

  “What about the fact that he came back from the dead?”

  Coimharrin’s head whipped about and he looked at the prisoner. “What are you saying?”

  Ralgon said, “Don’t look at me; I don’t have a clue either! By all rights, I should be quite stiff and rotting.”

  “He returned from the dead?”

  He nodded. “Aye.” How could he explain to the priest what he didn’t understand either?

  “You should ask a Caretaker,” Coimharrin muttered. “This is a bloody miracle, health and all that, and I’m certainly not in the healing and nurturing business.”

  “I don’t want you to tell me why he’s come back!” Kildanor snapped. Had he known this would turn into a philosophy session, he might have accepted Ralgon’s tale immediately, just to spare himself this senseless blathering. “I want you to tell me if his tale about seeing what happened in the past is true!” Before the Upholder could reply, he continued, “Can you tell me if this man has really seen the past? And if so, is what he saw mere fabrication or fact?”

  “I’m no bloody oracle! But I can tell you if his tale is a lie, not whether it is the utter truth, I’d need more witnesses than him.”

  Exasperated, he let out a sigh of relief. “That’s all I ask of you, Upholder.”

  “Very well,” Coimharrin said and turned to Ralgon. “Let’s hear it then.” The priest muttered a brief prayer and looked expectantly at the prisoner. “Go on then, time’s awasting.”

  “So, you’re telling me he is innocent?”

  Kildanor looked from Cumaill to the Upholder and waited for the priest’s reply. Even after hearing Ralgon’s tale a second time, it still sounded more like a nightmarish fiery tale than an account of the past, but Coimharrin verified the story.

  “Aye, Lord Baron.” The Upholder’s deference toward Cumaill surprised him; so far, the man had treated everyone as a child. “His tale is no lie. And no divine voice told me otherwise. He wielded the sword that killed this woman, yes…”

  “So, he’s guilty?”

  The Chosen also had had problems comprehending the finer points of the verdict, but now, after a long elaboration on the topic, he understood.

  “No, milord, he isn't, unless you would also accuse a rope of committing a burglary.”

  Kildanor thought Duasonh made the same face he had worn in his confusion. “No, of course not,” the Baron said.

  It was time to intervene. “What the worthy Upholder is trying to say is that Drangar Ralgon was, at the time of the killing, not the master of his own body. Someo
ne else held the strings.”

  “Who?”

  “He doesn’t know, and neither do we,” Coimharrin said, quite reasonably in Kildanor’s opinion. The priest was surprisingly uncomplicated. “I was asked to verify the boy’s tale, and so I did. If I could find a culprit merely by listening to some statement, I’d be somewhere up there with the gods meting out due punishment. The Lawgiver’s Scales judge people by their deeds when they enter the Bailey Majestic, but she doesn’t tell anyone how to live. She merely gives us laws.”

  “What Upholder Coimharrin is trying to say is this: judgment is given by the goddess in the afterlife, based on her laws. She’s impartial, and it’s our job in this world to find out who’s guilty,” Kildanor intervened.

  “So, we release him,” Duasonh said.

  “Sure, I don’t see why not?” the priest replied. “Unless you also keep daggers and ropes in your dungeon.”

  Seeing Duasonh’s eyes dancing with mirth had become a rarity these past days, and he was glad his friend was still capable of humor. The Baron walked to the door. “Tell the jailers to release Drangar Ralgon,” he ordered one of his guards; then he shut the door again. “Anything else you would like to discuss with me, Upholder?”

  Coimharrin frowned and remained silent for a moment. The only time Kildanor had seen the priest quiet was when eating, so he was surprised at the prolonged silence. “Well, milord, there is one thing,” he finally said. The priest apparently interpreted Duasonh’s lack of reply as permission to speak on. “Releasing the sorceress from captivity is your right, certainly, but there have already been objections.”

  Kildanor, who had had this argument with Duasonh before, knew what the reply would be. What he didn’t expect was Cumaill’s attempt to appease.

  “Upholder Coimharrin, I am aware of the controversy regarding the Wizardess Ealisaid’s release, and I assure you that if things were different I would also have executed the woman after the crimes she committed. But with war engulfing what’s left of our country, I’ll not throw away a weapon like her…”

  “Can you control her?” the Upholder interrupted. “The destruction she has already caused is, in all likelihood, just a taste of what she can do, should we anger her. The law demands her to stand trial for her crimes, milord.”

  “I know what the law demands!” Duasonh retorted. The Chosen could have warned the priest of this reaction beforehand. After all, he had heard words in a similar vein before. “I also know the law is what I say it is in times of need!”

  “Certainly, sir, that’s your right.” Coimharrin’s face didn’t hint at any emotion, so Kildanor figured the priest had expected this outcome. “However, milord, the atonement for the crimes is merely postponed. When all of this is over, be assured that I will press charges against her.”

  “Let’s hope we make it through the coming siege, otherwise this talk isn’t worth the breath we’ve just used.”

  “Very well then,” Coimharrin said, bowing before he left.

  After the door had closed behind the Upholder, Kildanor looked at Duasonh. “If people have already started talking, the affair with the witch might turn against you quickly should one of her spells misfire.” Even though he liked the woman’s attitude, he felt certain she was barely out of her training. This didn’t mean she was incapable of magic, but pupils such as she had caused the most havoc with spells that went awry during the early days of the Heir War. Luckily, they had perished quickly. The Wizardess might be better versed in her knowledge, but that did not mean she was as adept in the practical use of magic.

  “Then she best not make any mistakes!” Duasonh growled. Cumaill seemed tired after the exchange with Coimharrin, and Nerran’s return had probably done its part in wearying him.

  “Damn, mate, you need to rest,” Kildanor said.

  “I know,” said the noble and slumped down on one of the chairs. He was about to say more when the door flew open and Nerran entered.

  “Bloody Scales, Cumaill, you look awful,” the Paladin said. “Get some rest.” Before Duasonh could reply, the warrior went on, “That lad I was telling you about is here.”

  “Lad? What lad?” Duasonh said, straightening in his seat.

  “Oh, good eve, Kildanor,” Nerran said as he saw the Chosen. “Fancy meeting you here. I got some news for you.” To the Baron he said, “That royal pain in the ass… that general.”

  “Kerral?” Duasonh said.

  “Aye, that’s the one. He brought some of his troops into the city already.”

  “How many?”

  As important as this conversation was, the Paladin was in storytelling mode, and Kildanor knew that nothing short of a well-aimed blow to the head would stop the man.

  “He left a good five hundred outside, they want to slow the Chanastardhians approach,” Nerran said.

  “How many warriors are in my city?” Duasonh asked, slapping his hands onto the chair’s armrests.

  “Oh, there were more, but I think I told you that, he left some in the fortresses…”

  “I know! How many additional mouths are mine to feed?” His anger brought some color back onto the Baron’s cheeks. “And don’t give me the bloody numbers of those the castles have to feed, just those that will need supplies inside Dunthiochagh!”

  Either his friend would go to bed soon, Kildanor thought, or he would find the strength to plow on through the tasks ahead of him. Cumaill looked tired, but he knew the city needed its lord, and a bit of anger was already helping. He decided to interrupt. “What news is there for me?” he asked.

  “Kildanor!” the Baron barked as he stood.

  Nerran looked to the Chosen, mischief glimmering in his eyes. Obviously, the Paladin understood what he was trying to do. “Oh, I meant to tell you before, but forgot, what with those fifteen hundred warriors following me from Dragoncrest. Your fellows got to the fortress, but there are only sixteen of them, I think.”

  Kildanor frowned and began to pace in the room, right in front of the Baron. “Hmmm,” he said then turned back to Nerran. “Did Galen mention when the others would come?”

  The Paladin scratched his head, seemingly oblivious to Duasonh. “Let me think.”

  “Think on your bleeding own time, outside my office!” Duasonh yelled. “Fifteen hundred new warriors inside the city? Fifteen hundred mouths to feed?”

  The Paladin winked at him and faced their friend. “Ah, Cumaill! Glad to see you’re awake,” he said with a broad grin. Even Kildanor couldn’t keep a straight face.

  Duasonh, despite his anger, smirked. “You bastards!”

  “No, born and bred to a true family,” Kildanor said.

  “Me, too,” Nerran added. “Not his, though.” He pointed at the Chosen.

  Duasonh sat back down again. “So, you were making fun of me with fifteen hundred warriors added to our garrison?” he said, relieved.

  “No, not really,” the Paladin of Lesganagh replied. “Don’t ask me how, but this Kerral gathered more than two thousand lads and lasses to his banner over the past week and a half.”

  “Two thousand?”

  Maybe he hadn’t paid much attention to the first part of Nerran’s speech, Kildanor thought. “There’re some before the city, and some were left to reinforce the garrisons in the fortresses,” he said.

  “How is the clearing of the farmsteads coming along?” Duasonh asked. He stood and leafed through the pile of reports cluttering his table, pulled out a sheet of paper, and read. After a few moments he paused. “Most of the outlying farms are expected to be bare the day after tomorrow. Did these troops take supplies with them?”

  “You best ask the general, mate,” Nerran replied.

  CHAPTER 56

  “So, Dragoncrest’s warleader really offed Jathain?” Kildanor whispered to Nerran. “And hung his corpse on the outer wall?”

  The Paladin inclined his head, but remained silent.

  They were in the audience chamber, standing to left and right of Cumaill Duasonh who was b
esieged not only by the regular sycophants, but also by angry innkeepers and brothel-owners. Apparently General Kerral had requisitioned several buildings for his warriors.

  “Think he’ll start throwing out people?”

  Kildanor snorted. “The question isn’t ‘if’ but ‘when’.”

  “General Kerral is within his rights to requisition quarters for his troops,” Duasonh almost shouted.

  “But he has to pay for them!” whined a fat and greasy weasel of a man. “He can’t just take the rooms and not pay!”

  “This chap has no idea what requisitioning means,” Nerran whispered.

  The Chosen suppressed a chuckle.

  “Do you know what it means to requisition something…” the Baron frowned at the innkeeper.

  “Herve, milord, Herve Enrick, sir. Proprietor of the Dancing Lady, sir,” the man replied.

  “Lousy place to stay at, if you ask me,” Nerran whispered.

  Duasonh took a deep breath and asked again, “Do you know what requisition means, Herve Enrick, proprietor of the Dancing Lady?”

  Kildanor admired Cumaill’s patience. For a while now, these men had complained without seemingly taking a breath. Once again, he was glad not to be lording over anyone. How the Baron managed to stop himself from hanging all these people on the spot he didn’t know. Had it been up to him, he would have ordered the complainers to keep their mouths shut or dance on the gallows.

  “No, milord,” Herve Enrick said.

  “It means that by law a warleader of the King’s army is within his rights to take what he needs, within reason, for his men to be in fighting order!”

  “But sir!” another innkeeper added. This man Kildanor knew. A well-respected, wealthy citizen everyone called Dreamy Duncan. “We lose business.” Now the Chosen knew why the man had got the nickname.

  “If Dunthiochagh is captured, gentlemen, you’ll lose more than merely your business!” Duasonh snarled. “Next!”

  “Milord,” a short, bald man said as he stepped to the front. “Alarnai of Dunth Street, milord. Proprietor of…”

  “I know who you are, man,” Duasonh said.