by Ulff Lehmann
“Of course he does,” Kildanor whispered.
Nerran leaned closer. “Aye?”
“Had to drag Gavyn and me out of there last year, remember?”
The Paladin grinned. “Aye, that bet he lost.”
“Bet?”
“What is your complaint?”
“They may requisition rooms and such, but they still have to pay for the boys and girls they fuck,” Alarnai said. Then he blushed, “Pay for services rendered, sir.”
Nerran winked. “He claimed he could be as intimidating as me,” he whispered. “I dared him to get you two out of Alarnai’s place.”
“He got us out.”
“Dead drunk the three of you. You all had to be carried out, lad, I swear on my sword.”
“Indeed, they have to pay for that,” Duasonh said. If he had been paying attention to the conversation his friends were having, he didn’t show it. “They also have to pay for booze and food beyond porridge.”
Kildanor looked from brothel owner to Cumaill and then at Nerran. “Did he pay for the booze he needed to get us out of there?”
Before the aging warrior could answer the double door was flung open and an impressive looking man pushed his way through the guards. “Let me through, idiots!”
“Kerral?” the Chosen asked.
“Kerral,” Nerran replied.
“Quite full of himself, eh?”
“Gods, you have no idea.”
“Lord Baron, I am General Kerral of his Majesty’s Army, and I demand to speak to you.”
“He wants to speak ‘to’ not ‘with’?” Kildanor said, astonished at the man’s audacity.
“This lad usually speaks to people; he isn’t one to discuss things,” Nerran replied. “Why the Scales do you think we rode into the city half a day before him?”
“The King is dead, man,” Duasonh replied. “You might have been general of his army, but in this city, you follow my orders. Do I make myself clear?” General Kerral stood still, as if struggling with the very idea. “Furthermore, your warriors will pay for every whore, every mug of ale they drink, and every slice of meat they have to their porridge. Understood?”
“But sir!” Herve Enrick protested, again.
Kildanor knew what was coming and Duasonh didn’t disappoint. “Your grievances end now, innkeeper! Get out!” Enrick and the others shuffled out of the audience chamber. The Baron turned to his two friends. “I’d appreciate a restraint of muttering now, if you please.”
Nerran glanced to the Chosen and gave a little shrug. “Milord,” the pair said in unison.
“Sir,” Kerral began, “my warriors have marched long and are tired; they are merely looking for some fun.”
“Fun they’ll have to pay for, general.”
“We hardly made it out of the Chanastardhians’ way, sir. Most of my warriors have little coin left. How shall they pay for whores or booze?”
This man really worried about the wellbeing of his troops. Kildanor was genuinely surprised. There weren’t many of the King’s warleaders who cared for the men under their command. The way Kerral dressed was also uncommon for warlords from Harail; his armor was piecemeal, not the typical plate and mail one would expect, and neither was his surcoat adorned with the crest of a noble house. A common warrior raised from the ranks? That might explain the man’s lack of lordly behavior. “What House do you hail from?” he asked.
Duasonh threw him a questioning glance and then turned to the general.
“None, sir,” Kerral replied.
“Elaborate,” the Baron ordered.
“Not much to tell, Lord Duasonh. I was hired by Dame Bethia of House Grendargh.”
“Bethia?” Nerran said. “The poor lass died last month.”
“Aye,” Cumaill said.
“Killed by her own servant,” Kerral confirmed. “Or so we were told.”
“She once told me she didn’t trust most of those court-bastards,” Nerran said. “Poor lass must have been aware of the treachery long before any of us were, Cumaill. Think that’s why she was killed?”
“Could be.” The Baron leaned forward and stared at Kerral. “If you were Dame Bethia’s creature, general, how come you were not demoted or thrown out immediately?”
At this the warlord smirked. “Clerical error, milord.”
“Explain.”
“Lady Grendargh suspected something, at least that’s my guess. Apparently, my commission was sent on a long journey, sir. I was attached to my warband with preliminary orders awaiting ratification, which just arrived three weeks ago.”
Some people hadn’t been as corrupt as he had thought. He had never liked Bethia Grendargh; to him she had always seemed too enthralled by intrigue and gossip. As minister of war she had been impeccable, he remembered that much.
“General Kerral,” Duasonh said. “Why did she make you warlord? Were the two of you lovers?”
The warrior snorted. “Scales, no!”
“Speak, then.”
“Very well, sir. My father, well, it’s like this, sir, my ma never told me who my da was; just a customer she said. My ma’s a serving wench, sir.”
“Go on,” the Baron said when Kerral paused.
“Aye, sir. Well, turns out that guy who sired me was Dame Grendargh grandnephew, Kohal. Far-flung part of the House, really, but quite active, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I’m a bastard scion of House Grendargh. This doesn’t mean a thing, really, because Kohal won’t never admit having a bastard boy, but Dame Bethia had gotten wind of the matter and managed to hire me.”
“So, you lay no claim to the family name?”
Kerral shook his head. “Why bother, milord, I’m fine as is, and even if I did, no one would support me. Scales, even Lady Bethia didn’t. She gave me the job as general, which is enough for me, really.”
“You were quite successful in evading the Chanastardhian army, laddie,” Nerran said. “So old Bethia must’ve known you’re a decent campaigner. Seen much action?”
“Some, sir.”
“I’ve been remiss in my manners, general,” Duasonh said. “You know Nerran Ghonair, Paladin of Lesganagh, and this is Kildanor, Chosen, my aides, advisors, and friends.”
Kerral nodded to Kildanor, and then answered in more depth. “I’ve been a mercenary for most of my adult life, sir, traveled here and there and fought in a few places.”
“And your success against Mireynh?”
“I knew it!” the warrior exclaimed, balling his hand into a fist. “Sorry. Well, you know how it is with old dogs and tricks, don’t you?”
“Aye,” Nerran drawled, “most don’t learn new tricks.”
“Yeah, that’s it, the same with the old buzzard. Campaigned under him a while, a few years ago. Figured some ways out of his old traps in the past couple of years.”
“Good,” Duasonh said as he stood. “Get all your men settled, general. You will obey the three of us in all matters regarding the defense of the city; should we take the field and pursue Mireynh, you’ll be in command.”
“All warriors, sir?”
Kildanor wondered what his friend had in mind, and he was anxious to find out. But he held his tongue.
“Aye, all of them. But before you depart…” The Baron rang a bell and a few moments later a servant entered the room. Unhurried, yet at a brisk pace the man approached Duasonh’s chair and bowed.
“My liege?”
“Glendon, see to it that the newly arrived troops receive half a dozen barrels of…” the Baron turned to Kildanor. “What’s that clear stuff with the stinging taste called? You know, the one distilled from barley and such.”
Before he could reply, Kerral supplied the answer, “Broggainh, milord? Very kind of you, sir. I assure you they will be happy about your gift.”
“You said most have no money left. We all agree warriors must be of good spirit. Ration it, there might not be a source left once Mireynh gets here.”
“Six barrels of Broggainh to this man’s troops
right away, sir,” Glendon said and hurried out.
“Very well, milord.” Kerral saluted. “They will appreciate it. By your leave,” he said, turned about, and left the audience chamber.
Duasonh turned to Nerran. “He’s quite amicable, don’t you think?” he said, satisfied.
“Well, you put the man in his place the moment he came through that door, mate.”
“Even battle dogs can learn new tricks,” Duasonh said. Then he turned to the Chosen, “What about Ralgon?”
“Oh, I gave him a cot in the barracks, didn’t want to let him loose on the world just yet.”
“Well then, I have to see our witch.”
CHAPTER 57
Nineteenth of Chill, 1475 K.C.
The cot he had been given was more comfortable than that in the cell, and Drangar also enjoyed breathing fresh air. Prisons were no inns, as he had so aptly reminded the Chosen, but he was glad to be free. Not that he was certain he deserved it. Knowing he was innocent didn’t wash away the terror of watching himself hack Hesmera to pieces.
For a while he stood at one of the barracks’ windows and watched the Baron’s warriors practice defensive maneuvers in the courtyard. The killers were long gone, he knew, but with all the new knowledge it was difficult to keep still. Two years of solitude and now he couldn’t stand the complacency. He had to do something, anything.
Drangar slipped into his coat, surprised to see that someone had mended the cloth, and headed out into the inner bailey. As he closed the door, two warriors who had been loitering nearby stood and watched him. Even though the Upholder had proclaimed his words truth, Baron Duasonh still thought him dangerous. If he was honest with himself, Drangar didn’t blame the man. He’d have sent people to watch himself as well, had he been in the Baron’s place. The Palace’s walls were strong. He had seen them before, during his city watch days, but now, with the Chanastardhian army only days away, he appreciated the thick walls even more. At least they would hold back the enemy for a while. Leaning against the gatehouse was a young man. Drangar felt an odd tingle running down his spine as he watched the man. Despite his obvious size, the younger man didn’t wear the garb or the colors of a warrior, and although he seemed out of place, he bothered none of the men-at-arms. The former mercenary let his gaze wander across the practicing troops, his attention, however, still on the young man. He felt he was being watched.
“The demon you know,” Drangar muttered and headed for the gatehouse. He knew where he wanted to go. It was maybe just a glimmer of hope, but he had to begin somewhere. The Chosen might be able to help, but he didn’t want to bother Kildanor or one of the court officials. They’d spent too much time with him as it was. He didn’t want to burden anyone with what would likely be a trivial matter to them. Finding Hesmera’s grave, however, was not simple for him. A quick glance over his shoulder assured him the two guards were following as he entered the barbican.
The activity in the outer bailey was almost the same as it had been in the inner, but here, in addition to the practicing warriors, several smiths busied themselves with fixing blades and armor, and the creation of new weapons. Drangar had been in enough battles and sieges to know the routine and headed straight for the drawbridge and onto Trade Road. It felt good to walk; he wasn’t tempted to saddle Hiljarr and ride through the city. Kildanor had assured him the charger was being well cared for, which was all that mattered.
His thoughts drifted to Dog, and the woman who had taken him into the past. They had shown him Dog’s mummified corpse, and he had accepted the canine’s death. He was as puzzled by the animal’s sudden demise as Kildanor and the Caretakers. The corpse had been of an animal dead for well over a decade, and Dog had been around just the day before when the Chosen had let her enter his cell. Her skin had been brittle, and by accident he had broken off one of her legs. He still couldn’t believe it was that of his companion. An animal he had known for the past two years. How could she appear like she had been dead for years when he most certainly knew the beast had been alive just two weeks ago?
The watch station in the Merchant Quarter hadn’t changed over the past two years, and to his surprise Drangar felt a sense of homecoming. Strange, he thought, it had been here in Dunthiochagh that he had experienced some of the most joyous moments of his life as well as the most horrible one. Would Glaithan still be here? Or Rob? He turned to look at the guards. His senses were honed by years in the field, but without the experience of having seen himself in the past, he would not have paid as much attention to his surroundings as he did now. There, at the corner, almost hidden by the building’s shadow, stood the brawny young man he had seen earlier. Why was he following him and who was he?
“I’m gonna talk to the guards here, chaps,” Drangar told his escort. “Come in, or wait outside, I dunno how long this will take.” They didn’t reply, but followed when he entered.
As with the exterior, the front office hadn’t changed a bit. It was still cluttered with all sorts of books and papers piled on one large writing desk, the pole arms hanging in their rack on the far wall, and the duty warden leafing through a report. As the door closed behind the three, the watchman looked up from his paperwork. To his surprise Drangar recognized Rob immediately.
“Yes?”
“Hello, mate,” Drangar said, forcing his voice to sound jovial. He was overcome by emotion, at once both pleased and terribly afraid. Rob would know of Hesmera’s death and his own suspicious disappearance.
“By the bloody gods!”
“Aye, them too.”
“Drang? Is that really you?”
“In the living flesh, mate.”
Rob looked at the two guards and then back at him. “Don’t tell me you did it…”
“I’d be the first to ask for a hanging.”
“And those?” Rob nodded in the direction of his guards.
“Can’t blame the Baron for being careful.”
“But you just said you didn’t kill her!”
How could he explain what he didn’t fully understand and would Rob believe him even if he could? Drangar knew he had to come to terms with the past, gut wrenching as it was, but it was not the same guilt he had felt for the past two years.
“When you left without a trace there were rumors. All your stuff was gone, but I didn’t believe for one moment…”
“It was my hand that held the sword,” Drangar said.
“So, you did kill her?” Rob sounded confused, angry, frightened.
“It’s a little more complicated than that.” Had he lost his chance to convince his former friend? He was barely able to convince himself half the time. “Someone manipulated me. Poison.” Seeing his friend begin to object, he continued, “I know it sounds like some weird tale out of a nuthouse, but it’s the truth… as far as I can tell. Upholder Coimharrin verified it. Scales, two weeks ago I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but it’s true.”
For a long moment Rob remained silent. Then he asked, “Poison? Who?” Drangar recognized how his friend’s investigative mind took over.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “The trail has been dead for two years now, and that is literally.”
He saw the next question forming in the guardsman’s mind, a question he had asked himself time and time again. He said, “I just know they are dead. I’ll explain later, when I understand more. Trust me.”
“I do,” Rob said. “So, what do you want if you don’t want to follow a dead trail?”
“I need to know where Hesmera’s grave is.”
“I’ll be off duty in a little bit. I can take you there.”
“I appreciate it, mate.” He really did. He took a look out the window and scowled.
“Something wrong?” Rob asked.
“I don’t know.” The brawny man he’d seen just a moment before was gone. “I was followed here by this chap. Tall fellow, brown hair, shoulders like a smith.” He shrugged. “He’s gone now.”
One of the guards cleared his throat. “E
xcuse me, sir.”
Drangar smirked. “I ain’t no ‘sir’, Sean. What is it?”
“A thief was caught and released two weeks ago or so, from what you said, this fellow could be he.”
Duasonh had him followed? Weren’t two guards enough? Determined not to let his anger dictate his actions, he took a deep breath and turned to Rob. “I’ll be here at dusk.”
“Right you are. I’ll be waiting.” After a moment he added, “Maybe we can get the old gang together, like the old days. What say you?”
“The old days are gone, mate; maybe some other time.” His escort preceded him, and at the door Drangar turned back and said, “Didn’t mean to be so harsh, Robart. I’ll see you at dusk.”
Outside, he quickened his pace back to the Palace. Now his anger ran free and drove him onward so that his two guards barely managed to keep up, but he didn’t care. He wanted to do speak with Kildanor as soon as possible.
“It’s all right, Cumaill,” Nerran said. “I gave the lad a couple days off. He was real exhausted, what with the riding and all. You know how it is.”
Duasonh nodded, but Kildanor could sense the Baron was upset. So far no one had managed to find Jesgar Garinad, and given Drangar Ralgon’s recent vision of the past, with strangers that followed him and caused him to kill his lover, he could hardly blame the mercenary for being upset.
“Where the bloody Scales is he?” Duasonh said.
“I think he wanted to see his brother,” Nerran replied.
Duasonh waved for the servant. “Send someone to Garinad Iron Works; it’s a smithy in the Merchant Quarter. He’s to ask about Jesgar Garinad’s whereabouts.” To Kildanor he said, “Isn’t that where Ralgon went after he gave you an earful?”
The Chosen nodded. “He wanted to meet an old friend and then visit the grave of his woman.”
He felt sorry for Ralgon. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to wake from a nightmare only to find reality was even worse than the dream. He had been to the house two years before, when word of the murder had reached the Palace. The woman had been chopped into pieces no bigger than two of his fingers held together. The watch had handled the investigation, and he had again been too busy with other affairs to follow the case. Now, two years later, it was solved. In a very unlikely way, but solved nonetheless. No one was the wiser, for this answer just shoved more questions down the throats of everyone involved, but with the Chanastardhians so close, there wasn’t the time to dwell on these things.