by Ulff Lehmann
Drangar’s brooding mood made him doubt the man would even consider a woman, especially after he had torn apart the Chanastardhians. The acts of violence reminded him of the Cherkont Street murder, but not in the way they were executed; Hesmera had been cut to pieces. No, it was the sheer abandon of the act. Had Ralgon not managed to wrest control from the demon, not a single enemy would have left Ondalan. But if this sort of ferocity was something that had not happened before the murder, why had it occurred in Cherkont Street in the first place? Little Creek, Ralgon had mentioned the village, of how he had killed the people there. He had in no way indicated that the level of violence had been anything more than the slaying of villagers.
He watched the mercenary, tried to figure out what was going on. There was a connection to the demons; of that there was no doubt. The important questions were “Why” and “How.” His promise weighed more heavily now, but he was determined to see it through. Maybe this was because it gave him a chance to face Ethain and Ganaedor; perhaps it was merely the desire to do something that had nothing to do with great armies moving. He didn’t know, and if he was honest with himself, it mattered little. Not that he could relate with Ralgon, he doubted many could. It just felt right to help the man. He only hoped that the solution to this problem was within easy reach.
Supper was an easy affair, porridge, which the thirty or so Chanastardhians ate with much grumbling. Until now, no one had spoken more than a few words at a time. All this changed when Camran began to ladle out the gruel. Apparently, their new allies had seen more than their fill of the stuff. Even Lord Cahill grimaced. As Kildanor had expected, the only one to eat without any complaint or show of distaste was Drangar. The Chanastardhian to his right slumped down with a relieved sigh then elbowed him.
“Say, mate,” the man mumbled with full mouth, “what’s the deal with the chap?” He nodded toward the blankly staring mercenary.
He regarded the warrior and recalled him to be one of the four who had called the cavalry into an ambush. “What?” he asked, after swallowing a spoonful of porridge. The last thing he wanted was to make Drangar into a hero. Seeing the man’s curiosity, he wondered if it truly was only that or a part of some silly bet.
“What’s his troubles?” the older warrior pointed his spoon at Ralgon. “All that gloom and doom. And was that really blood all over his armor?”
The nearby conversations quieted down. Kildanor glanced about and saw that those Chanastardhians sitting close were watching and listening intently. He was about to answer, when Úistan Cahill spoke.
“Nothing like a good bloodbath in the morning, eh?” the nobleman said, his voice a perfect imitation of hardened veteran. A look at Sir Úistan was rewarded with a brief nod, and when his eyes wandered over to Ralgon he saw a slight, grateful smile play about the mercenary’s lips.
The Chanastardhians roared with laughter, while House Cahill’s retainers remained silent, their guarded looks going everywhere but at the mercenary. Even Sir Úistan, despite his apparent good humor, seemed more relieved than at ease. He didn’t blame the nobleman; the sights of the rampage had brought forth a loathing and terror he hadn’t felt in decades. There was something deeply disturbing about all this.
Soon the warmth spread farther from the fire, and Kildanor walked off to find a place to sleep. His boots and socks were thankfully dry once again, and even his gear, most importantly his bedroll, had lost most of the moisture. He was surprised when the footsteps that had followed him turned out to belong to the redheaded girl who had stayed close to the Cirrain woman most of the day. Whether she looked curious or annoyed was hard to tell this far from the fire. Shadows flickered off the walls, and with the flames in her back, he barely made out her face. For a long moment it seemed as if she would merely stand there and look at him, and then, finally, she broke the silence.
“What happened to his hair?”
He instantly knew whom she meant, and was surprised by the lack of disgust in her voice. All he could detect in those few words was interest. Apparently Drangar’s covert looks had not gone unnoticed. Opting for a variation of the truth, he said, “Went through flames to rescue the Lord Cahill’s wife and daughter.” It was quite close to what had really happened.
She must have sensed that there was more to it, which, given the others’ obvious discomfort, was quite easy to deduce. Her eyes narrowed, that much he saw in the shadows. “So why does everyone act like he’s a leper?”
He wished for better light, if only to gauge her intent. Surely rumors of what had passed between him and Ralgon had made their rounds, but the way she asked did in no way feel like the probing of a gossipmonger. Still, it was not for him to tell of things the mercenary kept to himself. “I can’t speak for him, young lady; ask him yourself if you must.”
“I tried, to strike up a conversation, that is. He barely replied. Said something along the lines of not wanting to involve any more people. Not in so many words, of course.”
The statement piqued his interest. Kildanor regarded the woman in earnest for the first time. She had long, curly red hair; her age was more difficult to guess. He had started to ignore signs of attractiveness over the years. There was no point in falling in love when the person of one’s desires and affections would grow old while he stayed young. She was pretty—Ralgon obviously had an eye for beauty—and there was somberness in her eyes he rarely saw in any but the most hardened of veterans.
“Well?” she asked.
For being so talkative in front of an audience this morning, Ralgon now wore his moodiness like a cloak. He smiled sadly, shook his head, and replied, “Have you seen the cairns? The ones outside of Ondalan?” Her head bobbed up and down. “He buried your countrymen there.”
“But that’s a decent thing to do,” she said perplexed.
“Well…” He paused. “What’s your name?” In all this he had forgotten what little remained of his etiquette. The few women he socialized with in the Palace had all known him for ages, Scales, many of them were guardsmen’s children that he had known him since they were little. “I’m…”
“Lord Kildanor, Chosen of Lesganagh,” she finished for him. “Gwennaith of House Keelan.”
“Never was a lord,” he said. “Kildanor will suffice.”
She nodded. “Everyone calls me Gwen.”
“Well, then, Gwen. It was decent of him, but I doubt he did it because it’s your tradition.” He paused, looked over to the fire. Drangar still stared into the flames. “He wanted to bury memories, I think.” Not that the gesture helped much, but speaking silently, he added, “He killed most of them.”
He could almost see her eyes grow wide, disbelief evident in her voice. “You’re joking.”
“No, and the way he killed was…” he searched for the right word “… frightening.”
“That’s why he’s alone then?” A trace of concern seeped into her voice, and he was unsure whether it was for the man or the situation. He remained silent, spreading his bedroll. “Thank you,” she finally said and left.
He watched her as she went to the Cirrain woman’s side and talked. Ralgon seemed to take no notice, staring into the flames. Kildanor knew what it was like to feel alone in a crowd, the only place he did feel understood was with his friends, and the other Chosen. If the mercenary’s two-year-long isolation had not robbed him of his social skills already, this confinement within the group he had killed for surely did the job.
He slipped out of boots, into the blankets, and waited for sleep. If they were lucky, they would reach Dunthiochagh tomorrow. But somehow, he doubted luck was on their side.
CHAPTER 15
They had retrieved Ben’s remains shortly after the strike of the noon-gong. Living in the path of the enemy’s slingthrowers under the nightlong bombardment, they had noticed the sudden silence long before the news of the Chanastardhian retreat reached them. It felt unreal. Ben was dead.
Jesgar sat in front of the hearth. His mug of hot wine had gone cold long
before, and he stared into the sliver of flame still burning inside. Outside, like so many other dead, his brother’s corpse lay, snowflakes already piling high upon it. Someone was busy about the house. His mind blank, a bruise of pain, emptiness filling his heart, he barely recognized the sounds. The voice that spoke to him now sounded distant. Who was here with him? He didn’t know. All he saw was stupid, arrogant, know-it-all Ben taking the torch and stepping to the battlement, ignoring everyone’s protests and warnings. Then Ben thudding onto the stonework, two arrows lodged in his head. The shafts had broken, now it looked as if two snowy nails were stuck in his face.
Ben was dead, and he was left with… what? The smithy? Ben was dead, because of his damned pride. His brother had always seemed immortal, a towering mountain, immovable, rigid. Now he was merely rigid, not towering above anyone. He was out there, in the yard, two arrows lodged in his head. Was he cold? Maybe. He was out there in the snow, freezing. “Little brother,” he had always said, “when you go outside in the winter, always make sure you have your cloak with you.”
Jesgar stood, walked to the pegs in the wall, the ones for the coats. Gentle but firm hands gripped his shoulders, steered him back to his seat. Someone spoke; the voice sounded soothing. He didn’t hear what it said. The mug thrust into his hands was hot. More wine. Another log landed in the fire. Sparks flew, wood crackled, flames licked. It all seemed so pointless.
He tried to lift the hot beverage to his lips. His hands shook, and liquid spilled over, like it had before. That much he could remember. He’d had hot wine over his hands all day, ever since he had returned home. Home, the home where he had lived with his brother and—the name returned haltingly—Maire. A cloth came into view, wiped his hands clean. He should have felt the burn, but didn’t. He was hollow, his body, his mind, his heart. Ben was dead.
And he had never had the time to really tell him how much he loved him. Now he was outside, lying in the snow, two arrow shafts sticking out of his snowed-over forehead. Now it was too late to tell him anything.
Someone—Maire, he forcefully reminded himself—held the mug to his lips. He drank. For the first time the liquid that penetrated his mouth did not taste like ashes. His eyes left the flickering flames, found her face. She looked weary, as if she had cried a lot. She had lost her husband, he realized. She was the only family he had left, and the thought made him understand why she seemed so exhausted.
Maire hadn’t slept either; she had stayed with him, taken care of him while suppressing her pain. Now, mingling with the misery he already felt was guilt at having been the one to be cared for. He was an adult, a man, he reminded himself. It was his duty to give comfort to his sister-in-law, not the other way around.
She was still holding the mug to his lips, as if he were a child. Catching her eyes with his, he lifted his hands to hers and took the drink away. At that moment it seemed as if life not only returned to him, but to her as well. “My fingers are raw,” she mumbled, showing him her right hand. “Too many arrows,” she explained.
His confusion must have shown, for Maire frowned then slapped him across the back of his head. “Get up and make yourself useful,” she grumbled. “I’ve spent too much time mothering you.” A coat was thrust into his hands, and a bag of coins. “Your brother and I didn’t plan it this way. We should’ve been old and wrinkly. We put the money aside, for the funeral.” He gasped, but she spoke on, “Go to the cemetery in the noble district, the Deathmask knows what to do.”
“You planned all this?” Jesgar finally managed to stammer, still holding cloak and purse, not moving an inch.
“Of course we did,” Maire replied. “Your brother may have been a thickheaded oaf on numerous occasions, but he was no fool.” Now he saw that underneath all her furious actions, grief lurked and stabbed at her. “Listen,” she continued, drawing a deep breath. “We all die, Ben knew that as well as I do, and you should. We prepared for it, started preparing for it when your da died.” She took the cloak from his hands and fastened it around his neck. Next, she pulled the hood up. “It’s snowing like the heavens got nothing better to do, so you get there now before we are all snowed in. Take the corpse with you, on a wheelbarrow. Tell the Deathmask not to wait; we don’t want much fuss be made about it.” Beneath all this determination he heard her misery. “All’s been arranged.”
Instead of obeying his instincts, which told him to embrace Maire, Jesgar nodded and headed out. By now Bennath lay underneath a mound of white. As he closed the door, he thought he heard Maire sob.
Despite the ever-present snow piling high in the streets, hundreds of people hidden in layers of cloth were about. It seemed as if most of the wounded had already been cared for, because the only warriors he did see were ones who carried fallen comrades. Some had commandeered a wagon, with the dead piled high on top of it. But most were townsfolk. Women and children wandered the streets, searching for husband or father, their shouts muffled by the snow. If he saw familiar faces, he wasn’t aware of them. The load of his cart wasn’t heavy, not as heavy as he had always imagined Ben would be. Navigating the ruts and piles of snow was far more difficult than pushing his brother’s weight. In a way it felt surreal, the snow hid the dead, covered corpses so that finding them became hard work. It also hid the grizzly remnants of the engagement. Sure, there were caved in roofs and shattered walls, but the white blanket masked those who had been squashed underneath.
Once before he had seen what an avalanche could do to a body; when they had recovered the victim’s remains not one of the rescuers had been able to say if it had been man or beast. Maybe the families would be luckier never to find their missing loved ones. Knowing a father or husband was dead was bad enough, but seeing how he died… Jesgar halted in the middle of Dunth Street, right in front of the bridge to Miller’s Strip, and vomited.
In his mind he saw Ben’s head snapping back from the impact. He doubted his brother had felt any pain, or rather, he hoped he hadn’t. Ben was dead. Clearing his throat, he took up the handles of the wheelbarrow once more and resumed pushing. The footing atop the bridge was bad, so much slush that he slipped more than once. One of these stumbles dislodged the snow upon Ben’s head, and the shafts became visible once more, grim reminders of what had killed his brother. The Chanastardhians, Jesgar realized with a start, had only perpetrated the deed. His brother’s idiotic stubbornness had killed him in the end. Had Ben listened, he would still be alive.
The grief was still there, but now he looked at his older brother’s corpse differently. Sadness mixed with anger. Not at the Chanastardhians, but at Ben. With furious strength he pushed on.
Up here, on the northern shore of the Dunth, things looked less bleak than in the south. The Chanastardhian slingthrowers hadn’t reached as far as Trann Street to begin with, and whereas the Merchant District and the slums had suffered the assault, the situation here almost seemed normal. Of course, none of the businesses were open, and carts with wounded clogged the street, but every building stood intact, no splintered roofs, no missing walls, and not a single mother wailing over losing her children to the rocks that had torn their homes apart. There were some mourners, men and women who had lost somebody in the defense, but unlike their fellow citizens in the south they only had to grieve for those who had taken up arms and actually fought the invaders.
Jesgar scowled and pushed past a man, a trader by the look of it, who held on to his children, trying to not let them see the mangled corpse of a woman who could have only been his wife. The family didn’t even glance his way. A few yards down the street he regretted the expression he wore. He had not meant to offend or signify annoyance; he almost turned to apologize, and then realized nobody had noticed. Everybody was enveloped in their own grief.
Now that he had reached the paved roads near the cemetery, flashes of memories came back. Nothing definite, only the slight feeling he had been here before. This, according to Kildanor, was true, not that he remembered any of it. He had felt remorse for something he
had done while in thrall to another when it had first been revealed to him, now he felt nothing. Why should he? Whatever he had done had happened while another had pulled the strings. That the entire affair sounded pretty much like what this Drangar Ralgon had done two years ago, with the exception that he hadn’t butchered anybody, was the only thing he felt slightly queasy about. Kildanor and Ralgon probably had figured out the connection already.
Still, he realized as he approached the cemetery gates, the issue took his mind off Ben’s death, the corpse he was pushing through the city was reminder enough. His brother was dead. What was expected of him now? Ben had taken over the smithy when their da had died. Would he be forced to do the same? It felt somewhat disrespectful to think of the future while the body hadn’t yet been cremated, and still, it felt right. He had shed his tears. At least he thought he had on top of the wall, using Ben’s maul to beat his killers to pulp. Never before had he mourned for anyone, mainly because nobody he cared about had died until now. He didn’t even remember his father. By the time he had understood what death really meant, the man Ben had spoken of as “da” had been dead for most of his life. So, no, he knew not what it was like to grieve. Had Ben seen him atop the wall, beating back attacker after attacker? Had he approved? Was he even now sitting in the Halls of the Gods feasting and toasting to his brave little brother?
Jesgar didn’t feel valorous at all, he had beaten the brains out of many Chanastardhians, sure, but none of that really mattered. His brother was dead, and he would inherit the smithy and all the duties that came with it.
“I’ll take care of her,” he promised the motionless corpse. A smile crept onto his face as he imagined what Ben’s reaction to these words would have been like.