Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  Was she really that dense? All she saw was a man she knew was a killer trying to knit. “There’s nothing wrong with him,” she retorted.

  “His eyes, woman!” He smacked the back of her head. Their familiarity was such that she hardly noticed. Then, after scrutinizing the scene for a while, she thought she saw what Paddy was referring to. There was hurt, fear, and something Anne couldn’t quite pin down. Even as he tried to listen and learn, and Gwen seemed to make every sort of effort to stay near him and touch him, it looked as if he was shirking away, if not physically, then at least emotionally.

  “Gods,” she whispered.

  “As perceptive as a mole,” Paddy repeated. “Even our allies see the way he suffers. They still worry, so do I for that matter. And who pray wouldn’t? You, oh warleader, are so vigilant, see a threat in every bloody thing, but you have no idea what the people around you feel, do you? Scales, is your head made of bricks, or are you so involved with your own bullshit that you don’t see what others are going through?”

  This statement gave her pause. She considered. Of course, she knew what Alayn or Natheira were going through, and then she remembered the row a few weeks prior to their departure. Natheira had quarreled with her husband; supposedly he had been cheating on her. Everyone had proclaimed they had seen it coming, that Natheira had been moody and distraught for a while. The only person who apparently had not noticed the other woman’s temper had been she. Was she really so self-involved she hardly noticed the troubles of those around her?

  “He’s been trying to ease his mind,” Paddy said, breaking the silence. She looked at him, and he continued, “I don’t know how many have noticed, but there’s a calm in his eyes whenever he runs the whetstone down a blade.” She followed his gaze to the odd couple sitting engrossed at the other side of the cave. Ralgon was smiling, and for the briefest of moments the worried, haunted look vanished. Then as he turned to face Gwen, something like longing flashed in his eyes, and his mood turned somber again. “One thing’s for sure,” her cousin muttered. “I wouldn’t want to tread in his boots, even for a heartbeat. Whatever is troubling him, whatever is struggling inside of him to get out, no matter how stunning your squire is, I wouldn’t want to be in his place.”

  Anne watched them a moment longer, realizing for the first time how little she knew of the world and the people living in it. Was that because of her stubbornness, she wondered. Her sisters were both ladies and warriors, aristocratic even when they drove a spear through an enemy, but she, she was more akin to Paddy and Dubhan, both in demeanor and attitude. Or so she had thought. Obviously, her cousin was more apt at reading people than she had ever been. What about her father? Was he as self-involved as she? Had she inherited this trait from him?

  A sudden desire to walk overcame her. With a grunt she stood. Paddy made to rise as well. She shook her head. “Stay. I need to be alone for a spell.” Without waiting on his reply, she left.

  In the best of times the cave was cramped. Now, with her tenth round along the walls, Anne felt caged. She was on the return trip to where her walk had started, passing some of Lord Cahill’s men-at-arms once again. For the first few circuits they had watched her with interest. Interest soon turned to routine, and now they were once more engrossed in their game of dice. She knew some of them by name, yet she was in no mood to strike up a conversation.

  Was she really as ignorant as Paddy had put to her? She knew she paid attention to the people around her. Everyone knew she cared for them, didn’t they? Again, she passed Dubhan who sat forlornly on a ledge near the fire. He cradled something in his hands, eyes fixed on empty air.

  She looked into the horses’ cave. All quiet there. The Danastaerian horse master, Bhaidin, knew his job, and aside from the a few bite marks there had been little trouble with the animals. Surprising, she thought. There were at least three stallions in this cramped herd, but with the rationing of feed and Bhaidin’s force of personality—not to mention his whip—even Paddy’s Landslide was behaving.

  Again, she passed the dicers, approached Dubhan once more, and stopped, realizing her cousin was right; she paid little attention to individuals. Her sudden halt had drawn a few surprised looks, and then everything went on as before. Her old weapons-master didn’t notice her as she approached to take a peek at the thing he held. It was a toy horse, lovingly detailed. Someone had gone through the trouble to accentuate mane and tail with knife strokes so fine it appeared to be running against the wind. His hands, Anne realized for the first time, were covered with scars, most of which had not been made by an errant sword. Little nicks dominated the landscape of his palms. He had carved the toy! Why hadn’t she known about this before?

  The answer was as painful as it was simple: because she was locked in her own world, too focused on issues most people never concerned themselves with. She knew what kind of wine Lord Gallinnor preferred, and how many bales of wool went to Herascor each year. Scales, she even knew the names of every noble House, from those who merely lorded over the small bors, to all those residing in the cors. But although she lived for the fight alongside House Cirrain’s warriors, she lived apart from them. She didn’t even know if Dubhan had family.

  He must have noticed her, for he turned and gave her a toothy grin. “Lassie, what you staring at?” he asked, sounding as cheerful as ever.

  Now, conscious of her lack of awareness toward others, Anne waited with her response. Dubhan maintained his grin for a moment longer then glanced at the carving once more. “Won’t do yet, eyes need to be livelier,” he muttered and drew a pouch from his pack. She thought she detected a note of sadness in his eyes as he opened the case and selected one of the knives arrayed within. Fascinated, she watched her old teacher at blade-work so different from his usual craft. There was a fierceness about him whittling away she had never seen in him before.

  Suddenly he stopped and looked up at her. “Something you want of me, lassie?”

  Embarrassed, and unsure of what to say, she replied, “If it stays this way we’ll soon be drowning in dung.”

  His eyes narrowed and he scratched his whiskers with the knife hilt. “Girl, I’ve known you since you were pissing your pants,” he said with the gentle gruffness that had enchanted her ever since she was a child. “Spill it!”

  “I…” She stopped, ashamed.

  “Come on, never knew you being lost for words.”

  “I didn’t know you did…” Again, she faltered.

  “This?” He held up both knife and horse. “Oh, well, sure you don’t remember, made you that little knight doll when you were wee.” He cleared his throat. “Well, actually your da asked me to make the thing. Said you were very happy.”

  Her face must have shown her wonder. “I didn’t know.”

  “You got all them lordly things to worry about, or so your ma and grandma always insisted on. After you were four or so your ma ordered us to return you to the Hall should you show up at our place again. You loved it.”

  “Our place?” she echoed dully. Just how long had Dubhan known her? She had always enjoyed his easy familiarity without realizing there was more to it than that he was her da’s best warrior and oldest living friend.

  “Of course, you were fast friends with our lass, Briga” he explained. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Oh, you don’t remember Briga, how could you, you were barely five when she left us.” The look on his face explained better than any dozen words what he really meant. And she hadn’t known, did not remember. “Always had lots of fun, Briga and you. Always scampered off to cause mayhem.” Dubhan looked from her to the horse and fell silent.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be, lassie,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “Been a score of years since she left, how could you remember? Your ma always insisted on you being raised a lady. As if!” He forced a laugh. “You never were lady-stuff to begin with. We knew it, your da knew it, and somewhere deep down your ma must’ve felt it also.” He held the horse up.
“Her birthday, today,” Dubhan explained. “She was spring’s child.”

  Yes, they had always been comrades, she and the warriors, but it had never been a deep friendship. Even though she was outside the grasp of her mother the line had been drawn early. Not that she had been aware of it in the first place. In a way she was as remote as her ma.

  Seeing Dubhan this sad struck a chord within her, and on impulse she knelt next to her old teacher and embraced him. She didn’t know what else to do. His sobs, however, told her the gesture was appreciated.

  The moment of intimacy, a thing she had until now never considered doing—not even with her father, in fact she hadn’t thought an ox of a man like Dubhan capable of feeling thus—was shattered by a commotion from the cave mouth. In her arms Dubhan straightened, one of his strong arms left her side, likely to wipe his face clean of tears. Anne pulled back. It was awkward, holding anyone like that. All her life she had been taught her position, leader, warrior, never a confidante or friend, not even to her parents.

  As she turned to see what the noise was all about, the dicers abandoned their game and streamed forward. Even Gwen and Ralgon, who had been finishing the row they had begun. Everyone, it seemed, was heading for the exit. Comforting Dubhan had drawn her attention away from her surroundings, and for a moment she worried that this could be seen as weakness, but when a group led by Connar passed her, their glances spoke of companionship, not scorn.

  Daylight shimmered into the cavern, and those in the fore were already busy digging, pressing blocks of cutout hard snow into the hands of those behind them. Even through the small opening she could tell the snowstorm had ended.

  “Not a bloody day too soon,” someone muttered beside her.

  She turned and saw Ralgon, face somber, in his hands still wool and needles, with Gwen standing beside him. For a moment she was tempted to order her squire to join the workers, but then recalled what Paddy had said. Ralgon seemed less grim, and having him calm would work wonders on everyone else’s morale, hers included. Instead, she gave Gwen a brief nod, and headed to join the line of people piling snow inside the cave. To her surprise the ones in the front, chopping out blocks of snow, were the Lords Kildanor and Cahill. They were spurring each other on, and with this game of trading well-meant barbs and insults they encouraged those behind them to work just as hard.

  She joined the line and the teasing, though here in the back, it was mostly grunting. It seemed that every other heartbeat a block of packed snow was thrust into her hands, and in moments she had lost all feeling in her fingers. During a short respite someone thrust a pair of gloves into her shaking hands, and when she looked up at her benefactor, she saw it was Ralgon. She hadn’t thought this killer was capable of such kindness.

  Ralgon caught her look, gave a curt nod, and went on, handing out gloves to everyone in line. How and where he had got the garments was a mystery easily solved when she put them on. They didn’t fit, and from the chuckles of consternation along the line she knew that none of the others matched either. A quick glance about was all she had before the next block was thrust into her still freezing but now thankfully covered hands. It was enough to show that every pack had been opened. And, to her surprise, Gwen passed out gloves on the other side of the line. Obviously Ralgon didn’t care much about privacy when it came to getting a job done. Neither the Danastaerians nor her own people disagreed, although there were a few good-natured mutterings.

  Then, as more snow piled into the cave, she spotted the unequal pair repacking the upended containers. Obviously Ralgon thought it best to move out as quickly as possible. Anne found it hard to disagree. At the beginning of the line, as the insults between Sir Úistan and the Chosen gained in volume, the speed of the barbs matched the pace of the snow removal. More sunlight streamed in, a quick glance to her right revealed a huge pile of melting snow. Just how much farther was there to dig? But the more important question was: how deep was the snow on the way to Dunthiochagh?

  By the time the trench was finished, sunset was near. Trench was an apt name for the corridor they had dug. The wind had piled most snow against the mountains, and here, according to the Danastaerian Dewayn, the Shadowpeaks did not suffer from the Phoenix Wizard broken enchantment. Had the cavern been farther west, they would most likely have drowned. Frozen hands, Anne decided, were preferable to that.

  An exhausted Kildanor stumbled her way. “Gods, I need new hands,” he mumbled through chattering teeth.

  From behind him she heard Lord Cahill quip, “Or some Broggainh, is that too much to ask for?”

  “How’s that going to help my hands?” Kildanor asked.

  “It don’t, but it’ll help you forget ’em while we chisel them off of you,” Cahill retorted. How the two kept their spirits this high, Anne didn’t understand, her hands had never felt colder, even with the gloves. “Oh, I see you have packed and saddled the horses, Ralgon.”

  “Also made some tea, milord,” sounded a voice from deeper inside the cave. “Well, hot water with some leafs, no idea what it will taste like, but at least it’s hot.”

  “And not porridge,” the Chosen added.

  “Well done, son,” Cahill grunted. “You there, lass, ladle it out if you please, and then we’ll finally be gone from this dismal place.”

  “Don’t like stables, milord?” Kildanor muttered.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Can’t blame you. We could put our hands in the dung, though, mighty warm that shit.”

  “Kildanor, with all due respect, your brain’s in your hands and frozen right alongside your fingers.”

  Some of the others groaned, while others snorted, even Anne couldn’t hide her amusement. The only person unaffected by the banter was Ralgon, who proceeded to lead the horses out. Strangely enough, he seemed to be helped by his own charger. Why such a man owned a white stallion, obviously a horse meant for battle, was beyond her. She pictured the blood spraying the animal’s coat and wondered how in the gods’ names the man had kept the fur clean.

  Gwen interrupted her musings by holding out a steaming mug that must already have passed through a good dozen hands. Anne drank greedily. It was, as Ralgon had predicted, mostly water, but it was hot and she had to restrain herself from putting her hands into the kettle standing on the stones beside the fire.

  Next, a bottle of strong-smelling liquor was thrust into her hands, accompanied by Lord Cahill’s firm command to drink, which she did without wondering what the contents really were. A moment later, hacking and coughing as if her lungs were on fire, she regretted that decision. Beside her, Kildanor, bottle in hand, gave her an encouraging wink. “Broggagh’s beloved that is,” he explained. “Triple stilled, made from all sorts of grain. Good, eh? Makes you realize you live.”

  She wanted to tell him they had similar brandy in the highlands, but her throat still burned. So, the only reply she could think of was a glare, which made the Chosen laugh all the louder.

  “Pass it along, man!” someone yelled, and the Chosen, unfazed by the man’s tone, handed the bottle to the nearest person.

  It was Paddy. He took a sip, shuddered, and passed the container on. “Good stuff,” he said a coughing breath later.

  The only one of her warriors who seemingly had no problem with the brew was Dubhan. Those who had drunk their share of tea and Broggainh were ushered out, and, although the air had cleared considerably with the opening, the first breath she took outside seemed fresher than anything she had tasted before. That her clothes smelled rank bothered her little, the past few days had forced her to lose even the last of her inhibitions. People, Genice had remarked on the second day, died of cold, never of odor.

  Then, finally, they were in the saddle, and riding single file, trotted off toward Dunthiochagh. Anne breathed a silent prayer, thanking the gods. She couldn’t see her companions’ faces, but from their mutterings she knew they were giving thanks as well. Even grim Drangar Ralgon, his voice harsher than most, grumbled his gratitude. Somehow, thou
gh, it seemed halfhearted, as if he wasn’t really sure he had anything to be thankful for.

  CHAPTER 18

  The snowstorm had not halted activity within the Palace. Rhea had spent most of the time with Coimharrin. The old Upholder didn’t mind the company, even if it meant feeding an extra mouth. Payment for services rendered upon a finished deal was quite good, depending on the deal, and as such Coimharrin’s larder had been well filled. But when rationing had begun a few weeks ago, he had donated most foodstuffs to the city at large, so Rhea grew quite aware of the strain she put on her colleague. Still, the Upholder insisted her mouth wasn’t just there for him to fill, but also for him to talk to. His daughter Morwyn, as fine company as she was, was unable to reminisce about the past. Rhea filled that void, and on the second evening after the Chanastardhians had retreated, the two priests had shared a bottle of mead and their memories of Haldain. At first Morwyn had resented it, but the more anecdotes he told the more she began to enjoy herself.

  Now, Rhea stood in the inner bailey, blinking against the bright glare of the sun reflected in the all-present snow. The lull the storm had created over the city had passed, and now warriors and craftsmen milled about the courtyard in seeming chaos. Here and there wardens and other supervisors directed people who acted as if they already knew what to do and obeyed with grunts and the occasional grumble.

  As she watched, columns of workers, armed with shovels, filed past her out of the enclosed space. Their bearing hinted at warriors sent to tasks well beneath them, and she recalled her father mentioning the nature of idle hands and what would happen if people trained for battle were left with nothing to do. In all likelihood Baron Duasonh had given the order, though it could have been Nerran. Her interest waned as quickly as the cold seeped through her coat, and she hurried into the Palace where things seemed just as chaotic.

  The entrance hall was a bustle of bodies and voices going this way and that. She recognized the Caretaker who had ended Gail’s life. The woman looked as if she had barely slept and still wore the clothes of three days ago. She must have noticed her, for she halted running a blood-caked hand through her equally dirty hair and nodded her head in greeting. Rhea replied in kind, wondering again how insistent Eanaigh’s priests usually were when it came to somebody else’s hygiene, but themselves being so blatantly careless even when dealing with their own patients. Briog had mentioned something about the goddess’s protection, that a Caretaker could neither receive nor transmit a disease while taking care of the sick and wounded. Ironically enough, this explanation had been followed by Briog catching a cold. She smiled at the memory.