by Ulff Lehmann
Then she saw Nerran. He looked older. His eyes were sunken, his hair unkempt, and his clothes had the same shoddy look to them as the healer’s. Normally he would have been stomping his feet and bellowing at people, giving orders in his own special way. Now his indomitable spirit seemed almost buried by weariness. There was no zest in any of his commands, he merely pointed and nodded, barely saying a word. Why he was directing the effort and not one of Duasonh’s lackeys she did not know. Maybe there was too much to be done and too few commanders.
“Ah, Princess,” the Paladin said, some of his spirit returning to his voice, when she approached him. “Enjoyed a good few days of sleep?”
Guilt reared its head, and although some of her seeking refuge from the world after seeing Gail die a second time was a good enough excuse, she knew he was right. Taking shelter with Coimharrin had been running away from the pain. Instead, like Nerran and the others, she should have faced the matter head on. “I’m sorry,” she said, aware of how lame the reply sounded. “After seeing a spike driven into Gail’s heart, I needed to be alone.”
Nerran, again, looked very tired. “I understand, lass. Nothing wrong with that. Still, you should have informed me.” In all the turmoil, she had forgotten. He was many things to all of the Riders, voice of reason, boot of reason if need be, conscience, confidante, friend, but above all of that he was their leader. When she remained silent, he continued, “Everyone loses somebody in war, lass. You, above all the others, should know that, and know how to handle it.”
She bobbed her head. He was right. They had been in so many engagements, so many battles, yet they had made it out of most unscathed. Sure, a broken limb or a cut down comrade every once in a while, but never before had they lost so many.
Nerran regarded her steadily, and then, as if he had read her thoughts, he said, “You did the right thing there, ordering the charge. There were bound to be casualties, and still it was the best thing to do. If you hadn’t ordered it, the bastards would have taken the city.”
“No victory is free,” she mumbled, quoting the one phrase she hadn’t truly understood until now.
“Aye, that is it.”
“What can I do?”
“Uphold some stuff, I daresay,” he replied, his eyes flickering a little with the old fire. Her confusion must have shown, because he added, “Get on your horse, patrol the streets, see that nobody steals. Gavyn and a few others are already out there, supporting the watch, badly undermanned the lot. Bust some heads if you have to.”
“And you? You look tired.”
“I am bloody tired, wish someone would take charge around here, but Cumaill’s up in his rooms with some engineers already busy expanding our defenses.”
“Best to be prepared for their return, eh?”
“Aye, they will return, and every week we are able to reinforce the defenses is a month we can withstand them.”
“One lucky shot ruptured our line,” she said, feeling once more the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. She had caused Gail’s, Kyleigh’s, Edmonh’s and so many other deaths.
“Well, you can’t prepare against chance, but with so much rubble in Shadowpass we have a decent supply of ammunition for the ’throwers. Now, off with you.”
Again, the old cockiness returned to his voice, and for a moment a smirk played across his lips. It vanished almost instantly as he ordered a couple of servants to fetch fresh linen for bandages. Rhea caught the woman Caretaker nodding her thanks to Nerran. Then he cast a brief look at her, and said, “What the Scales are you waiting for, Princess? A Royal decree? Get your ass out of here!”
The salute she gave came almost instinctively. He slapped her rear as she turned and hurried away, and she heard him grumbling “daft nobility” as she reached the door.
At first the watchmen’s justice shocked her when they executed a fleeing looter without a trial. But as the day ended and night began to darken the streets, she was doing the same thing. Mere theft would have resulted in a formal hearing and judging at a court, but looting a partially destroyed house was a different matter, and Baron Duasonh’s standing order was to prevent it at all costs. By dusk she had killed half a dozen scavengers. It mattered not that some of them actually seemed in dire need of food and clothing; with Eanaigh’s temple under new leadership these vagrants could have asked, and received, either of these from the Caretakers. Despair was no excuse, and justice was equal. That others she killed belonged to the freeborn craftsmen and merchants who did not need what they had stolen made the killing even more satisfying, for it showed the people that here justice struck down everyone, and position made no difference.
As an Upholder, Rhea had seen it all before, noblemen ignoring Lawspeakers and getting away with it. Scales, the recent change in Eanaigh’s church had revealed the depth of corruption even within the clergy. She wondered if the same held true for Lliania’s church. The goddess did not interfere; she didn’t have to, for in the end, on the Bailey Majestic, Her Scales would judge everyone. Unfortunately, this was little comfort to all of those who suffered under the heels of people who used and abused them at their leisure. The Scales of Justice never stopped people who just didn’t give a damn, even if their souls were destined to be spittoons and the like. She shuddered at the thought, and then drove her blade into the back of another looter, a richly dressed man. In a way she enjoyed this way of meeting out justice, it was refreshingly simple, as laws in general were supposed to be.
How long ago the dusk-gong had rung? She had no idea. It didn’t matter; too much time had she spent in complacency while Nerran and many others had remained awake, busy with righting the city. The only thing she could do was to follow their example and make up for her mistake. She pulled the cloak tight; it was getting colder again. Fog wafted through the streets. This near to the river she was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier. Now she found herself spotting shapes inside the banks of mist, and her sword remained unsheathed, its blade bare across her legs, ready to attack or defend.
She wasn’t spooked easily, but this near to where so many people had died half a week ago souls, against all common knowledge, could still linger. It was a rare soul Jainagath forgot, the god was far too thorough, but as Coimharrin had related with the story of Caitrin Ralchanh’s son, it was not impossible. Why Cat had lingered for so long was an entirely different matter, it merely proved spirits roamed the world, eluding the Death-God’s guiding hand.
Another reason for the readied weapon was that now, under cover of darkness, more ruthless denizens stalked the night. The few patrols of watchmen she passed also had their weapons in hand. Some carried lamps, but in the fog the illumination was almost useless.
The horse she sat on was new, they hadn’t bonded, and even though the beast was steady, she missed Talaen. What was this animal’s name? She couldn’t recall, wasn’t even sure the stable hand had told her. The gelding was bigger, heavier, and its horseshoes clacked on the cobblestones so loudly that she was certain any looter could hear her from half a mile away. Before her lay the Hill’s Road-Dunth Street intersection. The fog was even thicker here, and since the attack had destroyed nothing this far north, she decided to head back south. There were no half-ruined houses to loot in this area. Halmond Street and the western slums had taken most of the punishment.
The gelding turned on the slightest pressure of her thigh, surprising her with its agility. Maybe she would keep it. She didn’t know just yet, and there were more important things to worry about.
Down Hill’s Road they went.
“With all this fog and the bloody cold, one could truly slice the air,” she muttered. “Don’t you agree?” Most of the Riders spoke to their horses, and she was no exception. The talks she and Talaen had held never seemed one-sided; the mare had responded, neighing or snorting in accordance. This horse remained calm, but she could detect the swivel of its ears, as if it was paying attention. Maybe this one was her new companion after all. “Bloody cold,” she sai
d. She tightened her cloak once more, and then straightened.
The clacking of horseshoes had faded, and they were standing in the fog, unmoving. She saw the gelding’s ears twitching, alert. Had the horse sensed something she had missed? A snort brought forth a billowing cloud of mist that mingled with the rest of the haze. Off to her right something crashed to the ground. Her gloved hand clenched around the sword’s grip, and her steed stamped the cobble nervously. The meow that followed sent a wave of relief through her, and the charger relaxed as well.
Then, just as she was about to spur on, a figure coalesced in the white in front of her. Rhea had no other word for it. One moment the street was empty, the next the mists took on the shape of a person. Again, she gripped the sword, defense foremost on her mind. The horse must have sensed her anxiety even though it did not shy away from the apparition. Some part of her mind not occupied with this being of vapor wondered why the gelding didn’t react to the hazy figure. The thing stood motionless, a tall, human-shaped pillar of smoke.
She had heard of spirits—who hadn’t?—restless souls that had eluded Jainagath, but never before had she seen one. Not that she had given the tales of old midwives and grizzled veterans much thought. Now, here before her, a spirit had formed. Maybe, she hoped, it was Gail come to impart some knowledge. Some ghosts were malevolent, come to haunt the living until some past wrong had being righted. Was it one of those she had killed three days ago? The fight had been just, but maybe one of her victims thought his death unfair.
Now the gelding sensed something was wrong. It nickered softly. A pat on its neck reassured the animal. The misty figure remained still, as if waiting on something.
“Hello?” Rhea called out, trying not to sound too alarmed. It wouldn’t do to have more people join her observing a swirling mass of fog.
To her surprise the spirit lifted a smoke-filled arm, beckoning her close. It didn’t seem hostile, but as long as one stood outside the marshland it looked harmless, she reasoned. Some of the tales the older folk told spoke of the vindictiveness of vengeful souls, and she was not about to put her trust in someone who eluded the will of the Gods.
Again, it waved its hand, maybe even tapping what could have passed for a foot. An impatient ghost? Never before had she heard of such a thing. Once a soul had eluded Jainagath successfully it was free to roam, until a Deathmask brought it down. “Come.” The word sounded so faint that she doubted she had truly heard it. “Princess, please,” the voice, as fleeting and insubstantial as the fog, pleaded, using the unloved title with a reverence she hadn’t encountered in decades.
“What are you?” Rhea asked.
“Please,” the form repeated. At least she thought it was the ghost talking. A quick look about showed she was alone.
Reluctantly she dismounted, taking care that her bare sword did not nick the gelding. For a moment the charger seemed unsure, neighing softly. She patted its flank then let go of the reins. The animal remained. Slowly, she stepped closer.
A yard away from the apparition, Rhea thought she was able to discern features in the pillar of fog. A woman, she noted, surprised. And there was something about her features she recognized, just barely. “What do you want?” she asked. “And how come you know me?”
“Look closer,” the spirit said. And she did. The mist seemed to solidify, at least for an instant. But that heartbeat sufficed. She barely remembered the face, had hardly seen the woman back at court. Rhea had been younger than she, and of royal blood. But the features of Amhlaidh Ralchanh, her father’s Justiciar, were unmistakable. “You must help him, I beg you, Princess.”
Then the image was gone.
Rhea stood, staring at the spot which only moments before had held the image of Caitrin Ralchanh. Whom she was supposed to help was plain. The why and how were different matters.
CHAPTER 19
Gaedhor had been right in his assessment that something was wrong in the Eye of Traksor. Sequestered, Lloreanthoran had been unable to talk to either the Knight Protector or Priest High Darlontor. Not to mention that he had heard no news regarding the woman Kevonna.
The cell they had given him truly deserved the name. A stark place, its only amenities were a straw-mattress bed and a small iron oven providing a minimum of heat. He was a prisoner in all but name.
How had it come to this? The Lightbringer had assured him the Sons of Traksor held the key to finding the instruments of dread the Aerant C’lain had held for millennia. Why then did the very same people incarcerate him? Twice a day the addled leader—there was no other way to describe Darlontor—paid him a visit, brought food and books. Twice a day the door was unlocked and shut again. It was for his protection, the Priest High claimed, but if the measures protected anyone it was the human.
The Eye of Traksor wasn’t dead to the spiritworld; it just was incomparably harder to enter the realm of smoke. He still shuddered at the memory of icicle lances perforating his soul. His one journey outside his body had yielded information that put his situation into perspective. The Sons were divided, with each faction suspiciously guarding their territory as it was. He couldn’t guess what had shattered the unity, and even the few attempts to get answers from Darlontor had resulted in nothing but determined silence and a shake of the head.
What was the human waiting for?
Much like the spiritworld, his magic seemed hampered, similar to what had happened in Machlon. It was as if all possibility, all chance had been torn away from this spot of land and replaced with fact. How this came to be, he had no idea. Gaedhor had never explained it, and lacking anyone to provide solutions he had stopped speculating.
The books brought to him were bare of any useful information, although the repeated mention of Traksor’s last battle in the foothills of the Kumeen Mountains at least indicated the Tomes of Darkness and the Stone of Blood could be found there. But even this assumption was anything but definite. In a place like this, formed from solid fact, he would have expected to find accurate answers.
Lesganagh’s Orb stood high above the trees when a key rattled inside the door’s lock. He looked up from the book, another pointless piece of propaganda that yielded as much information as its predecessors. Feeding time was in the morning and evening so this interruption came as a surprise. The straw-mattress offered a better seat than the floor and so he occupied his usual position facing the exit.
Prepared for anything, he waited for the unexpected visitor to enter, and was surprised to see Darlontor, the man’s face haunted.
“Come to entertain your guest?” His voice was laced with sarcasm, stressing the last word, putting as much venom into it as possible.
“I apologize,” the other replied, closing the door.
“A little late for that. How long have you kept me here? Two weeks? Longer?” His kind enjoyed seeing an opponent squirm, and though he detested the jovial brutality of his race, seeing the Priest High’s reaction gave him a moment of pleasure. He’d had days to ponder the conundrum of his imprisonment. For so long, anger had warred with the sense of urgency to stop the demonic threat that it had lost its fire. In the end, like in Graigh D’nar, he had accepted captivity as merely another turn his life had taken.
“I need your help,” Darlontor said.
An amused snort escaped before he could compose himself. “I came here to offer it, and you locked me away. Now you ask me for the same.”
“I did what I thought necessary.”
“For whom?” The pleasure of seeing the human squirm returned once again.
“The order is divided, and your presence here might have tipped the balance toward an irreversible situation.”
Lloreanthoran put the book away and waited.
Clenching and relaxing his hands, the Son of Traksor’s leader’s eyes darted about the room. Was it really that hard for him to speak the truth? Finally, he said, “We have always been protectors, not warriors, living under the guise of religion to perform our duty. Some of us believe we need to be more
aggressive, striking at the heart of the enemy.”
“So, you do know where to find them?” he interrupted.
“Yes and no.” The answer was evasive. “But even if we struck, victory could not be assured.”
“It never is.” He sensed there was more to it than that, would have probed and prodded, but Darlontor seemed on the verge of breaking and he had no intention of pushing the man over the edge.
“Another faction has bought into the illusion of us having been appointed by the Lord of Sun and War. They see it their sacred duty to blaze through anyone and anything that opposes us.” The Priest High paused, balled hands into fists and then looked him straight in the eye. “You want the information where to find the demonologists’ stronghold even though you will most likely fail to retrieve that which you seek?”
“Failure is not an option.”
“You failed to escape this room,” Darlontor pointed out. “The enemy’s fortress is worse.” He spread his arms, gesturing at the entire compound surrounding them.
“How can I beat this magic? It is magic, isn’t it?”
Nodding, the human replied, “We’ll teach you.”
Lloreanthoran was about to ask when they would start when Darlontor added, “After you have done something for me.”
“And what is that?”