Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  “No,” Rhea interrupted the tirade. “No, they don’t take the memories.”

  “What do you know, Princess? Whom do you…?” He never finished the sentence. Rhea’s hand flashed forward, and the slap echoed through the taproom.

  “Don’t you bloody dare,” she snarled. “Now get your carcass out of here and to the nobles’ cemetery, the only place suited for those we have lost.”

  “You killed…” again Nerran’s insult was halted, this time by Briog. The Rider was even less gentle about hitting his leader.

  “Shut your mouth,” Briog said.

  Outside, the first thing they did was dunk Nerran into a pile of snow for a few heartbeats. That woke him and drove some of the booze out. Then they marched to the cemetery. Initially, Kildanor had pondered the wisdom of attending the ceremony. He was no Rider, but the more Nerran sobered up the more he seemed to depend on him. The Paladin clung to him, his breath still reeking of mead and ale.

  “How do you deal with it?” Nerran slurred.

  “Deal with what?”

  “All the death.”

  He shrugged. What could he say that was not filled with regret? No one, except his fellow Chosen, knew what it felt like to see loved ones grow old and die while one stayed young. That was the main reason that they all avoided relationships; there was no point. People one loved grew old, feeble, and died. It didn’t matter if it was another Chosen, for the offspring would not be one of them. He had witnessed one such relationship and seen it end when the children themselves had become grandparents while their own parents were as healthy as their now adult grandchildren. Utter misery, it was nothing more. Sure, physicality was something they all enjoyed, but emotional attachment? No. “We live on,” he finally said.

  “And?”

  “And nothing, we live on, and that’s that.”

  “Pretty bleak, eh?” Nerran coughed.

  Kildanor remained silent, for what could he answer? There was nothing to add. Life as a Chosen was pretty bleak. It was not a new thought; he and Galen had discussed this decades ago. To be reminded of it now, by a drunken Paladin no less, was painful enough. “Aye,” he finally said. “Pretty bleak.”

  They arrived at the cemetery. The Deathmask stood in front of the gate, unmoving, as if it had expected them.

  “Let us begin,” the priest of Jainagath said with a bow.

  CHAPTER 34

  Ever since Dalgor’s return, the fronts had hardened. The Eye was divided, but Darlontor’s faction was the weakest. And he wasn’t really sure what he defended. The elf had found Dalgor. In a way he was glad his nephew was alive, but his return had not mended the rifts. Arawn, Dalgor, and their supporters demanded the assault on the Kumeens, while Gryffor’s faction kept celebrating the delusion of faith, demanding not only Drangar’s death but also Dalgor’s. They had struck against the recovering man and had lost. Now they huddled in their false chapel, praying, plotting. And in the middle were Darlontor’s bunch of feeble old men and women. Soon Gaedhor would bring the refugees here, and when that happened, things were bound to get ugly.

  His rank as Priest High was no help at all. Neither side listened to his call for unity. Maybe he had anticipated that his nephew’s return would not heal the wounds, he did not remember, but now as always, it seemed, it was too late. Thank the gods, the elf was growing in power so quickly he now was feared by those willing to expand the arguments into full-fledged skirmishes. After a failed attempt on Dalgor’s life, there had been brawls, even some wounded, Lloreanthoran’s presence prevented either of the two sides from assaulting the other. Though he had no doubt that there would eventually be open warfare.

  The few Sons loyal to Darlontor maintained a steady presence at the gatehouse, thus insuring that everyone could come and go as wanted. Their tenuous hold on the Eye’s sole entrance, and their determination to only allow one side or the other to pass, kept them from solving their disagreements outside. Sooner or later, he knew, weapons and blood would be unleashed, and then any semblance of unity would irrevocably be clubbed to pieces. And there was nothing he could do.

  Maybe he should have stopped the executions of failures when it all had started. Maybe he should have treated Dalgor more kindly. Maybe he should have been a better example to all the others. Maybe he should have tempered his anger with wisdom. The thoughts that had been nagging him for the better part of the past two years came back. Not that they had ever really left. Had he been honest with himself that… No! This was a road he would fight walking forever. The situation was not his fault.

  Outside, in the courtyard, several Sons traded insults. A welcome distraction, he thought sarcastically. Everything that could keep his mind away from the error that had spawned all the others was welcome. Scales, Darlontor would have greeted a melee with higher spirits than the place his thoughts were leading him to.

  He wished Cat had never left him. At least he would have had a loving face to turn to. What was the past if not an accumulation of regrets and missed opportunities? And there was so much he regretted.

  Someone knocked on the door, yet another distraction he was glad for. That the door didn’t open immediately told him who had come. The elf. No one else truly bothered anymore to wait for him to say “Enter!” which he did now.

  The journey to the Kumeens had marked Lloreanthoran. Darlontor had no experience with elves—who in this day and age had?—but the wizard’s finely chiseled features looked weary. Lloreanthoran, so he was told, usually sat in the library, reading, learning. And if he wasn’t there, the mage tried to force magic with as little blood as possible. By now he expected the look of concern shrouding the elf’s face.

  “This can’t go on,” Lloreanthoran said instead of a greeting. Never before had he seen the wizard speak so frankly. “You should be preparing to fight.”

  He scoffed. “They are preparing to fight.”

  “They should fight the monsters that turned the Kumeens into an abomination of nature, not each other!”

  “So, what would you have me do?”

  “Talk to their leaders!”

  “And then what? It will be the same as last time.” He steeled his mind, unwilling to reveal too many feelings to this outsider. “I will speak with them, when I have something to say.”

  “We need to find the Tomes and the Stone.”

  “You’ve been to the Kumeens; do you really think they still need the Stone?”

  “Aye, I’ve been to the mountains,” Lloreanthoran replied. “And you know the danger is more imminent than ever before. So why the Scales do you sit here pondering past mistakes, when you should be leading the Sons of Traksor against these worshipers of demons?”

  Darlontor stopped himself before he blurted out the reply that came to his mind. Instead he said, “Because the time is not yet right.”

  “And when will it be right?” the elf retorted. “When your people have killed each other?”

  Darlontor felt a not-so-gentle push in his head. The bastard was trying to read his mind! The parry to Lloreanthoran’s spirit-thrust came easily enough. “Don’t you dare,” he said, failing miserably to remain calm. “You are my guest.”

  “Yours, and Dalgor’s, and Arawn’s depending on the day. And before you start to attack me, or throw me out, I should remind you that my presence alone is what keeps order here. Yes, your magic is strong, for those who can use it anyway. I learned to wield it, and I studied magic long before the House of Kassor was even a glint in any god’s eye. Why else do you think Arawn’s people respect me?”

  Darlontor noted the difference. They no longer were his people, but Arawn’s. The elf looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he stared wide-eyed at something behind him.

  He whirled around and once more saw Cat’s sad features as they vanished in a ray of sunlight. No! If he admitted this, then the floodgates would open and there would be nothing left but chaos. Again, he felt the push against his mind, and in this instant of concern that battled with forced ig
norance, the elf slipped into his mind.

  Darlontor unsheathed his dagger and pricked his skin, drawing blood. He focused now, intent on forcing the mage’s mind from his own. This was no game of thrust and parry, but a battle of wills, of trying to block the mage from those memories he had locked in the deepest recesses of his mind. He glanced at Lloreanthoran, and saw that the elf hadn’t even drawn blood to power the spell. His mind swung, bashed, snarled at the alien seeker within. Then, suddenly, the presence was gone. He looked at Lloreanthoran, and saw the astonishment. “You godsdamned bastard!” Lloreanthoran spat, and then turned and left.

  He slumped against his desk. The elf knew, and had judged him accordingly.

  CHAPTER 35

  Twentieth of Cold, 1475 K.C.

  Keeping everyone outside in the belief he was struggling against the Fiend had freed him from being constantly patronized by Kildanor and the two Upholders. Aside from Jass and Gwen, no one knew he was searching for a way to fight the thing lurking in the back of his mind. Though he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for weeks now, he was determined to beat the thing that was painting his nightmares in blood. His nightmares, Gwen’s presence kept them away, but snippets remained, even though she slept next to him all the time now. Jass had offered to move to the attic, but returning to his old bedroom was something he could not stomach. It was hard enough sitting in the room where Hesmera had died, and although Gwen and he had only shared a friendly caress on a few occasions, it felt wrong to sleep next to her in a room he had once shared with Hesmera.

  Now, he was sitting in the snowy garden behind the house, trying to picture what he had felt when the Fiend had healed the cuts he had suffered in Ondalan. Maybe that was the true reason Darlontor had cursed him so many years ago. Maybe the old bastard had known he could turn blood into magic and had feared him for it. Or maybe he was just imagining things. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Gwen asked.

  He looked back at her as she lounged against the wall, and smiled. “If something goes wrong you can always hit me with that thing.” He pointed at the staff next to her.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll club you good and true.” She paused, scanning the area. “No sharp objects here, are there?”

  “Aside from the needle? No.” They had talked about this, more than once, all three of them, Gwen, Jass and himself, voicing their concerns, arguing fiercely. In the end the two women had agreed, but not before reminding him how stupid he was to tempt fate like this. “You’re my anchor, remember?”

  “Aye; and I’ll beat the snot out of you if you forget!” Her smile was shadowed by the fierce glint in her eyes. He had no doubt she would keep her word.

  He had pushed away so many things, had tried to forget so many memories of his youth. He had never seen any of the Sons use magic, although there had been rumors galore, whispers among the children. Like all of them he had attended the prayer-sessions, and they had bored him: the constant sitting and mumbling, the endless meditations. Had all this been designed to prepare the future Sons of Traksor for the magic they were to wield? In the past week or so of musing, he had concluded that it was so. How else would Dalgor the bully have been able to summon the fiery cage? A detail that had escaped him in Cahill Manor but remembered now was the bastard squeezing a hidden bag, squirting blood into his palm right before he had vanished. Blood had also hissed off his own body in Ondalan. Blood was the key, he was sure of it. The Fiend had used it to heal Drangar’s body. How the bugger had gotten into him remained a mystery, but at least he now knew what supplied the strength. Kildanor had mentioned something similar. So, if the magic was within him, he should be able to use it.

  The only thing that bothered him was what effect it would have on the monster in his mind.

  They all had agreed that he should test his idea outside, with Gwen standing guard should anything unforeseen happen. She had even suggested chaining his legs so he would be unable to move, but obtaining such a length of chain would have aroused suspicion. No doubt someone was still keeping an eye on him, and while no one was actively watching the house, the purchase of a few yards of strong chain would have brought an audience he did not want to have.

  Jass had some rope, though, and they had tied his legs with it. He hoped it was enough.

  Ignoring the chill that penetrated his cloak, Drangar closed his eyes. The last time he had meditated was a decade ago, but the principle was easy enough. Steady breathing, sharp mind, ignoring the outside world, focusing on the world within. He had to find peace.

  The cold woke him. That and Gwen’s shaking. Drangar blinked, found he was lying on the ground, cuddled in his cloak. “Guess I never drew blood,” he mumbled, grinning sheepishly. His legs were free and his hands were wrapped in rags. “Did you?” he asked, noting that Gwen wore gloves and an extra cloak.

  “I couldn’t wake you, and the gods know I tried.”

  “Guess I should always meditate before I sleep.”

  “You could have frozen to death!”

  “How long was I out?”

  She glanced west, toward the sinking sun. “You missed the noon-gong.” He sat up, or tried to sit up. “Jass is still walking the ramparts,” Gwen said by way of apology for having left him in the frosty air.

  “Help me,” he said through lips that were numbing more and more with each moment.

  “I couldn’t lift you then, what makes you think I can pull you up now?”

  “I’ll help.”

  “Right.” Against her complaints they managed to get him standing, and then, leaning on her, he stumbled into the house’s warmth. Once inside Gwen let go of him, and he slumped to the floor. “You’re heavy.”

  “It’s the clothes.”

  She snorted. “Stay here, I’ll get some tea.”

  “As if I could go anywhere.” He hadn’t summoned magic, but at least he knew it was possible for him to sleep without nightmares. Then again, he pondered, he hadn’t slept all that long. Maybe the bad dreams would have returned in time.

  “I’m glad,” Gwen said upon her return, a steaming mug in her hands.

  “Hmm?” he asked, taking the tea from her.

  “That it didn’t work.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She flicked a strand of hair back and regarded him. Sometimes he still wondered what she saw in him. Sure, it was comforting, but he had never considered himself attractive. “What if learning to use blood as magic is what it wants?”

  Sipping tea, he mulled over her worry. This was an aspect he hadn’t thought about before. Maybe she was right. No, not maybe, in all likelihood she was right. Over the past two weeks he had come to appreciate her keen mind. She rarely let it show, preferring to remain a silent observer. It was at moments like this that Gwen displayed her intellect. But if she was right, what about his past? What about Darlontor’s outburst? And just how long had he been carrying this Fiend in the back of his mind? If it had been there before he had come to the Eye of Traksor and had wanted him to use magic to gain more control, or rather wrest control from him completely, his… father’s anger was understandable. No, he decided, this was nonsense. The Fiend must have lodged in his mind later, even if he could recall no such incident.

  “What are you thinking?” Gwen interrupted his musings.

  “Nothing,” he said irritably.

  “Your face does not say ‘nothing,’ dear,” she said in an almost motherly tone.

  “Stuff,” Drangar muttered, sipped the tea again, and almost spilled it when Gwen slapped the back of his head.

  “Gods, you’re dense! Do you think I guard everyone’s sleep? Or that I let any man come this close? Speak! Talk to me, you idiot!”

  So far, he had barely told Gwen of his youth; the past seemed less pressing than the present. But as he spoke, he realized this was not true. Everything that had happened to him, every part of his pathetic life seemed to be linked, connected by something he couldn’t identify. T
he easiest denominator probably was the demon, but even Gwen agreed that this was too simple a solution.

  When he was done, Gwen said, “Guess the only way to get a decent answer is this Darlontor character.”

  “So, all we can do is wait.” He scoffed. “Need a new scarf?” The look she gave him told him she had other things in mind. And suddenly he was afraid. No, he would not make love to her, he would not become awash in emotions that would make him lose control.

  She must have deciphered his expression, and instead of the expected pout, she began to laugh. She laughed even harder when he felt himself blush. “Gods, you men think with your cocks more than your heads.” She gasped for air. “No, I won’t sleep with you. It’s not what I had in mind. Sewers are cleaner than a man’s mind when he’s around a woman he likes.” She scoffed. “No, we will practice. You need to hone your skills with the blade.”

  He gaped at her. A young squire telling him about weapon practice? He had been killing people when she was still wetting her father’s trousers. “Are you serious?”

  Her smirk dazzled and mocked him at the same time. “No, you idiot, I was joking, you are fine the way you are, and your swordsmanship is without equal,” she said.

  “But I…”

  She interrupted. “You won’t use magic, but you need a way to convince this Darlontor you will carve the answers out of him. Do you think you can convince anyone when you’re howling like a madman, banging against shield walls like an enraged animal?” And then, “Yes, I spoke with Kildanor, briefly.”

  He exulted. She knew and did not care about this unwanted side of him. Hard, cold fact slammed him down once more. “What if I… I don’t…” How could he tell her he feared for her safety? He didn’t want to hurt her in any way, and battle brought anger, which in turn loosened the Fiend’s bonds.