by Ulff Lehmann
The Aerant C’lain was quiet, the mindstorm gone. But so was the soulward. Naghturuu’klanagh’s followers had paid the blood price, pitting terrified souls against those who had gone to their deaths voluntarily to keep the knowledge stored away from curious minds in this grave for thoughts. Now what had been designed as stronghold of protecting spirits was silent, empty, another ruin amidst this city of ghosts. She could have stopped it, had she known about it. But the threat would have remained, for within the blood-soaked Kumeen Mountains her magic, so powerful everywhere else, would have been only as strong as theirs.
A quick gesture, still a little clumsy, reminded the snow that it could have drifted elsewhere, thus clearing the entrance to the Aerant C’lain. Her fangs touched her lower lip as the upper one curled into a smile. She had used the past weeks to train. Forcing change still came easier to her than nudging the possibilities, and yet she was pleased with her progress. Even the combination, the forced nudge she had taught the human prince, worked as expected three times out of five. Had the idiot prince done as she had told him, Naghturuu’klanagh would have died. In a way she envied the humans their conscience, but it prevented most of them from truly achieving their goals.
Lightbringer stooped and entered the Aerant C’lain. The place was still, deserted, devoid of any presence benevolent or malevolent. Then again, most would consider her an evil spirit as well. It was all a matter of perspective; she had been unable to understand that for the longest time. No, not understand, for understand she did, she just had been unable to turn thought into reality.
Something rustled behind her. A quick, conscious act summoned a barrier, reminding the air what it felt like to be buffeted by a tornado. Then she turned, slowly.
The space was as empty as before.
Maybe…
She thrust her mind into the spiritworld, and took another look around. There, barely visible even to her well attuned eyes, in a corner, a young girl’s ghostly head peeked into the Aerant C’lain, at least she thought it was a girl, with mankind she always had trouble telling when they turned adult. Yet, there was no hint of ghostly breasts, and her face lacked the lines that came with life, so she guessed this was a girl child. Now, upon seeing her, the young female’s eyes widened, and she disappeared.
For a moment Lightbringer considered following her. In the end caution overruled curiosity and she returned to her body. The child had looked afraid. Maybe their paths would cross again, and if not, it hardly mattered.
What had brought her here she couldn’t tell. Not really. She could have bypassed the city easily by not following the Elven Road, but in a way, she felt the need to remind herself of what might happen if her plans failed. How was it possible it had taken her so long to realize she couldn’t remove herself from the world either, could not move beings across the world-spanning game board the gods had set up. She was another piece, not a player, and had to act the same as everyone else. And yet, somewhere deep within her, the old feeling of superiority burned brightly. Yes, she was different from the others that came after the first ones, but she was also the same.
“About time you realized it.”
Despite its strange echo she recognized the voice. “Cat!” she exclaimed and whirled around. The same luminance that had surrounded the ancestors also made her glow.
“You know what needs to be done,” the apparition declared with such force the last doubt vanished: Cat had ascended to be a Servant of the gods.
Yes, she knew, but older habits died even harder. Did she possess the strength of will to finish what should have been finished millennia ago? Cat must have sensed her doubts for when she spoke, she addressed this concern. “Others have always done your dirty work. You’ve manipulated everyone, from elves to man, by pulling strings that most of them did not see.” The gods saw everything, and as their Servant Cat knew of her past meddling. “It’s time to pull your own weight, Princess. Time to end what should have ended when you helped the elves win their freedom.”
She knew Cat was right, had known the truth for a long time. Yet the various excuses in which she had wrapped herself had always buried the cold, hard truth. The followers of Tral Kassor were but a piece to the puzzle, but not the solution. That solution lay within herself and Cat’s son. “I’ll find him,” she promised the spirit.
CHAPTER 40
Tenth of Thaw, 1475 K.C.
The cold had eased its grip almost on time with this last month of the year, and even though it had been his suggestion to ride as early as possible, the knot in Drangar’s stomach did not lessen. Even Gwen’s presence could not ease his mind, no matter how much he wished it.
Already they had passed Falcon’s Creek, and by evening they would reach Silver Meadows. It had not been his choice to take this direction. In truth, he still resented Kildanor for demanding they first beat back the Chanastardhian troops that besieged Dragoncrest Castle. He didn’t want to fight, had told the Chosen his concerns, but Lesganagh’s warrior had remained adamant about freeing the fortress on the pillar before heading south and west for the Eye.
Gwen rode beside him, the Chosen a little farther down the column of riders. What had, in his mind, been a group of five had become a warband one hundred strong. Of those, only four would accompany him further south. The rest were to stay at Dragoncrest. And not only did the hooves turn the dirt road into a mud path, they had to halt every once in a while, because the two ox-carts regularly got stuck. Several times he had complained about the lack of progress, suggested leaving the carts behind and taking the horses cross-country, but the Chosen insisted they were to carry on along the road. Thankfully the ground was still frozen underneath the muck, so aside from an occasional lost horseshoe and the constant slurping, the only delay was the wagons.
Two days ago, they had come across a dozen naked corpses, Chanastardhians, Kildanor had suggested, and Gwen had explained that House Cirrain’s warband had encountered a group of bowmen hailing from House Grendargh. Maybe they had ambushed the scouting party.
Drangar twisted in his saddle and scanned their surroundings, far more alert than he had been when the bastards had killed him in Shadow Valley. There! His eyes remained on an easterly spot where the setting sun reflected, if only briefly, off a piece of metal. Was someone following them? And if so, who was it? More Chanastardhians? Or Grendargh’s haphazard warband? Or maybe it was yet another group, the ones that Dewayn and Morwen reported had shot enemy warriors from such a distance that it should have been impossible for them to take aim. If Mireynh was sending out scouting parties already, the possibility that he had reinforced the troops at Dragoncrest again was there, even if Kildanor claimed it wasn’t so. The Chosen might possess extraordinary gifts, but he preferred eyes more than random claims any day of the year.
Magic was a different matter, even though Ealisaid still struggled with it, almost as if she was in the same position he had been in only weeks ago. Should he talk to her? More importantly, would she listen to him? When it came to advice, he was no authority on how anyone else should lead their lives. He decided to chance it. At worst, the scarred woman would scorn what little support he offered, and if not, she might actually get better. Just as he turned to look for her, Gwen squealed in delight. He looked at her, surprised to hear such a sound. She was staring west, her mouth hanging open.
“Dip me in fish oil and tie me to the mast,” she said, the words merging into one another. Now others turned to regard her. It seemed as if none of them existed.
Drangar turned the direction she was looking and saw them. Judging by the shouts of surprise issued by the others the two elves who approached were something of a novelty, something they’d tell their children and grandchildren, if they survived that long. He had met elves before, back when he had been south, and all of them had been aloof buggers. Up here the elves had abandoned Gathran, and though the elven kingdoms had stretched far and wide as evidenced by the roads that crisscrossed the country at right angles, most of their kind were
hidden now. Not gone, but they shunned human company. Sometimes, he thought, they were the smart ones. They had even abandoned Ma’tallon, a city built for man and elf.
More and more riders stopped, gaping, and to Drangar’s surprise it was Kildanor who rode toward them. Aye, the Chosen had been alive during the Heir War and would have known elves not only from storybooks. But the longer he watched the exchange, the more he wondered what the Scales they were talking about. By now almost the entire warband had halted, with the exception of the carts and a few riders that continued down the road. At the pace the wagons were going they’d catch up with them soon enough.
Now Kildanor returned, the two elves following him. As the pair came closer, he saw the bows, strings wound around the staves, on their backs. This, he thought, explained who had killed Chanastardhians from extreme range. The buggers’ eyes were better, and the bows probably attuned to their bodies.
The Chosen waved to him, and he nudged Hiljarr toward the trio. The charger’s sluggish reaction told him just how annoyed the stallion was. Another gentle tightening of the legs and Hiljarr finally trotted toward them.
“They’re Chosen,” Kildanor stated once he had crossed the distance. “They’ve been busy trying to get to Dragoncrest.” The warrior looked mightily confused, and rightfully so. From what Drangar knew Chosen had always been human, a pair of elves joining the fold was indeed very odd. Or maybe, he struggled to hide the smirk, the gods had finally decided it time to start improving relations. With a dwarf showing up in the Shadowpeaks it definitely was a possibility.
He gave a nod. So far, he had only given some measure of deference to Baron Duasonh, and he would not change that because of a bunch of elves. Instead he said, “Got horses?”
“We acquired some,” one of them, a blond fellow with dark eyes, said with an alien accent.
“So why not use them?” Kildanor made an exasperated sound, and Drangar added, “Why are you so sure they are what they claim to be? They could just as well be…” He trailed off, not knowing what else to say. After all there wasn’t really a sane reason for anyone to travel during winter. “Never mind, it’s not like I have much to say anyway.”
Later, it was growing dark and the silhouette of Falcon’s Creek loomed in front of them; Gwen and everyone else had finally outgrown their excitement. Drangar was glad the constant chattering finally abated. The two elves were nothing new anymore, and the rising chill quelled all thought but the desire to reach the fortress.
“How come you aren’t excited?” Gwen asked. He had never considered meeting an elf something special. There had been no reason to speak of the encounter, and people here would not have believed him. His answer didn’t satisfy her. “You weren’t the tiniest bit excited when you met one?” she persisted. Now that he thought about it, he did recall the younger man he had been, jaded already, but the world hadn’t lost all its magic. “You’re smiling,” Gwen said; he could hear the grin in her voice.
“Aye,” Drangar finally admitted. “It was something of a great thing, for about two sentences. Turned out the ones I met were real bastards, arrogant and all that. No idea if the ones here are much better. Frankly I don’t wanna know.” Seeing her astonished look, he added, “Thinking about how to go on from Dragoncrest.”
It was best to head cross-country to Dunlan, and then follow the dirt road south. His memory of the area was hazy, mostly relying on knowledge he had gained from maps. Pudlain and then Crossads, and from there another long trek through Gathran. Then Machlon and finally the Eye. They were still a long way from the Kalduuhnean border yet he couldn’t suppress the growing nervousness. What if Darlontor wasn’t Priest High anymore? How much could five people achieve should the entire order decide his presence was just the invitation they needed to strike?
“Don’t forget to smile.” Gwen’s voice pierced the wall his thoughts had once more erected. “You’re not alone in this, you know.”
He gave what he hoped was a confident grin; her grimace, however, told of his failure. “What if all we find down there is death? I don’t wanna drag all of you with me.” He knew he was reverting to the moody person he had been, struggled against it with the newfound confidence, and it took Gwen’s gloved hand on his to reassure him. The look she gave him now as he smiled once more was encouraging.
“You said they worship Lesganagh, right?”
“Him and all the rest, I think.”
“So why would they attack one who’s under the protection of both a Chosen and an Upholder?”
He had never thought of it from that angle. “How can one so young be so wise?” he asked earnestly.
The grin that split her face almost made him blush. “I’m not, but among the blind the one-eyed is king.” Then laughter bubbled up. He knew she was teasing, and she probably knew that he knew, which made it all the more amusing. He joined her, all tension released through one guffaw. A few heads turned to regard them, one of the warriors, a man named Maelon, shook his head.
“There might be Chanastardhians about, you know?”
“If there were, don’t you think the buggers would have attacked long before we started laughing?” Drangar shot back, still chuckling. To Gwen he added, “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“Just being there.” The Fiend had retreated once more to the back of his conscience. The bastard was lured out whenever he felt lost, moody. Then, in lower tones he said, “Sometimes, when I worry, I think it is trying to take over.”
“I know,” Gwen replied. “I figured that out all by myself. It wasn’t that hard, you know? Why the Scales do you think I carry on with cheering you up?”
“Thank you,” he repeated, basking in the beam that lit up her face. She looked so lovely. Acting on impulse, he leaned over, pulled her close and kissed her. For a moment he was afraid she’d resist, but when her lips opened up and he felt her tongue brush his lips he knew she never would. Their eyes met as they kissed and again he saw his longing reflected in hers. A long moment later they drew apart, yet Gwen kept staring at him, the smile even brighter than before.
“About bloody time,” she said. He couldn’t agree more.
The fortress at Silver Meadows predated the Heir War, and it looked the part. Drangar had never been this way before, but he recognized the old-fashioned style. No one built like this anymore. It was as massive as the one at Falcon’s Creek, but the ramparts, towers, even the gatehouse bore an undeniable elven influence that had vanished in these parts after the Heir War. He had never been to an elven city, only the suicidal went to Honas Graigh, and though he had skirted Ma’tallon on his flight from the Eye he had never set foot inside. Here the elven influence was unmistakable.
“Damn!” Gwen hissed. “It’s pretty.”
For a moment all he could do was stare openmouthed at her. She turned and looked at him, her eyes declaring the question as loudly as if she had spoken it. He chuckled. “I’ve never heard you sound that…” He struggled to find the least offensive word.
“Well?” she prodded.
“Girlish is as good a word as any.” If looks were capable of murder, he would have died right then and there. Instead, he felt himself blush. What was she doing to him? Trying to escape her gaze, he looked back at the fortress. It was pretty to look at. As means of an apology, he said so.
“Ha!” Gwen exclaimed. “Who’s girlish now, eh?” The teasing in her voice was obvious, and he breathed a sigh of relief, unable to even consider her being angry with him. “I’ve never seen that kind of design before. Elvish isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“Back home all is mortar and stones, and wood and nails, bleak, no artistry about it.”
“Like most places up here nowadays, the Heir War and the Demon War after it fucked up a lot of old buildings.”
“Even the slums in Dunthiochagh are more colorful than Herascor,” she added.
Having never been to that city, Drangar remained silent. Chanastardh was a rough, practical land
with no eye for architectural beauty. “Further south, where there are still elves, you see more of this.”
Waiting for her to reply, he turned to look at her and saw the struggle in her face. She probably was thinking of a future when they would be able to visit those places but like him was too aware of the danger his return to the Eye of Traksor posed. He thought of something to comfort her, not willing to squash her dreams. “If we survive all this, we’ll go there,” Drangar finally said. Her smile was answer enough.
Later that evening, in a well-heated hall, they sat near the fireplace, sharing a single blanket. So close did they sit that he felt her breathing, their arms and torsos touching. He wanted to wrap his arm around her, was sure she would not object, already he felt himself falling back into the gloom of his brooding. Unlike the kiss they had shared before the castle’s gates it was Gwen who now took the initiative and snuggled closer to him, encircling his stomach with both her arms. Grateful, he leaned forward and kissed her hair. She sighed with pleasure.
Only then did Drangar realize they were not alone anymore. Behind them the warriors were still feasting, although now they already were deep in their cups. In the ruckus of songs sung out of tune and slurred conversations he hadn’t noticed Upholder Rheanna’s approach until she settled down on the bench next to them. Gwen seemed half asleep, her breathing steady and relaxed.
“Upholder,” Drangar said in a low voice.
“Ralchanh,” Rheanna replied.
“That name has no meaning to me.”
“It’s a proud name, or was, rather,” the priestess said, her eyes boring into him, as if looking for something in his mind. Was she performing the same lie discerning ability that the old coot Coimharrin had done?