Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  Dalgor, the young man he had rescued in the Kumeen Mountains, was still cryptic about what he had seen in there. But his decisiveness and enthusiasm had fanned the flames of determination within Arawn and his followers. Unlike his uncle, Dalgor knew full well what had to be done and was dead set to see it through. What terrors dwelled in Darlontor’s mind, he could only guess. The abominations in the Kumeens were something he knew about first hand. Dalgor’s proposal to strike at the mountain area was sensible, and given the fact that he had also fought the bloodbeasts, he was inclined to agree. If asked, he would join the assault, but so far no one had spoken the question. Arawn did not want to charge with only a portion of the Sons, he wanted support of the entire Order. Scales, he was almost ready to come to terms with Darlontor. The only thorn in their sides was Gryffor.

  “Darlontor!” the rogue leader’s voice echoed up to him once again. “Come on out!”

  “He’s too frightened, the old man,” someone taunted.

  “Why should I be afraid of you?” the Priest High’s voice sounded stronger than it had in weeks. Had something changed?

  “Will you give us your blessing?” Gryffor asked.

  “To go north and join forces with Chanastardh? No!”

  “We need to end this; we should have ended it years ago!”

  “Allying with the Chanastardhians will not help us in any way; they do not concern themselves with us.”

  “He is in Dunthiochagh!”

  Gryffor’s statement was met with silence, and though he could not see Darlontor he felt the old man knew something, was aware of something the others were not. “We will get him, with or without you.” The last was shouted by another Son, and was met by agreeing murmurs. “We will finish it!”

  “And what will you finish, fool?” From the other end of the complex, Arawn had left his part of the fortress and stood atop the stairs leading down to the courtyard. He saw Dalgor pushing through the ranks milling about the bailey, making his way to his superior. “Will you finish the peace between Kalduuhn and Danastaer?”

  “Danastaer is dead!” some hollered.

  “So, you’ll ally yourselves with its conquerors?” Darlontor asked. “Will that change the bloodbeasts prowling our lands? I think not!”

  “With Drangar dead the threat will be over.” The speaker was cuffed by Gryffor, much to the amusement of his peers.

  “Will it now?” Dalgor shouted.

  Gryffor turned and looked at the younger man. “Come to pipe the same tune as your mentor?”

  Though he couldn’t quite see it, Lloreanthoran knew by the sound of his voice that Dalgor was sneering. “You intend to storm Dunthiochagh alongside the Chanastardhians? At least we have a goal better than siding with conquerors! Besides, how would you make it north? The woods are crawling with bloodbeasts. Ask them, they know! The danger is greater than just one man! The danger lies west not north, I have seen it, them! We need to sever the adder’s head!”

  “Only that the head is not where you think it is, nephew.” Although calm, Darlontor’s voice drowned out the shouts of protest.

  “Uncle, I have seen what I have seen, and even if we finish what you messed up long ago, we would still have to deal with the Kumeens!”

  “We need to finish him first!” Gryffor shouted. His followers bellowed their agreement. “You’ve failed us the last time, old man; we’ll go to Dunthiochagh and finish him!”

  “No!” the word was spoken by both uncle and nephew.

  “What? You’ll force me to stay?” Gryffor chuckled. “You”—he pointed at a spot above Lloreanthoran—“have maybe a dozen people still standing with you! And you”—his finger wandered over to Arawn and Dalgor—“dare not fight your brothers.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” Arawn replied.

  “What? You’re siding with him now?” Gryffor yelled.

  “At least he doesn’t go about threatening others! At least he does not rattle swords and proclaim the desire to fraternize with a nation bent on subjugation!”

  “All we want is to get Ralchanh!”

  “I forbid it,” Darlontor said, the Priest High’s voice sounded unusually calm. Then Lloreanthoran heard him speak once more, but this time only he could hear him. Elf, wizard, be ready, I fear the worst is only moments away. Darlontor was using magic to communicate with him. Some part of him wondered if the human had pricked his finger with a pin to draw blood or if he had resources available to him that none of the others had. The elderly man gave him little time to consider, for in the next instant his voice rang across the courtyard once more. “I am the Priest High, Gryffor. I command the Sons of Traksor. Not you, nor anyone else!” Was he provoking his rival intentionally?

  “You’ve lost your way, old man! You had it in your power to kill the Ralchanh bastard years and years ago and did nothing. You failed in your duties!”

  “And you?” Arawn countered. “Is your planned invasion of Dunthiochagh not against the mandate set for us when we got this fief? If we so much as lift a single finger against anyone else, we won’t have time to pack before the King evicts us! Think, man, think!”

  “Look who talks!” Gryffor spat back. “Weren’t you the one clamoring for war yourself?”

  “Aye, but not against Dunthiochagh, oaf, against the Kumeens. You should bloody well start using your head!”

  “Silence!” Darlontor roared, but those allied with Gryffor ignored the Priest High, spitting accusations at Arawn’s followers. And still Lloreanthoran had no idea what they were talking about. Why did everything revolve around the Ralchanh person? What was so special about him?

  “Cernwyn paid for it, they all paid for it!” amidst the shouted obscenities Gryffor still managed to be louder.

  “He should have followed the rules. And so should you!”

  “Are you threatening me? Are you aping your uncle now that you’re back on his good side?” The question was accompanied by loud jeers. Gobs of spit flew toward Dalgor and Arawn. Alarmed, Lloreanthoran saw that the more hotheaded Sons had readied their swords, hiding them underneath their cloaks. If no one intervened soon, blood would spill. He had no idea how many Sons were as adept at magic as Dalgor, doubted it were many, but still, once the fuel for their magic flowed copiously there was no limit to what they could do.

  They’ll come to their senses, trust me! Darlontor whispered. The statement only roused his ire. How could the idiot calmly watch as his order annihilated itself?

  Why should I? he hissed back. In the past month you have given me little enough reason for doing so. I am no further along in my duties than when I came here! The accumulated frustration of weeks of inactivity finally broke through and he uttered a relieved sigh, glad to have his thoughts finally out in the open. You used me to get your nephew back, and still you have told me nothing!

  It will be revealed all too soon, I’m afraid. He detected sadness in the human’s thought, as if Darlontor knew he was facing something he could not escape.

  Below, on the courtyard, things were heating up. Arawn managed to keep his followers in check, but Gryffor encouraged his to lob stones at their fellow Sons. One struck a refugee woman on the temple, and under outraged growls she collapsed. This was the drop that broke the dam of patience, and the anger surged outward in the muffled scrapes of blades being drawn. Here and there Lloreanthoran spotted Sons opening their bloodbags, smearing red on their palms and arms, chanting. He was familiar with it, but had not expected to see so many of them actually employing forced magic. What was becoming dreadfully apparent though was that only those of minor status strengthened their body this way. The others, people like Dalgor who possessed a better grasp on this magic, did nothing. Maybe they were coming to their senses, Lloreanthoran hoped. The chanting below stopped.

  For a moment it seemed as if the Sons of Traksor were about to abandon this exercise in futility. Then, someone from Gryffor’s side hurled a spear at his estranged brethren. Empowered by blood, the missile didn’t arc lazily ac
ross the courtyard; no, it was like an arrow shot from a longbow. It impaled one man, and drew a short path of destruction through Arawn’s ranks. The following shout of approval was short-lived as the victims’ friends retaliated. The responding barrage employed spears, axes, and shields. The shields were as useless against missiles as a dragon swimming in the ocean.

  Pandemonium reigned. Now both sides charged one another, the cutting, weeping, sobbing, moaning, the crashing of steel on steel filled the air. Why wasn’t Darlontor interfering? Was the old man afraid like Gryffor had claimed? Lloreanthoran wished he were standing with the Priest High, if only to see what kind of battle was fought on the man’s face. He was about to turn and head up to the next floor when, all of the sudden, the noise ebbed away. He whirled around, dreading what he would see.

  Blood curdled on the dirty cobblestone; torn bodies strewn everywhere, but a great many still stood, were still alive. And every single one of them stared at the gate.

  In rode a man on a white horse. Following him were a group of five, but the Sons’ attention was focused on the first rider. A collective hiss of surprise ran through the ranks. Then, it felt to Lloreanthoran as if all resentment between one another had been brushed away by the appearance of this single rider, they all faced the gateway, crouching, ready to do battle once more.

  The rider, obviously stunned, reeling from what he was seeing, held up his hands, first in a placating gesture; then he hammered his palms against his forehead, screaming.

  “Don’t! No!” Darlontor shouted from above. “Do not…” he never finished that sentence. As he had feared the spilled blood empowered the surviving Sons, and a score or more charged the seizure-stricken rider, shouting, “Get him!”

  Lloreanthoran thought the brotherly bloodshed had been bad, what followed was worse.

  CHAPTER 44

  Their trip from Dragoncrest had been uneventful. The group that had seemed to pursue them, a score of Grendargh insurgents as it turned out, caught up with them in the ruins of Dunlan. After their initial disappointment at them not being Chanastardhians, they had agreed to accompany them as far south as Crossads. Courtesy of the rebels’ knowledge of the area they had evaded any enemy patrols. From there they had followed the Elven Road west, always staying out of sight. And still Cat Ralchanh’s son insisted someone was following. None could verify his claim, and soon they dismissed his suspicion. Even protective Gwen Keelan wondered about her man’s sanity.

  The Wizardess, Ealisaid, had stopped her jaunts into the spiritworld after Dunlan, stating that she could not unravel the mystery of the Chanastardhian warband that was trapped in the other dimension. Rhea still didn’t believe her, but now, with Cat’s son suspiciously scanning the area with nervous eyes, she had other things to worry about. Dragoncrest’s riddle had to wait.

  Now, four days south of Mtain Geer, Drangar Ralgon was getting moodier by the mile, and she was tired of his brooding, his glum outlook on everything and everyone. She had tried to understand the seizures and the visions of demons, which was useless since she could not. They were deep in Gathran Forest on a dirt road that threaded its way through looming trees. The Eye of Traksor had to be close, because as noon approached Drangar became even more withdrawn.

  There hadn’t been many relationships in her life, but she knew enough of her own heart to realize just how lost Gwen was. Whenever the younger woman reached out to comfort him, he pulled away, and Rhea’d had just about enough of it. It was obvious Gwen cared for him deeply, and the fool was shattering any hope of the two becoming a couple. The noble from Chanastardh had little experience with men, Rhea could tell that much already, and the kiss the pair had shared weeks ago was probably just a memory. Or maybe, she thought, Drangar’s mind was so occupied with his own misery that he just had no time for anything else. After all, the kiss had happened right before the seizures.

  She saw Gwen scowling in frustration and turning her mare away from Drangar. Her horsemanship had improved, yes, but Rhea could tell the girl wasn’t really comfortable in the saddle. Gwen headed her way, and fell in alongside her, looking hurt and confused. It was best to wait, until she was ready to talk. She didn’t have to wait long.

  “What is the matter with him? I only want to help,” the younger woman complained.

  “He is in a world of his own, fighting his—” She paused, searching for a more appropriate word. Then, having found none, she continued “—demons. Not only those of his vision. I think he fears hurting you.”

  “But I love him.”

  “Maybe, despite his relationship with Hesmera, he has never been in love before.”

  “But they were to marry.”

  “Aye, maybe he did love her.” She thought a moment then said, “He lived in isolation for two years and struggled with the death he thought he caused, hating himself probably. Now here you are, and he feels drawn to you—never you doubt that! We all saw the looks he gave you. Aside from being drawn to you, you also help him fight off whatever is troubling him. Maybe he thought with you he could control it. Dragoncrest changed all that. And now he fears for himself, and you.”

  “I don’t care, I just want him to know I am there for him,” Gwen retorted. “I get the worry and being afraid part. But I don’t care. I heard Lord Cahill’s men speak of what he did in Ondalan, and I still wanted to know him.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid of that too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There was a sudden halt in the column as Drangar, who was second in line, reined Hiljarr and scrutinized the eastern woods. Rhea and Gwen didn’t even bother looking. If a strange pursuer had been with them since Dragoncrest and hadn’t done them any harm so far, what was there to worry about? A moment later their trek continued.

  “Maybe he is afraid of who, or rather what, he is.”

  “He’s one of the kindest men I’ve ever known,” Gwen said.

  Her look of utter conviction made Rhea smile. Then grim reality reasserted itself. “He doesn’t think so.”

  “What? How can he not?”

  “You know what he did as a mercenary?” She recalled, after much prompting from Nerran, that she had seen Ralgon years ago, in one of the border conflicts in Caendeel to the east. War had never been pretty, and even though the lined shield walls had a certain grace to them, the clash of wood, leather and steel always pounded war’s harsh reality into the awareness of any observer.

  “No, but General Kerral said he was viciously good at what he did,” Gwen answered, shaking her head.

  “You have practiced in the wall, right?” The younger woman nodded. “Before the walls meet, sometimes, you have idiots brave or foolish enough to try pierce the enemy’s wall before they lock.” Gwen’s eyes widened, as she understood the sheer foolery of such a maneuver.

  “It’s suicide.” The statement was as true as most others Rhea had heard. “Those who do won’t last long against a tight wall.” Her own charge against the Chanastardhian shield wall atop Dunthiochagh’s battlement had been as suicidal as it had been necessary.

  “Aye,” Rhea said, giving a quick nod of agreement.

  “Are you saying he charged the walls?”

  Another nod, there wasn’t much she could add to the facts. Gwen had only training experience with shield walls, but even that memory of how solid a good formation was sufficed to make her understand what state of madness one had to be in to try to break such a wall. She merely said, “All the time, if the rumors are true. He succeeded as well. No wonder they said he was blessed by Lesganagh.”

  Gwen considered for a moment then said, “But he isn’t.”

  Rhea shook her head. “No, he isn’t. If what Kildanor says is true, he isn’t blessed at all.” This, she thought, wasn’t entirely true. Coimharrin had told her of what had happened at Eanaigh’s temple, of how Ralgon had judged the former High Priest. She barely paid attention to the road, and suddenly she found Drangar riding at her left, looking worried and weary as usual.

  Gwen mut
tered something unintelligible, and he said, “Please stay.” The first kind words or at least not harsh words he had uttered in days. “I want you to hear this as well.” His look turned to Rhea. “You can discern the truth?” It was more statement than question, and she nodded her head, waiting on his next words. “But it is always subjective, right? Upholder Coimharrin said so.”

  “Yes.”

  “You pray to Lliania in order to gain this ability.”

  “Yes.” Where was this leading, she wondered?

  “I didn’t. At Eanaigh’s temple I mean. It was easy, with the solid gold cob towering above the altar. But when I heard the session and the lie spewing, I knew I had to do something. I had to stop the bastard from evading justice. Lliania’s Curse I always called it, because I could never stand injustice. Pisses me off when liars get away with it.”

  “You could have killed him,” she suggested, aware of Gwen riding next to her, staring at Drangar.

  “Yes and no. Yes, I could have killed him, but no because it didn’t feel right.” He paused, looking at nothing. His face contorted as if in pain then he said, “A few months ago, near the village Carlgh, I killed the lord’s nephew. Served the swine right. I’d heard rumors of what he was like, cowardly scum. The villagers didn’t stop talking when I was there. If you’re silent they just lose interest and go about their business. He was a right bastard. On my last day there, the fool made his entry once more; molested a girl just because he could. Made me angry, and I stopped him. He followed me and tried to attack me. I snapped his neck, thinking it was better to kill him than the villagers. I knew he deserved it and that Her Scales would do the rest.” He paused again. “Me and my cursed sense of justice,” Drangar muttered.