by Ulff Lehmann
“Magic, child, magic. A determined mind can interfere with even divine perception.”
She wanted to ask more, wanted to know who exactly Eluned was, and if she could learn anything from her, but the sunargh cut their conversation short with a swift gesture. “No more time to talk. Can’t you feel it? The fools are at it again.”
She felt it, the presence of blood that enslaved magic into certainty. Yet it still was not as strong as… “Dragoncrest,” she muttered. “That was you?” she asked as inspiration struck her. “You banished those poor souls into the spiritworld.”
A very human shrug of the shoulders was all the answer she needed. “I do what’s necessary.”
“You do know what effect it had on him?” Ealisaid pointed at Drangar. “He had a seizure.”
Eluned stopped and whirled around. “He had what?” she snarled, fangs showing behind drawn back lips.
“You don’t know?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I did, woman, now out with it!”
“Your bloodmagic caused the coils to reattach.”
“Coils?”
“Those golden wires that drill into him. We figure it’s usually him being angry or… well, bloodmagic that causes this. Both are the… demons’ path to dominating him.”
“Damnation.”
CHAPTER 47
Even from this distance Kildanor could make out the intricate frescoes that were chiseled into the Eye’s white walls. At its center stood a massive plinth that loomed over the battlements, its long shadow stabbing eastward. He couldn’t discern what exactly the carved images displayed, but he felt certain they were of a religious nature. If Drangar had been truthful, the Sons of Traksor operated under the guise of a pious order dedicated to executing the will of the gods in their vigil against the demons. They even went so far as to have their own Upholder and Caretaker, even an Orbmaster. Danastaer hadn’t had a living priest of Lesganagh for decades, so if the Sons truly counted one of them amongst their numbers, he was anxious to meet him. But unlike the Chosen whose vigil was divinely appointed, the Sons had no such legitimate claim, or so Drangar told them. Subterfuge was a method they had employed long before Drangar’s so-called cousin had redecorated Cahill Manor’s turret-chamber.
Now, as the distance evaporated under the steady beat of their horses’ hooves, he was able to see more of the pictures, all of them commonly known tales of deeds of the gods, nothing special about it. Then he felt it.
The weariness that had until now dragged his senses down vanished instantly. Bloodmagic pulsed within the Eye. He turned and looked at the others. Ealisaid was walking in the spiritworld again, Drangar brooding as always, Rhea talking to Gwen, and Eluned as alert as she had ever been. Didn’t they feel it? Given Ralgon’s frightening loss of control near Dragoncrest, he had expected the mercenary’s reaction more drastic. Here he sat, however, so absorbed in his thoughts that the pull and push of the demonic forces didn’t faze him. As long as he behaved no differently everything was fine. If things got out of hand, the matter would become infinitely more complicated.
Suddenly from within the fortress came the clash of weapons, screams of the dying, and what sounded like splintering wood, and off Drangar was, spurring Hiljarr to cover the remaining distance. Surprised, Kildanor motioned the others to follow.
The clash of steel drowned out all other sound, and Ralgon was still riding, unopposed. By now their appearance should have alerted even the most drunken guard, yet their approach met with no resistance. Taking his eyes off the mercenary, Kildanor chanced a scrutinizing look at the battlements and was surprised to see them unoccupied.
No one observed their approach.
Now Drangar was at the gate, and instead of having to bang against the wood, his horse gently pushed one gate aside. Who in their right mind would leave a fortress unguarded and open to everyone?
The answer presented itself the moment Drangar rode through the gatehouse, opening the view for the rest of them. Immediately, Kildanor understood what was going on. It reminded him of the failed rebellion in Dunthiochagh months earlier: The Sons of Traksor were fighting each other!
The moment Ralgon entered the courtyard the hostilities ceased, but only for that single instant. Then, despite the shouted orders of some people, the majority of the still standing Sons unleashed a wave of bloodmagic-propelled steel against Drangar. Hiljarr shied, toppled, a spear piercing his throat. Somehow the other missiles hung in the air, unmoving. The air was so saturated with demonic—no—forced magic the Chosen could almost touch it.
Then he felt as if he had woken from a dream, and a few things happened at the same moment. Red mists rippling off him in a constant stream, Drangar Ralgon shoved the horse’s carcass off him and launched himself at the Sons. From the corner of his vision he saw someone coming to a stop next to him.
Panic, fear, hatred surged through Kildanor as he turned to stare at the demon. His sword was already out of its sheath. The demon glanced at him, shook its head as if telling him he had more immediate problems. Somehow the fiend did convince him, and slowly he turned to stare at the charging Drangar, blood still hissing off him.
In Ondalan, he had only seen the results of the carnage, not the origin. Bodies torn in half had sufficed as witnesses to the Fiend that now controlled Ralgon; they had driven home the point that angering Drangar was the height of stupidity. But none of them had seen him rage. Now they did. From behind him he heard a shocked intake of breath, Gwen most like. The lass who had only seen the man she loved suffer some sort of seizure and had been told of the grotesque feats of slaughter from Úistan Cahill’s men now saw of what her love was capable of.
At the same moment the weapons, still suspended in the air, clattered to the ground. On both sides of him people shouted, trying to convince the fanatical mob to halt their attack. As if peaceful negotiations were still an option.
Drangar, sword still scabbarded at his side, plunged into the Sons of Traksor like a wedge, his movements reckless, not the controlled motions of the man Kildanor had come to know. This was a completely different person. The Sons surrounded him, swept in behind him like a wave.
What should they do? Help Drangar? Defend this… his line of thought ground to a stop as body parts sprayed out of the roiling, milling throng of armed men. The horrified shrieks were accompanied by the sizzling hiss of evaporating liquid. A red mist rose from the ground, hiding the slaughter behind a veil of crimson.
Drangar hadn’t killed that many to justify such a cloud. Where did the blood…? Kildanor paused, taking in the entire scene. Around the edges of the pulsing mass of bodies pushing against Ralgon he saw the remains of a good dozen fresh corpses, their blood staining the ground.
An arm slapped on the ground next to him. He had to do something. Anything.
“Wait, Chosen.” He had forgotten the demon! “This is not your battle.”
How could it say that? Of course, it was his battle. “I promised I’d help him.” Why was he talking so casually to it?
“Look deeper,” the demon said.
“Do what she says,” Ealisaid added dreamily.
The spiritworld? Did they mean…? Of course they did. He had done it in Ondalan when Drangar had struggled against the possession.
The noise made it hard to concentrate. Shouts urging the combatants to stop rang unheeded through the courtyard, adding to the din. The occasional pained gasp of another Son being rent apart added to the turmoil. He had to focus, find his center, and enter the spiritworld.
Slowly, it seemed, the shrieks and thuds and shouts faded into the background. Then, suddenly, he felt a clawed hand yanking him out of his body. Startled, Kildanor looked at the person, demon, who had managed to pull out his spirit with apparent ease.
“Not me,” it said. “Him.” It pointed at the shadowy cloud of bodies. He turned and stared, and did not believe his eyes.
There, in midst the shades were two Drangars. One was as solid as the other. Golden cords stuck in one,
like strings attached to a doll, pulled by an overzealous puppeteer. Not an inch of body was spared. This Drangar ravaged the shadows about him.
The other, just as furious, hacked at the cords with a sword. The weapon changed shape with every swing, growing, shrinking, coiling, uncoiling. Every pass was a sure cut, the cords it struck snapped back, only to reattach themselves an instant later. The Drangar wielding the blade looked just as mad as his counterpart, shouting, spitting curses, attacking the regenerating strings relentlessly.
“He is fighting it,” Ealisaid sounded muffled, unlike the demon whose voice had been as clear here as it had been in the real world.
“Aye, he learned that he could and that he must,” it said. “Prepare yourself, Chosen!”
Kildanor didn’t even feel the transition. He was back in his body, seeing a group of warriors turn from the carnage to find easier targets. Others were retreated entirely, their superiors’ orders finally reaching their minds.
“Rhea, Gwen, to arms!” Normally he would have expected the Rider to make a glib remark, but the only thing he heard from behind was steel sliding across leather. He drew his sword. “Stay in the saddle as long as you can.”
As the Sons charged, he saw that the blood spattered on their armor evaporated as well. They hesitated, but only for an instant. Then they charged once more.
Like the missiles of a few moments ago, these ones stopped suddenly, held at bay by an invisible wall. Just how much bloody magic was in this place?
“I have them,” a voice spoke into his ear.
“Scales!” Kildanor chanced a look around. Aside from Gwen and Rhea, who kept close to the one horse carrying Ealisaid’s limp body, and the demon’s shell next to them, he saw no one nearby. He glanced at the Sons as they struggled against their invisible bonds then let his eyes roam the fortress’s interior. There! At a window stood… He blinked. Another elf? Here? What the Scales was going on?
“Stand aside!” a voice shouted from up ahead.
“Gryffor don’t do this!” another yelled.
“This is what we should have done from the beginning, Dalgor! You were on our side, now you side with him?”
“I know a weapon when I see one, and against the enemy we need every good weapon available!”
“Bullshit! Stand aside, I have him!”
More blood sizzled off the paving stone. The Sons around Drangar parted, revealing the mercenary’s raging figure caught inside a glowing cage. From what the Ladies Cahill had told them, Kildanor guessed it was like the one that had imprisoned Drangar in the last year.
“Chosen?”
Irritated he looked about, and saw the demon sway on its feet. “What do you want?”
“To help him.” It nodded toward Drangar.
“How?”
“Is there a way to remove the cords?”
Why was he even talking to that thing? He ground his teeth and remained silent.
“Gods, how can you be so selfish? If we don’t get rid of those things, he will be gone! Tell me how!”
“The Hymn to Sun and Health, sung by both a Lesganaghist and an Eanaighist while the strings are pulled out,” he answered, hating every word exchanged with that thing. “Not that we’ll find a Caretaker in this slaughterhouse.”
“You’ll have to do it alone,” it said.
“Right,” he replied, snorting in derision.
“Lesganagh made the other gods, foolish human. He is in them all, so one dedicated to him is also dedicated to the others. You have to do it alone, and you can do it alone!” insisted the demon.
All Kildanor could do was stare at the thing.
“You need to sing the Hymn and pull out the cords.”
“The last ones almost killed a Caretaker,” he retorted.
“I will protect you!”
From up ahead the thing that was inside Drangar shouted in pain. Irritated, Kildanor glanced at the prison’s pulsing light. “A demon? Protect me?” He barked a laugh.
“You can trust her,” Ealisaid said, sounding as far off as she had in the spiritworld. “Help him.”
Once, long ago, during the Demon War, Kildanor had sworn to kill every demon in sight. Now he knew that this oath would not be fulfilled. “Very well,” he growled, looking at the mass of body parts around Drangar, the blood steaming away into the air, feeding the cage around his friend. Yes, he considered the brooding man a friend, and he was finally able to admit it to himself.
Whoever shielded them from the missiles did a thorough job. He looked at Gwennaith Keelan; saw the terror in her eyes that mirrored that of Sir Úistan and his retainers in Ondalan. Such carnage wasn’t new to him, but he could have done without seeing it again. It wasn’t Drangar, he wanted to tell her, reassure her that the man she loved was fighting the demons that held his body in thrall.
“Chosen, now!” the she-demon snapped in a voice that brooked no argument. Not that he was about to question her.
The spiritworld slid into place around him like an almost comfortable glove. Kildanor floated toward Drangar.
CHAPTER 48
Cat’s son was trying, but he had no chance. She knew it, and most likely he did too, but despite this sense of defeat emanating from him, Drangar Ralchanh did not give up. That he had been able to manifest a weapon to use in the spiritworld was no simple feat; Lightbringer gave his will the credit it deserved. Still, they were far from being safe.
None of them, Cat included, had ever relayed to her just what exactly was troubling the man. Yes, there was the bargain, and now that she saw the golden wires attached to almost every inch of his body, she realized what was going on. The final tile to complete the mosaic had been delivered by the Wizardess recalling the seizure that Drangar had suffered near the Hold. Bloodmagic made the barrier brittle. She was almost tempted to venture to the Veil of Shadow to see for herself, but there were other things that needed to be done.
The books she had given Prince Tral had taught him well, and he in turn had passed on some of the knowledge to his followers. Now one of those was trying to destroy her only means to end one threat forever. Had Cat known? Not initially, but her spirit had died and been reborn as a Servant of Lliania. She had to shatter the cage.
Overpowering the human’s feeble magic was easy, and the radiant globe disappeared almost instantly. A quick return to her body to see what went on in the courtyard, and then back to the spiritworld. At least that was her plan. The hazy shapes solidified around her.
Lightbringer looked around. The scene was almost the same, but now the Sons of Traksor were being held back by two of their leaders. She remembered one of them from a vision of the past, Cat’s past. He stood amidst a whirlwind of crimson mists, holding the others still.
Drangar twitched. The Chosen must have managed the severing quicker than she had…
Drangar charged the one who had imprisoned him. His movements were more graceful than she thought a human capable of. With a start she realized it was not Drangar who was controlling the body. The Chosen was still working.
Cat’s son barreled into the older human, wrapped his hands around the man’s throat, and pulled off the head. She was back in the spiritworld in that same instant, rushing to help the Chosen remove the coils. There was no time to consider her blunder. She should have waited; she berated herself for but a moment. Then she was at Kildanor’s side.
He had done a good job, but a few score lines were still embedded. Drangar, the real one, was swinging his spirit-blade ineffectively at the coils, and Kildanor pulled them out, his singing filled the otherworld’s deathly silence. She knew the song, had first heard it sung by the elves after they had won their freedom. Without a moment’s hesitation she joined her voice to the Chosen’s, singing just as loudly. Then she reached for a handful of strings and pulled. Another followed, and then two more, but there was no time to see what Drangar was doing; she only hoped he would be left intact when she returned to her body. Lightbringer’s fingers wrapped around a thicker strand f
irmly embedded in the stomach.
The vision almost drowned out everything else.
CHAPTER 49
This was like Ondalan. He was aware of the Fiend moving his body. No nightmares, no flashes of gory details; Drangar was the sole front row spectator for the demon’s use of his body. And he had thought watching himself kill Hesmera had been bad. Now he knew better.
As his hands tore out the arms of one of the Sons, he began to struggle against the invisible prison that was his body. There were no walls, no boundaries, but also no escape. It was almost as if he was back in that cold and dark place in which he had been trapped in after his death. No matter which way he charged he always ended up in front of the windows that were his eyes. What was this place?
His hands were embedded into the stomach of another Son. Drangar turned away in disgust as the body came apart in a spray of blood.
Somehow, he had expected to see the blood-filled pools with the demons once again—yet another image that would never leave him—but there was only darkness. Ealisaid had explained the spiritworld to him, and this was not it. Had it been, he would have seen clouded shapes of his surroundings in the real world. Had the demons locked him away for good within his own mind?
The thought was too terrible to dwell upon. Kildanor was probably already trying to rip the golden coils off his other body, like he had done at Dragoncrest. Another idea rose. If this was his mind, his prison, then he could dictate the rules, change them if necessary.
Drangar tried to concentrate.
He lost focus again and again when his hands tore apart another Son of Traksor. Yes, he had no love for the bastards, but no one deserved to die like this. He wanted to vomit, run once more.
But he had no place to withdraw, and he was tired of running and hiding, fed up with the demons that wanted to dominate him, to possess him.
He remembered what had calmed him before. The one thing that had made him look like a lunatic killer more than anything else: sharpening his sword.
This was his mind; he was a god here, even if someone else pulled his body’s strings. Here he could do anything.