Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  Kildanor glanced at Ealisaid who leaned against the doorframe, listening intently.

  “It seemed as if the intruder knew Drangar from when they were children; he spoke in that taunting voice lads use when they make fun of one another.” She smoothed her dress. “He knew things of Drangar’s past, saying he wasn’t a murderer, but Ralgon was. Something was thrown, and then he threatened to rape and to kill us after he was done with him.” A brief pause, Lady Cahill closed her eyes, furrowed her brow and scratched the side of her nose. Then she said, “I know that’s what he said, but it was in the same tone he had used earlier, more taunt than threat. Kept calling him bastard, but I could tell there was more than mere insult behind the word. I begged Ralgon to save us. Then Drangar began to throw insults at the man. A weapon was drawn. Drangar was willing to sacrifice his life for our safety. The stranger replied he would kill us once he was done. I felt a blade against my neck. Then the stranger’s touch left me. I think by then Drangar could see again, or he was charging blindly into a wall.”

  Kildanor frowned, aside from being completely bald and gaunt as a skeleton, he remembered no bruise on Ralgon. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Lady Cahill gave him a stern look. “Aye, I heard him thump into the stone.”

  “Please continue,” Ealisaid prompted.

  “Well, it was suddenly light again; the intruder shot fire from his hands. I was blinded for a moment, and then I saw a cage surrounding Drangar.”

  “Cage?” he and Ealisaid asked simultaneously.

  An annoyed bob of the head was the only reply Leonore Cahill gave. “It penned him in, invisible. He lunged for the mage and smashed into a barrier. The villain said Ralgon did not belong here. Drangar probed the unseen walls—I saw skin and flesh burn from his hands, but they healed almost immediately. My Neena managed to escape the mage’s claws and wanted to distract him, but he captured her again. Then you bashed through the door, Chosen. Your appearance was enough of a distraction for Ralgon to breach the barrier. I saw him lose substance as he pushed through; the burns he suffered vanished as he shriveled.”

  Kildanor caught Ealisaid’s eye and saw her head shake imperceptibly. Lady Cahill didn’t notice, and spoke on, “Then, when Ralgon was upon the mage, the man vanished.” She took a deep breath and said, “I apologize, but that is all I do remember. If you have any further questions, ask them later; I will retire now.”

  “Thank you for your time, milady,” Kildanor said.

  When the noblewoman had closed the door behind her, he looked at Ealisaid. “Well, what do you think?”

  “A tall tale,” the Wizardess replied.

  “True nonetheless.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I saw the living husk that is Drangar Ralgon clutch at the intruder right before he vanished.”

  The sorceress frowned, and then said, “You do remember how we first met?”

  How could he forget? Three demolished houses and a dozen or so people killed was hard to dismiss, even more so when it had been magic that had shattered lives and livelihoods. He simply said, “Aye.”

  “When you punched me, I was already exhausted.”

  “Good for all of us, I think.”

  “Yes, but… do you think Ralgon knows magic?”

  He wasn’t certain whether her expression was one of worry or elation. Neither was he sure of what his own face was showing the moment the question passed her lips.

  “I doubt it. We can ask him later.”

  A knock cut the discussion short.

  Neena Cahill looked as tired as her mother, but her face hardened as she sat down on the chair. She recounted the same sequence of events, though her observations regarding the captor’s intent differed. To her the threatened deaths were all but certain, and she considered herself lucky to be alive. When her recounting came to the inevitable end, she spoke of being so angry that she just jumped her captor and pummeled him. Kildanor recalled the image of slim Neena Cahill straddling the intruder’s back, fists flailing like light hail, and about as effective. She finished by saying, “Then, just as Drangar, whom he called Ralchanh, got close to his face, I saw him pressing his left arm against his body and a dark liquid squirted into his hand. Then he was gone.”

  Dark liquid? Immediately he wanted to know Ealisaid’s opinion, but with Lady Neena there he was unwilling to rouse her father’s ire by speaking of such things in front of the nobleman’s daughter.

  Neena added, “I heard Drangar ask ‘Why?’ over and over again, as if he recognized the intruder.”

  The next one to question was definitely the mercenary. “Thank you, milady, for your time,” Kildanor said.

  “If there’s anything more you need to know, I will be with our guest.” The young noblewoman stood, straightened her dress, gave them both a curt nod, and left.

  Alone once more, he regarded the Wizardess, who seemed deep in thought. Finally, Ealisaid broke the silence. “You’ve fought both Wizards and demons, is that correct?”

  “Yes, and neither was pretty.” An understatement if there ever was one, he thought grimly.

  “I didn’t think it was.” Again, she fell silent.

  He had only ever killed her kind; never once had he sat and talked with one. The atrocities he had witnessed and heard of: earth and fire, even the very air had become a weapon in the mages’ war. Shadowpass was the constant reminder of why magic was best left untouched but maybe the Heir-War hadn’t been so different from any other succession war. The rebellion right here in Dunthiochagh had been fought with steel, and Haldain’s still constant state of civil war was ample proof of the longevity of human greed and ambition. Maybe the only real difference had been that the Phoenix Wizards’ arsenal had consisted of magic, not swords and axes. The effects were certainly farther-reaching than any struggle fought by soldiers, but maybe, in the end, it had just been greedy bastards fighting each other for supremacy.

  Intellectually Kildanor knew the conclusion was correct, but on a personal level it was hard to accept. Ealisaid’s voice battered down the wall of musings he had unconsciously erected. “I said: how did you perceive the magic my brethren worked during the Heir-War?”

  For a moment he stared at her, not knowing what to reply. Then, reining in the last vestiges of his mind still roaming the past, he answered. “I never felt much of anything there.”

  “Unlike the Demon War?” Her determination showed on her face. Here was a mystery he had asked her to solve with him, and while he was caught up in an internal struggle, coming to terms with something that had in recent weeks bothered him more and more, Ealisaid was tackling the riddle, as he should have. How could he explain the evaporation of possibility, the iron fist with which the demonic spells had been wrought?

  Then it struck him. “Remember when you tore down the houses?” The look on her face was answer enough. “Like that, as if all chance had fled.” She arched an eyebrow, nodding, urging him to go on.

  “You know,” he continued, “the world around us lives, breathes, changes. With your magic in Beggar’s Alley, and that of the demons, it felt as if everything was smashed into a… mold, denying alteration.”

  Heartbeats later, Ealisaid had been shaking her head, eyes darting as if reading pages as they flickered by, she said, “I know you hit me, but I was ready to pass out anyway.” She swallowed, frowning.

  “You looked rather pale, I admit.” What was she getting at? The spell she had wrought days earlier, transforming the Palace into a mountain glade, hadn’t felt like the destruction she had caused weeks ago.

  “My dress was also hanging on me, not really fitting I mean. Same as now, actually.”

  He scrutinized her. If she felt uncomfortable, it didn’t show. Indeed, she looked thinner than she had a day ago, as if she had spent weeks eating little if anything at all. “What happened?”

  “I turned the entire length of South Wall invisible, its occupants I mean.”

  He already knew that, but that di
dn’t explain the sudden change in weight. “Seriously, how did it happen?”

  Ealisaid took a deep breath, and another, and then, with a sigh preceding her answer, she said, “I’m not sure. I used my ‘inner strength,’ at least that’s what I called it when I was young. I could change things, willing them into an altered state. The results were spectacular, but they left me dizzy.”

  “Thinner as well?” he asked. He knew so little about magic that all of it seemed like a triple sealed book.

  “I was a child, growing still, I know not.”

  A thought struck him. “Did Ralgon use this inner strength as well?”

  Her only reply was a shrug.

  “But if Drangar… no, wait, I’m confused. I always thought this sort of thing, this solidity of things, was something demonic.”

  Another shrug. Ealisaid, again, looked as if she was mulling things over.

  “It isn’t demonic,” he concluded, his gut reeling against this explanation.

  “I was told not to draw on something that turned every possibility into finality, because that’s, at its core, what it is. Finality in this world is just another term for…”

  “Death,” he interrupted. “So, by forcing things to obey to your wishes, you are killing its chances by sacrificing of yourself?” It sounded ludicrous. What use was achieving one’s goals when the process itself killed one?

  “I think that captures the essence of it.”

  “We should take a look at the chamber,” Kildanor said, heading for the door.

  “Isn’t it being repaired already? I saw craftsmen on my way up here.”

  “Sir Úistan merely wanted the glassmakers and carpenters to put their efforts into the city’s defense, I think.”

  “So, all this mummery was just to get a bunch of reluctant carpenters and such to assist the warriors?”

  He heard her surprise and laughed. “It boils down to it; a crafty man, Lord Cahill.” Why Cumaill had never asked for this nobleman to advise him was another riddle.

  The turret room was indeed in the same state of ruin as it had been the night before. The circular burn on the floor, presumably the boundaries of the invisible cage that had held Ralgon, looked like a ring of obsidian. Had the heat liquefied the stones underneath? Kneeling, Kildanor traced the surface. Yes, the floor was stone, and the bump was indeed glass. How the Scales had Drangar escaped that prison? “Look at this,” he said over his shoulder. The Wizardess was standing at the battered down door, inspecting his hammer-work.

  “Who tore down this… is this steeloak?” she asked.

  “Never mind the wood, I did that. No, feel the circle.”

  She knelt beside him and mirrored his motion of a moment earlier. “How did the…” She never finished her question. A discreet cough from behind interrupted her, and the Chosen turned to see one of Lord Cahill’s servants, a tall man with an impish look on his face.

  “Yes?” Kildanor asked irritably.

  “The young Lady asked me to inform you that Master Ralgon is awake. Would you like me to escort you to him?”

  Had Sir Úistan ordered Drangar to be moved? Tired as he was, he agreed. “Yes, take me to him.” To the Wizardess he said, “Look around, maybe you’ll find some more clues. I’ll see what our mysterious friend has to say.” Distracted, Ealisaid nodded her head, still inspecting the ring of glazed stone. He shrugged and followed the retainer down the stairs. Hopefully Ralgon could shed more light on the events of last night.

  CHAPTER 2

  He awoke in darkness. His first dreadful thought that he was once more trapped in the dark and cold. Then, slowly, Drangar felt the heavy blankets weighing down his body. No, he decided, this was definitely not that horrid place. Next, he realized that a moist cloth covering his eyes was causing the darkness. Try as he might, his arms didn’t move.

  “Hello?” he said, but what escaped his parched lips and throat sounded more like breaking wood than human voice.

  “He’s awake,” someone noted. The cloth also covered his ears, and he failed to recognize the speaker.

  “Hasn’t been out that long,” remarked another.

  “Judging by the shape his body is in, it’s surprising he woke at all,” a third said. Drangar shook his head, trying to dislodge the rag.

  “Florence, help him,” the first speaker ordered.

  “Is that wise, madam? He still has a fever.” There were at least four people with him.

  “Your grace?” asked the first.

  “I see no harm in it, the fever he has to fight either way, herbs help, in the end it is up to him, milady.”

  “Do it.” Bright light almost blinded him, even with his lids closed. “The shutters, Florence, he needs to adjust.” Now, with the fabric gone, Drangar identified the speaker as a woman. Again, he tried to move, but the blankets felt leaden. The illumination dimmed and he opened his eyes.

  The room was simple. Unadorned, massive, stone walls framed the balding man looking down at him. Where had he seen this face before? “The tea, if you please,” the man said. After some shuffling, a plainly dressed girl came into view. “Careful now,” the man—was he a Caretaker?—said. “Gently.”

  As ordered, the woman’s touch was light as she put her hand behind his back and, without any effort, pulled him up. “Drink,” she said in soothing tones, holding a steaming mug to his lips.

  “Careful!” a stern voice reminded. Was that Neena Cahill? He had spent too little time with them to make that distinction. The girl, Florence, poured gently, a trickle of hot liquid wetted his tongue, reached his throat. Instinct told him to swallow. He couldn’t. Instead, he almost choked, bile rising.

  “Quickly!” someone shouted. Had they done this before? Drangar couldn’t remember. Florence’s hand still holding him in a sitting position, a wooden container was thrust before him. He retched, but aside from bile nothing came.

  “Let’s try this again later,” the Caretaker said with weary voice.

  Later? Again? They had done this before. Only he couldn’t remember. Despite the burning in the back of his throat, sleep gained the upper hand. The last thing he saw was Florence, eyes sunken into her youthful face, as she lowered him down. She stepped back and he caught a glimpse of her petite stature. His eyes fluttered shut, and he wondered how such a small creature could lever him into sitting position with such apparent ease.

  He sees her, sprawled before him, bleeding from a split lip. Black hair matted with red, plastered to her head. He sees himself, eyes alight, sword high, in two-handed grip. Beyond this younger, grotesque version of him, off in the shadows, covered by veils of dark, hooded figures, pointing fingers accusingly. Around their necks, amulets, little discs, flickering, taunting him. Cursed! Cursed! The metal discs around their necks spin and twist, a kaleidoscope of images, flashing in synchronized dance. He sees himself slash the blade down. Now, around his neck, in his skull, his arms, his legs, like a puppet, strings, pulled by one of the spinning coins, bigger and more threatening than the others. He can make out the face, back, face of the medallion. Glorious posture, guarding, guardian, sword pointing west. Traksor!

  Gasping, his throat once more parched, still tasting of bile, Drangar struggled, and failed, to sit up. How many bloody blankets had they put on him? This time at least his eyes and ears were free. He blinked; the light wasn’t as strong as before. Or had there been more than this one time he had woken? His head felt as if someone had used it as a mallet, banging it repeatedly against rock. Again, the stone of the room framed a man’s face. Now, his sight not as blurred as before, he made out the brass ear of wheat dangling from the stranger’s neck, a Caretaker.

  “You’re weak, young man. A miracle you’re still alive, praise Eanaigh,” the priest said, suspicious eyes darting this way and that. Obviously, he was inspecting him, and, if Drangar had to guess, not for the first time.

  He wanted to speak, but the intended question left his throat as a rasping croak. The Caretaker looked over his shoulder. “Let�
��s try the tea again, Florence.”

  “Milady said I must inform her when he wakes,” a voice replied from beyond his vision.

  “You want the Lady Neena to attend him just when he might throw up again?” the priest reprimanded. Then, a moment later, he added, “That’s a good girl.”

  Stepping aside, the Eanaighist made room for the servant girl, tiny, even compared to the slouching priest. and again, she heaved him upright with little effort. Drangar barely saw the shape of his legs underneath the mass of coverings. “It’s cold now,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Maybe that’s better for your throat.” Her voice, like the Caretaker’s, was soothing, as if talking to a toddler. In a way he felt just about as helpless.

  The first bit of liquid washed away the acidy taste burning the back of his throat; it hurt to swallow. He looked up at Florence, her eyes expectantly focused on him. The Caretaker’s, he saw a heartbeat later as the servant slowly pulled away, were just as concerned. In one hand, he now noticed, the older man held a bucket. Like the two, he waited.

  Finally, the man said, “It stays down. Let’s hope our luck holds.”

  At once, Florence leaned in again, putting the clay mug to his lips once more. Ever so slowly the cold liquid poured into his mouth, allowing him to take measured sips. After the third swallow, his tongue registered flavors. An herbal concoction, too strong to call it tea, sweetened with honey. Drangar gulped and gulped, faster, faster. Florence raised the container, the liquid now flowing freely. Then, suddenly, the trickle turned to dribble turned to nothing. “More,” he gasped, thirsty still.

  “Be so kind and ask the cook to prepare a fresh kettle,” the Caretaker said. Now Drangar was certain he had heard the voice before.

  “At once, milord.” Gentle, tender, she lowered him back down, tugging him in. Then she hurried out the door.