by Ulff Lehmann
Ever since Dunthiochagh, no, even before that killing, he’d had his doubts that their path was the right one, but what other choice had he had? Admit to his shortcomings? No. The murder of an innocent had been the final straw, and radicals like Gryffor had forced their vision onto the Sons. No more! Something had to give; he was tired of the killings and wouldn’t cave to the demands of zealots and warmongers.
Sure, in the beginning he had been full of zeal as well, but with Cat’s arrival all that had changed. He chuckled; modesty had never been Cat’s style, and as a priestess of Lliania she had been very outspoken; her openness still appealed to him after all these years. Gryffor’s zeal was different, which, given the other’s youth, wasn’t that surprising. The religious aspect had never been strong, words on a paper, play-acted ceremonies for those times when a royal inspector visited. When had it all changed?
He passed ‘Traksor Victorious’, the huge tapestry depicting the hero’s end, impaled on Turuuk’s claws, while the demon’s chest was pierced by Lesganagh’s Sword. No one had ever found the sword, or Traksor’s body for that matter. Both were lost, and the gang of his followers had formed the order to protect the world against another demonic incursion: The Sons of Traksor. Had the hero ever wanted to become an icon? The Priest High didn’t know, but with the burden of past errors weighing him down, he was certain Traksor would not have approved.
The door to his chamber stood open. If that hadn’t been a sufficient sign that someone awaited him, the wedge of light cutting the corridor’s gloom was enough indication of a visitor. He pushed the door the rest of the way and saw Kevonna. The old swordpriestess stood with her back turned his way, staring at the fireplace’s dancing flames. Darlontor was about to clear his throat to announce his presence, when the older woman spoke.
“Sorry about my not being at that council, was anything world shattering said?” She still gazed at the fire. To one who did not know her well, she looked calm, but Darlontor detected a tension in her posture that revealed much of her state of mind.
“Dalgor hasn’t returned.” He closed the door but didn’t approach.
“Let me guess, Gryffor, little shit that he is, demanded we find and execute him. Another notch in his axe.”
“I ended it, the killings.”
Her right hand pulled the long grey braid across her shoulder. She did this whenever she was worried, stroking her hair; he remained silent. At almost seventy, Kevonna had been born to one of the original Sons, and as such she held a place of high regard even if she had never aspired to become a leader.
A long moment later, she said, “Good; was about bloody time you came to your senses.” His reply was cut short when she continued. “Dalgor is the least of our worries. So is Drangar Ralgon for that matter.” His name was Ralchanh, he wanted to say, but a quick shake of her head kept him quiet. “He chose that name, so he is Ralgon, no matter how much you deny it. But he is not the reason why I came.”
Another pause, and he used it to say, “What is it then?”
“Something is wrong. Can’t you feel it? Something’s changed.” Kevonna turned and he was shocked to see how weary and old she looked. “For a week now, we haven’t heard from any of the farmsteads near the Kumeens.”
“They’re busy preparing for winter.”
“No, this is different,” she insisted.
Over the years the dread originating from the mountains had spread. First one then more mining communities had died off. The accepted border had been the foothills for as long as Darlontor could remember. “Did you send messengers?”
Kevonna nodded. “Aye, none returned.” She held up her left hand – the other was still running up and down her braid – and continued. “Didn’t want to say anything earlier since it could be nothing, and even the slightest hint of a threat might have Gryffor and his ilk strapping on swords proclaiming it their holy duty to raise an army.” This was a point he couldn’t disagree with, though he thought Dalgor and Arawn would have been the first to suggest mounting a strike against the Kumeens. “Yes, I know you see us as a bastion against the demons, but we have a responsibility toward our freeborn and villeins. If they are in danger we need to act.”
“So, what is going on in the west?”
“I have no idea.”
“You think that might be the reason Lleufor didn’t come?”
Her look was all the answer he needed and judging from her expression she knew as well and remained silent, both hands running down her braid. “There’ve been rumors,” Kevonna finally said, “of hunters stalking Gathran.”
For a moment he was too shocked to reply. Then, trying to keep his voice steady, he asked, “Why haven’t you told me before? Your duty is to report such things to me.”
Letting go of her hair, Kevonna spread her hands. “What would you have me tell you? That I heard rumors told by drunken traders? I think not. You would have wanted proof. Now, with my scouts missing, you have it.”
“That still isn’t much proof.” Even to his ears the argument sounded weak.
“Maybe we would be better off, if Arawn or even Gryffor were in charge. You cannot expect the demons to stick to the old tactics. Danachamain’s lust for power opened the cursed portal, and out came but a vanguard, eager to kill. But have you never wondered how the Scales the demons managed to lure two of Lesganagh’s Chosen into their fold? The Chosen aren’t interested in power, and the caged beasts they serve are smart. The next strike will not come as an uncoordinated attack fueled by rage. No, it will be precise, and lethal.”
“What would you have me do? Assemble the army? Winter’s almost upon us.”
The older woman shook her head. “Just keep your mind and eyes open. If I’m right, we will have some real proof of what is afoot soon enough. Do not hide behind your calculations and charts again, shirking the responsibilities entrusted to you.”
“Then what should I do? Play one side against the other?”
“No, you oaf, unite them, mind, spirit and determination, get them to work together again” she hissed. “Though I have to admit, your mind has been absent a lot recently.”
That remark stung. Darlontor felt his shoulders tense at the insult. A deep breath released the tension. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to deal with our dilemma.”
Two swift steps brought Kevonna to his desk; her right hand darted forward, snatched a few neatly stacked papers, which she then studied with mocking curiosity. “I see,” she said a few grim moments later. Darlontor felt an embarrassing heat rising to his face. She was his eyes and ears, yes, but her caustic humor and frankness had already given him more than one headache. Just how much did she really know about the entire affair?
“Sun-charts, counts of sand running through a small piece of glass, I can see how that will help us defeat the demons once they return.” She looked up. He saw the righteous anger in her eyes. “Darl, we have been friends for a long time, and as your friend I tell you to stop reacting. Show them the strength you carry within, let Gryffor know you are our leader. Arawn knows, but even he will disobey if you don’t start acting the part.”
Did she know? Kevonna smiled, her skin wrinkling like discarded paper. Had his face betrayed his concern, his shame? “Be the lord of this fief once again, Darl.” The humor left her eyes as the papers fell from her hand. Then, without saying another word, she walked out the door.
For a long moment Darlontor stared at his charts, his calculations, his one distraction from a world that was collapsing around him. Her words echoed in his mind. To be the lord of the fief he had to act decisively, face the facts.
His knees popped as he retrieved the parchments and carefully stacked them on the table once again.
CHAPTER 8
Outside Ralgon’s room they met Úistan Cahill and his daughter. A general weariness was worn like a badge by every member of the household; Sir Úistan looked angry.
“Milord, Lady Neena,” Kildanor greeted them, slowing his pace and finally stopp
ing a few feet from the nobleman. Ealisaid merely inclined her head, thankfully remaining silent.
“You disturbed my guest’s rest,” Lord Cahill stated.
“Aye,” he replied. “With your permission, milord.”
“My daughter tells me you carried on with the questioning against her explicit wishes.”
Kildanor took a deep breath, hoping this conversation would not end in another argument about the murders Ealisaid had committed. There was enough trouble already, and even though he had barely begun to trust the Wizardess, her performance at the south gate last night had put Mireynh on guard and eliminated a portion of his army. So far, her magic had not backfired, and maybe Cumaill was right when he claimed she could be of great use.
“He is my guest,” Lord Cahill growled, this time addressing Ealisaid. “Under no circumstance are you allowed to work your spells through him.”
Without looking, the Chosen knew Ealisaid’s eyes and mouth were opened wide, same as his. What had the girl told her father? They had asked her not to speak of the glowing eyes. Then again, this was her home and her father had the right to know what went on within its walls. To conclude Drangar’s eyes had glowed because of something the Wizardess had done was farfetched. He was about to reply, when his companion spoke. Apparently, she had overcome the shock quicker than he.
“Milord, I have done no such thing, and provided I had done this, what good would it serve?”
Cahill turned to his daughter, eyes narrowed. “You told me…”
Kildanor intervened. “Lord Cahill, forgive me, but we asked both Lady Neena and the girl Florence to keep this quiet; if she suspected foul play, it is our mistake. What we did was in everyone’s best interest.”
“So, the intruder was no Chanastardhian assassin?”
“No, sir.”
“Then whom does he work for?”
He was tempted to tell the noble the information was on a need to know basis and that no one but him, Ealisaid and the Baron needed to know, but held his tongue. Instead he said, “Sir, we are not yet able to identify whoever hired the killer, but we assure you that, based on what we have learned, the attack was not aimed at your family.”
“Yet he threatened them as well,” Cahill replied gruffly. “I asked my questions even before you began yours. After all, this is my house. Your investigation is your own; I do whatever is necessary to insure my household’s safety.” If Sir Úistan decided to interrogate Drangar there was nothing they could do to prevent that, and in all likelihood Ralgon would pour his heart out as he had done with them. “Can you assure me that something like that will not happen again?”
“No, sir,” Kildanor said.
“Will my guest be safer in the Palace?”
Again, his answer was in the negative.
“I am responsible for his wellbeing; he is my guest, no matter who came after him.”
“And so he shall remain, milord,” he said soothingly. “We have no interest in freeing him from his debt.”
So, this was where this was headed. Cahill didn’t merely want to insure Drangar’s safety, he wanted the mercenary to make good on the guest right, in whatever shape or form. The noble was a canny man.
“You will not disturb his rest without my permission, or that of my family?”
He liked Lord Cahill and made a mental note to talk to Cumaill about this decisive noble. Sir Úistan was right. This was his house; they had to obey his rules.
“Yes, milord,” he said tersely.
“I apologize for my behavior,” Ealisaid said.
Her last statement came as a surprise. The wizards he had known had been much more aloof. Maybe her incarceration had taught her humility. Maybe she was right about wizards being just like normal people. He only recalled the devastation caused by the Heir-War and had never truly associated with any Phoenix Wizard. If Cumaill spoke truth, at least one Wizard had defended Dunthiochagh against his brethren’s madness. Maybe his feelings were nothing but prejudice.
Upholder Coimharrin had merely demanded Ealisaid’s proper trial for the murders, not for her existence as a Phoenix Wizard. Was he really that narrow-minded? He had always prided himself on being broad-minded, but when it came to sorcery he felt awash with anger. Maybe it was irrational.
“Words count for nothing, Lady; deeds do far more,” Cahill replied. “Don’t do it again.”
“Aye, milord, I won’t.”
Cahill looked at him. “And you, Chosen?”
“I will not do so either, milord.”
“Good, now get out. I’ll send for you should his condition change. There’s been enough unrest for one day.”
“Understood, sir,” Kildanor said, taking Ealisaid by the arm and leading her downstairs and out of the building.
Outside, the crisp air washed over them. One of Lord Cahill’s servants escorted them to the gate and closed it as soon as they were on the street.
The nobles’ quarter occupied, in its basics, everything north of Shadowpeak Street and west of Trade Road. Here, the mansions, at least those that had bested the long years since the founding of Dunthiochagh, loomed broad and majestic. They were massive edifices built of stone; those made of wood and plaster had long ago been replaced by granite and marble. One could readily tell which villas were old and which new. The older ones, like the Cahill estate, which dated back to the time when Dunthiochagh had merely occupied the northern shores of the river, looked almost brutish in their rocky dress of quarry stones left rough and unfinished on the exterior. The newer ones were smooth, aside from a fresco here or there.
The sight of a monstrous statue outside the Tremay home, a grotesque apparition meant to ward off evil spirits, turned Kildanor’s thoughts back to what the sorceress had said about magic and how she was certain Ralgon had used this rather self-destructive way of channeling the arcane to break out of his mystic prison.
It seemed improbable. “Can people really use magic without being aware of it,” he muttered.
“What was that?” the Wizardess asked, as they turned into an alley that ran parallel to Shadowpeak.
“Has anyone ever used magic subconsciously?”
She gave a weak shrug. “Maybe—I don’t know—possibly. In moments of dire need…” her voice trailed off, and she looked back to the watchtower of Cahill Manor looming above the other buildings. He turned and regarded the place as well. It seemed more fortress than villa. “You think Ralgon really doesn’t know?” she asked. “Maybe he picked up a thing or two from those books he leafed through as a…”
“Speaking of those books,” he interrupted. “Are those you learned from written in a different tongue?”
A brief look of irritation flashed across her face, it was gone a moment later when her brow furrowed. “There are other languages, you know.”
“Aye, Firan in the south, but aside from that?”
“And various branches of Elven in other corners of the world,” she stated.
“But they can be recognized as such. The question is what other language is there?”
“Well.” Ealisaid looked baffled. “I don’t know.”
“Since Drangar couldn’t read it—and I believe him when he says he couldn’t—how was he able to break through the cage?”
“And why did his eyes glow for an instant?”
He was about to shrug when a thought struck him. The nightmares had plagued him for years afterwards but had subsided over the decades. It should have been obvious the moment he touched the golden coil impaling Ralgon after he had returned to life. Demons, it had to be demons. Ealisaid’s gentle cough reminded him he was not alone. He looked at her, throat dry at the mere thought of those slaughtering monsters. “Remember our first time in the spiritworld?” His voice sounded raw and he swallowed several times, getting rid of the frog in his throat. “I mean,” he began anew, “when I touched the golden line and what I saw…”
“Before you lost consciousness? Yes, I do remember. You said you saw…” Ealisaid fell
silent. Expecting her to continue any moment, he remained still. “Are you suggesting that Ralgon is in league with those things?”
“In league, no,” he said, shaking his head. “But the last time I saw eyes glow like that was when we defeated those demons near Gathran.”
She frowned; the crinkles on her forehead were more defined than they had been a moment earlier. “I have never read of demons, never throughout my studies in the Citadel.” A shiver ran through her body, and although they both wore thick cloaks the Chosen began to feel the chill as well.
“We should go,” he suggested. Ealisaid nodded vigorously and they hurried on.
Now, with their speed close to running, there was no time to reflect or analyze. A rosy flush colored her cheeks, which, framed by her red tresses, made her… astonished, Kildanor realized he found her attractive. He banished the thought. There was no place for romance in his life.
Trade Road was busy. He saw warriors wearing Cumaill’s crest on their surcoats on patrol. There already had been a few incidents, at taverns where the rationing had struck the worst. Little brawls, he knew from experience, could turn into bloody melees quickly, and though Kerral had his own watchdogs out there, Duasonh—assuring everyone his actions were not meant to insult the general—had ordered the watch to don armor and patrol the streets in force. The group of watchmen was surrounded by a bustle that, at any other time, would have seemed lively. Now, as refugees poured from Ondalan and Dunthan into the city, he sensed the pushing and shoving was more desperate than lively. Mothers carried children in their arms and their meager belongings on their backs. Fathers, exhaustion plain on their faces, tried to keep together their fracturing families, as children with far too much energy kept wandering off to gawk at something or other. Most of them looked as if they hadn’t had time to load their valuables onto carts, if they even owned such vehicles. The city was getting crowded, and Kildanor felt something was different about this swarm of people. Normally the general populace cared little to whom they paid taxes; rulers came and went, and the freeborn and villeins rarely bothered to look at the person holding out the hand. Why were these families running?