by Ulff Lehmann
“You hardly realize there is a war going on when you are sheltered behind thick walls,” Ealisaid said breathlessly. Moving had slowed to a walk, and the press of bodies—he heard the nervous whinny of a horse somewhere behind them—kept them reasonably insulated. Not that the smell filling the air was enjoyable. Bodies clad in clothes that had gone unwashed for however long the trip from the east had taken them, exuded a rank stench of stale sweat and worse.
“Yes,” he agreed. “That’s why most noblemen really don’t give a damn when their people suffer. They just don’t see it.”
Someone close must have overheard his statement. “Hey, watch your tongue, man; Lord Cahill’s a fair man.”
Kildanor turned to look at the speaker but the only thing he noted, again, was the despair and fear smudging the adults’ faces. He would have liked to talk with the man. Sir Úistan seemed, like Cumaill Duasonh, to be a different sort of noble, and such an ally was bound to be helpful for the Baron who already had more than his share of work on his plate. Why didn’t the Cahills attend court? They seemed good people, yet during all his time in the Palace he had never seen them. Another riddle to solve. He grimaced. Lately there had been far too many of those.
The lowered drawbridge was guarded by a small warband. A quick headcount and a glance over his shoulder made him wonder if those thirty Swords were enough to stop a mob from charging the Palace. As they came closer he saw the warriors had actually formed a shield wall, with another good dozen standing behind them to support the barricade should the need arise. His concerns calmed, he took Ealisaid by the arm and headed for the drawbridge.
The Sword-Warden recognized him, grunted an order, and they were let through, the wall closing once more behind them, barring access to some bold interlopers. “There will be an audience later this week!” the warden barked. A muttered curse was drowned out by the dejected groans of the crowd.
Once past the gatehouse the thick stone battlements kept most of the noise at bay. “I hope we can give all of them shelter,” Kildanor said, shaking his head.
“There is room enough,” Ealisaid replied.
He cast a sidewise glance at her and snorted. “Right, that must be the reason why the Baron has been arguing with greedy, selfish bastards all week, as if he had nothing better to do, what with the siege and all.” Were it up to him he would have requisitioned more than just the billets for the army. Cumaill was still trying too hard to be everyone’s best friend, and that was the reason why the wealthy clung like leeches to goods that should have been given freely.
The inner bailey bustled with activity. Horses whinnied, clapping their metal shoes on the cobblestones; grooms rushed to and fro, carrying saddles. In the center of that chaos he spied Nerran, wearing his favorite riding cloak, a much-patched thing that was more quilt than proper garment, barking orders and pointing at a group of people loading a wagon.
“Guess we don’t have to look for him,” the Wizardess remarked.
On their way toward the Paladin, Kildanor rearranged his thoughts, and pushed back everything that did not concern Drangar Ralgon. Hopefully Nerran could provide some answers.
When they were a few yards away, Nerran turned, shouting at another Rider. “Briog, make sure the stone cutters have their warmest clothes packed!” He spotted them, gave a quick nod, and shoved a horse out of the way. “Check that they are all shod! Fetch a sack of spares and nails from the smith!” Then, in a voice that was just a notch calmer, he said, “Chosen, milady, make it quick; we’re almost out of here.”
“Where are you going?” Kildanor asked. He hadn’t heard anything about the Riders moving out.
Nerran’s teeth bared in a feral grin, “Gonna bring the mountains down, lad, that’ll prevent the Chanastardhians from sneaking up on our rear.”
“You want to block Shadowpass?” Ealisaid asked. He could tell by her tone she was surprised.
“Aye, one piece at a time,” the other answered. “Quite easy, actually, if you know what you’re doing.” Again, his teeth flashed, and then turning to Kildanor he asked, “Wanna come along? It’s gonna be fun.”
“No, I’m needed here.”
“So am I, but Cumaill wants someone he can trust on this adventure, and though he is starting to warm up to Kerral, he’s still a long way from being best mates with the man. Kerral knows what he’s doing, sure, but he’s boisterous and loud. Annoying.”
Kildanor glanced at Ealisaid and saw that she struggled not to laugh. Quickly he drew the Paladin’s attention back his way. “You said you saw Drangar Ralgon fight years ago.”
“Ralgon? Yeah, saw him once…”
“Ralchanh?” a passing woman asked. Ealisaid and he turned, surprised. Rheanna Scadainh stood a few feet away, holding a horse by its bridle.
“No, not Ralchanh, princess,” Nerran replied, and added, “Don’t you have a task to do?”
The woman Rider gave a mock salute. “Aye, sir, I do.”
“Then get moving, or you’ll catch something again,” Nerran grumbled.
“Will do,” she replied, leading the horse away.
“Princess?” Ealisaid asked.
Ignoring her, the Paladin continued. “Ralgon… bloody fierce bastard on the field. Called him Scythe, you know.”
For a moment Kildanor looked after the departing Rider, wondering if Rheanna might actually be helpful. She had sounded as if she knew someone with a name quite similar to Drangar’s. Later, he told himself, turning his attention back to Nerran. “So, what was he like?”
Another feral smile, and then, his gaze taking on a dreamy quality, Nerran said, “You know how battles are fought, right? Shield walls bashing against each other.”
He nodded impatiently.
“Right, well you know there’s always some silly buggers who drink themselves stupid before a battle.”
“I don’t understand,” the Wizardess, predictably, said.
Nerran gave him an annoyed look that spoke volumes but kept his calm. “In war there’s spoils, and the fiercest warrior usually gets a bigger share than the others. Also, it is very prestigious to be one of the greatest slayers on the field.” The Paladin scoffed. “In war it’s called valor, in peacetime it’s murder.” He shook his head and spoke on. “Now, when armies clash, we fight the elven way, lines of warriors, their shields interlinked; some spear-throwing, insulting and such follows, and then the walls clash. There are always some fools who want more glory than the rest. They look to Broggainh or mead or any other potent drink to give them courage, because no sane man would charge a well-arranged shield wall alone. It’s suicide. Sometimes this foolery works, most of the time it does not, the poor sod ends up gutted for worm food.”
Kildanor watched Ealisaid as she paled. He didn’t blame her; war was a brutal craft, and those who were in it too long struggled to adjust in normal life. He’d certainly had his own share of problems. “What does this have to do with Ralgon?” the Chosen asked, although by the way Nerran spoke he had a fairly good idea of what was to come.
“Drangar Ralgon was one of the fools.” A slight pause followed. He knew Nerran enjoyed telling a tale like this and didn’t push. A moment later the Rider spoke on. “They called him Scythe, for obvious reasons. A shield wall, although strong can break. This usually happens when those in the rear strengthening it cannot keep up with replacing the dead. Looks like shifting cornstalks, grotesque but apt.
“Ralgon knew how to break a wall, and he survived, unlike other fools.” The Chosen recalled the few times he had actually been part of a wall and how they had butchered the drunken idiots trying to break it. To remain alive and relatively unscathed and still manage to tear a big hole into one was remarkable. No wonder people claimed that Lesganagh had blessed Drangar. “I only watched the lines back then,” Nerran continued. “Was studying tactics at the time, so I am hardly a reliable source.” He paused a moment, frowning. “Ask the general. Kerral said he fought under Mireynh, and I think Ralgon fought for the side also co
mmanded by our friend outside these walls.” Then a shouted, “Hey, Gavyn, get everyone ready.” To them the Paladin said, “Sorry, gotta ride. Wanna be in the mountains before nightfall.”
“All right, you’ve been a great help,” Kildanor said, then added, “Before I forget, Ralgon tossed his sword in a trader cave, if you come across it, please bring it with.”
“I’ll tell the lads and lasses. You stay sharp and kick some Chanastardhian ass should the buggers try anything funny,” Nerran replied, hauling himself into the saddle. A clack of the tongue, and the charger cantered off.
Glancing at Ealisaid, the Chosen saw her forehead creased in thought. “So, what do you think?” he asked.
She blinked and turned to look at him. “Is it really that hard and brutal to break such a shield wall?”
“Brutal usually only for the fools trying tear a hole into it; they don’t live very long,” he said.
“No wonder everyone thought him blessed by the Lord of Sun and War. Performing such a feat time and again can be considered an act aided by divine intervention.” The frown remained. “But I think you are right, he must have been using magic long before last night.”
“Not consciously; he looked genuinely perplexed.”
Shrugging her shoulders, Ealisaid said, “I’m cold. Let’s go inside.”
As they walked toward the gate to the keep, he saw her shudder and was just about to ask if it was because of the cold or the thought that a mental wreck such as Drangar Ralgon was actually consuming his body by sheer force of will, when one of the passing warriors stopped the Wizardess. One look sufficed to recognize Culain, the guardsman and her lover. Unwilling to remain around, whether because of a twinge of jealousy or plain annoyance at the interruption, Kildanor said, “I’ll find Kerral. We’ll talk later?”
Breaking the kiss long enough to nod her thanks, he thought he saw her smile, and not only with gratitude at his leaving. Or was it just a figment of his mind?
Kildanor headed for the stables. The Riders’ departure had left the place a mess, and the grooms struggled to clean up. One of them, Tudwal, recognized him amidst the bustle and greeted him with a friendly nod. Dawntreader was picky about the people he allowed near, and Tudwal belonged to the chosen few. Over the few years the then barely of age boy had been in Cumaill’s employ, Kildanor had shared more than one bottle of mead with the stable hand, and he considered him if not a friend then at least a good acquaintance.
“Need him?” Tudwal asked. He liked the younger man’s clipped way of speech. No unnecessary word littered his communication. Not that the lad was stupid, far from it, but he saw no reason to frame or gild words with more when less was enough.
“Aye,” Kildanor replied and stood back, allowing the other workers to carry on with their task.
A short while later he was on Trade Road heading south to find General Kerral.
CHAPTER 9
The knock disrupted her focus for an instant. The pitcher wobbled briefly, water spilling over its rim. Then it straightened once more. Ealisaid was performing yet another exercise in concentration. Her examination inside Cahill Manor had reinforced the idea of how dangerous forcing magic really could be. What the ages-long hibernation had failed to accomplish, the passion aroused by Culain had. Still, she had to be able to produce magic without her lover around. Yes, he insisted on being with her every waking and sleeping moment, but there would come a time, she was certain, when she wouldn’t have him around to rely on. Sooner or later, she reasoned, they would be separated.
“Calmly now,” he reminded her, squeezing her shoulders in one of those futile gestures to reassure her. Part of her adored his attention, another part wanted to lash out and tell him she had things under control.
The knock came again, more insistent this time.
With a sigh she rose and replaced the pitcher on the table. “Enter!”
In stepped a servant. There were so many of them she didn’t bother to memorize their names or faces. Like the warriors she encountered wherever she went, no one dressed like the other, the sole exceptions being the warleaders who were identifiable by their sashes. Culain still had his hands on her shoulders. She cast him a quick glance and he let go. “Yes?” Did she sound annoyed? If so at whom? Her lover or the boy standing before her?
“My lord Baron wishes to see you.” How old was he? Barely of age, if that.
A look out the window showed the sun low in the west. Already afternoon? She had expected Kildanor back by now. “Please wait outside,” she said irritably.
Once the lad was gone, Culain cleared his throat. “There’s something I need to tell you, dear.”
What was it now? Did the strain show on her face? Not wanting to worry him, she had explained only briefly what had happened to Drangar Ralgon. Had she overdone it? Did he resent her for keeping him on the fringes of knowledge? “I’m…” His raised hand stopped her apology.
“You may have guessed it already, what with me gone and all, but we need every blade available, either on the walls or on patrol. So”—he took a deep breath and she felt his regret—“I fear we won’t see much of each other. During the day at least,” he added quickly.
A part of her was glad. His presence was calming, yes, but it also distracted her from what needed to be done. The confusion must have shown on her face, for Culain leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll return at dawn.” He grabbed his cloak and left.
For a moment she was at a loss, watching the door close behind him. Then, remembering the servant and Duasonh’s summons, she smoothed her dress and headed out.
Duasonh gave her a curt nod. “You did well last night.”
They were in his study. A moment earlier a nobleman, by the looks of him, had left the room, sweating despite the chill. Gone was the jovial man she had come to know. The new Baron looked the same, but there was steel in his eyes and voice that even his kind words could not mask.
“Thank you again, milord,” she replied. “But you’ve commented on my spellwork already. What can I do for you?”
The Baron waited until the door had closed, then brushed the wrinkles off his tunic and raked his hands through his hair. Had he lost weight? “I’ve been reading my grandfather’s diaries,” he began, fixing her with a steady gaze.
“Oh,” she said, pouring water into two glasses.
“Aye, he recalled some of the spellbattles that happened at Dunthiochagh’s gates.” Duasonh took a deep breath and rubbed his hands across his face. Had he slept at all? He inclined his head toward one of the chairs opposite his desk. As she sat, he continued, “If you could harness battlemagic like the wizards of old, this siege might end much sooner, and with less bloodshed on our side.”
Somehow, she had anticipated and dreaded this conversation. The Baron had already asked as much when he had demanded her cooperation, but not in so many words. The illusion had been a first, very successful step, but the Chanastardhian general would not fall for the same ruse twice. “I can see to it that the Dunth will not freeze at any point,” she offered. Somehow, she was loath to cast battlespells. To urge magic into destructive patterns felt as if she had to use herself as a catalyst once more.
“That will postpone the inevitable storming of our walls, true. As long as we can roam the northern shore undisturbed the city will hold,” Duasonh said gravely. “But in the end, we have to fight them blade for blade. In the end you will have to burn advancing troops to the ground.”
She saw he was tired and frightened. Had the diaries conjured up such gruesome images they haunted Duasonh even now? How could she know? She had not fought in the Heir War. “I know no battlespells.”
A grim smile crept onto Duasonh’s lips. As she watched, it turned into a feral snarl. “You know more about magic than anyone alive, Lady Wizard. And if the destruction you’ve already caused is an indicator of what you can do, I am quite certain you can create even more mayhem among the enemy.”
“I was unconscious for…
what? A day?” Using magic this way had drained her; with Drangar Ralgon’s husk as living proof she knew this would eventually kill her.
“From my grandfather’s accounts even the most powerful casters had to rest after a long spell battle. It seems that destroying something has never been easy.” The Baron withdrew a small, leather-bound book from beneath a few other papers and handed it to her. “Here, I marked the specific passages.”
She took the diary, flipped it open at the first marked page, and scanned the text.
“My grandfather notes that the trio of Wizards defending Dunthiochagh could repel most spells without attacking,” Duasonh pointed out.
She nodded, having just read that passage. “It seems defense is easier than offense.”
“It usually is, attacking forces you to let go of some part of you so you can kill without thinking of being killed yourself,” he remarked.
“If part of battlemagic is to relinquish control, it might mean I have to lash out emotionally as well,” she mused aloud. “But that’s wrong.” She shook her head, flipping through the book. “I assume you read how some Wizards fled and returned only days later, rejuvenated?” she asked, her finger on the specific passage she was quoting. This account proved once more her inner strength would never suffice. There had to be another way.
Duasonh nodded. “Aye,” said the Baron.
“If that is the case with all battlemagic, then casting such spells will be of little to no use to you in the long run, milord.”
His brow arched, the Baron stared at her. “Why’s that?”
“Consider this: I burn a hundred or even five hundred soldiers only to collapse and be useless for several days. You’d get more use out of your archers. If I were to cast battlespells, it has to be in the right way.” Already her mind was working on a solution, but with her limited resources—her meager library had been brought to the Palace today—it would take years until she could actually cast battlemagic the right way. She was about to say more, when she glimpsed a reference to another journal. This one had been written by one of the Wizards defending Dunthiochagh. She knew this name! “Milord, may I peruse your library and the effects of your grandfather? It might give a clue to what needs to be done.”