by Ulff Lehmann
“I don’t know if I should accept,” the cleric muttered.
They had come a long way from the bickering and little, or big, arguments they’d had over the past few years, to sitting in a good inn discussing religious matters over a haunch of venison. The rationing had eased a little and good eateries made smashing business.
“You want my opinion?” he asked, his astonishment audible even to him.
Braigh looked at the fingertips of his left hand, poked the meat with the fork in his right, and finally nodded. “Aye, your judgments have been sound. Always you spoke your mind and heart, and you were convincing, even if I never admitted it.”
“What about Caslin?” he asked. The Caretaker had done a decent enough job in Braigh’s absence.
The High Priest-elect shook his head. “She’s an outlander and cannot take up the mantle here.”
“It’s not like the position is that important,” Kildanor muttered, cutting off a piece of meat. “I mean, we Chosen hail from different countries. I was born in Kalduuhn but serve in Danastaer. If you’re uncomfortable with the position, don’t accept it. Who’s next in line?”
“Ayleen Hydann.”
He had heard of her. She was well liked by many, but some rumors hinted at a not so tolerant upbringing. Then it hit him. “Wasn’t her family killed off during a battle between… demons?” The concept that the creatures he had fought decades ago might not be demons at all still had to truly sink in. The Wizardess’ words made sense, and when she had explained how magic could be forced to do one’s bidding he had done some reading in the Library. The books the priests had granted him access to had been of less help than he had hoped, but at least they hinted at knowledge that was there and yet wasn’t.
Braigh chewed thoughtfully, and then replied, “I think so, and if that is true she might well be rather in favor of the ban. After all, priests of Lesganagh did summon demons to fight demons.”
If they were demons, Kildanor thought, but said, “Then your choice should be clear.”
His opposite nodded. “Aye, but I’m not sure I am the right person for the position.”
“Want to hand the reins back to Danaissan?” he asked.
Braigh almost dropped his fork. “Scales no! We’d be right back where we started a week ago.”
“You need to weed out those who still support the ban, there’s enough who’ll pay only lip-service to the new doctrine and go on preaching distrust when your back is turned,” Kildanor added.
“Are you sure? I thought the Riders took care of that.”
He shrugged, and then stabbed a turnip with his knife. “They may have caught them all, but you need to be sure. If Lesganagh’s church is to ever be repopulated you cannot allow people in your ranks who would use their authority to incite riots or torching of buildings.”
“What do you suggest?”
“What do I suggest? Gods be damned, man, make up your own mind, or your career as High Priest will last only as long as it takes for some ambitious Caretaker to see through your lack of spine and slit your throat.” When had he become the advisor of an Eanaighist? Couldn’t Braigh decide for himself?
The church-leader-to-be stiffened and Kildanor was glad to see some of the old fight return to the priest. Maybe he had been too harsh. After all, Braigh had been tortured by his brethren, and that left a mark even on the hardiest of men. Before the balding priest could reply, the Chosen said, “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it that way.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Braigh, shaking his head. “You’re right, and if you have any counsel to add, your opinion is welcome.”
“Well, if you really want to know my mind,” he said, cutting another piece off the haunch. “Fetch a Lawspeaker and have each and every priest declare before Nerran and the Riders that they don’t consider Lesganagh and his faith a threat.” He shoveled the meat into his mouth and chewed. “What about Ralgon?” he asked with full mouth.
For a moment Braigh remained silent.
“Would you like some more ale?” the serving wench asked.
“Sure,” he replied, holding out his mug.
“What about you, sir?”
Braigh looked up, blinking. “Sorry?”
“Want some more ale, sir?” the girl repeated.
“Yes, please,” the priest replied absentmindedly. He held up his mug, but the lass hesitated. “A problem?”
“Aye, sir,” she said, pointing at the tankard. “You hardly sipped at it.”
Arching an eyebrow, Kildanor leaned forward and inspected the container. It was nearly full. Braigh’s mind was elsewhere. He thanked the maid with a brief nod, and then looked at the priest. “Come on, you can’t not taste the ale.”
“I don’t want to be High Priest,” Braigh said a moment later. Then he finally put the mug to his lips and drained it.
“Whoa, slow down!” Kildanor had never seen the man drink this much in such short a time.
“I don’t want to be High Priest!” the Caretaker repeated, slamming the tankard onto the table.
“I think everyone in here heard you.”
“Would you like more ale?” the lass asked again. She had probably seen Braigh emptying the mug in one pull and sensed there was business to be had. “Sir?”
“Aye, fill it up.”
She did and left again. “Listen, pea-brain,” Kildanor hissed. “Think of all the good you can do.”
“I don’t wanna watch my back the same way Cumaill does day in an’ day out.” Braigh shoved some food into his mouth.
“So, you’d rather see some shit-for-brains bigot in charge?” Now he was getting angry. There wasn’t much he could do to mend the scars Braigh’s torture must have left. Yes, the man had remained stoic about the entire affair, but even with the Chanastardhians besieging the city, life had to go on. The matter of who became Eanaigh’s High Priest would be important when blood started to flow in earnest.
“No, of course not. But how can I trust people who just days ago helped tear out my fingernails?” Braigh held up his left hand, its tips still wrapped in thin bandages. “Sure, they don’t hurt anymore, but how can I rely on bastards who helped with torturing me before Nerran’s Riders took them down? Do you think I can pretend that didn’t happen? Taking care of Ralgon helped me to take my mind off the topic, but now that this miracle, the second miracle, happened, what can I do? I don’t want to be High Priest!” He drank deeply. When he put the tankard down, Kildanor thankfully heard liquid still sloshing inside.
“Then you have to take care of all the unfinished business,” the Chosen said. Braigh looked from his bandaged fingers up into his eyes, blanched, and then nodded.
“You mean judge them?”
“The churches police their own, remember? Crucify Danaissan for all I care and hang those loyal to him.”
“I’d begin with blood on my hands,” Braigh muttered.
“No, that already was between you and them the moment they laid hands on you. Now stop moping, eat, and then go to the old coot, Coimharrin, and ask him for help.” He was tired of hearing more of the priest’s misery; if the man didn’t get on his feet soon there was no point in giving him advice anyway.
Kildanor had had a few bites when Braigh spoke up again. “It is a miracle, isn’t it?” he asked.
Chewing thoughtfully, the Chosen regarded Braigh. Was he having doubts about Ralgon as well? So far, they hadn’t had the time for him to share the Wizardess’ revelation. “I was about to ask you the same thing when we came here.”
“It is a miracle.”
Was it really? What was a miracle, if not a sign from the gods? He decided to tell the High Priest-elect of Ealisaid’s discoveries. It seemed the report drew Braigh’s mind away from his doubts.
When the tale finished, Braigh stared at him in silence. Finally, he said, “So what do the Librarians say about it?”
“I’m about as far along the way as I was before roaming through a bunch of dusty books,” he said. “All the sources regarding the Dem
on War tell of the destruction, the sacrifices, but none of them ever mention a name, a reference to some older source.” He paused, took a sip of ale, and then scoffed, “There are whole pages filled with the names of who died when and who killed them, in the Heir War and every other bloody war before that. But with the demons there are only casualties from our side. It’s as if there was no enemy and people just eviscerated themselves…”
“So, what were those things? Those demons?”
“I have no idea.”
They finished their supper in silence, left a few silver leaves on the table and headed out. Once in the cold, drawing his cloak tight, Kildanor said, “You know, you’ve come a long way from the dogma-spewing idiot I once knew.”
A smirk played on the priest’s lips as he replied, “So have you, my friend.” Then the man turned and, his back straight, and left Kildanor standing in wonder.
“Who would’ve thought?” the Chosen muttered.
CHAPTER 19
“The warband is restless, and worried, lady,” Gwennaith said. The squire was polishing the few pieces of plate armor that went with Anne’s chain, oily rag in her left hand. Despite the smear on her fingers, she had just brushed her unruly red locks to her back.
“Worried about what?” Anne asked. She inspected her sword for the sixth time that day, and although the steel was spotless, she ran her oil rag down the blade again. The past few days had been tedious: endless patrols, weapon’s practice, overseeing the loosening of the ground near the Dunth. News from her House’s warriors came sparsely, mainly because Gwen could hardly risk being seen near Paddy and the others. Despite Mireynh already having her squire as his personal watchdog, Anne had seen half a dozen people observing her closely in addition to the young woman.
“There’s been rumors,” Gwen said, scrutinizing her work.
In her isolation, it was difficult to hear any gossip. Not that Anneijhan of House Cirrain was one to chat idly. What little she’d heard and seen had sickened her. House Argram was raping and pillaging through the countryside. The smoke of burning farmsteads constantly obscured the southern horizon, and Duncan Argram had boasted more than once about his warriors’ exploits. “What rumors?” she asked. Would it always be this difficult to get news out of the girl? Why didn’t people just reply in a straightforward manner?
“That something is wrong at home,” the squire replied.
Anne inspected her sword one last time then sheathed it. Just as she was about to prod Gwen for more specific news, a group of drunken soldiers stumbled past, cheering and laughing.
“You saw how the wench tried to get to her lass while you were plowing her fields?” asked one in a loud voice.
“Had to slap the bitch silly,” another said, laughing. “Almost made me lose my rhythm.”
Her hands were balled into fists, nails biting deep into her flesh. She knew that House Argram was mercenary, but to hear firsthand the tales of rape made her blood churn. Gwen must have felt the same, for she heard the girl muttering under her breath, “Bastards should be gelded, all of them!”
“And did you hear how that old fart squealed like a pig when I stuck him?” a third voice added. Was that a woman? House Argram usually enlisted only men, but there were enough females with just as much of a fiendish streak. The conversation moved out of earshot.
“Fucking bastards!” Gwen spat. Anne saw her squire had put away the plate shoulder piece, one hand on her dagger. “I’ve seen lumps of shit more honorable.”
She didn’t know what to say. The lass was right, but there was nothing she could do to stop the burning of farms and the rape of its people. Instead she asked, “What kind of things are wrong at home?”
For a moment Gwen seemed far away, and then she turned to look at her, blinking. “What? Oh, sorry, yes, the rumors. The news hasn’t reached your people, milady. It’s purposely kept from them.”
“What news?” Anne insisted.
“Heard some warriors talking about troops being levied to march against Chirnath,” the young noblewoman said hesitantly.
“What? Why?” she could barely keep her voice in check as she stammered the questions.
“No idea, it’s said that your father broke with Herascor and is now in league with the Northmen.”
Wadram Cirrain uniting with those his House had fought for decades? A week ago, she would have thought the concept ludicrous, but with the surveillance she was under, the idea seemed more likely. What other reason would the High General have to keep an eye on her? If Gwennaith Keelan hadn’t revealed her complicity and changed sides, she would not have known what was going on.
“Soup, milady?” Gwen asked loudly, standing and ladling broth into a mug. The noise outside their tent had subsided, and the girl was eyeing the far side. Was someone pushing against the heavy cloth?
“Certainly, thank you,” she answered, her voice regal, yet demanding. In the past few days the eavesdropping had become a regular feature of their lives. At one point or another someone strolled close to where they were sparring, or a side of the tent bulged in suspiciously. Sometimes in midst the entire ruckus going on outside, heavy footsteps approached and halted outside. Subtlety was not a trait in every person Mireynh sent to spy on her.
“Bread?” Gwen asked. How did the girl manage to sound so subservient when the need arose? Usually the squire was cocky, so full of herself that Anne had to beat the blind enthusiasm down a notch or two every time they crossed swords.
“Sure,” she replied, an idea struck her and she added with a mischievous grin, “You are such a pleasant companion, dear.” If her voice truly sounded like a love-smitten woman she didn’t know, but Gwen’s hand flashing up to her mouth to stifle the snort showed she had succeeded at least partially. Outside she thought she heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Oh, milady,” the squire now said in a coy voice, “You’re showing me things I never knew of.”
Anne managed a girlish giggle, and then said, “You have such a sweet tongue, and you just do know how to use it, dear.”
Now Gwen’s face distorted as she suppressed her laughter. The lass turned scarlet, hammering her right fist on the fur covering the frozen ground. Outside, after another gasp, footsteps receded. Even if this danger had, for now, gone, the threat wasn’t over by any means. There would be more ears paying attention to what she said, more eyes than merely Gwen’s to watch over her. At least she now knew why she was separated from her warband.
“You’re evil,” Gwen whispered, struggling to keep a straight face. “The ambiguity!”
“Let them wonder,” Anne said, scoffing.
“Aye,” Gwen said, putting a bottle of ale to her lips. She drank long, and then put it down, wiping her lips. “Tonight, if things go well, I’ll try to contact your cousin once more. Your people have been isolated from the others, and someone is always watching them.”
“Then how did you manage to speak to Paddy?”
“Latrines,” her squire said. “Everyone has to go, and Cirrain warriors are easy to spot.”
Shortly after dark, she was called to attend a war-council in High General Mireynh’s tent. Wrapped in her wolf-skin coat, Anne crossed the camp, ignoring the few lower ranking warleaders staring at her with wide eyes. Apparently, word of the supposed affair between her and her squire was already making the rounds. Some men made lewd noises behind her back, and her lack of reaction would only support the rumors, which in turn meant Mireynh would more readily believe Gwen had managed to win her trust and swallow whatever the squire was feeding him.
When she entered the massive commander’s tent, more than a few heads turned her way. Their eyes stayed on her as she crossed to the table laden with maps and reports. The High General barely looked up. He gave her a brief nod, and then stared at a map once more. Anne leaned forward and saw it depicted the lower portion of Merthain, focusing on the one bridge that crossed the Dunth. The place where elves had erected the bridge centuries ago was only a mile or two from tha
t spot where the Shadon, a river in its own right and a tributary, flowed into the Dunth. After that junction the river became so wide that barges could only accomplish a crossing.
“Call me fool,” Mireynh grunted.
“Sir?” Duncan Argram and several others asked.
Anne was more than willing to call him thus, but she kept quiet. There would be a time for honesty, but it was not now. Initially she had liked the general, admired his decisiveness when handling the nobles. Now, however, after he had ordered the Danastaerian turncoats shot, and Gwen’s revelation about what the he had in mind for her, she loathed the man.
“I relied on the assurance of a traitor that we could take Dunthiochagh overnight,” Mireynh explained. “I did not consider that our man inside the city would fail.” He took a deep breath, straightened and looked about the assembled nobles. “I made a mistake. I did not send people to secure the Merthain Bridge, nor did I send warbands to take the crossing at Ondalan.” The High General pulled forth another map and pointed at a settlement located on the southwestern foot of the Shadowpeaks. “Ondalan is no more, and the crossing is held by a handful of well concealed archers. So far, our warriors have not managed to take the ford and the hills, and the mountains are too rough to climb out of the archers’ way.” He pointed at the Merthain Bridge, his finger trembling. Whether Mireynh was angry or in pain, Anne could not tell. “We lost an entire band of Horse to the Dunth.”
“What?” everybody in the tent exclaimed in unison.
“The Bridge is no more. The Danastaerians managed to get there before us and rigged the entire thing to come crashing down at the pull of a string, which they pulled when most riders were on the Bridge!”
Despite her misgivings, Anne joined the general outburst of anger. Baron Duasonh had sacrificed a centuries old monument to keep his enemies at bay. “How many of Duasonh’s men did we kill?” she asked aloud.
Mireynh must have heard her, for he shouted for silence. “The opposition had no casualties,” the High General stated.
“Impossible!” shouted one.
“The nerve!” another snarled.