by Ulff Lehmann
“He who is of two worlds and belongs to neither.”
How bloody cryptic were dwarves anyway?
“A name if you please,” Nerran demanded.
“Steel knows no names; even we smiths cannot give metal sentience. It has memories, nothing more.”
So, Ralgon had gone through the ordeal the dwarves desired to gain the blade, if the weapon was his. Again, she wondered if the similarity was just coincidence. She decided. “I’ll take the sword, for safekeeping and return it to its owner.” Nerran looked at her askance, but her mind was made up. Not only was she, aside from Coimharrin of Dunthiochagh and Kyleigh qualified to see truth, she was also determined to find out if her suspicion concerning the man was true.
CHAPTER 29
Most laws were put up to further one or another person’s need. Few of them bound everyone. Guest Law did, and by barreling into Neena Cahill he had broken it. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t been him but the Fiend steering his body; sooner or later this excuse would wear thin even with him, no matter relevance or truth. Sooner or later he might find it convenient to lash out and blame it on the monster in the back of his mind.
Yesterday put to doubt every single time that he had broken a wall or cut his way through enemy lines. Uncertainty gnawed at Drangar just as much as the shame of breaking Guest Law. One did not have to invite everybody into their home and call them guest, but once done, the Law was to be obeyed.
Into his musings crept the one thing that made even less sense than the Fiend. What the Scales had happened on the wall that had caused the monster to tear into his mind and almost gain control? The headache still went on, and, if he closed his eyes in a rare moment of peace, he thought he saw a feline monster lounging in a pool of blood, laughing, mocking.
Why Sir Úistan allowed him to stay despite his infraction was another thing that made little sense. Sooner or later the debt he owed the noble had to be settled and Drangar knew it would not be peeling and cutting turnips.
The whetstone ran down the blade, and up again. Why did it calm him? The better question was why Lord Cahill allowed him near sharp objects. Given his slippery control over his actions, he wouldn’t have let him anywhere near a sword were he in the nobleman’s position. Maybe it was Neena. He doubted it though. After last night’s assault her eyes should be cleared of any lovesick cobwebs. It was best this way. Given time she would marry a noble, establish her own House or be the glue to unite two big families into a major one. Provided Dunthiochagh remained.
It mattered little.
Up and down the whetstone went. It became the focus, the calming influence that drowned the Fiend. Again, Drangar closed his eyes, fearing deeply that he would see the monster. Why was it that he saw it so clearly now? What had changed? Had it always been there, waiting, biding its time? The memory of his time in that dark and cold place had faded; words spoken then had turned from whispers into hushed senseless syllables. Some hidden meaning, something very important was escaping him, and he dared not contemplate it any further for fear of rousing the Fiend into action once more.
“Calm,” he said. “I have to stay calm.”
“It was the demon, wasn’t it?” The voice made him jump, and despite his statement just moments earlier, Drangar found himself whirling around, sword in Eagle’s Guard without any conscious thought. He realized what he was doing the moment Kildanor’s blade flashed before him, ready to turn aside any blow. Gods, what had become of him? A dismayed groan escaped his lips as the sword fell from weary hands and clattered to the ground. The Chosen’s remained where it was. “Do you turn on everyone who asks you a question?” Kildanor asked.
A shake of the head was all the reply he could give; his voice was gone. Slowly, he raised his eyes to look into the Chosen’s steely gaze. Yes, he saw resolve there, a focus he hadn’t detected before. Drangar swallowed, opened his mouth, but aside from a subdued croak no sound passed his lips.
“Tell me about this demon.”
What was there to tell? Had he even been aware of the monster before Hesmera’s death? What about Little Creek? What about barreling heedlessly, mindlessly into the tight formations of enemy shields? Everyone had a darker side. Why was it that his tore control over his body away from him at a moment’s notice? “I’m not mad,” he finally said.
Kildanor nodded his head as if in understanding. Did he really? “I don’t think you are.” At least not totally, Drangar added silently. It was what he would have said had he been in the Chosen’s place. “But there is a connection between you and the demons.”
Sighing, he bent and retrieved the sword. A scratch marred its blade, probably from the drop. Slowly, as to not upset Lesganagh’s warrior whose weapon rose into middle guard once more, he turned and sheathed the sword. “I don’t know what happened. One moment I was teaching the Cahill women how to defend themselves with spears, the next I rush up to Lady Neena and knock her to the ground.”
“You don’t remember anything else?” The Chosen’s blade lowered. “It is important that we know what triggered it.”
He shook his head. “I was frustrated, angry.”
“Angry at whom?”
Why was it so important for Kildanor to know about these things? Did he really try to help? How could he if Drangar himself couldn’t figure out what was wrong? “Neena, she kept pissing and moaning about her hands and feet aching.”
“She’s led a pampered life.”
“Aye, but no enemy soldier would treat her different because of it.”
“Tell me of the demon.”
“What’s there to tell? It’s not as if the bastard lets his intentions be known. If it is a demon.”
“Oh, it is,” Kildanor said; face serious despite the snort of amusement. “It is.”
“But how…”
“That is what we have to find out.”
“Never heard of such a thing; never, during my life at the Eye, were we told about a demon creeping into and taking over one’s mind.”
“I saw it, once.” The other’s voice was so sad he remained silent. “During the Demon War. We had the thing cornered, a few of us Chosen and some of Halmond’s warriors. We formed a wall with no gaps, and we corralled it, pulling the noose tight. At first it just banged against the shields, as if mad. From one moment to the next one of the warriors would break down, sobbing. We were all trained well; those holes were closed immediately. Another broke the line; again we closed ranks. Then the first one rose up behind us and started spearin’, taking down two, three, before we could react. Cut the poor sod down. It only took a few moments but it was enough for the demon to break through and escape.”
“But how? There are no demons left in the world.”
Kildanor scoffed. “Such words from one who grew up in an order solely dedicated to fighting them.”
He shrugged. “As if that really matters.”
“It does. More than you can imagine. Did you know that the magic used to cage you is the same kind of sorcery the demons employed?”
“Say what?” He blinked, shook his head, trying to clear his mind and ears, wondering if he had heard correctly.
“The Wizardess, Ealisaid, determined that your attacker forced magic. Same as you did.”
“I have no bloody idea what the Scales you’re talking about. Me, using magic? Yeah, right.” It was his turn to scoff. He couldn’t use magic, had never learned it. As for Cousin Dalgor, he had certainly seen him summon the glowing orb that had imprisoned him. A swordpriest? How likely was it that his pompous asshole of a cousin had been ordained into the highest echelons of the Sons of Traksor? The bastard had no discipline… he paused. No, that assessment was wrong. It had been him, not Dalgor, who had always lost his temper.
“You tore down a cage of fire,” Kildanor reminded.
He had, and he had also seen the flesh sizzle from his bones and reform once through the barrier. He had felt he could control the Fiend, had ordered the monster. Had it only played with him? Had it
fooled him into believing he could hold its reins? Just how much of his life did he really control anyway? “You know, when I saw him threatening Neena, I wanted to save her, so that she would not die because of me. Not die like Hesmera.”
“Maybe that focus helped you control it,” the Chosen said, speaking out the rationalization he had toyed with before. “Maybe your anger allowed it to slip by and take over your body.”
“It wasn’t just my body; it was my mind as well. I remember thinking it right to show that cunt what danger really means.”
Kildanor took a deep breath. “So, anger controls and unleashes it? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I think we can leave logic behind where my mind is concerned,” Drangar deadpanned. “Besides, I think that maybe the Fiend just toyed with me when we were attacked, made me think I was in control. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think anymore.” He paused, remembering his seizure on the wall. “What happened down south last night?”
“What do you mean?” As if the Chosen didn’t remember.
“Something happened, I could feel the Fiend trying to take over; it was like the worst hangover you can imagine, with creaks of rusty hinges screaming in your head. I felt him, it, whatever, and fought back. But I was neither angry nor drunk, I was in control. What happened when I was on south wall?”
“I’m not sure if I can tell you.”
“Not sure?” He barked a bitter laugh. “Was it magic? You did something to the Chanastardhians.” The Chosen’s face didn’t twitch. “Listen, you know I know of the Wizardess, she is no bloody secret to me. And if I were in Lord Duasonh’s boots, I would use her to fight the enemy. Secrecy is of no use when said secrets are already known. And even if I had anyone to talk to in this household, do you really think anyone would believe me after having broken Guest Law?” Kildanor’s silence was answer enough; one look at the Chosen’s face told him the man had reached the same conclusion.
“I have some things to look into,” the other finally said. “We will talk more later. Try to remain calm.”
He inclined his head to the rack of swords. “Guess what I have been doing.” There was some more thinking to do for him as well.
CHAPTER 30
Entering the Palace, a servant intercepted Kildanor. One look at the man’s face convinced him the retainer bore important news. Given a choice, he would have marched on. There was too much on his mind as it was but the man swerved into his path no matter which way he turned.
“Lord Chosen!”
“Yes.” He didn’t bother to hide the scorn in his voice.
“Thank the gods I found you. We have people all over town looking for you.” This was highly unusual, especially since there was no fighting going on. Was there another traitor at court? The atmosphere in the inner bailey was too calm for another rebellion.
“Speak then,” he urged the man on.
The servant kept pace with him, talking rapidly. “My Lord Baron is calling for the assembly of a council, we’re to bring word to you and urge you to hurry to the study.”
He barely had time to say “thank you” because as the messenger’s last words trailed off, Kildanor took off at a sprint. It mattered little, the little courtesies; in Cumaill’s Household efficiency was more important than flattery. Wardens, captains, warriors stepped out of his way. No greeting was necessary. When the Baron called, they all knew, one obeyed. His friend had changed and had become the leader he had always imagined him to be.
When he reached the corridor leading to the study, Duasonh’s exasperated voice echoing toward him, he wondered if it wasn’t a tad too much. As he drew closer the words became more distinct.
“No bloody way you will withdraw your men-at-arms from the city’s defense, Úistan!” Cumaill shouted; the steeloak door barely muffled the syllables. “Ondalan is gone!”
Kildanor didn’t bother to knock, so he heard Lord Cahill’s calm reply without any interference. “You’re being unreasonable, the ore there will supply our smithies, we will need spare arrowheads, shields, and other weapons, to keep the buggers away from the walls.”
The pair wasn’t alone. With them was Kerral looking rather lost in this power struggle, if it was even that. The tension was not necessarily of a political nature. Cumaill rarely raised his voice during negotiations; he had seen him verbally dance around well-versed lickspittles, mocking them.
“We can spare a score,” the general said, only to be ignored by the two noblemen.
“You’ve never even seen a battlefield, other than the mock ones at the tournaments you fought,” Cumaill countered. A blow to the groin couldn’t have yielded more effect.
Cahill scrounged his face and glared daggers.
This surely was the worst possible moment to announce his presence, but if it allowed the two men to release some tension before they started hitting each other… “Sorry, I’m late,” the Chosen said, closing the door forcefully. “I was busy talking with Sir Úistan’s guest.”
“That’s it!” Lord Cahill exclaimed. “Ralgon’s worth a good dozen men!”
If Kerral had wondered why he had asked so many questions about Drangar, now the warrior had his answer. The general sat up straight, saying, “Drangar’s here?” He looked from one to the other, his gaze coming to rest on Kildanor. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked accusingly.
“What’s he to you?” Sir Úistan snapped as if someone was taking away his favorite toy.
To his surprise, Kerral’s frown turned into a grim smile. “Drangar’s here. Mireynh’s gonna love this.”
“I want Ralgon to accompany me and my guards to Ondalan.”
The last thing Drangar needed was combat; the struggles within the man were enough to keep the strongest people busy. “He can’t! Cumaill, can we talk, in private?”
“Later,” the Baron said. Hadn’t he heard the urgency in his voice? To Kerral, Duasonh said, “Why will Mireynh love this? What is so special about the mercenary?”
Despite his reservations, Kildanor had to admit that he too was curious. If Drangar’s mere presence could distract the Chanastardhian war-effort, maybe whatever it was Cumaill had in mind had some merit.
The broad smirk on General Kerral’s face spoke volumes even before the man replied. “Drangar fought under my command during our time in Urgraith Mireynh’s company. Years and years ago.” Whether for dramatic effect or not, Kerral stopped, leaned forward and grasped his mug. After a long pull, he continued. “We fought a few campaigns together, until, one day, the unprotected flank of our employer was overrun by enemy horse. We had discussed the weakness beforehand and tried to convince our ally to bolster his defenses. He was adamant that no enemy scout would live long enough to spot it and tell their warlord. Drangar volunteered to help the perimeter guard, and sure enough they got every single one of them…”
“Is there a point to all this?” Sir Úistan interrupted.
“Let him finish,” Cumaill reprimanded, face stony.
“Drangar is an honest soul; he wouldn’t lie about these things. Scales, why would he alter the truth, when, after the disaster, our employer was dead and we were forced to retreat, without a single leaf. What was worse, our rearguard, the baggage train had been overrun and plundered as well. Mireynh’s son had been in charge of it. The old bastard wanted his dear boy in safety.”
He felt the smile creeping onto his lips. Judging from what little he knew about the man, Drangar probably had volunteered to hunt the abductors.
Kerral’s next words confirmed his suspicion. “Drangar hates injustice above everything else. He volunteered to hunt Kirran Mireynh’s captors. The warlord even offered a hefty reward if the traitor’s head would be returned.”
Cumaill must have understood the line of events as well, for now it was him who interrupted Kerral. “It was Mireynh’s own son who had betrayed you.”
The general nodded. “Aye, little bastard thought he could get away with it, too.”
Lord Cahill chuckled. “
Ralgon returned with young Mireynh’s head and demanded payment for both services?”
“Indeed he did,” Kerral nodded his head and fell silent. Something else must have happened, Kildanor thought, but refrained from asking. It wasn’t his business to investigate every bit of Drangar’s past. “Mireynh let him live but ordered us to make his life as miserable as possible. Soon after that Drangar ran.”
“You think he’ll do something irrational when he finds out his son’s killer is in Ondalan.” He hated himself for coming to the conclusion, no matter how obvious. Any sort of battle could unleash the demon lurking in Drangar’s mind.
“I know he will do something stupid,” Kerral replied. “Ever after, any traitor, deserter, food-thief, was killed in one fashion or another.” The general paused for a moment, and then growled, “I think the poor bastards that were killed when we laid the trap were Danastaerian volunteers. Must’ve seen them as traitors as well.”
“Irrational,” Cahill said.
Before he could reply, Duasonh said, “Oh, and wanting Ralgon along on a suicide mission because he lost control when your daughter kept nagging is rational?”
“He broke Guest Law!”
“Such infractions are usually dealt with by expulsion, maybe a fine.” Straight-faced, the Baron regarded the nobleman.
“He assaulted my daughter,” Sir Úistan said weakly, and then admitted defeat. “You’re right; Mireynh will probably do something stupid.”
“You cannot take him against his will.” Again, Cumaill spoke his thoughts before he had the chance, but whereas he wanted to defend, to protect Drangar Ralgon, the Baron clearly saw merit in the idea.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“Upholder Coimharrin cleared him of all charges,” Kildanor threw in, realizing the moment he spoke that these words were exactly those Cumaill had not. Most likely his friend had maneuvered the conversation in this direction.
Lord Cahill’s face lit up. “This never happened in a Court or actual trial!”