by Ulff Lehmann
“Listen, son,” Lord Cahill said, pulling him away from the puddle of vomit. “Here, drink.” A flask of water was thrust into his shaking hands. Then, not unkindly, he was pushed onto a bench. “Winter’s almost upon us, and the enemy cannot last long in the snow. But to delay him further, to sow confusion, we need to do what is necessary. You want to go south and find out why your lover had to die. Do you really think you can walk up to the Chanastardhians and ask for safe passage?” A kind but firm hand pulled his chin up so that he was forced to look at Sir Úistan.
Slowly, Drangar shook his head.
“In order for you to head south, you need an open road. Once everything is white there is no traveling anyway, which means the enemy will run out of supplies. Most roads are better mud trails anyway, and the Elven Road is many miles away. Come spring riders can leave, with time to spare before the Chanastardhians return.” A grim smile played on the nobleman’s lips. “Unless you want to try crossing the Dunth somewhere in the west, which again takes you into enemy territory.”
There was no option, both morally and physically. Yet this knowledge did nothing to remove his dread of becoming the Scythe once more. “I have no choice.”
“We all have choices we can make by ourselves, and others we cannot influence one bit. I made this one for you, because despite all your bluster, you lacked the will to do what is necessary.”
He wanted to reply, but Lord Cahill raised a hand. “I’m not finished.” The smile was genuine, almost fatherly. “I am aware that something is not right with you, and that the stories Leo and Neena told me are embellishments of what truly happened. I understand that you fear to become this person once again, but when I look at the man before me, I see a man of conscience, who knows right from wrong and who will do anything in his power to remain as he is.”
This was how Drangar had always thought a father should be. How very different from Darlontor was Lord Cahill. There was no difference in determination, but whereas his adopted father was all business and no emotion, the other was both, in a healthy mix. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. Someone believed in him, in his own spirit. He bobbed his head once more, as much in reaction to Cahill’s cocked eyebrow as his own decision. Yes, he would not fall to the demon.
“Now, let’s be at it again, shall we?” The noble stood and dragged him halfway up before he straightened on his own volition.
Again, they fought. This time the motions were not hampered by fear, came more fluidly, rapidly. The threat lingered, but his newfound confidence, held the Fiend at bay.
A while later, another thought occurred to him. Sir Úistan must have noticed, for he halted his attack and waited. Finally—he still fought with the thought of asking something of the man who basically held his life in hands—Sir Úistan said, “Spill it, son, it can’t be that bad.”
The request came out haltingly; asking anything of anyone never came easy. “I don’t know if any of my gear ever made it to the Palace, sir. I have no armor, and the clothes I wear are owned by your staff.” Lord Cahill chuckled. Drangar cocked an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Of course, I’ll help you. But first go to the Palace to see how many of your belongings have turned up. I’ll supply what is needed, as long as you don’t want plate, even chain might be a problem.”
“Caergoult will do fine.” He snorted. “Who knows, maybe some of the stuff I left behind is still around.” If it was, he added silently, he would have to face Hesmera’s legacy, and he didn’t know if he could stomach that encounter.
CHAPTER 37
Mondaen looked different from what Lloreanthoran remembered. For one, the hamlet had grown into a city. Its Tallon side wharfs had expanded, but now seemed deserted, decrepit. The barges, huge things designed to carry ore from the Kumeens, lay rotting in the river. No wonder, given what he had learned about the mountain range. If things were true, the entire area that had been mined for metals was under the sway of the demonologists. No digging would be done anywhere near those peaks.
The rest of the town seemed healthier, but only just. Caravan trade was still routed through, from Machlon, if he recalled the maps he had studied correctly, and easterly Valtlaen, though with winter lurking to unleash its icy fury even that traffic had trickled to a halt.
All around him, the forest had receded. Around him—where only a century ago dense vegetation of tree and shrub had blocked the view—fields now dominated the vista. Humanity had razed Gathran, the old agreement forgotten. Who could blame them? Elves had not been here in generations. Why bother with a threat no one would carry through?
He took it all in with a shrug. It was yet another sign of a change in dominance. Others of his kind were bound to disagree, but those were the people who bore a grudge throughout centuries, nursing it, nurturing it. Humans had the right to do with Gathran as they pleased; his people had forsaken that right when they had fled.
Gathering magic around him like cloak, he felt his feet leave the ground. He would fly the next part of the journey. Machlon wasn’t that far off, and he cared little who saw him. If things worked out right, he would be the only one of his people to return. Or, if his worst fears were realized and he failed, nothing, not his appearance in the noon-sky, not the possible return of his people, truly mattered.
From his lofty vantage, Lloreanthoran saw that far less of the forest had really been cut down. In fact, it seemed as if Gathran was reclaiming ground. The fields farthest from Mondaen looked so desolate he wondered if anyone had plowed them in years. This wasn’t the three-field planting he had seen around Ma’tallon, that was being done closer to town. No, here and there he spotted forest-vegetation sprouting up on what once had been farmsteads. From the look of it, this had been going on for years now.
He glided closer to the city.
Yes, now, with far less distance between, he saw that some sections of the wall and the area behind stood empty, in ruins. Buildings, like the wharfs and barges, rotted away while the world around them moved on.
The people might not know the reason for the loss of shipping—he doubted many knew the truth—but they felt the demonologists’ influence all the same. How many were aware of what Danachamain’s followers had done to the Kumeens? The Sons of Traksor? Certainly. Traghnalach’s Librarians? He doubted they bothered with things they couldn’t observe from afar. Kalduuhn’s king? Maybe. Maybe not. Considering that they gave the exiled prince’s followers the land, it was possible they didn’t bother with it, thinking the matter well under control.
The condition of Mondaen showed how wrong such thinking was.
What were the Sons of Traksor doing about it?
He sped on, following the dirt road toward Machlon, hoping he’d find an explanation there.
Night had fallen when the path underneath led into bisected plowed fields once again. Machlon looked little different from Mondaen. The walls were in better repair, but here the forest was also closing in on the settlement. The village—he wouldn’t go so far and call it town—stood at the crossing of two roads and saw more traffic than Mondaen. There was no harbor to rot from disuse and, judging from the lights atop the barricade and inside, more people still called this place home.
Mist had risen from the ground, enveloping the city, muffling the occasional bark of an anxious dog. Lloreanthoran was about to land a few hundred yards from the wall, when he realized that the dog’s barking was accompanied by growls.
A warning? No, he decided. No canine, not even a wolf, produced such a sound.
A moment later the urging clangor of a bell joined the disturbing noises. Voices rose, orders shouted. Machlon was under attack! From his perch several dozen feet in the air, he tried to discern what was going on. A quick spell shrunk the viewing distance, brought the unfolding events up close.
Whatever had the dogs in uproar was lost in the mist. Armed humans were milling about the place, assembling in small bands. Warriors who bore the distinct crest he already associated with the Sons of Traksor led each o
f those bands. His far-view followed one such group as it hurried to the southern portion of the city.
Darkness came faster it seemed, a staccato of lengthening shadows, flowing on top one another. Into this rising gloom the defenders ran. By now he could barely make out the mortared wall and its battlement.
Then, a surge of darkness—his mind reeled at the resurfacing panic he had felt in Honas Graigh—pulsed atop the wall, shattered stone and timber. Immediately the shouts of alarm and the dogs’ barking were drowned out by the rending of the barricade. Bits of red plastered kindling and rocks billowed out of the shroud of blackness.
Aside from the thuds of wreckage hitting the ground all was quiet. Then, out of the roiling inky cloud, a horror unlike anything he had seen before tore into the open.
What was that thing? Gasping, he pulled back as the monstrosity turned and gazed directly at him. There was no need to know the creature’s origin. He felt what had created it, just as he had felt the urge to piss himself when the Lightbringer had first appeared before him. This was something demonology had wrought. The humans would perish if he didn’t help, that much he knew. Throwing caution to the wind, he sped toward Machlon.
A group of humans were facing the beast when he arrived at the small, bloodied clearing the blast had created. Their swords diminished compared to the massiveness of the foe. He landed before them, ignoring their cries of warning. They had no magic, he did, and if he wanted to be on the Sons’ good side he’d best show them he was a good ally.
“Step aside, fool!” someone yelled. He ignored the order, summoned the magic, the possibilities of what might happen, and looked for the right spot to expand the creature’s heart. Nothing. There was no possibility, no chance in this being. It was. No future, no past, it simply was.
Now the fiend stared at him once more and leaped forward.
Battlemagic. How long had it been since he had used these spells? Yet the incantation sprang to mind immediately. For a moment all the shattered stone and wood remembered it had been a wall, a couple dozen feet away from the rest of the edifice, but still, a wall. The monster crashed into the barrier whose components immediately returned to their original positions.
“Step aside, man!” someone shouted, and he was shoved out of the way, too stunned at his spell failing to realize what was happening.
A stopper plopped out of a water skin. Liquid dribbled onto leather. A hiss shredded the silence. All of a sudden the monster was screaming, howling in pain. Then, as if they hadn’t existed, creature and blackness were gone. The gloom-coated carnage left in its wake made Lloreanthoran wish it had remained dark.
“Idiot!” the man before him yelled as he whirled around to face him. “There’s only one way to fight these things! Good thing it hadn’t gotten you…” The tirade ended abruptly as the speaker stared at him. Behind him a murmur rose as people talked to each other in hushed voices. He didn’t need to guess what the topic was. His hood had fallen down, revealing his elven features.
The warrior before him finally came to his senses, saying, “Stop gossiping! Yes, it’s an elf! You know what to do. Scour the blood, there might be more.” Then, sadness tingeing his voice, he added, “Burn the remains.” He knelt by a scrap of cloth, picked it up and sighed. “Ceri. This was Ceri’s group. They should have known better. Call on me when the pyre’s burning, I need to see to our… guest.” To Lloreanthoran he said, “With me.”
They didn’t walk far. As big as the village seemed, an intricate web of alleys and streets connected everything, snaking past buildings of wattle and daub with a few stone foundations between. He paced after the human, pondering what had happened. The monster had no potential, was not connected to the world like he or the dirt he trod on. No, that thing was, he searched for the right word, definite. Magic, as he knew it, worked with the infinite possible outcomes of life—even a mountain lived. Not one thing had only a single purpose, even a sword cut and stabbed. The creature just was. No past, no future, no possibility.
The human halted before a squat stone building that, judging from the smell, also housed a couple of animals. A slight hesitation on the man’s part, it sounded as if a cork was pulled from a bottle, a surge of certainty similar to the monster’s wrongness. Then, eyes ablaze, the human turned. “Why are you here, elf?”
There was nothing he could do but answer truthfully, even had he wanted to lie; he had no other option than reveal the facts. “I am Lloreanthoran; Gathran was my home until my people left. I have returned here to retrieve the Stone of Blood and the Tomes of Darkness.”
The human cocked an eyebrow, his glowing eyes adjusted, giving his face an ominous stare. “Only to retrieve them?”
“No, I am to make sure they are destroyed.”
“And you know how to accomplish that?”
“It’s only paper, leather and rock.”
“Aye,” the man scoffed. “But to retrieve them is nigh impossible. Your kind should not have left, or at the very least taken the godsdamned stuff with you.”
“I agree, we were…”
“I’m not finished,” interrupted the human. “You have no idea what you are facing, do you? Whoever sent you here is either ignorant of the enemy’s strength or wanted you to fail.” He spat. “Look at you; you couldn’t even stop one of the bastards. How will you fight two, a dozen, two score?”
The pressure to speak truthfully vanished, but even had it not, he would have said, “I don’t know. I was asked to find the Sons of Traksor. I assume I have found them?”
“What’s left of them in Machlon. I’m Swordpriest Gaedhor.” A quick nod, and then the human pulled a cloth from under his jerkin and wiped his hands. In the dim light spilling into the street, Lloreanthoran saw a sliver of red dying the fabric.
“Are the Sons destroyed?” he asked, hoping it was not so.
“I don’t bloody know.” Gaedhor spat again. “We asked for reinforcements weeks ago when the attacks began. Nothing, the riders never returned. Maybe the Eye’s under siege as well. Haven’t heard anything from the few outlying farms either. Worries the shit out of me.”
“I need to get to the Eye.”
“You’ll never make it.”
“Have you given up?”
“Scales, no! If I had, we wouldn’t have beaten the bastards back each time they came. I’m loath to take matters into my own hands, really. Don’t want to leave, but I have to. We need those extra Swordpriests.”
“What is here that makes it so hard to go ask for help?”
Gaedhor merely grunted, turned and opened the door. Inside, Lloreanthoran saw a toddler crawling across the rush-strewn floor, pursuing a girl who crept ahead of him, shrieking with joy. “Children!” a woman by the hearth, busy with needlework, yelled. The pair ignored her.
“I see,” the wizard muttered. Had he been in the same situation, he would have had trouble leaving his family behind also. “Maybe I could…”
“You wouldn’t get into the Eye alone, and your magic is worth little to us. We’re trained to fight demons.” This was, he felt, as much an explanation as he would get, so he followed Gaedhor into the house, wondering.
CHAPTER 38
Dusk hung over Dunthiochagh when Drangar left Cahill Manor. Despite Sir Úistan’s suggestion to head straight to the Palace and retrieve whatever was left of the gear he had taken from the shepherd’s hut, he waited. He had clothes to wear, and though borrowed from servants, they sufficed. For now, at least. Instead the two of them had practiced sword craft for half the afternoon, and then, when he thought they were finished, his muscles aching like they hadn’t for years, the retainers had joined them. It had almost felt like a great melee. Sure, there had been rules, but everybody had done their utmost to stay on his or her feet. He had made it through the first three or four engagements, but in the end an equally surprised Camran had knocked him off his feet. A little voice kept telling him he had merely let his guard down, but when he looked back, he knew he was still far from being t
he Scythe. It wasn’t what Cahill wanted, certainly, but he rejoiced nonetheless. The Fiend had remained quiet, another good thing.
He hated, feared the thought of becoming the Scythe once more.
Now he fled for the graveyard. Before the melee had ended, Kerral had announced his presence and Drangar was in no mood to deal with him. Too much bad blood, and worse memories. In the end, he knew, words would have to be exchanged with the warlord. Too many things needed to be said. The hurt of what happened a lifetime ago would have to be voiced. Another occasion on which he had run away. Now was not the time.
He needed to talk to a friend. He had excused himself, his goal to visit Hesmera. It sounded silly, Sir Úistan had said so himself. The women, however, understood. Maybe it had something to do with their intuition; men were so hardheaded at times. He knew for certain his younger self would have scoffed at the notion of a grown man talking to his dead lover. Now, things had changed. Too long had he kept his heart to himself, even Hesmera had not known the depth of his feelings, his hurts. He had always kept his own counsel, never involved her or anyone else when trying to find answers.
The Deathmask greeted him outside the ornate gate. “Good evening,” the priest of Jainagath said with his muffled voice. “More ghosts you need to chase?”
“Don’t I ever?” Drangar replied.
“The dead are patient listeners, if you can get their attention.”
He managed a weak smile at the brass mask. “I’ll do my best. Anything else?”
“No, sir.” The priest pushed the gate open and let him through, and then the metal doors banged shut again.
In the last, fleeting rays of sunlight, with the evening gong ringing through the city, the cemetery was a place of lengthening shadows, somehow threatening yet also serene. The statues, gargoyles, dragons came alive as the Orb of Lesganagh caressed them one final time. He hurried down the path and up the mound built by the Cahills for their murdered friend, his murdered lover. The lover his hand and sword had slaughtered. Again, he saw the finely chiseled lid of the sarcophagus. Hesmera’s image practically shone, radiance filled her face, softening her features in a gentle smile, and when the sun dropped behind the horizon it was almost as if this smile melted into a scowl.