Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  Just like he had done before, Drangar put his hand on the lid, sank to his knees, and began to talk, “Gods, I was so stupid.” He sighed. “No, listen, please. Hear me out. I made such an ass of myself, always keeping a big part of my heart hidden from you, from everyone. Guess I was always afraid. No, yes, I don’t know. Was I afraid of you? I don’t think so. But, see, I never had any real friends when I was young, not that I had that many afterwards.” He scoffed. “No one ever believed in me. You made me feel special. But there’s always been this tiny part… well, maybe not so tiny, that I kept from you. It wasn’t that I didn’t love you; please never believe that! It was… I don’t know… I was afraid. I’ve always been on my own, never really had anyone but myself to rely on. Guess it doesn’t count much that I gave more to you than to anyone before. And now?”

  He paused, searching for words.

  “So much has happened,” Drangar finally continued. “I mean really, a lot has changed, and not that much after all. I know who’s behind your… death. It doesn’t bring you back, I know that, but it ain’t as simple as I thought it would be.

  “When I saw you… what was left of you… all across the room, I swore I would not fight anymore. I told you I’d make them pay.” He chuckled. “Guess that never fighting again was off the moment I made that oath. Now, turns out that the city is under siege and to get to those responsible, I have to fight. But I’m afraid.

  “There’s a part inside of me that I can’t truly control. Remember the saying that everyone has their demons to deal with?” He snorted. “With mine it is literal. And he’s getting stronger. Whenever I get angry the walls that hold it back become weaker, and it manages to slip through and take control. I don’t want to fight. It will only make it easier for that… thing to break through. I have to fight to get my answers, but I risk being consumed by the Fiend inside of me.”

  The silence that followed lasted longer. His breath crystallized on the marble lid, made Hesmera’s face look like it had been splashed by water. Gods, how he had loved her looking like this after she had had a bath. Now the emerging stars added a sparkle to her skin. “You know, I really wanted to quit. I was a shepherd for a while. Guess that didn’t work out, eh? Tried to find some peace of mind. Didn’t work out either. When all you know is how to hurt people, it’s kind of hard to find salvation. I need to fight to get justice for what they’ve done to you, to me. Nothing is simple anymore.

  “Remember when I told you of the place where I grew up? That those idiots wanted to be the first line of defense against the demons? Turns out they are the bastards who got you killed, who made me kill you. I don’t know… when I was dead… I think I saw that thing inside, that demon. They are vicious bastards, so there is a threat the Sons are preparing for. But why do they want me dead? I need to know why they want me dead.

  “Does this make any sense to you?” He waited, expecting an answer he knew wouldn’t come. “I grew up with the bastard who tried to kill me the last time; he’s my cousin. At least I grew up thinking he was my cousin. Real zealot; always had me in his sight. Remember when I told you why I ran away from that place? When my… my… the bastard I always thought was my father told me he’d be ashamed to have one such as me as his son. He was yelling so loud I wept through the entire night. Can you imagine me weeping?

  “Been doing that a lot lately. Weeping, I mean. I know the world is not divided into good and bad, we all just try to get by in a way, but Scales, I still think of the high and mighty Darlontor as my father. If he wasn’t then who is? Always liked my drawings. You may think it funny, but as a child I drew, lots. He thought I never knew, but I found that he kept all my pictures. Would someone who isn’t your father keep shit like that? I wasn’t that good an artist anyway.

  “I’m afraid, love. I don’t want to go out and fight, but I have no real choice in the matter, justice be done.” Drangar shook his head. “I did something really insane the other day. I judged a priest, corrupt bastard, but priest nonetheless. One of those nose in the sky, stick in the ass high Caretakers who always claimed more gold donated would ease the Scales in the Bailey Majestic. I know it sounds crazy; I mean if you have to donate money why not give it to those who need it? Can’t bribe your way into the Big Roundhouse. And the Upholder and all the other Caretakers accepted my call. And here I believed that nonsense the others said about me being blessed by Lesganagh. Lliania’s more likely, don’t you think?”

  By now he had lost all feeling in his shins and knees. “I’ll get my answers, love. Please don’t be mad at me for being afraid; I never was the hero of any story. You know that, don’t you?” Drangar caressed her stony likeness and said, “Talk to you soon.” Then he rose and headed back to the gate.

  The wrought-iron portals were closed when Drangar arrived a quick walk later. He pulled the cloak’s hood over his head and waited, shifting his weight from side to side to force the chill from his limbs. Where was the Deathmask?

  Moments passed, his breath joined the rising fog. Soon he began to rub his arms. The cloak was warm, but it didn’t keep out all of the cold. Where was the bloody Deathmask?

  He was just about to turn and hammer down the chapel door when the priest left the building.

  “I apologize.”

  “It’s alright, wasn’t freezing to death yet,” he replied. Had Hesmera heard all he had told the grave? Did it actually matter? She was long gone, and he had to carry on. Did she approve of what he was about to do?

  “Do you really want the answers?” the Deathmask asked.

  “Do you hear everything?” he said. The priest’s ability to listen to his thoughts unnerved him. No one should be allowed to have such a powerful ability.

  “It is a curse more than anything else.”

  Drangar smiled mirthlessly. “Sure, peeking into one’s brain makes life so much worse.”

  “Thoughts are dead once we think them, the thought is out there. We can hear the dead, and only those who have passed onto the Bailey Majestic are beyond our reach.”

  “Thoughts are dead?” he echoed, dumbfounded. “But we keep thinking about stuff.”

  “That we do, but even though you might retain a thought, pass it into your memory, that specific thought came and went in that instant.” The Deathmask shrugged and went to open the portal. “You can go now,” the priest said. Then he—or she—added, “Don’t dwell on it, pointless thoughts pollute the world as it is, the noise is deafening.”

  A few steps into the street, Drangar turned around and looked at the masked cleric as he pushed the doors shut again. “You never said if she answered me.”

  “You never said you wanted to know.” The brass mask stared straight at him, he felt as if those unseen eyes were looking right into his very core. “Well, what say you?”

  Did he want to know whether Hesmera heard him? Was it important? Once before the Deathmask had already told him she had heard. Why should that have changed?

  “You have your answer,” the priest stated, bowed briefly and shuffled back into the chapel.

  “Guess I do,” muttered Drangar and headed for Shadowpeak Street. He was tired, yes, but now he felt strong enough to ask if any of Hesmera’s and his possessions were still in the keeping of the Watch.

  “State your name and purpose,” the warrior looking down from the barbican demanded.

  “Drangar Ralgon, I need to speak with the captain of the Watch,” he replied.

  “Drangar?” the guardsman echoed with a voice filled with wonder and surprise.

  “Aye.” His reply was somewhat terse.

  “Get that bridge down,” the same voice commanded, “and the portcullis up!”

  In the Dunth’s fog he saw the drawbridge’s looming shadow only a breath or two before the massive oak contraption thudded to the ground. Admittedly, he stood a guessed yard or so away from the moat but in this soup, one could barely see a hand before one’s eyes. He wondered if the guards would admit him without any further questions, a thought tha
t was quenched the moment he entered the gatehouse. The second portcullis was still down, and his gut more than his eyes told him a handful of crossbows were trained on him. To show the warriors that he was in no way any kind of threat, he pushed the hood back, shrugged the cloak to his rear and raised his hands above his head.

  An additional murderhole opened to his right. This one was slightly bigger than the ones sporting the crossbows, and he made out the hints of a face peering down at him. “Turn around,” the same voice as before requested. Now that he stood closer to the speaker, he thought it sounded familiar. “Please,” the hidden speaker said. A friendly guard? None of the guards on duty during the night were courteous; they were far too pissed off at having drawn the short straws. He squinted, tried to discern the man watching him. Unfortunately, the only light was anchored in two sconces near the inner gate. “Come on, Drang, we don’t have all night,” the speaker urged.

  Drang? There were only a few people in Dunthiochagh who had used the nickname. Curious now, he did a little turnabout, pulled his cloak to the front so his back was clear and waited for the inspection to end. A few moments later, he asked, “Happy now? May I pass?”

  In reply the first portcullis came down again, and the second rattled up. Cold once more, Drangar tugged his cloak back into place, pulled it tight over his chest, and then stepped into the outer bailey.

  The moment he left the gatehouse, a door to his right opened and out stepped a man who looked as if he had seen a ghost. His face was pale, but maybe it was just the mist playing tricks on his eyes. Through the fog he hardly made out any features, all he could tell was that the man headed straight toward him.

  Now, only a few steps away, the guardsman halted, and scowled at him. He remembered that scowl, though he now wore the insignia of a Sword-Warden. “Glaithan?” he asked astonished. “Glaithan Millerson, is that you?”

  “In the flesh,” his former fellow watchman replied. “Though I do wonder how the Scales you are back among the living. And why you killed Hesmera?”

  First Kerral, then Rob, and now Glaithan, how many reunions would there be when all this came to an end?

  “I saw you on a slab of rock, man! Gutted!”

  “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he wanted to say, in a light, mocking tone, but choked back the reply. Glaithan deserved more than a glib answer.

  The Sword-Warden, another of his old friends, maybe the best friend he had had in Dunthiochagh, spoke on, “You killed her, didn’t you? You killed Hesmera.”

  He opened his mouth, but Glaithan continued, “I was part of the investigation. I… saw… her. Damnation, you slaughtered her. How could you do it?” His return from the dead seemed to leave the guard less disturbed than the murder. He didn’t blame him; her death, no, slaughter, upset Glaithan, almost as much as it had him. The wound, the sight of pieces of her lying all across the floor, was fresh, still. “Don’t just stand there, speak! I have a right to know, and I have even more than a right to throw you in the dungeon for good!”

  A deep breath later—gods, how he wished to have a weapon to sharpen—Drangar said, “I killed her, or rather it was my hand wielding the sword, but someone else was pulling the fucking strings!”

  “Yeah, right! You want me to believe that tale?”

  “Had I not seen it, I would have spat on this myself,” he replied, his voice a harsh whisper. “Do you think there is anyone in this world who mourned her more than I did? I ran, yes! Why did I run you ask? Because I was fucking scared, desperate, in shock seeing her—what was left—like that!”

  “I pity you,” Glaithan scoffed. The man had become more suspicious over the past few years; Drangar could hardly blame him. When they had met they’d become fast friends, sharing meals more than once, either by themselves or with their respective ladies. Having seen his best mate’s betrothed killed by said best mate would have changed anyone.

  “Oh, I did that as well. Lived like a godsdamned hermit, even thought of killing myself quite a few times.” Fury rose within Drangar, not as it had before at himself, but at the Sons of Traksor, and whatever crazy notion they had about eliminating him. The Fiend remained silent. When would it show itself again? Choking down his anger, he pushed his sleeves back and held out the scarred wrists for Glaithan to see. “Think I did that because I was bored? I couldn’t remember doing it! I blacked out and the next thing I do know is Hesmera lying in pieces all across the floor! I was afraid of myself; you damn well know how much I loved her!” He swallowed, took a deep breath. He hadn’t just said he had loved her, had he? “I mean, how much I love her! Do you truly think me capable of such a thing?”

  “There was no other suspect!” retorted the guardsman.

  “Of course not! That’s why it was so bloody brilliant! They used me! They fucking used me to kill her!” Tears ran down his cheeks, they froze a heartbeat later. And he had thought he could cry no more. “I saw it. I saw them plotting, selling the stuff to her, I saw myself killing her!”

  “Who sold what stuff to her?”

  “It was a mind-controlling potion she thought was a love potion she could use to spice up our anniversary. Damn it, the bastards made me kill her on the day I had proposed to her a year before, didn’t you see that on the bloody report?”

  “Which bastards?” Glaithan asked.

  Despite the fog, Drangar grew aware of heads poking from the barbican’s narrow windows. They were mere shadows in the mist-enshrouded, gigantic shade that was the gatehouse, but he discerned them nonetheless. He had less of a problem revealing what had transpired to Glaithan, but those other guards he could do without. “Listen,” he said, “I’m unarmed, innocent, and willing to give you all the details you need, but I will not pour my heart out before the entire court!” How long the audience had been there he couldn’t tell—his feet seemed to be about to snap off any moment now—so he guessed they had stood here for a while now.

  “Didn’t you just say you…?”

  “Not here,” Drangar hissed.

  “Hoi, Aidan, keep your eyes wide on the road!” the Sword-Warden shouted toward the lingering faces. “The show is over!” To Drangar he said, “If your story is true, I’ll have a quiet talk with the lads and lasses, they won’t talk.”

  “You sure?”

  “Hey, I’ve been with them for a year now, they’re all good folk, honorable folk. Even if they’re a tad curious.”

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  Turning, Glaithan said, “All right, follow me.”

  Keeping pace with Glaithan back when they had patrolled the streets of the Merchant District had been easy, even with a fog as heavy as this one, so he hurried after him. A time or two a frozen patch almost brought him down, and only a sudden lurch forward kept him on his feet. By now he had lost all sense of direction. He had crossed the outer bailey several times when occupying a cot in the barracks but never in a fog this dense. Now he had even lost his friend, though he wasn’t sure he still had a friend, or if he had ever deserved friends in the first place.

  Drangar was just about to call for Glaithan when a bright rectangular light pierced the mist before him.

  “Get in here before all the heat gets out,” the warrior grumbled, and he headed straight into the light and into a comfortable room with a fire dancing behind grille-work in a hearth. For a moment he felt faint as heat rushed into his body. The door shut behind him. “The night-guard’s abode,” Glaithan explained, and Drangar took a longer look around.

  Unlike the packed dirt of the outer bailey, the floor here consisted of granite blocks without the usual rushes. Instead mats of cloth covered the front of the few cots. “The entire night-guard lives here?” He did a quick count and came up short.

  “No, just some, myself included. Sit, let’s talk.” Glaithan pointed at a table surrounded by chairs.

  Soon his goal of finding out if any of his old gear had survived moved to the back of his mind, as he told his tale once more with Glaithan asking a question here
and there, much like Rob had done before. He concluded with, “I told you the same things Upholder Coimharrin heard, and he said I was not lying. I swear it’s the truth.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  Relieved his old friend believed him, Drangar let out a long sigh. “I wanted to find out if some of Hesmera’s and my stuff was still around, or if it had all been sold off.”

  “You haven’t been there yet, have you?”

  He knew Glaithan was referring to the house in Cherkont Street. “Didn’t have the guts to go there. Too many bad memories, you know.”

  “Then you don’t know?”

  “Know what, mate?”

  “Jasseira is living there now.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Drangar stared at Glaithan, fairly sure his face displayed the mixture of emotions he felt. Surprise, worry, confusion, morbid curiosity, he didn’t know which of those. They warred for attention and all he could do was stare.

  “I need something to drink,” said the guardsman as he stood and retrieved a pair of mugs from a cupboard to the left. He then opened a trapdoor and fetched a metal pitcher. “Keeps things cold,” he explained, pointing at the hole. With one foot, Glaithan kicked the door shut then filled one mug and placed it before Drangar.

  “I don’t…”

  “Relax, mate, it’s milk. Quit downing booze when I was called to Cherkont Street back then.” Sword-Warden Millerson poured himself a mug and settled back down on a chair. “Lord Duasonh pays us less than most others. That is, we who live in this place get paid less. But we get two hot meals a day, not that crap the others get, better stuff.”

  He let the younger man prattle on, tried to gather his thoughts and figure out why a woman like Jasseira wanted to live in that slaughterhouse. “She was always quiet, didn’t say lots about her past,” Drangar finally said.