Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  “The girl, Ysold, contacted young Garinad yesterday. There’s some uproar in the enemy camp, even a few who’d rather bugger off back to their homes than stay here.”

  “Can’t blame them, really. It’s bloody cold, and Mireynh isn’t prepared for a siege.”

  “Yet he has his troops digging trenches, making the ground soft with the tinder the Lady Wizard provided, so to speak.”

  “I saw some of the works, pretty pointless if you ask me. Even if they get the trenches and fortresses set up before it starts snowing, he still has to keep his men warm, and tents alone won’t do it,” Kildanor argued.

  “There are more supplies coming in every day.”

  “Hardly changes things, mate. When the snow comes, you know how vicious things get outside. Should the bastard hope to cross the river on ice, he’d still have to wait for another month or so. By then his troops will be mutinous. He has to try an escalade.”

  “General Kerral said the same,” Cumaill agreed. “There’s more Garinad found out, though.” Leaning over to his right, the Baron tugged on the bell pull. “Gods, I’m hungry,” he muttered, as he slumped back into his seat. “Not only are a few people unhappy about their position, but it seems there’s a rebellious element, a particular House.”

  “How particular?” Kildanor asked.

  “I was given a message by one of Nerran’s Riders, the lass Scadainh.”

  At that, the Chosen scoffed. “Mate, you can hardly call her a lass anymore. She’s only a wee bit younger than you. A decade or so.”

  Duasonh shrugged. “No matter. What’s important though, is that they met someone rather particular in the Shadowpeaks.”

  “Oh?”

  “Didn’t believe it either, at least at first.” Now Cumaill really had his attention. Unfortunately, someone knocked right when his friend was about to tell of the event. “Yes?” the Baron asked.

  “You rang, milord? It’s Yannig, sir!” was the reply.

  “Great! Get in here!”

  The door opened and in strode a middle-aged servant. “Milord?” Yannig asked.

  “Want breakfast?” Cumaill asked.

  Kildanor’s nod was somewhat reluctant. Yes, he was hungry. His stomach had been grumbling since he ended his spirit-excursions. The body did not send the necessary messages to the otherworldly traveler, and he hadn’t had time to follow that instinct since Lord Cahill’s messenger had come almost the moment he opened his eyes.

  “Get some food up here, son, and tea. And send a messenger to Cahill Manor; Sir Úistan is not to leave the city without my permission.”

  “Breakfast, tea, and a messenger to Lord Cahill. He is not to depart until he has your leave to do so,” the servant repeated with a bow. Then he hurried off, closing the door behind him.

  “So, whom did they meet up in the Shadowpeaks?” He really wanted to know what Duasonh was so excited about.

  “Ever heard of House Cirrain?”

  Why didn’t Cumaill just spill all the news? What was the point in all this riddling? “No clue. Never cared much about noble Houses, you know that.”

  “Heard of them once or twice before, Nerran mentioned them, knew the current lord’s father was a Paladin.”

  “So? What about House Cirrain?”

  “Their lands are in the northern parts of Chanastardh. The border to the Highlands is running through the fief.”

  “They bugger the northmen, so what?”

  Why did Cumaill grin like schoolboy stealing an apple? Whatever news had reached him certainly excited him.

  “Well, what do you know of the northmen?” Duasonh’s grin broadened.

  “Aside from their affiliations with the dwarves? Nothing,” he replied. Then he felt his eyes widen as the marks his friend had laid out finally connected, at least to a degree. “Nerran met a dwarf?”

  Now the Baron nodded vigorously. “Aye, he did. Turns out the fellow recovered Ralgon’s sword, wanted it returned, and had a message for you.”

  “You’re not making this up, are you?” What would a dwarf want with him? Why all the other questions? It made little sense and judging from Cumaill’s behavior there still was more to hear.

  “Aye, a message, the dwarf said, he came to warn the guardians of the Hold. The oldest allies of the gods were under siege and might well be defeated. He asked for help, saying that if they are beaten, the Hold will be weakened.” Duasonh paused for a moment then said, “You are a Chosen, a guardian of the Hold; I assume the dwarf meant Dragoncrest?”

  Kildanor nodded, frowning. Gods! He knew they had been promised allies should the need ever arise, but who or what these allies were nobody knew. It made sense. Who but the dwarves could have built a fortress like Dragoncrest from massive slabs of rock, and all on top of a lone pillar in a gorge. If this were true and the dwarves’ destruction would weaken the prison. Gods!

  “Stop this fucking question and answer game, Cumaill! Tell me everything you know!” he ordered, aware of his voice changing with every word. In the end he was almost yelling at his friend. Right now, friendship was finite. Duasonh would eventually die; even he was not invulnerable, but the duty was eternal, and nothing could prevent that. Duasonh had to reveal all he knew so the Hold was safe. Damn friendship! Damn trust! In Harail, with Lerainh, he had followed Orkeanas’s faulty dogma, and where had that brought them? Danastaer was overrun. The Hold’s safety was the only thing that mattered.

  He hadn’t heard the door open and Yannig enter; the guards outside, however, had apparently heard his outburst and shoved in behind the servant, armor jingling. In an instant he had two blades nudging his neck. From the rim of his vision he saw Yannig slink to the wall. His gaze wandered over to Cumaill who stared at him, eyes wide with shock and surprise. At this moment Kildanor realized what he had done.

  “You will never order me around, Chosen!” Duasonh spat, rising from his chair. “Friendship only goes so far, and of course I’ll tell you, idiot.” He seemed calmer when he addressed his guards and Yannig, “Leave us!”

  When they were alone, the Baron circled his desk and stopped before him. “We are friends, yes, and we joke, yes, but do not ever mistake me for a lackey, understood? Lesganagh may have chosen you, but that does not give you the right to demand things of me! My family has been on this land, owned this land, since long before your little cabal ever came into existence! I rule! Am I clear?”

  At this moment Kildanor wished he could explain his reasons, why he had snapped like that, but he also knew Cumaill already had enough on his mind; the extra burden was not necessary. He swallowed, looked his friend in the eye, then bowed his head and said, “I understand, milord.”

  “Good,” Cumaill said icily. “Now fetch me some tea.” While he was shuffling to the tray, the Baron continued, “Jesgar broke into Mireynh’s tent and found a missive that ordered Anneijhan of House Cirrain to be placed under strict supervision, same goes for her warband. Apparently, her father has joined the northmen in their fight against Drammoch. What they are fighting about becomes clear with the message Scadainh relayed. Given House Cirrain’s honorable ancestry, turns out the girl’s grandfather was the last in a line of Paladins; the current Lord Cirrain had no other option than to switch sides.” Cumaill paused to take the mug the Chosen offered. After a few sips, he continued, “If you wonder how Garinad could read the coded message, well, he couldn’t, but he has a damn fine memory, and we translated the message in very little time.” Another sip of tea. “Turns out, though the lass Cirrain knows not what is afoot at home, she has figured out she is being segregated. Garinad didn’t speak to her, only to her squire, who has been ordered by Mireynh to spy on her. Well, the squire sided with Cirrain.” Another pause. “Hand me a slice of bread and some cheese, will you?”

  Kildanor smiled and nodded, obviously Cumaill enjoyed having the upper hand, but he didn’t mind. The Baron was correct, of course: he didn’t have the right to make demands. He quickly cut two slices of bread and a wedge of cheese and he
passed them across the table.

  “Sit down, oaf, have some tea,” Duasonh said instead of a thanks, and the Chosen knew it was as much gratitude as he would likely get in the near future. A few bites later, the Baron spoke on, “Based on what we know, I want the Cirrain lass on our side, if only to piss this High Advisor off. We are working on a coded message saying just that. With the letters you’ve stolen in Harail, the Librarians think they can make it look real.”

  The Librarians were in on this? He knew they had helped decode the letters he had stolen from Mireynh’s office, but to overtly work deception! Things were changing. He only saw one slight problem, “How will you get the letter to Jesgar?”

  Some of the humor returned to Duasonh’s face. “The girl, Ysold, is working on that.”

  Now it was Kildanor’s turn to stare at his friend. “Are you telling me that little apprentice can actually take stuff with her into the spiritworld? Ealisaid said it’s impossible.”

  “The girl is not weighed down by much conventional thinking or a rigid education like our Lady Wizard. She sees it all as a great game, at times at least, but is as aware of the threat as any of us.”

  “Can she do it?” he asked, sounding as dubious as before.

  “I think so,” a disembodied voice chirped beside him. “Lord Duasonh, sir?”

  “Yes, Ysold?” Cumaill said, a smile curving his lips as he glanced Kildanor’s way.

  “Moved a quill, in and out, sir,” the girl reported.

  “Good work, keep it up, we might need your services earlier than we thought.”

  “All right.” Ysold muttered. “But I’m bored.”

  “Maybe she can test her abilities on the kitchen staff,” the Chosen suggested, having a very good idea about what havoc the apprentice would cause.

  The voice next to him whooped with delight. “Great idea!” she exclaimed.

  The same moment, Cumaill rose, sputtering, “No! Bloody Scales no! Ysold, do not do that!”

  No reply, apparently the girl had gone. The Baron’s glare fixed on him, and Kildanor could do nothing but offer a weak smile and a shrug. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Gods, do you have any notion what she’ll do?” Duasonh groaned, sitting down again, shaking his head.

  “Only a very slight one; seemed like a good idea.” He saw how determined his friend was not to laugh. “At least you’re in a better mood again. Again, I’m sorry I behaved like I did.” The apology felt right.

  “Right,” Duasonh said, all humor gone. “We try to get Mireynh to send this Cirrain woman to Ondalan. Young Garinad is to smuggle the false message into Mireynh’s hands. Maybe he can encourage her warband to desert as well.”

  “Great, and then? There is more at stake here than you realize, mate,” he replied. The Chosen’s mission could not be revealed to anyone but the king, so there was a very limited amount of what he could divulge.

  “When dwarves are involved I reckon as much. We can’t send any warriors to help, just now that is. If we manage to get the Chanastardhians off our asses, I want to send Garinad to Herascor; there he’s to find out more.”

  “You don’t just mean the dwarf business, do you?”

  “No, all this godsdamned business, whatever he can turn up, I want to know everything. Our spy there is most likely dead, thanks to my dear cousin, so we need someone new. If young Garinad wants adventure, he’ll get it.”

  “That’s why Lord Cahill has to wait, eh?” Kildanor asked.

  “Of course! Do you really think I still bear that grudge about Leo? Bygones be bygones and all that, there’s tad more at stake here than shit that happened when I was considerably younger and slimmer,” Duasonh replied with a snort, slapping his belly.

  It was leaner than he remembered. Somewhere between keeping the city and army in order, his friend also exercised. He was glad not to have the responsibility for thousands of people and to know that Baron Cumaill Duasonh had more foresight than he. The Hold’s purpose might be a mystery, but he saw the danger Chanastardh posed, be it here in Danastaer or in the northern Highlands. If dwarves asked for help, something extraordinarily dangerous was happening. For a moment, he wished for the apprentice’s ability to speak from the spiritworld so that he could investigate matters up north. Lacking those, he had to be content with what he could do.

  “I almost forgot,” Cumaill said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Ralgon was here, asked for you. When he was told you weren’t to be disturbed, he badgered the chamberlain and the captain of the guard for his stuff.”

  He frowned at Duasonh. “Did it get ugly?”

  “No, not really, didn’t get loud or anything. They sent him away with the promise to inform you once you returned. Reported to me first, of course. And since you’re here, pass me some of that sausage, will you.”

  Kildanor obliged, took one of the smoked delicacies for himself, dug his teeth into it, and chewed. Ralgon’s belongings were safe in his quarters. He had meant to return them ever since seeing Ralgon alive and sane again, but things had happened all too quickly.

  “You got his stuff? Whatever it may be,” Duasonh asked, cutting another fingerbreadth of meat to toss in his mouth.

  “Yeah, that white charger,” he replied with fully mouth, “the one that mutt dragged in, remember?”

  “The bugger the stable hands had to put into the other section? Made all the other horses antsy.” Cumaill lobbed another piece of sausage into his mouth.

  “Aye, that’s the one. It’s his.”

  “Almost as mad as the rider, I hear tell.”

  “Well, it was saddled, bridled, and all that good stuff, in shitty condition. Given Ralgon’s circumstances no wonder, if you ask me.”

  “So, he had baggage I reckon.”

  “Aye, never went through it, just grabbed the bags out of the way so no one would filch anything.”

  “What are you waiting for then?” Cumaill asked. “Give the man his belongings. Now if you please!” The Baron grinned as Kildanor rose. He wasn’t used to his friend commanding him. Usually, in the past, it had been a suggestion at worst. As of today, things were different, and the Chosen knew he only had himself to blame. “Toss me the rest of the sausage, will you?” Duasonh added, waving his hand for emphasis.

  Maybe it was better this way, Kildanor thought as he passed two of the remaining three to his friend. There was always time for a joke, but in times of need only one person could be in charge. Scales, even Nerran and Braigh, two of the leading people of their respective faiths in Dunthiochagh, submitted to Cumaill’s will. He had always thought Duasonh did not care about etiquette, and maybe on some level that was true since he treated everyone like part of the family. Now he was not the benevolent uncle, he was the patriarch who got things done.

  When he reached the door, Kildanor turned and saluted, not one of those mock farewells they had shared for decades, but the sign of respect a subordinate gave his warlord. He caught Cumaill’s smile and appreciative nod, and knew it was right. As long as he was in Dunthiochagh the Baron was his commander. Maybe, if they survived everything the world was throwing at them, maybe then he would have to salute to King Cumaill. If they survived everything. Right now, that didn’t look bloody likely.

  Seeing the reopened temple of Lesganagh still surprised him. It certainly wasn’t fully functional, given that local priests were impossible to find, and the Rider who had taken the position of Sunray was still out in the Shadowpeaks. For now, the only sign that the Lord of Sun and War was once more active in Dunthiochagh was the open doorway looking onto Trade Road, and the torn down planks that had barred the windows. Had this happened at another time, Kildanor knew, there would be artisans busy redecorating the temple. Now, the only thing the Watch could do was keep order amongst the refugees within.

  He headed up Trade Road, surprised to see that many businesses open despite the siege, though he wasn’t sure what the Chanastardhians were doing could actually be called a siege. So far nothing ha
d happened, aside from a few diggings marking the place of future fortifications, and the destroyed timber site. The colder it got, the less progress was to be expected. He hadn’t been to South Gate lately, but judging from earlier observations, the enemy’s progress was almost nonexistent.

  Leaving Trade Road behind, Kildanor headed for Cahill Manor. Ralgon’s belongings were divided among a pair of saddlebags on his shoulder. The man hadn’t owned much, a pouch with gold maybe his most prized possession. A well-used and much-sharpened belt knife, and a few threadbare articles of clothing that had definitely seen better days. Not much to show for the life Ralgon was rumored to have led. Scales, the best item was the cloak, a massive riding cloak commonly worn by nobles on the road, and even that was almost beyond repair. The ambush surely hadn’t helped to better its condition. Aside from having been drenched in copious amounts of blood, it also sported a handful of holes where the arrows had hit Ralgon. Retrieving the items, he had, for a moment, considered throwing away the cloak, but as with the boots, knife, and clothes, he would leave that up to the owner.

  By now his face was known to Úistan Cahill’s men-at-arms, and the gate before him opened quickly. “The Lord is in a bad mood,” the guard warned as he closed the oak portal.

  “I’m not here to see Sir Úistan,” he replied. “But thanks. Guess I’ll burn that bridge when I get there.”

  Soon a young woman led him through a couple of doors and stopped before a much dented, formerly very decorative portal. From behind that door, the Chosen heard the ring of steel, grunting, and finally a growl of triumph. He arched a questioning eyebrow at the servant who merely shrugged and gave a coy smile. The lass surprised him by retrieving a hammer from her skirt and banging the tool against the door.

  “That explains it,” he muttered, his eyes wandering from the many dents that had ruined the carvings to the hammer the retainer was wielding.