Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Lord Commander Trileigh was right, sir. There was magic involved that night.”

  He sat up. His eyes caught Killoy’s and held her gaze. “Nonsense, woman! Magic’s dead and gone!”

  “These are not our arrows, sir.” She held out her hand, presenting the missiles. “Goose and silk, sir, blue silk at that. Ours are made with plain silk, if our fletchers use silk at all, bloody hard to come by at home. I compared the arrows with ours, sir. They are different.”

  “Are you saying the turncoats were beaten back by arrows shot out of Dunthiochagh?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Maybe magic wasn’t as dead and gone as everyone thought but how was that possible? More importantly, how could they stand against an army supported by a Wizard? He had read accounts of battles in which mages had been involved. Not only of the engagements that had occurred during the Heir War, those were mainly between Wizards and a smaller force of elves and human allies. Before that, spellcasters had marched with armies of Chanastardh, Dargh, Janagast, even the elves of Gathran—especially those elven troops. Dargh and Janagast had fought time and again over anything, border disputes, road taxes, even a neighbor stealing an apple; it hardly mattered. There had been an engagement every other year. All these battles were certainly bloody, but it had always boiled down to which army had the best magical support. A regular army was hard pressed to win over an army supported by battlespells.

  “Sir?” Muireall Killoy reminded him that he was not alone.

  Strength in the face of crisis, he snarled inwardly. “Ladders, forget the siege, have the men dig two batteries and the engineers assemble the slingthrowers right where the trenches are dug.” He glanced at the mess of maps before him and added, “Swords and Bows on patrol, triple their strengths, the baggage must be protected.”

  “The wood already in place, what shall we do with it?”

  “Reinforce the batteries, woman!” he snapped. This part should have been obvious. “That’s all for now. Send that lout Argram in when you see him, will you?”

  “Certainly, sir.” Killoy put the arrows on his desk, saluted, turned about smartly and was already bellowing orders the moment one foot was outside the tent. Was she still grieving her brother’s death, he wondered, then pushed the thought aside.

  “People die in war, someone’s brother, sister, father, or mother is always food for crows, she best get used to it,” Mireynh muttered when the flap had closed and Killoy’s voice, still shouting, was farther away.

  Again, he looked at the map of Danastaer. With Harail’s fall and most nobles detained there should have been only Duasonh left. Villeins and freeborn cared little to whom they paid taxes, that was the one truth supporting this mad campaign on the eve of winter. If there was other resistance forming, it had to come from somewhere. From where, though? Haggrainh Manor? No, that area was secure, and somewhat pacified. They had marched straight to Harail, and the Lord Haggrainh had been nothing but a welcoming host. Besides, if that noble had roused his rabble the attack would have come from the east, targeting their flank.

  Any force from Blanthaen Manor would have been sighted by the patrols from Harail, and the garrison in the former capital was enough of a detainment for all but the most foolhardy. That would also have had to come from the east, and he thought it rather pointless to maneuver any force through the Gathran Forest rim just to get in their back.

  Grendargh was the only option left and given how that fool Argram had raped and pillaged the farms he had been supposed to merely plunder might have given the man in charge, the steward most like, ample reason to raise a militia. “Fucking idiot,” Mireynh hissed.

  As if on cue, Duncan of House Argram entered. His back was bent to relieve some pressure from the cuts of the lash. Every rapist in the gang that House Argram called retainers had received ten strokes. Still, Mireynh had been impressed when the bastard had demanded another ten, declaring that he was the one truly responsible. The man had guts; the High General was forced to admit that much. His surprise grew alongside his respect for Sir Duncan, when he had refused the healing one of the Caretakers had offered.

  “Milord,” Argram said, saluting, albeit very slowly.

  “Lord Argram,” he replied with a short nod.

  “You wanted to see me.” Brief and to the point. Mireynh liked the change in the noble.

  “I did. I was told you ordered your men to refuse healing by the Caretakers.”

  “Indeed. All of us need to understand what we did was wrong. No point in punishment when the pain’s taken away, sir.” Argram delivered the lines calmly, and only at the end Mireynh saw his grimace of pain.

  “If this happens again, those responsible will be executed.” He waited for a reaction and when his opposite remained still, eyes straight, spoke on, “You agree?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye, milord.”

  The bastard had probably sent a missive to his father already, Mireynh thought. Several couriers had left the camp in the past two days, and he had no doubt he would soon hear from Lord Argram, the King, or even worse, the High Advisor. His black clad watchdogs must have already reported his transgressions. Dunthiochagh had to fall before anything else was to be attempted. Dragoncrest was impenetrable for now, and even though the High Advisor had promised a means to take the fortress, he was suspicious.

  “We’ll take the wall by escalade.” These were the first kind words he had spoken to Sir Duncan since the reports about his rampage had come in, and his slightly less tense face showed the noble realized it as well. “Two days from now, three at the most, we will march up to the city wall and take the battle to them.”

  “What about the Wizard?”

  So, the rumor had been spreading, becoming fact before there was any confirmation. Not that there needed to be more proof. He looked at the arrows, remembered the night of the assault, how the Danastaerian turncoats had fled from an empty battlement and open gate, and knew how much his troops worried. Because he was worried as well. “No spellcaster I read about can be at two or three places at once, let alone fifteen. Also, consider this: would you fire a volley of arrows into a melee with your own people involved?”

  “We fired on retreating troops,” Argram mumbled, and for a moment Mireynh wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.

  “A lesson to be learned, we don’t run!”

  “So, you will not order a retreat even if we’re repelled?”

  “Of course I will!”

  “The troops are worried you won’t, sir. That slaughter of allies was pointless.”

  “They were traitors! They fled from an open gate, unwilling to face their own countrymen!”

  “If they were that unwilling, sir, why did they march at all? Don’t misunderstand, please. I am merely repeating what I’ve heard around the fires.”

  This idiot dared to question his orders!

  His ire must have shown, for Argram raised both hands in an appeasing gesture and said, “Sir, the troops are worried about you frankly being too pigheaded to retreat if a battle doesn’t go well for us.”

  “Such wisdom from you?” he sneered.

  “Milord, you do not understand the gravity of the situation! Aye, I made mistakes, many mistakes at that. Do I regret them? Some, yes, others I couldn’t care less. Not one of us has seen you commanding a battle, we’ve only heard of your exploits, but reputation and fact are two different animals. Had I not demanded to receive twice the administered punishment, my men would doubt me. They don’t. You are a decent enough leader when it comes to keep soldiers in line, when we march across the country, but, with all due respect, the idiot Trileigh has seen more real action in this campaign than you.”

  “What are you saying?” He knew his voice had taken on an icy edge.

  Argram drew a deep breath, arched his back, and said, “Sir, by now everyone knows how much you hate traitors, and we all fear you’ll lead us into disaster because you’d prefer death over embarr
assment or shame at being seen a coward or traitor yourself.”

  “Gods, man, you are treading dangerously close to insubordination! Do you really think I would act this rashly?”

  “What I think is insubstantial, sir. What the troops think is not.”

  “Mutiny? Impossible!”

  Sir Duncan closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “Milord, you misunderstand.”

  “Oh, I understand very well…”

  “No, you don’t!” Argram interrupted, eyes blazing. “I know what I did was wrong, and my orders, my mistakes, had consequences. I admitted that much to myself. Not to Lliania, Lesganagh, Eanaigh or anyone else, only myself! You have to let go of your hatred of traitors, or do you flay every husband that cheats on his wife? Have you ever cheated on yours? They don’t know you as a good leader, they only see you sending a Horse warband to their deaths and having another, albeit a turncoat unit, killed because they ran. None of us know whether you are a good battle leader! And even though we know of your past exploits, we have no proof, other than an old man limping about camp yelling how much he hates traitors. And that is only the common warrior, sir.” It looked as if Argram wanted to say more but reined in his tongue.

  A limping old man? Mireynh wanted to lash out at him. So that was what they thought. Until now, until they had reached Dunthiochagh, the campaign had been a tremendous success. Now all the careful planning that had gone before was going up in snow. He cursed his own temper, knew his obsession was dooming his actions. Or were they? If Argram, a rapist and ruffian, understood what fatal results his actions had yielded, maybe he would be able to leap across his own shadow as well. His hatred for turncoats had destroyed morale far more thoroughly than any action of Duasonh’s ever could have. To win this city, Mireynh knew, he would have to put the past behind, even though at night he still saw the face of Kirran, his son’s tongue shriveled, lolling out of a mouth that barely deserved the name. All too well he remembered the bastard Ralgon’s smile when he had brought back the traitor’s head and demanded reward for both tasks.

  No! Mireynh forced himself to relax. Far too long had he let this episode weigh down his life, it had to stop now. He let out a deep breath he was unaware that he had held back. “Blast you, man, you are right,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “No more fury at traitors, sir?”

  He nodded. “No more random killings and rapes?”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “Let’s just hope neither of us falls back into old habits,” Mireynh muttered. He took a deep breath, and for the first time in almost a decade his back felt better. “This is your order, Lord Argram. Get those skirmishers!”

  “I will, milord.”

  Lord Commander Noel Trileigh entered Mireynh’s tent shortly after dark, while the High General was talking to Gwennaith Keelan. The lass had reported that nothing untoward was going on with her knight, Anneijhan, or House Cirrain’s warband. Neither party tried to contact the other, although young Keelan could only attest to Anne’s unease, she suspected both her mistress and the warriors felt something was amiss.

  So far, not a single message had been intercepted. Yes, the sentries were quite thorough; the chance of someone slipping through the guard posts, however, was still there. Nothing of that sort had happened, and when the tent flap closed behind a tired looking Lord Commander, he dismissed young Keelan, “Your performance is exceptional, Lady.” At that the young noblewoman straightened. “Keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you, milord, and I will.” The squire gave a brief salute, turned and bowed to Trileigh, and then hurried out.

  Mireynh pointed to an empty chair. “Welcome back, Lord Commander. Have a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the noble replied and sat.

  “So, what have you unearthed at Harail’s Library?”

  “It took some convincing, sir, but I managed to see the unedited records of a few incidents.”

  “Unedited?” Mireynh asked. Who would be interested in the flowery speech of a failed poet?

  Trileigh’s explanation of what unedited meant for the followers of Traghnalach gave the answer. “Turns out, sir, magic can only be countered by magic, as we suspected. But the important thing is that no Wizard could be at several places at once. So, if we were to attack Dunthiochagh from several sides, only a few could be stopped by this Wizard.”

  “You agree?”

  “I had a few days on my ride to consider the problem, sir. Winter isn’t far off, there’s frost in the mornings, the sky’s darkening, and before long we’ll not only have snow to deal with but wind as well. This close to the mountains it is bound to happen.”

  “I concur.”

  “I apologize for delaying our advance by my preparation to lay siege to Dragoncrest, sir,” Trileigh said.

  “I doubt that a day or two would have mattered,” Mireynh replied. “The traitor was dead before we even got here. And if not, the roads did their share in slowing us down.” He paused, poured wine into two mugs and handed one to his second. “How many ladders?”

  Trileigh took the offered drink, sipped thoughtfully then looked at him. “As many as possible. What happened to the wood, sir? I saw the lumber store, or what’s left of it rather. The Wizard?”

  The noble wasn’t as useless as he had thought. In fact, he was impressed at how quickly the Lord Commander’s mind worked. He nodded. “Aye, we’re still scraping people’s parts from some tents.”

  “We can’t guess where this spellcaster will appear, sir. Best we distribute the troops evenly, this way most of them only have to deal with Duasonh’s Bows, Swords, and Pikes. But...” The noble hesitated, frowned. “How quickly was the timber destroyed?”

  “Gone in a matter of moments,” he replied, remembering all too well that night of carnage.

  “Any witness? Any that survived, I mean.”

  “Callan Farlin,” Mireynh answered. “Lucky to still be alive, can’t imagine him lying with a woman ever again, though.” Seeing the Lord Commander’s frown, he added, “Legs and most of his crotch gone.”

  Trileigh winced. “Poor bastard.”

  “The Caretakers say it’s a miracle he’s not died yet.”

  “Did you question him?”

  Was the man suggesting he hadn’t thought of this as well? “Tried, just unlucky I guess, whenever I went to him he was out.” As an afterthought he added, “Yes, I have considered staying at his side just in case he wakes, but I have an army to lead.” Why was he justifying his actions anyway? The nobleman might be more learned than he was, but book wisdom never replaced wisdom from living through life’s trials.

  “I understand, milord.”

  Mireynh was sure he didn’t; the man had let his troops build a fence around his gaudy tent! “You offer to sit with Farlin?” he asked.

  “Might help, sir. Maybe he’ll be coherent enough to speak to me. Might help to know what has really happened.”

  It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of that, rather he saw no point in knowing how more than a score of people were shredded like paper. With a sigh, he asked, “What makes what Farlin saw so important?”

  “I read that Wizards can attack from a distance longer than most war engines, but some have been stopped not by magic but bows and arrows. Not all mages were the same. Some, the weaker ones who still wanted to have a say in matters, had to close in on their targets to wreak havoc, sir.”

  Mireynh understood. “They took them out with a volley.”

  “Sometimes more than one was needed, but yes.”

  “You’re right; if Farlin saw someone we might have a way to defeat Duasonh’s pet mage. See to it, will you?”

  Trileigh rose. “Certainly, sir.”

  “Tell the Caretakers I sent you.”

  The Lord Commander nodded and left.

  A smile crept onto Mireynh’s face. They might actually have a chance in taking at least part of Dunthiochagh. Baron Duasonh was no fool and would have rigged the three bridges to collapse w
hen needed. Still, owning half the city with its buildings was better than retreating to Harail before they were snowed in.

  CHAPTER 45

  Oddly enough, the leather-wrapped hilt still felt familiar, the sweat and blood pressed into the fabric by his hands. They belonged there. The notion frightened him, worried him. How was it possible that the one thing he truly loathed, fighting, seemed like a longlost love? And if it was love, for what? Carnage? Killing?

  Was that a purring chuckle or just his imagination? Drangar paused, closed his eyes, and waited. No, the Fiend seemed quiet, biding its time.

  He released the grip, put the weapon on the table beside him, and then inspected his palms, his fingers. The hands of a killer? People had to be comfortable with whom they were. He was not. A mere flicker of a memory: holding a blade, barreling into an enemy wall, wood and bone splintering as he hewed a bloody path through the foe. The few glimpses of the monster rending through Hesmera, was that who he was, what he was? Here, maneuvered into a position he could not, would not run from, others wanted him to become the monster once more.

  He was not comfortable with who he was, the man Lord Cahill wanted him to become. The Scythe, merely a title others had bestowed upon him, the bane of the battlefield. Who was he? What was he?

  Was there any difference between the Scythe and Hesmera’s killer? He needed a definitive answer to that question. Could he again become the man Urgraith Mireynh had known half a lifetime ago without opening the path for the Fiend?

  He flexed his hands, balling them into fists and relaxing them. The hands of a killer? Was there a difference? Where was the line that separated warrior from murderer?

  They were good hands, Hesmera had always said, manly, with calluses, the thick patches of skin. Now they were gone, just like his hair. He didn’t recall if they had receded before, in his years as shepherd.

  He barely remembered what had happened when cousin Dalgor—he still used that term though it was most likely fabricated relation—had summoned the burning cage around him. Fragments, yes, but not enough to analyze what had really occurred. Hands pressed against the searing wall, flesh sizzling, melting, reforming while he screamed.