Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  His fingernail traced his palm, a tickle causing goose bumps on the back of his hand and arm. Had he still had hair, it would have stood erect. Fresh skin, fresh meat, if he could believe what he had seen. The break, the spot where old flesh and new were divided, was clearly visible. No wonder he felt the much-gripped leather hilt more intensely than before. Did noblewomen feel things like this, their only calluses on fingertips, caused by the embroidery needle?

  Drangar had no illusions about freeborn and villein women having just as callused hands as the men. It would be hard to hold a sword for longer than a handful of practice bouts, and he knew if he accompanied Úistan Cahill to Ondalan he would be trading more than a few blows with the sword in his hands.

  Again, he caressed the leather, felt where his fingers had rested most of the time. The hilt remembered his grip. So had he. Did he truly want to? The voice—Dog—had urged him to not force the memories away. Was this also what she had meant? The practices with Lord Cahill and his retainers had helped but holding a practice sword and a real blade were two entirely different things. Was he nervous? Maybe, and why shouldn’t he be? After all, this blade represented all he wished he was not, killer, slayer, murderer.

  “No!” he snarled, again wrapping his hand around the hilt. “The past is past, I am not responsible and neither are you!” His fingers found the grooves, their proper place. Once before this weapon had been a sign of change, of redemption. It was past time to put it to use again.

  Drangar moved into the middle of the room with no other thought than the memory of exercises he had learned as a child. Sword high, blade almost parallel to the ground, arms almost straight. Eagle Guard was the best position when fighting with a longer, more powerful blade. Not too straight the arms, he reminded himself, elbows bent. There was no one around to advise him; he was on his own like he had been for most of his life. Eyes closed, he shifted until the stance felt right. Left foot angled less extreme, easy on the right foot to deliver a powerful slash. “Focus!” he hissed through gritted teeth. Concentration was the key, and those memories he had tried to force away for two years. Good, remember. The voice again. This time he didn’t mind, he needed all the encouragement he could get.

  Someone was banging on the door. Drangar had no idea how long he had been at the sequences: high guard; stay on the outer defense; avoid the inner defense. It almost felt like he was back in the courtyard at the Eye of Traksor, practicing swordplay. The bang came again. Maybe the Chosen had finally unearthed whatever remained of his belongings. How much remained in his purse, he didn’t know, didn’t care, as long as it was enough to repay Rob for his kindness.

  Wiping the sweat from his face, he opened the door. Wondering about a fool sometimes sent one running, he thought when he saw Kildanor standing next to Florence and carrying a bundle, his belongings most likely. An idea formed. Kildanor had helped him before, and maybe he would do so again. “Chosen,” he said, trying to sound gruff. “You brought it, thank you.” Then, “If you don’t mind, I could use a sparring partner. Could you bring us some water, Florence? Thank you.” The girl hurried away.

  “Me? Sparring with you?”

  “Air is no opponent, no teacher,” he said, stepping aside to let Lesganagh’s warrior in. “Need someone alive to tell me if I do things right.”

  For a moment the Chosen hesitated, and then entered as Drangar closed the door behind him. “Do you think this wise?”

  He put his sword on the table, took the offered bundle and opened it. Inside were his saddlebags, still closed. A quick, cursory inspection, all was as it had been. “Thanks, at least some money to call my own.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” the Chosen said.

  Should he tell him he was afraid? What if the inquiry had only been about the wisdom of practicing with him? “You mean Ondalan, or?”

  “If there is a connection between you and the demons, any sort of stress will loosen that which holds them at bay. Remember what happened to Lady Neena.”

  “You don’t have to remind me,” he muttered, guilt worming its way back.

  “I think I do.”

  “No, you don’t!” The bundle slammed on the tabletop. Then he turned to face the Chosen, but instead of the expected aloofness he found only worry. “I think of nothing else, fear nothing more than the hurt this body will inflict should the Fiend take over.” His brow furrowed, he felt his face twist into a despairing grimace. “I have no choice.”

  “Yes, you do. We all do!”

  “I broke many laws in my life, but never assaulted a host. Yes, Sir Úistan maneuvered me into this expedition, but it was I who broke the Guest Law. I cannot be a nervous wreck all the time, because sooner or later something will unleash the Fiend, and I have to find out what did this to me, who did this to me.” His fists flexed, clenched. “There is an army out there; I have no other option. I don’t want to run from responsibility again.” He saw Kildanor wanted to reply, guessed what he would hear, and held up both hands, saying, “No, don’t say it wasn’t my fault, I know that already.

  “But it is my responsibility to find an end to this. Dying, obviously, is no option, and what if it was? What then? Will this threat be ended or will the demons just find someone new to manipulate? I need to find out what the Sons of Traksor did to me, why they had me kill Hesmera. Maybe it is they who are pulling the strings; maybe they are responsible for me slaughtering Little Creek. I need answers. So, if my going to Ondalan, drawing Mireynh’s attention away, gives us chance to let winter drive the Chanastardhians off, I have to take it.”

  Kildanor nodded. “I understand. It worries me, though.”

  A snort, a smirk, Drangar shook his head. “Think not for a moment that it doesn’t worry me.”

  “I’ll accompany the expedition.” That took him by surprise, and it must have shown, for the Chosen spoke on. “I’ve learned a great deal in the past few days. Amongst other things, I now know how to enter the spiritworld. This means I will be able to help you, maybe even free you like I did in the dungeons, from the demonic influence. Nothing permanent, but you already know that.”

  “I thought it was a Caretaker and you doing this.”

  “Eanaigh was Lesganagh’s daughter before she became his wife.” Incestuous little bunch, these gods, Drangar thought. “Part of her is him, so I figure I can do this alone.”

  The same feeling as in the Hearthwarden’s temple overcame him. “Bastards should have studied the gods more closely before killing the Lesganaghists,” he said, anger at the injustice grumbling in his gut.

  For a moment it seemed as if Kildanor wanted to say something. There was surprise in the Chosen’s face. Then it was gone. “So, you are certain about going to Ondalan?”

  A quick nod, he had made up his mind long before he had known a decision had to be made. Justice had to be served. His concern was reflected in Kildanor’s eyes. He sighed. “I’m afraid to lose control, but I cannot let the world pass me by, or bury me.” Should he tell him about the dark place he had lingered in when Darlontor’s men had disemboweled him? There still was time the voice had said. Time for what?

  “Was there any truth to that rumor you are blessed by Lesganagh?” That question took him by surprise.

  A moment he considered, and then shook his head. “No. Yes. Maybe.” There were so many things he had tried to block out. Now the Chosen asked the question he had always been too afraid to consider. “The Sons, my… father, rather, told me I was when I managed to clobber older, stronger lads bloody.” He fell silent, remembering the sheet of rage covering his senses. “I’ve always associated the fury with his blessing. I mean, look at me, most scars you find are of my own doing. In battle I never worried about anything, letting rage lead me.” Shaking his head, he waited. Kildanor merely regarded him, expected him to speak on.

  “I couldn’t explain my strength when fighting, asked my… da… why and how. He merely said the Lord of Sun and War had blessed me upon my birth. Another fabrication
, like the one Hesmera had been told when she bought the potion. I need to go to Ondalan; it is the right thing to do. Only with the Chanastardhians gone can I head south… home… and find out what foul game is being played. I need to end this, find the answers.” He scoffed. “Besides, if it was Lesganagh watching over me, why did Upholder Coimharrin allow me to pass judgment over that toad Danaissan? I don’t think Lesganagh really gives a damn whether I live or die.”

  “And you coming back to life?”

  Again, he scoffed. “Another question I need to find the answer to.”

  “I’ll help you,” Kildanor replied.

  This took him by surprise. A Chosen helping him, what was the world coming to? “I’m not that important.”

  “There is a demon trying to take control of you. I will accompany you to Ondalan and beyond. The journey south won’t be one you have to take alone.”

  The other’s vehemence left him speechless.

  “Besides,” Kildanor continued, “I think you are important.”

  “Just because I judged one man?”

  “You sentenced the former High Priest of Eanaigh, Morgan Danaissan, and not even Upholder Coimharrin objected.”

  “Who am I to rule over anyone? It is the duty of Lliania’s clergy and nobles in life, and hers in death. I am neither a noble nor lowly Lawspeaker. Besides, if I could I’d rather have a long, rough talk with Ethain and Ganaedor.” At the mention of those two names the Chosen paled noticeably. “You all right?” he asked. The other swallowed, his eyes wide, but unseeing. Drangar repeated the question.

  “I heard you the first time,” Kildanor replied.

  “Heard of the bastards?”

  The Chosen nodded. “How do you know of them?”

  “Learned about them when I was still at the Eye. They’re Danachamain’s disciples, favored by demons.” He paused, wondering if, in some way, he was like these two. No, he was not! “Every child learns the history of the order. Ethain and Ganaedor are part of that tale. ‘Traksor stabbed and killed and bled ‘em dry. But leaving, he turned, looked back, and what he saw made him cry. His chosen two again they stood and raced off into Gathran’s Wood.’ Old ditty we sang when we played in the Eye’s yard. I know the rhyme’s not very good, but…” his voice faltered. “Not Danachamain’s chosen two,” he whispered, realizing how blind they had been, how much they all had misinterpreted the verse. “Gods! His Chosen. Lesganagh’s Chosen. You knew them?”

  Kildanor just looked on. For a moment it seemed as if the warrior struggled with some memory but gathered his composure quickly. Nodding, the Chosen said with a distant voice, “Aye, I knew them; they were my brothers in every sense of the word. We three were chosen at the very beginning. They accompanied Danachamain to Honas Graigh.”

  The recital, Drangar had no other word for it, sounded like things he had hammered into his head as a child only to repeat before his… da. No heart was behind the words. If Kildanor really was brother to Ethain and Ganaedor—his childhood horrors, shouldn’t he display more hurt or even anger? Instead he got the shallow faced recounting of events that would have made the calmest man lose his temper, even a century after the fact.

  “Damnation.”

  “What do you mean?” the Chosen asked in the same bland tone. Had Kildanor started to rage, throw a fit, show any sort of emotion, Drangar would never have blamed him, was the last person who would ever blame him. This cold, almost calculated, question wasn’t that of a grieving brother, or even an angry brother. Why didn’t the man hate? He had every right to, yet he remained calm.

  “Gods, I wish I had your skill at shutting down my feelings. Would’ve helped in the past few years,” he said.

  “Shutting them down?” Kildanor echoed. “I didn’t, they’re gone. I feel nothing regarding my siblings, nothing at all.”

  “That’s messed up,” he responded. He lifted his sword, feeling the imprint his hand had left in the years of use. Slight nudges here and there and it fit perfectly, ready for him. What he didn’t know was if he was ready for it. “Shall we train?”

  The change crossing the Chosen’s face was uncanny. One moment he almost looked like a lost puppy, the next his features hardened. “Very well, let’s see what you can do.”

  It turned out to be very little, compared to a fighter like Kildanor. The first few exchanges were over quickly, with Drangar’s blade spinning away time and again. Then, very slowly, the Chosen began to drill stances and moves into him. “Keep your grip easy on the hilt.” “It’s no mallet, man! Don’t force your sword, force your enemy!”

  This trainer was unlike any he had met before. Quite understandable, really, when he considered that the man who just now flung his sword from his hands had made war and weapons his life for a century.

  Every time he parried, or struck, flashes of his old self came back to him. His old self had been a brute and never would have matched the Chosen even had he wanted to. Kildanor was just too good. Thankfully his teacher was funny about it. He didn’t mock, just pointed out, in hindsight, obvious errors on his part. Again and again, he was forced into the defensive, not something he was really used to. In the battles he had fought, people had run merely by seeing him mow down their comrades, but Kildanor wasn’t easy to impress and much harder to disarm or defeat.

  After a good score of victories, the Chosen called for a break. “You fight with your heart, that’s good,” he panted, pouring water for himself. “Too much heart actually. And that is bad. Keep your anger in check, lad, or you’ll be beat by the first person not impressed by your reputation. Or by the first one, willing to see if all that talk about the Scythe is just empty words.” He emptied the tankard in one pull.

  “These”—he tapped Drangar’s arms and legs—“are your troops, lad. And this”—the flat of the Chosen’s sword touched his head—“is the general. Your head needs to be in command, always. Not only because blind passion makes you careless…”

  Drangar nodded, understanding that much at least. “The Fiend is just waiting.”

  “Aye. Drink some and then we’ll see if you can actually command your army.”

  He did as he was told, and moments later they were at it again. This time, he was in charge. Scouts, his eyes and ears; his arms and legs, infantry; and his mind the general. His heart raced, urging him on to swing madly at the Chosen, but he reined in the… was that the Fiend? He wasn’t sure; all that mattered now was to not release his fury. He knew Kildanor wasn’t responsible for any of this, but right now he was the only one there to beat. Calm, he ordered himself. He had to stay calm.

  Again, his blade whirled out of his grip.

  At his frustrated sigh, Kildanor said, “Lad, you need a beat, now there was all mind and no heart. Find the balance.”

  “Find the balance my ass,” he grumbled as he retrieved his sword. Army, scouts, general, and now musicians? What did this puny man know about fighting, about spilling blood? With a start, Drangar let go of his sword, clutching his head. The Fiend! It was back, worming its way into his thoughts, using his annoyance as beacon, as path to slip inside. No! He took a deep breath. The Chosen knew more about battle than he, Drangar Ralgon, ever would. The Fiend was not master!

  Maybe it was just his imagination, but when his blade whirled through the air the next time, it seemed as if this last bout had lasted longer.

  “Good,” Kildanor said. “Again.”

  Heartbeats later, it seemed, his sword hit the ground. “Much better,” the Chosen commented, bending to retrieve the weapon. “You need to find the right balance, extend your senses not only to what you see, but what you would do in my place. Anticipate your opponent’s actions.”

  “Like Chiath,” he said, taking the sword, still feeling uncomfortable.

  They went at it once more. Encouraged by the clipped praise, Drangar heeded the older warrior’s words. Parries turned into counterattacks, feints into whirls of motion. He began to enjoy himself. The lessons the Eye’s master-of-arms, Anya, had pou
nded into them had never really taken hold in the boy of the past, but were now creeping back into his mind and movements. He finally understood what all those people had tried to teach him. Heart, mind, body, all had to work in unison. Sheer rage was useless, as was over-thinking, too much anger and the strikes became powerful but practically useless; too much thinking and the thrusts became so weak a fly could swat them. Too much anger also cleared the path for the demon, and that he would not, could not allow. He had to control anger and muscles, while the fury had to feed power into the cuts. Instinct, so long gone from Drangar’s self-pity-wrought mind, returned. It was a different kind of instinct, though. Not the raging killer known as the Scythe, but the master of his mind, heart and body.

  The blade whirled away again.

  “Fuck me!” Drangar panted.

  “I’d rather not,” the Chosen replied, wheezing just as hard. “That was good,” he said after a few more breaths.

  “Bullshit, it was just like all the other times,” Drangar grumbled, slumping to the ground. Why the Scales was he so exhausted? He looked up at Kildanor who was holding his sides, trying to remain upright.

  “It was not, believe me.”

  His look followed the quick inclination of the Chosen’s head to the window. Dusk was almost upon them. Stunned, blinking sweat from his eyes, he faced his—could he call him a friend—teacher. “How?”

  “You were in command.” The other smirked. Then his face grew serious. “Tell me, was there any moment in the engagement where you were not in control of yourself?”

  He hardly remembered all of it; the past fight was a blur of steel and sound. There was no singular image burned into his mind but the lingering threat, the almost constant feeling of being watched by a predator, was faint. The memory was not the fragmented, random images of earlier battles as the Scythe. More akin to flashes of carnage, the images of his murderous rages on the field were nothing like what he recalled now. A shake of the head, and then realization finally blossomed in his mind. “It was quiet. The Fiend did not even try to take command.”