by Ulff Lehmann
A genuine smile blossomed on Kildanor’s face. “We, no you, know how to beat this thing. Once this business in Ondalan is done and the Chanastardhians have retreated to Harail, we can take the journey south, knowing you will retain control.” Was it really that simple? His concern must have shown because the Chosen added, “Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”
The door opened, cutting further discussion short. Sir Úistan, the nobleman’s face partially hidden by the oak, poked his head in and said, “Finally! Any idea when we will be able to leave?” Their departure had been scheduled for today? Why was he the last to know of such things?
“I cannot say, milord. As long as it takes to prepare our man on the other side, I guess.”
“So, Cumaill has a spy amongst the enemy? I knew it!” the noble exclaimed. Judging from Kildanor’s expression, the Chosen must have thought their host privy to the information. “What is the plan? Another store of wood splintering?”
“You will have to ask the Baron.” The warrior’s face was as unreadable as the wall beyond.
It did not concern him. Drangar was glad he had a few more days, at the least, before he was forced to do battle. The instinct to drive away the thought was so strong he barely heard Lord Cahill, and only when the man slapped his shoulder in a comradely fashion did his attention return to the world around him. “Scales, son, didn’t know you had it in you. Suspected, yes, but known, no,” Sir Úistan said admiringly. “You have made incredible progress.”
He swallowed, unable to think. Drangar blinked, turned, and blinked again. Why did he feel so uncomfortable? The noble must have seen his confusion, and his reaction took him by surprise. Now he felt two hands on his shoulders, his host’s voice booming. “I am proud of you, son.”
Catching himself before he could say, “I am not your son”, he remained quiet. Why was Cahill so kind to him? He had broken guest law, assaulted Neena, unknowingly brought terror to the manor. The hands squeezed his shoulders. “Good job.”
This acceptance felt so right that his first reaction was to push it away, to run and hide. Whenever he had felt comfortable, doom was not far behind. Would he, again, bring murder into Cahill Manor?
If Sir Úistan had noticed, it didn’t show in his voice. “Will you stay for supper, Chosen?”
Kildanor’s look held his for a moment. Then he nodded. “I’d be honored, milord.”
“Wash the sweat away,” the noble replied matter-of-factly and left. “Kohar will fetch you.”
When they were alone once more, the Chosen said, “Was the invitation just for me?”
A question Drangar expected. “No.”
“But?”
He looked into the other’s face and detected only curiosity there. Should he tell him he still felt ashamed of what he had done?
“You weren’t master of your senses,” Kildanor said, obviously having read the answer in his eyes.
“That doesn’t make things right.”
“Stop being so hard on yourself, you did not attack Lady Neena. The demon did.”
“Part of me wanted to teach her a lesson. I was getting annoyed with her whining. I’ve seen what warriors do when unleashed on a captured city, and she just kept nagging and complaining.” Even to his ears his voice sounded hollow. “And I cannot apologize for something I did not do.”
“Who asked for an apology?”
The replies that came to mind stopped on his tongue, one sounding as ridiculous as the other. Honor demanded he make up for it, but nothing condemned someone for thinking. Actions mattered. The distinction was clear; an idea was no crime.
“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Confused, Drangar looked at Kildanor. Hesmera had said the same, and she had not been the first either. “You did not attack her, you know it, and that, in the end, is the only thing that matters.” His doubt must have shown, again. “You judged Danaissan; your instincts told you he was guilty, aye?” Drangar nodded. “What do your instincts tell you now?”
The chuckle was there in the back of his mind, quiet, but present nonetheless. It reminded him of whom the culprit truly was. “I am not responsible,” he said, the words a strange echo of the past. “I did not attack Neena; it was the Fiend, but…”
“No ‘buts’!” Kildanor interrupted. “Stop worrying about every godsdamned thing! If you do, you’ll drive yourself crazy sooner or later. And,” he added with a chuckle, “I think you need no more madness in your life.”
In his chamber, washed and dressed in fresh clothes, Drangar was disturbed by a knock. The forceful pounding was unlike that of the servants, and instead of calling the visitor in, he went and opened the door.
“Supper can begin without me,” Úistan Cahill said as he pushed by. “I need to talk with you.” The noble looked about the room, headed for the only stool and sat down. “Close that thing and sit.” A nod toward the table.
Was he intentionally lowering himself? He did as ordered and settled opposite his host.
“Never been good with this heart to heart stuff.” Cahill smirked. “Leo’s the one for that, but here I am.”
“If it is about supper…” His reply was cut short.
“It is about you, son,” Sir Úistan interrupted. A deep breath, and then he spoke on. “I don’t pretend to understand your situation. Scales, most people, including the Chosen, don’t. What’s dead usually stays dead, so we are in unmapped territory here. I have no answers for you, and even if I did, I doubt you would listen.” Cahill’s eyes searched his face. “Well, maybe you would listen. Well then, everybody likes to think their lives have meaning, that we’re all here for a reason. Maybe that’s true, maybe it ain’t. Life’s a struggle, always has been, always will be.
“What matters is what we make of it. You need to be able to forgive yourself. Neena already has. Damn, your charge set her head a little straighter, so some good came out of it.” Drangar couldn’t help but smile with the nobleman. “She’s never known hardship, and we did our best to protect her from an unkind world.” Another pause. He wanted to reply, but Lord Cahill’s upraised hand stopped him. “You’re a good person, otherwise all of this wouldn’t eat you up, and I’m certain no one ever protected you.”
He shook his head, fiercely blinking tears away. “The only person who ever came close died by my hand.”
“Aye, here we go again, pity yourself. Haven’t you worked at that for years now?”
He wanted to yell, tell the bugger he was wrong. A low chuckle echoed through his mind. No, this was the Fiend talking. A deep breath later, Drangar regarded the older man once more. Sir Úistan was right.
“Fact is, you need to take your life into your own hands, not just roll with the tides. Don’t let every mistake throw you to the ground. Nothing will ever be perfect.” The noble stood. “Now, get over yourself and join us for supper. You are our guest and what kind of host would I be if I did not see you dine with us.” At the door he turned his head once more. “One more thing. Neena always fancied a warrior-hero to rescue her—comes from all the tales her grandma used to tell her—and I think she fancies you, not so much now that you charged her, but still. Make sure, verbally mind you, this stops. It’s nothing against you, but I think you do not need someone who follows you with unseeing eyes.”
For a moment Drangar stared and then nodded, dumbstruck. How could Neena think he was interested anyway? He recalled the past he had seen and knew Lord Cahill’s evaluation was correct. “I’ll be gentle.”
At that the other scoffed. “That I have to see.” It was a good-natured joke, and he chuckled as well.
The Fiend was quiet.
CHAPTER 46
What little sleep he got during the nights was with one group of camp followers or another, never at the same fire twice. So far no one had taken note of him. Everything went as planned. Jesgar spent the best part of the day successfully avoiding contact with Chanastardhian warleaders. An odd job here or there, mainly carrying gear from the camp to the trenches, but aside from h
is amusing but thankfully brief meeting with Anneijhan of House Cirrain he did not talk to people. If one didn’t participate in conversations and just followed orders dumbly people concluded that one really was really dumb. Which served him just fine. The only thing that nagged him was giving his name to the two women. The mistake was done, the bridge burned or whatever metaphor bards would use in his case.
The woman who had let him run the obstacle course would laugh her lungs out, if she heard about this.
Dusk was coming, and he slinked off into the shadows near the outskirts of the Chanastardhian camp. In the past few days he had scrounged together enough blankets to survive the night’s frost. They were hidden inside a little cavity under what remained of an uprooted tree. If one knew what to look for, the hiding place could be discovered, but he made damn sure nobody followed him.
He had picked this spot because it was close enough to Trade Road, although the frozen mud hardly deserved that name. Inside Dunthiochagh’s walls most ways were paved, but once out of the gates, life seemed to become devoid of cobblestone. A courier had to come this way.
So far, he hadn’t seen riders wearing red ribbons, neither had he been able to remain at his post all the time. The patrols out here never looked his way, focusing instead on the woods to the far south, but in broad daylight a lone man lying on a chunk of blanket-covered grass tended to stick out. He couldn’t risk that. What he would do once a messenger came from the south, he had no idea. He could hardly stop a trio of riders and say they lost something and blocking the road was just as ridiculous. Somehow, he had to get to that courier’s pouch, see if it contained any messages that contradicted what he was supposed to put in there, and then slip the false missive into the bag.
They didn’t teach that in the Library, or anywhere else for that matter, Jesgar thought glumly. The Baron’s big brains hadn’t come up with a good plan either. “Get the letter to Mireynh,” the little girl had said. He didn’t even want to think about how a girl not yet of age—she sounded rather young—managed to speak and listen to him when he was at least a mile away from the city, not to mention the letter that had appeared out of nowhere.
He had heard the rumors about a Phoenix Wizard in Duasonh’s employ, but he had never read about a mage being so bloody young. He ducked low when another patrol of Swords and Bows headed south, most likely to hunt the militia that was shooting down lumberjacks. All of them carried torches, and Jesgar could barely suppress a snort. These fools were visible for miles, if the weather was right. Decent targets for hidden archers.
He retrieved the blankets, built a nest in a nearby thornleaf and slipped inside. It was almost impossible to see him in the evergreens, and the Chanastardhians didn’t bother to cut them down, they were too far away from the forest and any sniper could be seen well before he ever reached this spot. For Jesgar it was perfect.
From what the redhead, Gwennaith, had told him, couriers either arrived in the evening, just before or just after sundown, or around dawn. So far, in the time he had spent outside Dunthiochagh, there had been no messengers. Maybe he would get lucky tonight. The lack of sleep affected him, he knew he had to focus when the time came to place the fake letter into the courier’s satchel. The only problem was that he still hadn’t figured out a way to halt the riders. Maybe the big brains inside the Palace had solved that problem. The easiest way would probably be a distraction like the one he had used to get out. The problem with that, however, was that the enemy now distributed cut timber to various parts of the encampment. He hoped the Baron and his…
“Garinad?” the girl’s hushed voice disrupted his thought.
“Aye?”
“You need to get a blue ribbon.”
Blue ribbon? “What for?” he asked, confused at the order. Couriers wore red, sentinels green, yellow for the constables policing the camp. No one wore blue.
“Protection,” the girl replied.
“From what?”
“Best you don’t know, trust me. I’m told any blue cloth around the arm will work.” The lass made even less sense the longer he pondered about wearing any sort of ribbon.
“There are no blue ribbons used here.”
“Exactly.” A brief pause while Ysold listened to an unheard voice. “All right, listen, whenever the messenger comes, get ready to slip into the general’s tent. You are to replace the thing there.”
“What is being planned?”
“Gods, man, don’t be so dense! You really, really, really don’t want to know, trust me. Do you have any idea how hard this is for me? I have to focus on what you are telling me and what Garinad asks… oh shit. Never mind!” she hissed, and then fell silent. “Now, fetch a blue cloth, tie it around your arm and do not remove it! Under…”
“Quiet!” he hissed. Was that the sound of hoof beats? Out here the wind sometimes played tricks on the ears, and with the woods not that far off, a tree’s creaking could carry quite far.
No, it was too steady to be one branch banging against another. The staccato was too regular. Jesgar held his breath and waited.
Yes! Horses were cantering up from the south, he could hear the occasional slurp when a hoof pulled free from the rare patch of mud, but otherwise it was the clatter of horseshoes on frozen ground.
“This is imp…”
“Shut up!” he hissed, peering out into the darkness. Thankfully the night was clear, at least for Dunthiochagh. Now he saw them. Dark shadows following a leading rider carrying a lantern.
The road was particularly bad at that spot, courtesy of the carts of the baggage train. The whores and other camp followers were heading back to Harail so that noise was gone. The furrows remained raked into the now frozen mud and made traveling that stretch awkward at best; for horses it could be lethal. Jesgar had witnessed two horses, knight’s chargers, stumbling and breaking their legs. The owners’ companions had eaten well that day.
The approaching riders had slowed audibly, but he still couldn’t make out how many there were. One in the lead, holding the lamp that much was certain but how many were following? Amorphous shadows against an equally undefined backdrop were all he could see.
A low hill rose beyond the rutted, furrowed stretch, and the road ran up that hill. From his vantage point Jesgar was at the correct angle, the hilltop in plain sight. Thanks to the multitude of fires dotting the camp, especially at night, the tor’s crest was perhaps the single best place to spy how many riders were arriving.
Hardly daring to breathe, he waited. The ground to the mound’s left and right was an even more churned frozen mess than Trade Road leading up to it. If the riders were smart, they would try to go across the hill, it would spare their mounts considerable trouble.
Now they were on top. Jesgar held his breath, hoping there were three. Unblinking he stared into the night.
There! For just an instant, right before the road angled down again, he saw the silhouette of every rider. “Three,” he sighed, letting out the air in a long, low whistle. Soon this nightmare would be over and he could go back into the city and have a decent sleep.
“How long until they reach the general’s tent?” Ysold asked from right beside him.
“Have you watched the entire thing?” Even if she had, she would not diminish his elation about being out of the cold in the near future.
“Sure. So, how long until they reach the tent?” the girl repeated.
“And how the Scales should I measure that?” he grumbled.
“Oh, right, never mind. If the noblewoman and her squire want to live, you best find them now. Tell them to wear blue ribbons on their arm.”
“You still haven’t told me…”
“It’s on a need to know basis, spy, and you don’t need to know, so shut up. This is hard enough for me as it is. Besides, I’m bored and all this sitting, waiting, repeating nonsense is just that, nonsense. So, find some blue cloth, tie a strip to your arm, go to that little lady knight of yours, and then get your ass to Mireynh’s tent and be r
eady to slip in once you’re sure he is out.”
“What makes you think he will leave his tent?”
“Oh, trust me, he will come out.” Did her voice sound just a little on edge? He wasn’t sure, but it felt as if Ysold was a little frightened.
“What is going to happen?” he asked again.
“There’ll be a distraction.” Now she sounded more annoyed than upset, but maybe it was a bit of both. “Oh, and don’t be scared, as long as you wear a blue ribbon you’ll be safe.”
“Great,” he muttered as he rolled up the blankets. It would do no good if this stuff was found after he had gone. Then he realized something. “Damnation, girl! Where’s the message?”
Either Ysold must have thought the same thing, or she had just picked it up, for it suddenly plopped to the earth right before him. The rolled-up parchment was shut with wax and imprinted with King Drammoch’s coat of arms, the royal seal of Chanastardh. So, the few lessons he had had with Megan the Librarian had left their mark on him. He smiled, thanking the gods. Careful not to wrinkle the fake message, he stored it inside his coat’s lining. Then he shoved the bundled blankets into their hole, hoping he would not have to return to this place ever again.
Getting into the army’s encampment was easy. Naturally the High General had set patrols and guard stations around the perimeter, but the camp was far too big for the comparatively few guards assigned. The only spot where an unusual number of sentinels were posted was near a handful of tents set slightly aside the rest of the camp. According to Gwen’s description, this was where House Cirrain’s warband was quarantined.
Jesgar was close to them, and for a moment he considered advising them to wear ribbons as well. He dismissed the thought almost immediately; the wizard’s apprentice had not given a specific time like high moon or something and it might well be in everyone’s best interest if he reached Anne of House Cirrain as quickly as possible. Maybe Gwen could do something about the warriors.