Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  He circled back, away from the open-air prison, east, toward Trade Road, and the camp’s center. Should he cross the road and enter the camp there? The sight of a handful guards standing around a fire made the decision for him. It was either into the encampment now or back around the hill and cross the path there, another delay. No, the noblewoman had to be reached before the distraction. Whatever it was to be.

  The guards were walking away from him. Now! He had no idea how a rush could be made to look like something inconspicuous, but he tried. On Old Bridge it was no problem, there were enough people there during the day that someone experienced could slow from hustle to walk and blend into the milling crowd in a matter of moments. Here, between the tents, there certainly was enough immobile cover, but the lack of wandering people, other than guards, made the entire affair quite difficult.

  “Oi! You!” someone barked to Jesgar’s left, and he slowly turned toward the voice. A Sword-Warden wearing the shat-out colors of House Argram.

  Damnation, he swore inwardly and said, in his best imitation of a Valley accent, “Eve, Ward, what’s the pob’em?”

  “Problem, you little spit-head, is that you ain’t s’posed to be out, curfew, remember?”

  Now he had to think quickly. What could be the reason for someone being outside despite the curfew? Gods, he had spent so much time acting like a brainless villein he had never bothered to truly pay attention to how warriors acted. He had been too busy to avoid attention. At this moment, improbable as it was, he realized Chosen Kildanor was right when saying he wasn’t good enough.

  “Don’ jus’ stan’ there a-gapin’, speak up, you rat!”

  A female voice came to his rescue. “There you are, you good-for-nothing, turnip-shitting whoreson!” The Warden looked as surprised at the coarse language as he felt. Jesgar was even more shocked when he saw who was swearing like a sailor.

  Gwennaith of House Keelan showed not a hint of sympathy, as she looked his way. Her glance could have cut both him and the Sword-Warden to shreds. “Good hands need to be trained or whipped into submission.” She pointed at Jesgar. “He is one of the latter ones. I told you to empty the pisspot and then get your ass back the same instant. Instead I find you pea-brained idiot getting lost in the camp again!” She cast him a scathing look that even the warrior took a step back. “And I see you lost not only your way, but the pisspot as well. I warn you, maggot, sooner or later I will forget I left my blade in your skull!” To the Warden she said, “The fool humped anyone’s leg? No? Good. That’ll be all, man, get going.” She watched imperiously as the other trundled off, still looking rather flabbergasted at the young woman’s authority.

  When they were alone, Gwen whispered, “Good thing I spent part of my life on boats, eh?”

  He was still too dumbstruck to do anything other than nod in agreement.

  “They’ve seen me enter and leave Mireynh’s tent a few times, word spreads when a squire is chummy with the High General. Good thing I came by in time.”

  “Aye, good thing,” he mumbled, and then shook off his astonishment. “Wear a blue ribbon and tell your mistress to do the same.”

  “Whatever for?” Gwen asked, retrieving a length of cloth from her pouch. She must have seen his look, because she said, “For my hair.”

  “Protection,” he explained in a whisper. “You need to tell Lady Anne.”

  “Can’t do that; you tell her,” she breathed into his ear. “Stay away from the fires and do not hurry, understood? If you hurry it looks like you got something to hide; act like you own the place.”

  He nodded, glancing over his shoulder and then hers to see if anybody was watching them. So far no one had noticed. “Wear it so it can be seen, all right?”

  In reply she tied the ribbon to her arm and then continued on her way. When she was almost out of sight, she turned, glared at him and pointed eastward, mouthing “go”.

  Keeping his pace in check, he tried to look as if he was on an important mission for his master, which, in a way, he was. To the north he saw the High General’s plain tent, a score of fire lit tents surrounding it at a respectful distance. He had entered it once before, unnoticed by everyone except Gwennaith Keelan, and was willing to bet his brother’s smithy he could do it again. Scales, he had to do it again. The survival of his home might well depend on it.

  When they had first arranged a meeting with Anneijhan Cirrain, Gwen had given him detailed instructions on how to find the noblewoman’s tent. Given that he had just met her on yet another errand, Jesgar had no doubt the younger woman knew her way around the camp at night and wasn’t the least bit surprised when he ended up right where she expected him to go.

  The tent was a nondescript, slightly larger cloth-construct with a fireplace inside. Even though his trip with Nerran’s Riders had taken him as far as Dragoncrest, he still had never spent a night inside a tent. In the West Gate Slums some people slept with a cloth roof above their heads; he imagined it mighty uncomfortable in the winter, not that he had slept better the past few days or on the road with the Riders.

  No guard was in sight, not surprising considering the High General still considered her unaware of the situation in her homeland. Illuminated by the fire he saw a woman’s shadow against the fabric. At least she was still awake.

  He headed for the entrance then stopped right in front of it. This surely was no time for good manners, yet he couldn’t just enter. The Lady Cirrain might well take him for an intruder and challenge him. Her resulting shout would draw unwanted attention. Knocking was also quite impossible.

  His approach had to be subtle, yet recognizable and still quiet enough to not alarm anyone else. Great, Garinad, he berated himself. Finally, he decided to merely lift the tent’s flap slightly, and wait for a response.

  “Gwen?” Cirrain hissed. “Is that you?”

  “No, milady,” he replied as quiet as she. “It’s Jesgar Garinad, may I come in?”

  “Aye,” she said, and before she could speak more, he was inside, pulling the flap shut behind him. The tent was comfortably warm and for a moment he just enjoyed the warmth washing over his body. Then he came to his senses.

  “Tie a blue cloth to your arm, milady.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked, eyeing him curiously.

  “Protection, ma’am. And while we’re at it, may I have some as well?”

  She rummaged in a bag and retrieved a skirt. With her dagger she cut two lengthy pieces off, handing him one. He was grateful that there were no further questions. Tying the cloth around his left wrist, he said, “Expect to be exonerated by tomorrow. Put the ribbon around some place visible. I have no idea what it’s good for, but don’t allow it to fall off! Understood?”

  She hesitantly inclined her head, and then asked, “What will you do?”

  He gave her a grim smile as he bowed out of the tent. “My job, milady.” Then he began his slow walk toward the High General’s tent. Sooner or later, Ysold had said, the distraction would come.

  CHAPTER 47

  His exhaustion had vanished the moment Drangar had recited the verse about his brothers. At supper Kildanor barely noted the mercenary actually sitting and eating with them, the conversation passed him by like so much smoke. The cloud of emotion regarding his brothers had gone since his deal with the Deathmask. He did not regret the choice; the sacrifice had helped lure the enemy into a well-laid trap. Still, he saw things with an unusual clarity of mind.

  The only impression stuck in his thoughts when he left Cahill Manor was that whatever Sir Úistan had told Drangar must have swayed the mercenary’s isolationist behavior. Still lost in memories of relationships that had ended decades before anyone had even suspected the current Lord Cahill or one Ralgon would exist at all, he trudged down the cobbled street.

  Yes, he was aware of the price, the sacrifice he had made to lure Jathain’s spirit away from the form Lliania had imprisoned it in. There was no hate, no anger, no grief left in him. All he felt toward his brothers was co
ld objectivity; the only positive memories were those of their childhoods. The rhyme had not changed his outlook, far from it; it had made one thing abundantly clear. He had been ignorant, willfully so, of his siblings’ existence, gnawing on his hurt emotions. Ethain and Ganaedor were alive, a fact he had turned a blind eye to because of the hurt that thought had conjured. Now it was gone. All that remained was fact. Maybe the others, Orkeanas and Galen especially, had suspected. No, not maybe, they had known and kept out of his business.

  It was so obvious. Twenty-four had been chosen, were the Chosen, at the beginning, during the Heir-War. When the Demon-War had ended they counted two less, and whilst every dead was always replaced, the Choosing passed on to someone, his brothers’ places had never been taken.

  It would’ve been so easy to believe Drangar was one of them, blessed by Lesganagh, and he had done so, in the beginning. Another false hope to wipe away the memory of his brothers’ betrayal. He had always seen it as a result of his own shortcomings, his mistake that they had fallen.

  “No more,” he muttered, passing a second group of warriors patrolling the northern part of the city. Was his determination, focus, the same as Drangar’s? The memory of that last bout drew his attention away from the choice he knew he had to make. Or had he already decided?

  The drawbridge lowered, and though he admired the dedication and calm Ralgon had displayed during that last fight, there was no more emotion, no more feeling to distract him from what he knew he had to do. Ondalan would only be the beginning. He would accompany Drangar, not only to help the man find answers, but also to see his brothers dead. Again.

  The steeloak crunched down into the gravel and as soon as the portcullis was creaking up, he crossed the moat. The extra waterways throughout Dunthiochagh had been cleared of debris, and the river flowed freely once more. In a way he felt like the canals, clear of that which had blocked his thoughts. He glanced down into the dark water, its gurgle and occasional splash reminded him of home. The Tallon had flowed near his parents’ farm, and they had swum in its waters as long as the seasons allowed. As firstborn he had been responsible for his two brothers. He had taught them to swim, ride, and climb. The memory of Ethain struggling up the tall apple tree made him smile. Those had been good times, even the first two years after the Choosing held fond memories, images he would never forget. Memories they were nonetheless. Dead like the brothers he had known. The choice made, he stood inside the gatehouse, one portcullis crashing down behind him while the one in front rose; he dismissed the memories. Instead he replayed the fighting with Ralgon.

  The feral shine had returned but briefly to the man’s eyes. As the sword had continued to fly away, the fury had visibly drained away. It was as if the demon had tired of the game. If that was true, the grasp the thing had over Drangar’s body was limited. Not that this realization made it easier to free the man should this Fiend strike again. Anger triggered it, that much was certain. Discipline, as Drangar had unknowingly displayed, shackled it. He had to find out whether the Fiend had taken over during Drangar’s time in the border hills. Hopefully the man would speak the truth. The plan to draw the enemy’s attention toward Ondalan meant the Scythe had to fight there. He disliked the idea, worried that his meager skills to enter the spiritworld would not suffice to free Drangar should the need arise.

  Entering the outer bailey, his thoughts returned to the rhyme about his brothers. How had they walked away from mortal wounds? Chosen died, just not of old age. What had really happened to them? How was it possible that his brothers had been able to flee after being slaughtered by Traksor? No one had ever died and come back to… he stopped, staring.

  “No,” he whispered. Could it be that Ralgon and his brothers were somehow linked? Demons had a connection with his brothers. They also had a hold on Drangar. How and why such a thing had happened was as important as the question of what the Lawmaker had to do with all this. She obviously smiled on the man; otherwise his ruling at Eanaigh’s temple would have ended with some retribution. It was all right for her priests to judge, even give false verdicts, because, ultimately, they knew the consequences. A layman, though? Nobody took the law into their hands without her having a word with them.

  It made no sense at all.

  At one of the stairs leading up to the battlement two warriors stood, arguing. For a moment Kildanor watched them. The exchange was heated, by the look of it; it almost came to blows. Then, laughing, the two men slapped each other’s shoulder, embraced and parted ways, one moving up the stairs, and the other heading for the nearby barracks.

  He glanced first up the steps and then toward the low building, realization suddenly dawning. He did not have to worry about the reason as much as he needed to worry about the man. Friends supported one another, and in his eyes Drangar was a friend. He liked the haunted, tortured man, wanted to help him. There was no need to find answers right now, they would, hopefully, come in time, certainly not in Ondalan. His duty to the mercenary was to see he would not succumb to the demons tearing into his soul. Kalduuhn, his home and Drangar’s, held the solution, and he would see they got there in the end.

  Not only that, but if his brothers were still alive, he had to find and fight them, to put their souls on Lliania’s Scales, and to make the Chosen a full two dozen once more. Drangar would go to the Eye of Traksor, that much was certain, but it was a friend’s, his, responsibility to see that the confrontation would be resolved peacefully. Whatever the answers, he had to curb this anger lest it paved the road for the Fiend. Maybe he could learn more about his brothers.

  The gate to the inner bailey creaked open. He hurried toward the keep, and, once inside, headed for Cumaill’s study. To his surprise the door was unguarded, not a single servant in sight. The activity elsewhere had been the same, but now that he thought about it, he recalled guards on the landing, most likely ready to block unwanted entrance to the corridor and the Baron’s office.

  Whatever was going on here, it concerned no one but those attending. As he closed in on the door, it opened and out strode a Deathmask. Kildanor blinked in surprise. The Priests of Jainagath hardly ever left their cemeteries, seeing one of them inside the Palace was a memorable moment. The Deathmask sketched a quick bow, which he returned, dumbfounded. Another hooded cleric followed the first. This one had a stronger air of decay about him, and the Deathmask walked with a very pronounced dragging of the feet, much like an elderly person did. Was there something creaking underneath the shuffling robes?

  Two Deathmasks in the Palace, the world never ceased to amaze. As if the sight of two of them wasn’t enough, a third and a fourth left Cumaill’s study, all of them headed for the back stairs. In order to avoid unwanted attention, Kildanor thought. A fifth and a sixth exited the office. Gods, what the Scales was going on?

  The Deathmasks walked down the corridor, if they glanced left or right he couldn’t tell; their hoods masked their motions. A moment later Upholder Coimharrin appeared in the door, looking at the procession.

  “Uncomfortable bunch, eh, boy?” the old priest asked, and then headed back inside.

  Cumaill’s voice sounded worried. “You think this wise?”

  “The gods do, that’s all that matters,“ a voice he identified as Braigh’s said.

  “Why don’t they take care of it then?”

  “Because they give us free will,” Coimharrin answered.

  Two of Dunthiochagh’s leading priests were conferring with Deathmasks and the Baron? Kildanor entered. “What was that all about?”

  Three pairs of eyes looked his way. Aside from the men he had already identified, the lass Ysold was sitting on a chair next to the Baron, her eyes staring blindly ahead. Was she in the spiritworld? If she was, did he look as stupid when traveling outside his body?

  “Some weird shit happening,” Cumaill said.

  “Do tell,” he replied acidly.

  Coimharrin cleared his throat. “Some weird shit, aye, though it seems we must heed the dwarf’s warning mu
ch sooner than we thought.”

  Kildanor cast a reproachful glance at Duasonh. “Why’s that?” he asked.

  “Free will is like a sword, two edges with the bugger,” Coimharrin muttered. “Got some more sausages?”

  In reply Braigh held a platter before the Upholder.

  “Remember that we were wondering who the High Advisor is?” Cumaill asked, filching a smoked Blenthaener from the tray.

  Kildanor nodded.

  “Turns out he is a Deathmask gone mad,” Coimharrin said, chewing on a fried piece of meat.

  “And Jainagath lets him proceed?” he asked, astonished.

  “Did Eanaigh stop that idiot Danaissan from persecuting all followers of Lesganagh?” Braigh asked in return.

  “Free will, boy, blame it on free will,” the Upholder said in between bites.

  “But that can’t be right,” he wanted to say, instead he said, “So what is that renegade undertaker up to?”

  “Aside from conquering Danastaer?” Braigh asked, pulling the platter away from Coimharrin.

  “Your guess will probably be more accurate than ours,” Cumaill said with an edge to his voice the Chosen had never heard before. “Best you come clean with us, mate. What is the importance of Dragoncrest or ‘Hold’ as you call it?”

  “I mustn’t tell you,” he replied woodenly. He wanted to tell them, they needed to know, but he had sworn to protect the secret, only to reveal it to Danastaer’s King. What the King did with the information was not his concern, not that any in the line from Halmond to Lerainh had ever revealed it.

  “Oh dear,” Coimharrin said, “I’m still hungry.”

  “You must tell us!” Cumaill insisted. He couldn’t blame his friend; the news of a renegade Deathmask planning to annihilate the dwarves of the north was grave enough, combined with the threat to the Hold it was like having one’s insides being pulled out through the nose.

  “I can’t, mate,” he said in a resigned voice, and then fell silent. The idea was brilliant. “Become king of Danastaer and I can,” he finally said, fixing Duasonh with his stare.