Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  Bitch and Bastard looked at each other, shrugged, and then closed the distance. “Very well, sir.”

  They had barely walked a few paces when the Black Bastard said, “Sir, there’s something odd about this.”

  “Other than walking corpses you mean?” Mireynh snapped.

  Bitch snorted from behind him. He stopped and whirled around. “Listen, missy, I know why you’re here, so let’s not pretend we are friends! Any more such outbursts and you will have me laughing all the harder when you swing in a noose, understood?” He must have successfully displayed his anger for Bitch stiffened and paled; he knew that the past whippings of House Argram were bound to reinforce his threat. “You aren’t in command, neither is your master, so if I catch you mocking my authority one more time, you will hang!” He gave her his best glare then looked at her companion. “Speak, son.” Maybe this sort of affectionate tone would gain him an ally among his watchdogs, and if not, it might create tension within the group.

  The guardsman straightened, looked uncomfortably about, and then said, “Sir, there were more turncoats than those that are attacking.”

  “Lesganagh’s bloody piss, you’re right!” This could mean only one thing: the corpses inside the camp were those he had ordered shot when retreating; those already dead were much closer to Dunthiochagh! How many had died before the walls? Surely more than those felled by Chanastardhian arrows! “Fetch your brethren,” he ordered the woman sentinel.

  For a moment it seemed as if the Black Guard would refuse his command. Mireynh let grim determination seep once more into his face and she relented, saying, “Yes, sir!” Then she was off, hurrying toward the pair of tents nobody else ever came close to. Watching her depart, the High General smiled. Maybe he still could turn his watchdogs into loyal warriors.

  He turned back to the man. “What’s your name, son?” If he were to drive a wedge into the Black Guards he had to begin now that he had the chance.

  “Fiacuil, sir,” was the stiff reply. What was that in his eyes, he wondered. Fiacuil looked as if some dam within had broken. Another opening for him to exploit.

  Mireynh allowed a grim smile to cross his face. “We need to organize the troops for the second wave.”

  A quick nod, followed by a concerned frown. “From the sounds of it the camp is awake, sir.” The guard hesitated.

  “Speak up, son. What is it?” A little goading surely did not hurt, either. Maybe these Black Guards weren’t this useless after all. So far, he had only seen them dogging him, being slaughtered by Chosen, or chopping walking corpses to pieces. They might be more than silly buggers, he thought.

  Fiacuil still looked hesitant. “If you have something on your mind, say it. You’ve been with me long enough to know I value people who can think for themselves.”

  “We should not wait for the dead to arrive, sir. At least not within the boundaries of our encampment. A stray fall, a lantern shattered could send sparks flying, and gods know we have enough dry cloth and wood here.”

  “Douse the fires?”

  “Pointless, sir.” The Black Guard looked as if he might reprimand him. He didn’t know anything about fighting the dead, his business had always been to hammer life out of the living, not slice corpses up in addition to having killed them in the first place. Why did these Black Guards know so much about the walking dead anyway?

  “Why pointless? And you best stop speaking in riddles; say what you know.”

  “Aye, sir,” Fiacuil said. “Death sees in any condition. But with this fog we will lose the chance to see them coming until they are right in front of us. The flames don’t worry them either; when they’re this frozen they won’t burn. Still, we should assemble at the perimeter. Let those engaged deal with the attackers, but the other corpses will be falling into their back soon, if we don’t intercept them.”

  Why hadn’t he thought of that? The horror of seeing a carcass walk, the pungent smell of decay wafting from the lobbed off flesh, he could deal with death and dying, but the living dead were things he had never fought. His mind was still awhirl, remembering the dead, milky eyes, half frozen in their sockets staring ahead. Focusing on Black Bitch’s hidden insubordination had helped; now that this source of his ire was gone the dread seeped back into his mind.

  “Sir, we need to act,” Fiacuil said.

  “Right,” he muttered. A slap on the cheek immediately drew him back to the present.

  “Sorry, sir,” the Black Guard said. “Had to knock the shock out of you.”

  Mireynh blinked, nodded gratefully, and turned, heading straight into a group of bleary-eyed soldiers. “To arms, you bastards! Forget armor, take up shield and sword and then get moving!”

  Soon he had several score of armed men and women gathered around him. “Now, north. Form a wall at the perimeter.”

  “Who’s stupid enough to be attacking us?” a woman wearing Killoy’s colors asked.

  “Does it matter?” asked one of House Argram’s soldiers. “Let’s get to killing shit!”

  “Stay in formation once the wall is in place. Chop them down!” Mireynh roared. “You, you, and you!” He pointed at three Wardens who were still in armor. “Gather more, form walls at the northern perimeter, understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” they shouted and hurried off.

  “Now, to battle! Remember, don’t think, don’t worry, stay next to each other, shields tight, and chop!” Mireynh turned and looked at Fiacuil, who seemed surprised at the vehemence in his voice. Maybe he had managed to gain the trust of one of his watchdogs.

  If Mireynh had been asked to guess, he would have said it was well past midnight. In truth, neither did he know, for the fog and clouds covered everyone’s vision, nor did he care. Like all his warriors, he was exhausted. There was no joyous shout of victory; the men and women were pale and in shock at having to butcher people who had been dead for a week or so. Winning a battle was supposed to be glorious, or at the very least emotional, but here he saw warriors who had, before tonight, thought there was joy in victory. The shock registered on every single face. This was no success, nor was it pleasing to be the victor. No, what they had done this night was to live through the horror of a child’s ghost story come to life. The walking dead, everyone knew of such tales. Everyone had heard about how in ages past, the priests of Jainagath had awakened corpses to do their bidding. Mere legends, until now.

  To his left a man wept, clutching his knees to his chest, and rocking back and forth. A woman walked to him, giving comfort. Roles were reversed and it showed just how strong women truly were compared to men. Off in the darkness of the camp he heard someone vomiting. He couldn’t blame them, felt the same, but he was the High General, he had to be strong where his warriors were allowed to be weak.

  Someone stood beside him. Fiacuil, his armor and boots as stained as everyone else’s. In the flickering light that danced across the Black Guard’s face he saw nothing. Mireynh wondered how someone could be so detached from the horror. He was certain even his own features showed the strain and terror, but Fiacuil and another Black Bastard who had joined them moments earlier displayed nothing. Not for the first time did he wonder who these people were. They worked for the High Advisor; the bastards had made sure he knew that single fact long before the army had crossed into Danastaer. So, maybe, the more important question was: who or what was the High Advisor? And why did this person have so much power in Herascor?

  He could answer neither question. If Mireynh was to guess, with their familiarity and calmness regarding the walking corpses, they were of Jainagath’s faith, maybe even closely linked to the Deathgod’s church. How could a mere gravedigger, if the High Advisor was such, gain that much influence? Could he, Urgraith Mireynh, do something, anything, against this person? With a grunt—his back was aching again—he turned and headed for his tent. The High Advisor had to wait, for now. If they didn’t take Dunthiochagh soon, he would have enough time to ponder what to do. The Black Guards followed.

  Yet t
he thought returned. Was there anything he could do against the man, anything to save his family? No matter which way his mind wandered, there was nothing. His mood darkened even further as he passed a group of House Argram soldiers mocking a felled dead by holding a man’s severed and half-rotten head like a standard upon a spear, parading the grisly decoration before them. Mireynh wanted to lash out at the fools, but it was the Black Guard Fiacuil who hurried past him, straight for the Argram imbeciles.

  The warriors never saw the sprinting Guard. One cunning kick to the knee later, and the lead idiot was on the ground. “Respect the dead!” Fiacuil snarled, wrenching the cruel pennant from the second warrior’s grasp. Mireynh managed to hide his frown quickly. If the High Advisor’s people were used to walking dead, why did this one demand respect for the dead now? The battle had just ended; a battle in which Fiacuil had hacked those same corpses limb for limb with cold efficiency. What surprised him even more was the Guard’s casualness with which he dropped the head next to the scattered remains of its body. For a moment he thought he could even see revulsion on the man’s face.

  Maybe Fiacuil really was of a different breed than his brethren. Time would tell.

  The walk back to his tent was otherwise uneventful, mainly due to his preservation of a stony face. Wordless, Mireynh passed cluster after cluster of fighters, some weeping, others vomiting, still others praying. To his surprise, some of the men- and women-at-arms had begun digging graves. Those he gave a brief salute or nod before he continued on. No one spoke. The shock of having to fight walking corpses too deep in everybody. Deadly silence hung over the camp, he mused, unable to even chuckle at the thought.

  When he entered his tent, Mireynh briefly turned to his watchdogs, saying, “Nobody will enter, understood?”

  Both confirmed, and the flap fell behind him, shutting him off from the horrors beyond. Once inside, he immediately sat down on a stool and began to clean his sword. The oily cloth removed both stains and rancid odor. It sure wasn’t the first time he had smelled decay. Kirran had been dead for days when Ralgon made his obscene demand for both rewards. “Damn you, Ralgon,” he hissed. Gods, how different would his life have been had he never met Drangar Ralgon. Maybe Kirran never would have betrayed him. Maybe his aversion to traitors never would have grown into blind hatred. That alone would have prevented this night’s horrors.

  With a final snarl he tossed the oilcloth into the oven at the center of the tent. Had the Argram fools paraded Ralgon’s head on that spear, he wouldn’t have minded. There was no point in dwelling on the past and what-ifs. He had a city to take.

  He stood, walked to his table, plopped down onto the far more comfortable chair, picked up the first missive and broke the royal seal. “Damn those codes,” he grumbled and retrieved the chart that would make sense of the gibberish before him.

  When he was done with decoding, Mireynh began the process anew; certain he had made a mistake. The second translation yielded the same result, and now he was sure and happy. House Cirrain had once more sworn loyalty to Drammoch. Anne Cirrain was under house arrest no longer, and he had a conscientious, capable warleader for the assault on Dunthiochagh.

  CHAPTER 51

  The forceful knock disturbed his calculations. There were many things Darlontor should have been doing, and he knew that, but he was too scared to face them. Try as he might he was unable to block them all out, shut them away. Again, the banging came. Over the past days not many people had called on him, only those who had wanted to involve him in one scheme or another. Arawn had come repeatedly, urging him again and again to act, speaking words of warning that soon the differences within the Sons would climax in bloodshed. The swordpriest had sounded so certain that Darlontor feared he was right. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything to calm flaring tempers.

  On the third staccato of knuckles against wood he called “Enter!” without looking up from the chart he had been working on.

  The door opened and closed. Expecting another of Arawn’s tirades, or worse, Gryffor’s fanatical demands, he steeled himself but whoever had come in remained silent. Finally, curiosity gained the upper hand against his forced ignorance, and he lifted his head.

  “I thought by now you’d have gotten your head out of your behind,” Kevonna stated, arms folded over her chest, glaring daggers at him. Never one to mince words, the older woman snorted derisively and added, “Yes, it’s snowing. Yes, we cannot do anything now. But playing the idiot ignorant never suited you. You are the Priest High, still. Start acting the part. Calculations were never your calling. Might as well pull a sack over your head and start humming.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but she wasn’t finished. “Your inaction drives those still loyal to lose faith in you as well. We can only count ourselves lucky they aren’t foolish enough to join Gryffor’s followers. Although if you don’t stop sitting around isolating yourself from everyone there will be no one left to support you.”

  It looked as if she had said her piece, and Darlontor heaved in a long, calming breath. “Is that all you wanted? To give me yet another lecture on how I should not behave?”

  “No, I came to offer you one last chance to prove to everyone, including yourself, that you are our leader.”

  Now he regarded her more carefully. She looked tired, more hunched over than usual. The smudges beneath her eyes almost looked as if earned in a brawl. “What do you want of me?” he asked, dreading she would demand the one thing he refused to speak or think about.

  “Gaedhor is here,” Kevonna replied. “I intercepted him before either Arawn or Gryffor could sequester him away.”

  “Why did he come instead of Lleufor?”

  “Is that all you are concerned about? Formalities?” Her reproachful stare was too much to handle. He averted his eyes, looking back to the parchments before him. “Scales, Darl, wake up! You come with me right this instant and talk to the knight protector before I decide to inform Arawn.”

  “If you already know what he has to say, why don’t you tell me?” Why couldn’t she see that he wanted to be left alone? A slap to the cheek roused his ire.

  Now Kevonna stood before him, glaring, eyes blazing with the inner fire feeding her magic. As he looked at her, her already slender frame seemed to shrink even more. “You will do your duty, Priest High. I do not give a damn about the past, what I do care about is the future.” Her voice boomed with authority, strength, amplified by the life force she fed to maintain the spell. “Think!” Then, suddenly, the fire was gone and she slumped forward.

  The collapse spurred him into action. He jumped toward her, hip colliding with the corner of his desk. Jumbled around by the impact, he was almost too late to catch her. Immediately, he checked for a heartbeat. It was still there, pulsing feebly. Gathering her in his arms—she was so light he barely felt her weight—he carried her outside, to the infirmary.

  “Will she make it?” he asked, wringing his hands, worried about losing yet another person he cared for. Memories, unbidden, only rising in nightmares, surged to the front of his mind. Cat!

  He pushed them back again.

  Caretaker Deidra withdrew her ear from Kevonna’s chest and looked up at him. “Do you have any idea why she hasn’t used her blood? There is a gallon or so stashed in the stores. I checked. She hasn’t been depositing or using what is there for years. Hers is barely adequate now, what was so urgent she had to feed magic this way?”

  Guilty and ashamed, Darlontor remained quiet.

  “Have it your way then,” Deidra said. “She’ll live.”

  “Darl,” the drained swordpriestess whispered.

  “No, rest now, you can talk to him later,” the Caretaker interrupted, readying the ophain mixture that would send Kevonna into a deep sleep.

  “No, not yet!” The older woman’s eyes flickered open, sought out his and she breathed, “Talk to Gaedhor.”

  Feeling lost, he looked on, dreading she would die now. Her chest rose, once, twice, steadily up and
down, and he knew she would survive. She had to survive.

  Deidra glanced his way and said, “Well, you heard her. Get moving, or do you want her sacrifice to be in vain?”

  “Sacrifice?” he echoed numbly.

  The Caretaker snorted in mock amusement. “You know how terrible the draining of one’s own life is, and why you use blood drawn from your bodies. She almost sucked herself dry.”

  “But that was minor magic,” he replied, shocked. No one ever died from such a ridiculous amount of power being spent on spellcasting.

  “Who is the healer? You or me?” Deidra snapped. “That was only the last use, had you taken a closer look you would have noticed she has been burning her candle from both ends and the middle. She asked you to do something and if you don’t want her near-death to be pointless, you’d best do as she asks.”

  He took a few steps backward, almost stumbled, and then turned and hurried out the door. Numbness crept through him like a wasting disease. Kevonna had burned her life to cast spells. Had she done this in secret so none of them would know what she had been doing? The blood stored was open to everyone, yet Deidra monitored it, a reminder that they were playing and paying with their lives whenever they worked spells. Did Kevonna distrust the Caretaker as well? Had he reason to doubt Eanaigh’s priestess?

  Gaedhor, he reminded himself forcefully. Deidra was right. He would not, could not allow the older woman’s sacrifice to be futile.

  By now the Eye’s wings, if the circular arrangement could even be thought as such, were divided by the groups locked in the unspoken power struggle. Kevonna’s quarters were in his wing but located so close to those that Arawn’s followers claimed, that he wondered if she had chosen this place on purpose to keep an eye on the swordpriest and his warband. He admitted that much; from the few glances he had caught of them drilling in the courtyard they surely looked like one.