Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  Again, he passed “Traksor Triumphant” barely glancing at the picture. How he had wished to be remembered in the same way. Now, if he were remembered at all, it would be for the order disintegrating under his reign. A casual look into his room, it was empty. As if anyone still came to him for counsel. Down the corridor, the curvature of the Eye held no angles. His footsteps echoed off the bare walls. Why his predecessors had insisted on having the area around the Priest High’s office laid out with carpets was something he still did not understand, it betrayed a level of comfort he had never really felt.

  Kevonna’s room lay to his left, overlooking the bailey. He pushed the handle down and in, but the door didn’t budge. A precaution? Or had someone already intercepted Gaedhor?

  “Who’s there?” Despite being heavily muffled through the wood, the accent sounded wrong, crisper than anyone in the area used. Gaedhor was a local, the second of his family who bore the title Knight Protector of Machlon, and he definitely did not sound like this.

  His bloodskin lay in his room, next to the bed. Darlontor regretted not having taken the weapon. What if somebody already had gotten hold of Gaedhor? He saw only one way to insure his safety now. The dagger was sharp; his negligence had never gone so far as to ignore its edge. Maybe, he thought grimly, he should have paid more attention to the Sons. Maybe, had he done so, instead of wallowing in self-loathing and doubt, he could have averted the fragmentation of the order. It was too late now, far too late to mend the rifts. The only thing left to do was to insure Protector Gaedhor’s safety.

  The voice behind the door spoke again. “Who is this?”

  With a start he realized the handle was still pressed down. His hand jerked back, right to his dagger. Weapon in hand he held the blade poised over his left palm. Just as the edge cut into his skin a second voice asked, “Priest High is that you?”

  “Gaedhor?” Darlontor asked.

  “Answer the question.” It did not sound as if the swordpriest was in any danger. Rather he sounded nervous.

  He focused. Traveling the spiritworld within the Eye was nigh impossible, and even to the initiated the trip was painful, but he had to know who was inside the room. One thrust, it felt as if he had jumped into an icy pool, and then he was in spiritform and through the door’s shadowy reflection. Two people stood inside, their presence hinted at by the hazy outline flickering. One, as he looked closer, had an almost solid quality to him: Gaedhor. Prolonged use of the life force created this strange anomaly. The other was no bloodmage. No, it was the opposite: a being pulsing with so much life that it created its own lifelike shadow in the spiritworld. Both looked tense, Gaedhor’s bloodskin was ready, though well concealed underneath his arm. The other had a sword—Kevonna’s most likely—in hand.

  Returning to his body was just as painful. For a moment it was as if he drew in molten steel instead of air. Then, as he felt the power rising behind the door, he said, “Aye, it’s me.”

  Immediately the surge of magic died down.

  Metal ground on metal as the bolt was pulled back. The door opened and he slipped through into the barely lit room. Again, the bolt was put into place. His eyes adjusted to the gloom. One person stood before him, calm, dignified, and hooded, certainly not the Knight Protector.

  “Good evening,” Gaedhor said. As the Son of Traksor halted and turned before him, the other figure moved to the window. “My apologies for the hassle, but Kevonna thought it necessary.” Then, before he could reply, the younger man continued talking. “What is going on here? Where are the reinforcements I asked for? Why is the gate barely guarded? Has any word reached you of similar problems?”

  “Problems?” he echoed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t Kevonna tell you?”

  A pang of regret flashed through him. Again, he had been blinded by his desire not to be bothered with matters that should have been his prime concern. Kevonna, even Arawn, had pointed out his flaw repeatedly. To make her point, the aging swordpriestess had used up what little reserve was left to her. If he had listened, none of this would be happening.

  “Human, are you certain this one can help?” the shade by the window asked.

  Darlontor blinked in disbelief. Was the other visitor no human himself? Whatever the cage he had built around himself, he had to break free now. “Kevonna didn’t tell me anything.” The tone of regret and shame was audible even to him. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with your family?”

  The hooded figure scoffed.

  Gaedhor shook his head and said, “Milord, we are besieged by bloodbeasts. For the last two weeks the attacks have come night after night. We’ve lost a good many defenders, and others desperate to escape the monsters were killed on their way east. We sent birds and messengers, none of them made it here. Finally, I decided to come myself.”

  “You are the most powerful in Machlon, why did you leave?” Darlontor asked, realizing only after the fact that he had spoken before the import of Gaedhor’s words truly thrust into his mind. “Bloodbeasts you say? How many?”

  “Counting the pair we killed on our way here? A score, maybe more. We need reinforcements, sir!”

  On a very basic level he wanted to agree, but uncertainty reared its ugly head once more. What would Gryffor say were this news to become public knowledge? Kevonna had obviously thought along the same lines and decided to let him resolve the matter but what could he do? Even if he included Arawn, by far the more reasonable of the two faction leaders, the choice wasn’t simple at all. If they sent reinforcements to every settlement, Gryffor would seize the opportunity to make his bid for power, since both Darlontor and Arawn would have fewer people at the Eye to oppose him. Or the zealot would truly declare that this is Drangar’s fault and push for the Sons to support the Chanastardhians in their claim for Dunthiochagh. He could not sit around and do nothing. Whatever he was, coward, ambivalent, indecisive, he was still the Priest High, and in this matter, he would not stand by idly and let others die because his shortcomings.

  “What of the other manors?” he asked, thoughts slowly stirring to life in his turgid brain.

  “No idea, milord,” Gaedhor replied.

  Was that what Kevonna had been using her life force on? Had she tried to find out how things stood within the fief? “And who is this?” he pointed at the figure by the window.

  “He…”

  “I can speak for myself,” the stranger interrupted. Then, stepping into the light, he removed his hood.

  For a moment, all Darlontor could do was stare at the elf. How many years had passed since the last of the older race had left Ma’tallon? Two decades? Three? More than that? Never before had he laid eyes on one and now, amidst all the trouble suddenly brewing, an elf stood before him. His initial thought was to blame the visitor for everything that had happened since Honas Graigh had been abandoned, and then he considered the implications of an elf returning to Gathran. It had been a hundred years almost since any of the ancient ones had set foot in the forest. Was he the vanguard, the herald of the forest masters’ return?

  “I’m Lloreanthoran,” the stranger said, his speech clearer than that of any human. There was no trace of accent or shift of sounds in it. Mankind had slaughtered the language. “Where are the Tomes of Darkness and the Stone of Blood?” The question tore him out of his musings.

  Thoughts tumbled as he sought for a fitting reply. He knew where those things were; at least he had known… No! A steadying breath stemmed the tide of memories flooding his mind. If he spoke now all would be lost. The trappings that had been used by Danachamain’s followers before the Demon War had been mentioned in Traksor’s journal. It would be a way to divert the elf’s attention. If the truth were to be known the last remnants of authority he wielded would shatter.

  “There are books, journals that deal with the subject,” he finally said, desperately trying to keep his face neutral, aloof.

  “The threat is real,” Lloreanthoran said in a calm voice. “Those bloodbe
asts, were they summoned by Danachamain?”

  “Danachamain is dead,” the Priest High answered.

  The shake of the head was barely perceptible. “No, he has returned, I saw his rebirth in the Aerant C’lain.”

  Shocked, Darlontor took a step back. Even Gaedhor who so far had kept a comfortable distance from the elf retreated further. Danachamain back? Impossible. Traksor had killed the man, the body hacked into pieces and burned, the ashes scattered in the winds. “No,” he breathed. “It cannot be.”

  Face still impassive, the elf said, “I have seen him return from dust, suddenly your holdings are beset by these so-called bloodbeasts, and you say it isn’t so?” Turning to Gaedhor, he added, “You promised me assistance, but what I get is denial. Take me to your leader, this one is not him.”

  “I assure you he is.” The Protector spread his arms in defeat. Darlontor saw hope leaving Gaedhor’s eyes, and disappointment blossoming in its stead. Once more he felt the urge to allow the memories forward, but habit and fear kept them in check. “Milord, please, we need help.”

  What could he do? What should he do? The options before him all led down the same road, and he was unwilling to take even the first step. “I’ll see what can be done,” he said. To both, to either, he didn’t know.

  CHAPTER 52

  Thirtieth of Chill, 1475 K.C.

  Drangar was freezing, despite the new coat Lord Cahill had given him. He would have thought the temperature was milder this close to the Shadowpeaks, but, as the Chosen had explained, the Wizard-weather did not reach this far to the east. Ahead of their small company was the slender yet sturdy ledge across one of the major tributaries of the Dunth, and beyond were the ruins of Ondalan. The foothills, if they could be called that, were still free of snow, with occasional patches of ice hiding puddles.

  The sight of the village, the mere thought of doing battle nauseated him. It was as if his innards would turn inside out at a moment’s notice. Again, Kildanor was there, speaking soothingly. “You can control it, you’ve shown it. Remember our last battle.

  Drangar looked at the Chosen, the same uncertainty weighing down his stomach as it had in the past few days. Could he really hold the Fiend at bay? The monster had been quiet, aye, but was it because it wanted him to think he was in charge, to lure him into a false sense of security, or had he actually, finally, defeated it?

  “Don’t worry, mate,” Kildanor said in a brotherly fashion—he had never had anyone, not even Hesmera, talk to him this way—“I’ll be there, and take care of the buggers should they come again.” How often had he heard this reassurance by now? One score, two scores of times? It mattered little, the fear remained. What if becoming the Scythe unleashed the Fiend? What if the sounds of battle tore down the last barriers holding the demon at bay? As reassuring as Kildanor’s words were, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the calm and the struggle to remain calm merely amused the being, or beings, that were waiting for him to slip, to become angry.

  He remained quiet; there was nothing that hadn’t been said before. Before him Sir Úistan’s retainers dismounted with their lord. With a sigh he slid to the ground, untied the blanket secured at the back of his saddle, and threw it over Hiljarr’s rump. The stallion, sensing Drangar’s unease, turned his massive white head and snorted in his master’s direction. How he had missed being close to him. A ruffle of the mane, a scratch of the nostrils, and then he let go of the reins and tightened the straps of the caergoult armor. It felt strange, as if slipping into well-worn boots one hadn’t walked in for ages, much like the grooves his hands had left on the grip of his sword. The boiled leather surely hadn’t been cast to his body, its edges overlapping in places they shouldn’t have. Not the shape of the armor but the weight reminded him of the many times he had donned his chain shirt. In the saddle he hadn’t felt the weight, now it was as if a lodestone had slammed onto his shoulders. He couldn’t breathe.

  “You’ll be all right,” Kildanor said from beside him.

  The words barely registered in his mind. Bending over, hands clutching his knees, Drangar gasped for air, retching, hoping something, anything, was left to vomit onto the ground. Someone belted his sword about him, its weight yet another millstone. His knees almost buckled underneath the inhuman burden. “Don’t worry.” Through the rushing in his ears, the Chosen’s voice sounded far away. “I’ll be with you. I’ll help!” He had broken guest law, he reminded himself; it was his duty to make up for his crime.

  “I’m doing this so I can find out why you had to die,” he muttered. A surge of bile shot up from his stomach, lacing his throat and mouth with acid. Hands pulled him upright, coarse cloth wiped his lips clean. A skin was unstopped and water sprayed into his mouth. He was doing this for Hesmera, and for himself. He needed to know, find peace, hoped it would be over once he got the answers.

  “Can he make it?” Lord Cahill’s voice sounded gruff, much like fath… Darlontor’s when he had failed in a lesson.

  “Aye,” he said, spitting the rest of the water to the ground. “I have to make it.”

  A chuckle. Was it his host’s mirth or the Fiend’s? Drangar looked at the noble, who was smiling. Maybe it had been Sir Úistan and his mind was playing tricks. Maybe the monster had fled for real this time.

  “You two know what to do?” the lord asked.

  “I still think surprise would be best,” said Kildanor.

  Cahill had been a tournament fighter, knew combat only in the controlled confines of the competitions. The plan was something that would have suited the Scythe, a bold assault into Ondalan. Kerral must have told Sir Úistan about his mad charges against enemy shield walls. Only this time he was supposed to lead a warband to their doom. He was no leader, never wanted to be one. Now this. A comradely hand came to rest on his shoulder.

  It was Kildanor. The look in the Chosen’s eyes was one of concern and encouragement. “I have faith in you. You can do this, Drang.” Cahill wasn’t the only one who had made inquisitions about his past, but unlike the straight-ahead approach of the nobleman, the unaging warrior had looked at him, and had become a friend.

  He managed a weak smile, unsure that this faith was justified. Would battle come as easily to him as it had in his youth? Was it wise to tap into the anger still boiling inside? Yes, it still was there, buried beneath a mountain of pain. He was no longer the Scythe. Could he become it again? Or would even the slightest of openings allow the Fiend to burst forth?

  Could he control the monster as he had days and days ago when Dalgor had attacked him in Cahill Manor? Had this bending of the demon’s will been a conscious act or something born out of desperation? Instinct kept people alive, not restraint. He hadn’t had much time to reflect on his sparring bout with Kildanor, and now that he did for the first time without being interrupted by either Úistan Cahill or any other member of the household, he tried to remember what had held the Fiend in check. The battle was as much a blur now as it had been then; he hardly recalled what had happened. How had he felt? Usually, when the Fiend tore free, he had been angry or drunk. Then again, he had been angry most of his life. Lord Cahill signaled a halt and he used the small respite to find out. Thankfully the Chosen was nearby.

  “May I ask you something?”

  For a moment Kildanor looked bewildered, as if his mind had been on other things. Then the Chosen nodded. “Sure, what is it?”

  “When we fought,” he began, wondering how to phrase his question. “I lost track of time, remember only the barest of what happened.”

  “You were focused, determined,” the Chosen replied. “Can’t explain it otherwise.”

  “But how did I get there? I mean, back when I was killing people for a living I just charged the shield wall and did what I was paid to do.”

  “No tactic?”

  He thought for a moment then shook his head. “Mireynh never kept me in our wall; said I’d break every line, be it theirs or ours.”

  Kneading his fingers, Kildanor said, “I can�
��t see you as a rank and file warrior either.” If he was honest with himself, neither could he. “For starters, you said yourself you don’t fight with a shield; need a shield to be in a wall. Even if you did, you’d break the line once contact is made.”

  Was this going anywhere? “I know all that,” he snapped. “But what made this last bout different?”

  “The way I see it, you didn’t care about the kill. In the few rounds we did before, your attacks were reckless. You need to use your brains all the time. Instinct is good, but it alone won’t get the job done.”

  He nodded slowly, remembering. “It’s all one; if one thing dominates the balance is broken. I think I thought the same thing back then,” he added wistfully. “Balance above all things.” Kildanor chuckled and shook his head. “What?” Drangar asked, confused.

  “Spoken like a true Lawspeaker.”

  “The law, everything follows it, those who break it upset the balance,” Drangar muttered.

  “Aye,” the Chosen replied, looking glum.

  “Ready to unleash the Scythe?” Cahill interrupted.

  No, he was not ready. He didn’t want to be the Scythe, the Scythe wasn’t guided by his mind, only fury, and wasn’t that what Kildanor had just spoken about? Brains and instinct must act as one unit. How could he become the man Mireynh hated so much when he struggled so hard against that person? Drangar opened his mouth to once more voice his fears, but Sir Úistan’s attention was elsewhere.

  Two grim looking men approached. Both of them wore heavy grey cloaks dotted with green spots to better blend in with the environment. They carried unstrung staves in leather sheaths, longbows most like, and two big quivers of arrows. When they halted, both inclined their heads briefly and then inspected first Kildanor then Drangar. In a way, aside from towering a few inches above his and the Chosen’s heads, they were looking down at them. Hunters, Drangar thought, bowmen. Not the people crammed into Bow-bands, but the real thing: folks who could string a longbow and pull the arrow back to their ears. They were the bane of every warrior.