Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  This was not some practice bout in Cahill Manor. He lost thought. There was no rage behind his strikes, not as there had been in Harail’s palace or during Jathain’s rebellion; the anger had been purged. He knew, understood, and cared little. If he died, nobody would have the means to stop Ralgon should the demon manifest itself again.

  How had they not known that so many enemies were here? There seemed to be an unending stream of foes pouring at them. All his pent-up frustration at his inability to be of more help to Drangar released itself in a blur of motion. He hacked and dodged, slashed and parried. Always his main focus was on the one before him. An arrow whistled past his ear; he felt the fletching tickle skin. The bowmen’s aim truly was good. To his left a Chanastardhian went down, clutching the wood stuck in his chest.

  How long they fought he hardly knew. Someone touched his arm, gently. He whirled on the man, only to recognize one of his allies. “They’ve retreated, sir,” the retainer said.

  Kildanor blinked, saw that there were only few bodies on the ground and realized the entire engagement had lasted mere moments. “The others?” he asked, receiving a shrug as reply.

  “Bloody Scales!” Was that Sir Úistan cursing?

  “Hold the line,” he hissed and took off at a sprint, charging for the barricade. Arrows whistled overhead, some aimed at him; the others were their archers’ replies. Cahill ignored the fire as if it did not concern him.

  Reaching the barricade, he saw that Ralgon had taken his suggestions to heart and was far more in command of himself and the situation than he had been before.

  The battle had not turned into the frightening display of brute force he had expected. He saw the warriors of Ralgon’s group converge on the mercenary’s position. They looked at their leader, who knelt before a corpse, shaking, face ashen.

  Kildanor dove behind a wall some ten paces away from Drangar and chanced a quick look south. The enemy was firing at a slower pace. He saw two Chanastardhians stand, aim their crossbows at the archers up on the cliff and let fly. A pained cry: one of the bolts had hit.

  “Chosen!” The shout came from their rear. He turned and saw Úistan Cahill hurry toward him. Had that nobleman no sense at all? Not even the shield on his right arm could stop the flying bolts. Scales, at this distance not even plate could withstand a tight-wound crossbow. Still Cahill strode across the open space as if he were invincible. Grand melees never were meant to simulate the battlefield, a fact the man should have been aware of.

  A quarrel hit the shield and shattered. Kildanor blinked in astonishment, the missile should have pierced the thing. Lord Cahill cast a contemptuous look at the crossbowmen and walked on.

  A moment later the noble stood beside him. “What the bleeding Scales is Ralgon doing? This is supposed to be a bloodbath, not some sort of confession!”

  A quick glance in the mercenary’s direction confirmed Cahill’s assessment; Ralgon and his men were hidden in the makeshift shelter, only a slight pile of dirt protecting their front from Chanastardhian bolts. A quarrel tore into and through the barrier behind them, another thudded into the dirt, and still there was no reaction from Ralgon.

  “I warned everyone this might happen,” Kildanor retorted. “We should not have brought him.”

  “Nonsense! He just has to remember who he is!” The Chosen was certain Drangar knew; it was this knowledge that made the mercenary afraid to act. “I’ll handle this!” Sir Úistan roared. “He has to make himself known. The Scythe needs to be at Ondalan.” The nobleman looked west, scowling. “Gods, I wish there was another way.”

  He frowned. What had Lord Cahill in mind? How would he handle this? Cold dread rose within, and he understood. Sir Úistan muttered curses like there was no one else around. Now the nobleman hurried toward Drangar, took another bolt on his shield—this time the missile penetrated the metal—and was at Ralgon’s side. He rushed after the noble.

  “I can’t do it,” the mercenary said again and again, not even looking up when Cahill shook him by the shoulders.

  The lord wasted no time. He ignored Kildanor and the men-at-arms, who were all keeping low. Instead he grabbed Ralgon by the collar of his caergoult armor and shook the man. “You godsdamned fool, do you think avoiding the fucking past makes it go away?” Kildanor thought he saw a slight glimmer in Drangar’s eyes, similar to the glow he had seen before. “The past just is, and you have to deal with it! Look at it and tell me you are happy about what a miserable little piece of shit you have become! Oh, Hesmera would be so proud of her hero, the fearless Scythe.” The lumination brightened; if Cahill saw, he showed no reaction.

  The demon was taking over!

  “Gods, how would you deal with your father when you can’t even handle a handful of ass-wiping Chanastardhians?” Now the grey was totally gone, and still Sir Úistan ranted on. “Do you really think you can avenge Hesmera’s death by sitting here whining and telling the world how sorry you are? As if that will get anyone to apologize and tell you things will be all right!” How could Cahill not see the change? The glow now washed over the irises and touched lashes and brow, and Ralgon’s passive, guilt-ridden face slowly twisted into a feral grimace.

  “You want to go out and make a difference? You want to know the difference between right and wrong? It was wrong of you to assault my daughter! It was wrong of them to use you to kill her! And all you do is mope about it! Come on, Scythe, show the bastards what you are…” Sir Úistan’s voice faltered.

  He did not need to shift into the spiritworld to know that the monster Drangar had spoken about, one of the demons he had seen weeks ago, had taken control. Any struggle, had there even been one, was lost.

  Now the eerie glow had become a blaze of twin fires in a feral snarl of a face. The retainers shrunk away, the aristocrat stared, helplessly, as Drangar lifted him off the ground. Kildanor rushed forward, put a placating hand on the mercenary’s forearm—gods he didn’t even tremble under Cahill’s weight and armor—and spoke quickly. “It’s the Fiend! Fight it; you have got to fight it!” The blinking briefly shut down the twin orbs, but the glow was as bright as before when Drangar’s eyes opened again. “Think of the mission, of your goal, don’t hurt him, hurt them!”

  The blood of the fallen, sprayed across Drangar’s caergoult, sizzled. There was no time to break the cords. Arrows and bolts still whistled overhead, some quivering in wood and ground about them. Had his words reached Drangar?

  “Remember the mission! Your goal! Remember justice!”

  Slowly, blinking in apparent disbelief, the creature let go of Sir Úistan and stared at him. “As you wish,” it said, turned and dashed off, leaving him staring after the loping form, shaken to the core. The demon had obeyed him.

  Ralgon bounded out of the trench and raced for the Chanastardhians’ shelter. They had fortified a big house, one of the few stone structures in Ondalan. Of its roof just a few charred beams remained, the windows and northward door were boarded shut from the inside; only in the second story did a pair of openings remain. Arrows whistled through the air, thumping into wood or breaking against stone, but that was enough to keep the enemy low. Ralgon reached the ruin.

  For a moment Kildanor thought the creature exhausted, as Ralgon slumped forward. He hoped the struggle inside the man had begun anew. Then, as if he had just breathed deeply, Ralgon straightened and charged the door. No human could or would succeed, but that being was no mortal, no human. A century ago he had seen what the demons were capable of; the ease with which the mercenary had held Lord Cahill aloft spoke of the brute strength resting within. Beside him, nobleman and retainers held their breaths.

  Man met wood, and for a moment it seemed as if the planks would hold. Then the sound of breaking timber cracked across the ruins, and the Fiend was through.

  He found himself staring alongside the others, but whereas he had, at least partially, expected something like this, the others clearly were in shock. Some whispered prayers to Lesganagh. No wonder the rumor of Drangar be
ing blessed by the Lord of Sun and War had spread. No one, not even a Chosen could have torn through a barricade like this. There were the last resorts, certainly, but such feats of destruction only succeeded with the cost of life. Others, he thought he heard Sir Úistan’s voice among them, babbled incoherently, too stunned to wrap their minds around the spectacle before them.

  Now, he felt a trembling hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw a grey-faced nobleman, whispering something he couldn’t discern. Kildanor leaned closer and finally caught Lord Cahill’s question: “How?”

  Before he found the breath to reply, the ring of weapons clashing and desperate cries for help came from the house. Mixed into the screams was a growl so feral that none could have called it human.

  One of the defenders must have had the presence of mind to sound the alarm. A trumpet sounded, briefly, and was silenced by the distinct screech of steel slashing through the much weaker brass. The silence that ensued was short-lived, for now it seemed, Ralgon had reached the remains of the second story. Another shout and a Chanastardhian threw himself out of the window, his face white with fear. Quickly, another body joined his fall; this one, however, did not drop voluntarily. Kildanor could only guess at what had propelled the warrior, his blood trailing the man like some cheap red ribbon. Then the Scythe appeared in the window, covered in blood. He gave a brief nod north, if he saw them he gave no sign of recognition, but for a moment the Chosen felt the Fiend’s dreaded gaze upon him. He wiped some blood off his face with his left hand and was back into the darkness of the ruin. All Kildanor could do was stare.

  Shaking himself alert, the Chosen glanced to his companions, saying, “Let’s go.” Whether the others followed or not mattered little, inside the building was a man he liked, and he refused to give up on him. Unsteady footsteps told him Sir Úistan and his men-at-arms were on the move as well.

  They entered the burned-out building together, and a quick look about the twilit room showed Kildanor that none of the defenders remained alive. Not that there had been that many to begin with. In addition to the two without, five warriors, three on the first floor and two on the second, were dead. Kildanor swallowed. The Chanastardhians hadn’t even had the chance to mount a decent defense. He could have chalked it up to surprise, they sure had been, but the brutality with which the men, and one woman, had died reminded him of killings he had last seen almost a hundred years ago.

  Úistan Cahill joined them a moment later. “Gods!” the noble hissed after taking in the carnage, and then turned and vomited. Several of the men-at-arms did the same.

  To be continued in:

  SHATTERED FEARS

  Light in the Dark, Book 3