Book Four of Light in the Dark
“The whole series is great, but this book is fantastic.”
Read an Excerpt from Shattered Walls
Chapter 1
Twentieth of Chill, 1475 K.C.
Dalgor hated manipulating innocents, but by himself finding Drangar would have taken weeks instead of days. The young man, he had already forgotten his name, had pointed him to a fortress-like manor in northern Dunthiochagh.
Observing the building from underneath a shadowy arch, he checked his gear. The full bloodskin gurgled by his side, its leather tube ran along his back and down his right arm. One squeeze and the red would land in his palm. His steel dagger his da had given him when he had come of age hung by his side. Not that he needed it; magic was his weapon. The glimmer of an idea, given form through willpower, imagination and blood was better than any sword. Reality was malleable, clay waiting to be reshaped. Bloodmagic was dangerous, a lesson learned from inspecting the original volumes hidden away in the secret part of the Eye’s library, books only council members were allowed to peruse. The call of the red was strong, power beckoned the weak, broke them, destroyed the careless.
His reverie passed. Squeezing a drop of scarlet into his palm, he thrust into the spiritworld and soared above the wall, into the manor. It took only a moment to find Drangar’s trail. The monster’s rape of nature had turned the man’s smoky semblance into a solid reflection, leaving slush in this world of mist and smoke. The poor sod had no idea what the future held. Drangar was a poor bastard, with no say in his fate. No matter what happened, the person Drangar would cease to exist in a few years. The when was predetermined; that much he had gleaned from Darlontor’s words. How was of far greater importance. Would his cousin die by the rending of his soul, or would the demon swallow the person?
Briefly, following the slush, Dalgor pondered what his reaction would be if he were Drangar and knew what lay ahead. Would his cousin choose death as he would? That choice had been voided the moment Drangar had run away. Not that he blamed the man. Very few of those who knew did. The shining—Dalgor smirked at the thought—exception was Gryffor, of course.
There!
Hands bound by insubstantial rope, Drangar sat opposite two cloudy figures. Was he aware of the demon? Did he know of the danger the monster posed?
For an instant he saw his hand pass before him, almost as solid as the man below. Bloodmagic marked him as well. No matter. With a thought, solid Dunthiochagh surrounded him again. Footsteps sounded from behind.
Dalgor hurried around the next bend, leaned against the wall, and thrust into the spiritworld again. A Chosen! Their presence was unmistakable. Was he here to protect Drangar? Lesganagh’s warrior closed in on him, and again he was in his body. Fingers too well accustomed to the motion unstoppered the tube, a slight squeeze and a few drops were in his palm…
Now he came into sight.
Stepping into the man’s path, Dalgor said, “Do not interfere, Chosen.” A slight gesture, the other collapsed. There was no time to waste, no time to make the warrior understand they were fighting the same enemy. It had taken him years to understand the unthinkable.
The next moment he was airborne, streaking for the manor’s turret room.
Impossible, the demon had lost a battle of wills! It was now aiding Drangar in escaping the prison. It should have been easy. Anger the bastard so the monster would take over, sever the bonds and be done with it; that was the plan. Now he struggled to keep the cage intact. Flesh and blood sizzled away as arms pushed through the barrier, only to reform outside. Drangar shriveled, shrunk. The demon fed on its host to heal him.
Dalgor let the cage fade as his cousin’s hair turned to ash. Drangar remained upright; he marveled at the will that kept the demon in check. Something had changed; his determination was strong enough to control the monster. Flee; he could not beat this thing, even if the flesh was that of a corpse.
The naked man charged, had him in his grip. His hood fell. Recognition glimmered in Drangar’s eyes. A squeeze—he must not allow the demon to sense the blood! Free, a slight tug at his neck, Pudlain! The thought formed, reality convulsed around him, and he stepped into the rift.
Wheezing—the monster was strong despite the host’s frailty—Dalgor stood on the frozen patch of road he had aimed for. Just south of him the village of Pudlain hugged the few hills surrounding the small lake. A puddle, nothing more. He had failed; another in a long line of defeats, only that the victor knew not of the battle. Failure meant death, ever since Gryffor’s idiots had worsened the situation two years ago. The Sons’ token religiosity should have been observed then, no deception, no intrigue, just taking the direct path, at least that much they could have adopted from Lesganagh’s faith. The barrier had lowered momentarily, with an innocent the ultimate victim. Now the lines were blurring, and Drangar seemed unaware. Poor sod, poorer still once he realized what was truly going on.
And what if he knew and accepted?
Dalgor considered, then shook his head. No, the child he had known had been sullen, sure, but the man had tried hard to remain just, if reports were to be believed. Would Drangar welcome death if he knew? “Maybe,” he wondered aloud, “he should have known the truth from the beginning. Maybe we should have allowed him to choose.”
Now it mattered not. That chance had vanished into the realm of so many maybes. He tried to imagine what his uncle must have felt when discovering the youth Drangar in the hidden part of the library perusing books whose pages were testament to a people so cruel they had skinned others for parchment. The thought, the mere memory of the dreadful collection, made him cringe. He hadn’t touched the disgusting things since his first encounter. Had Darlontor feared what might have happened? The reaction, while understandable, had set in motion events that echoed still through the Eye of Traksor’s empty halls.
Should he return now and die as was required? All his life he had sought meaning for his existence. Everything perished, no one escaped that fact, but he wanted his death—his life—to matter. If he could not strike at the demon, maybe he could deliver a blow to The Sons’ stronghold that would wake them.
In the struggle his cloak had come loose; the chill air made him shiver. Still pondering his options, Dalgor fastened the clasp once more, only to feel his tunic was damp. The bit of spellcasting, he had done more before and never broke a sweat. His hands came up, bloody. The bloodskin was whole. Then he remembered the tug just before stepping into the rift.
His hand flashed to his neck. Something had nicked his skin. The amulet! Gone! Not many had survived an encounter with Drangar to treat their wounds, and stupidly confident as he was, he hadn’t considered failure, much less injury. What was it Arawn always said? “A warrior should always be prepared, even for the impossible.” He should have listened.
Fingers probed the cut, no gushing. It wasn’t that deep. Nor was it too long. Pure chance; it would heal. The realization of what had happened in the tower sunk in. Not only had Drangar subdued the demon, no, he had also acquired physical proof of who his attackers were. Even the dimmest idiot could put those pieces together, and his cousin was far from stupid.
What a mess! He should return to the Eye, report his failure, and that the bastard had a lead pointing toward the Sons. Gryffor would demand his execution. Fuck him. He was not done with his life! He had been against the death penalty, and this accident had not worsened the situation, unlike what those fools had done two years ago. In a way, Drangar coming to the Eye was a blessing. But what if uncle Darlontor saw things Gryffor’s way? Thankfully one only died once.
No, he would not go down without bringing some hurt to the demon worshippers.
Being bloodied in times of war was common, and though nominally under Chanastardh’s control, the invaders had little control over Danastaer’s southernmost fief. Life in Pudlain went on as usual. This, with winter close at hand, consisted of storing the last of the harvest, smoking meat, drying apples. A few years ago, he had come this way by horse to investigate Gryffor’s folly. Village life rarely changed, only here it had.
Hastily erected wattle-and-daub houses, their roofs made of fresh planks, huddled close to the older buildings. Their walls, same as the roofs, seemed barely dried. And yet people lived there. Refugees from the north. Dunlan, Nastreen, had they become victims of Chanastardhian foraging parties? Or did other villages funnel bedraggled farmers here?
It mattered not. He noticed the grimy children at play in an alley. The sight resurrected memories of trains of people streaming along the Tallon a decade ago. Stream had turned to trickle had turned to nothing. At least these invaders were human. The true danger lay in the Kumeens. If Drangar was the only trump for the monster’s bid for victory its hand was very weak. There had to be more, Arawn was certain of it, and he trusted his mentor’s instincts. If Arawn were in Darlontor’s stead, the Sons would have struck against the demonologists. Instead, they waited. If his failure in Dunthiochagh pushed the Sons into action, he would die a happy man.
The tavern’s sole room was packed with sullen folk nursing drinks. No one paid much attention to another poor sod entering. Disinterested eyes followed him to the bar.
“Ale, if you please,” he said, scanning the room. For reassurance, he jingled the coins in his moneybag. The innkeep, a sturdy woman, gave a slight bob of the head and filled a mug. “How much?”
“Quarter twig,” she replied, already busy with another patron. He fished his purse for a half-coin, passed it over and waited until she had cut the thing in two. “Got a nasty gash there,” she remarked, handing back the quarter. “Ought to see the Caretaker. He’s over there.” She indicated a man who looked every bit the farmer. Knowing Eanaigh’s faith, he probably was.
“Thanks,” Dalgor mumbled, pocketed the change, took his ale, and headed for the healer.
From a distance the man had seemed of middling age, now, up close, he saw the priest was older. Underneath a patina of grime, a face worn and wrinkled looked up at him as he sat down. “Have a seat,” the Eanaighist scoffed, his intonation more Kalduuhnean than Danastaerian. “Need my needle and thread, eh?”
“Aye, though the wound isn’t that deep.”
“Will infect if it isn’t treated. Far too many cuts these days, but that’s the way of war, I guess,” he added a moment later. “Your name?”
“Dalgor Ag Maril.”
At that the priest straightened. “You’re Kalduuhnean?”
“My accent, right?”
“No, yes, that too, but I knew a Faolán Ag Maril many years ago.”
How did this man know his grandda? Grandda Faolán had been a smith in Machlon, far too southerly to be in touch with anyone from up here. Dalgor spoke the question.
“He and I did business, wasn’t always a Caretaker, you know. Oh, I’m Ivor, originally of Mirnath, been here for the better part of the last three decades.”
“Mirnath? Never heard of it.”
“Few people have nowadays. Let me see to that cut first, grandson of Faolán.”
To distract himself from the needle’s sting, Dalgor reviewed his situation. He did not want a meaningless death, far too many had already died because of mistakes others had made. Drangar’s woman had been the first. In a way it exemplified why the demons had to be stopped, but recently his doubts had multiplied. Not about the monsters’ destruction, but the lengths the Sons of Traksor had gone through not to interfere. They had waited for something, anything to happen, content in the role they had chosen for themselves. None of Prince Tral’s companions had described him as reactive, far from it. Where others had defended house and home, he, in fact, had left his inheritance to battle the fiends pouring forth from Honas Graigh. He would do what Traksor had done before; he would go for the heart and try to tear it out.
A final sting. Ivor said, “There, good as new. Just need to cut the thread.” Scissors snipped, and he tenderly brushed over the sewn wound.
“Thank you.”
“For doing my job?” The Caretaker chuckled.
“Mirnath. You said few people know of it.” How come he had never heard of such a place? Especially since his grandda had had business there.
“Aye.” Ivor regarded him evenly.
“Why?”
“What happens to memory if there are too few who recall? What happens to places people think abandoned? I continue to say I’m from there, but no one alive recalls, or wants to recall.” The old man gave a sad smile. “Look at this place.” He waved his hand about. “Mud, straw, wood, if none tend to it, it will be gone soon.”
There was a deep sadness in the priest’s voice, not the typical behavior of an Eanaighist. “You also try to banish the memory?”
Ivor sighed. “Don’t we all try to kill the things that haunt us?”
“What happened to Mirnath?”
“The same thing that happened to the other villages in the Kumeen foothills, only thirty years earlier,” the Caretaker said, scratching the stubble on his chin.
“Abandoned?” He recalled visiting mining settlements along the Hlathan-Mtain Geer road, devoid of life, as if every soul had vanished.
“Not abandoned, no, not abandoned.”
“Again, what happened there? What made all the people leave?”
“You make it sound as if they had a choice; they had not!” the Caretaker snapped. For a moment the subdued talk inside the tavern fell silent as people turned and looked. Ivor chuckled. “They think me mad, and maybe I am. I told this too many times, no one believed me, ever. And why would they? Narrow minds think narrow thoughts, what lies beyond one’s patch of land is also beyond one’s concern. Makes life easier, you see. The gods gave us free will, and we decide to ignore things we can’t comprehend, don’t want to comprehend.”
Briefly he wondered if the priest was insane, then looked into the man’s eyes. Hunted, haunted, whatever had happened in Mirnath three decades ago still tormented him.
“Ignorance is bliss,” Ivor continued. “What happens to my neighbor will surely not happen to me if I don’t draw attention. I can pretend it will not happen; I can even pretend I’m prepared, just in case, but unless I act, it will swallow me no matter what.” That part sounded familiar. The Sons were like this, waiting, preparing, fooling themselves. “Comforts, anything making life easier also makes you lower your guard. Why do you think the elves of Gathran acted so late? They could have seen the signs of the Heir War; they would have seen them had they not been too busy with their intrigues, their entertainment, their decadence. Comfort breeds ignorance.”
Though he agreed, the speech had not answered his question. “What happened in Mirnath, old man?” he asked again.
“They came,” Ivor said with hollow voice.
“They who?” Gods, was it always so difficult to pull information out of old people? For an instant the thought of forcing the other’s thoughts into his own mind blossomed then died. No, he would not violate anyone like that. “Who came to Mirnath?”
“They came from the mountains. I was out, inspecting the foundry, when they came. They didn’t see me.”
Swallowing repeatedly, and though Ivor kept talking, he needed no more explanation. It all made sense now, at least most of it. The abandoned villages should have been a sign, would have been a sign had they not hunted Drangar, and preparing a defense that should have been an offense. He broke off his musings, listening to Ivor’s words.
“Like ghosts from nightmares they looked, and they drove the people like cattle into wagons pulled by abominations. Those who resisted they killed and bled dry. After the first two victims, everyone obeyed, like cattle. And I watched as the people of my village were taken away, back to the mountains.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Dalgor blurted out, then caught himself. “No one believed you,” he said, answering the question himself.
Ivor bobbed his head. “Aye, no one believed me, ancient past come back to haunt us. Even when I took them there, they—we only found an abandoned town, no trace, even the corpses were gone. But I …” He fell silent.
“You what?” Dalgor prodded after a few moments.
“When no one listened, I knew I had to act.”
“Why didn’t you tell the Sons of Traksor?”
“I did.”
Shocked, he stared at the man. He was a council member, and he never heard nor read about this. Had anyone told such a tale the Sons would have recorded it. “Impossible.”
“Ignorance, comfort, the bane of the watchful.”
“But they… we…” it was his turn to fall silent.
“You are one of them.”
He nodded.
“How many times have you not acted upon a rumor? What did you do when villages on your side of the Elven Road were found empty? I tried to tell them, more than once, but any warning will be ignored if it does not suit politics. Not only here, no, further west places were abandoned. I was lucky.”
To strike against the demonologists now, alone, seemed futile. He had to discover why the enemy needed so many people. They weren’t inviting them to join their bloody cause. No one had even considered they had the numbers to take captive entire populations.
Or?
Not for the first time, Dalgor wondered how much of his uncle’s story of Drangar’s rescue from demonologists deep in Kalduuhnean lands was true.
