Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (11 page)

The hounds darted over the field and crushed the
grass beneath their paws. They ran to Ebona, circling her and yelping, long red
tongues hanging from their mouths. They were massive animals whose shoulders
were level with a man’s waist. Huge muscles bulged beneath tight skin and a
short coat of black hair. The only other color on them was the very tips of
their ears. This was crimson to match their tongues. They had little in the way
of necks, just a massive round heads set on square shoulders. There was
something wrong with their eyes though. They were black pits, and there was
intelligence behind them, but not the thoughts of dogs.

One by one, her hands ran over their coat, and they
stilled and trembled at her touch. She whispered in their pricked ears, and
when she was done she smiled at them benevolently.

“Go, my little darlings. Run free beyond the woods.
Hunt for me!”

The beasts leaped away. They circled Mecklar and
Gwalchmur, a dazzling flash of snapping, snarling and sniffing that tore the
grass in a ring, then they raced off and disappeared into the woods. In
moments, the noise of their passing ceased. Once more, there was only the
pleasant bleating of the sheep, unaffected, but the horses whinnied fearfully
in the barn.

Ebona turned to them. Her smile was bright as the
sun, and pleasure flushed her cheeks. I have set my darlings onto the lòhren.
They will hunt him down. Ah! I have long wanted to do that! They will set their
jaws to limbs and rend flesh. Their teeth will grind bone. Bones will splinter
and snap!”

Gwalchmur stepped back but Mecklar asked a question.
“They don’t have the scent,” he said. “How will they find them?”

“Shush,” she said, and traced a finger along his
lips. “They’re creatures of ùhrengai, the old magic; the magic of the
beginning. They know the scent of a lòhren. They can smell lòhrengai and elùgai
both. Aranloth has probably reached the city now, but my pets will roam the
borders of Esgallien at night. They’ll find his trail when he leaves and track
him, and all who go with him.”

“Very well,” Mecklar said. “What next?”

“What next indeed,” Ebona said, looking at him
thoughtfully. “My darlings are strong, yet the lòhren is not to be
underestimated. Neither are the other two. What’s most vital now, above all
else, is their destruction. Therefore, the two of you will follow them. If the
hounds fail, you must succeed. My pets will guide you. They have your scent and
can find you anywhere. They’ll not attack until you’re close on the lòhren’s
trail.”

Mecklar was astonished. “I can’t leave the king. If
I do that I’ll be revealed.”

“So?” Ebona said.

Mecklar hesitated. He did not think it wise to argue
with her, but he wanted to get his point across. “How will the king be
influenced if I’m not there?”

Ebona looked at him and slowly shook her head as
though she was disappointed.

“Do you think you’re the only one I have in his
retinue? Perhaps what you’re concerned with is yourself though? But haven’t you
got a great store of gold? Don’t you keep it safely in other cities, prepared
for the fall of Esgallien and your escape? When this task is completed, we’ll
start again elsewhere. You’ll accumulate more gold and fulfil your desires.
Even the ones you haven’t yet dreamed.”

Mecklar acquiesced. A vast future opened before him.
It would not take long, and he would rise once more in service of some foolish
king.

Ebona studied them both for a few moments. “Now,”
she said, “one final thing must be done. I would watch the end of the lòhren.
For that, I need not leave here. You will be my eyes, the both of you. In
exchange, I’ll give you power as you have never tasted before. In order for
your efforts to be combined, the hounds will wait for you to attack with them,
but don’t tarry. They’ll only wait so long.”

Ebona stepped close. She reached out and placed a
palm over each of Mecklar’s temples. Her forehead rested against his own, and
he felt her eyebrows, coarse like wire bristles, pressed against him. Her long
blond hair brushed against his face. It smelled faintly of smoke, and the
warmth of her breath was upon him. He felt something stir inside, a connection
between them, a rising and joining of his spirit with hers.

He sensed suddenly the power she held, vast as the
ocean, and he trembled in awe. A black wave of dizziness engulfed him, and he
would have fallen but for her iron grip that nearly crushed his skull. The
darkness eased, and he reeled back as she let him go. He watched in a stupor as
she turned to Gwalchmur.

When it was done she spoke once more. “We are joined
now. I will be with you all the days of your life. Remember it! Serve me well
and you shall prosper. Now, retrieve your horses and go to the outskirts of
Esgallien. The hounds will find you.”

She turned and walked from them, disappearing inside
the cottage.

Gwalchmur moaned. “
All the days of my life,
”
he said.

Mecklar understood. She had changed them. Their old
lives were gone. They would forge new ones, but Ebona would always be in them.
He shrugged and walked to the barn. Better to be her servant than her enemy.
He
did not want the beasts hunting him. They were hounds of the otherworld.

Lanrik watched the countryside as they rode toward
Esgallien. The land was neatly cultivated, contrasting with wild Galenthern,
just as the many-towered city was a world of its own.

The fields were changing. Fences of sawn timber
replaced hedgerows, and stately villas were the rule now rather than thatched
cottages. Carefully planted groves of nut trees, shimmering in new leaf, grew
their precious crop, and vines that produced the heady wines of Esgallien
basked in the sun of south facing slopes.

The villas, built of pale stone and roofed with
bright red tiles, had wide-arched windows and intricate turrets. Various flags
and banners flew from the highest points.

The travelers had ridden until late evening, and
then rested through the night. Now they started once more, and the city, ten
miles distant from the ford, was only a few miles away.

They were silent, and Lanrik thought of his future.
What would he do with his life? It was hard to know sometimes where he began
and the Raithlin ended, yet it seemed now that all his training had been for
nothing. He would be on his own when this quest was over, and what, apart from
the enmity of Mecklar and the king, would be left for him in Esgallien? But
where else could he go?

They crested a small rise and looked down on the
city. The sun climbed higher in a cloudless sky, and multitudes of butterflies
floated past on a southerly breeze.

Aranloth halted and the others did likewise. They
were only a little higher than Esgallien, but they saw the network of its
streets, its many tall towers and bright domes. Standing out most was the
Hainer Lon, the Heroes Way, the main road that swept through the city like a
broad river. Along its course armies had marched to war through all Esgallien’s
history, sometimes to the ford but often into Galenthern, and they had returned
the same way in victory.

The Hainer Lon was wide and stone paved. It passed
all the important places in the city, allowing people quick access to
employment, shops and entertainment. It ended at Esgallien’s northern wall,
though an unpaved road continued for just over a hundred miles to the gorge of
Caladhrist where the city derived much of its wealth. The gorge held deposits
of gold, difficult and dangerous to mine from the rocky earth, but abundant.
There had also once been gold in the creek bordering the southeast side of the
city, the reason for Esgallien’s placement, but it was long since depleted.

Aranloth, his staff resting at an angle across the
roan’s withers, looked at Lanrik.

“Would you like me to translate that script on the
sword?”

“Very much,” Lanrik said. He drew the blade from its
scabbard and handed it, hilt first, to the lòhren.

Aranloth scrutinized the weapon. He started with the
ruby on the pommel, which throbbed with color in the sunlight, then passed to
the pattern-welded blade. The metal had been forged and reforged from bundles
of iron rods, twisted and beaten to give a pliant core on which a hard edge was
added. The script glittered as the lòhren turned the sword in the light.

Aranloth studied the lettering. He muttered in a
foreign tongue, and a frown grew then deepened on his face. At last, he looked
up.

“There are
three
inscriptions,” he said. “The
language is different in each case, and though I’m familiar with several Azan
dialects, I can only read the first.”

“What does it say?” asked Lanrik.

The lòhren read it out.
I, Assurah, paramount
sword-smith in Azanbulzibar, made this for Hakalakadan. His glory will endure
forever!

Lanrik had heard of Azanbulzibar; it was the capital
city of the Azan. Of the other names he knew nothing and said so to the lòhren.

Aranloth shrugged. “I haven’t heard of them either.
If we were in the Halls of Lore in Lòrenta I would likely find a record of them
and discover in what dialects the remaining inscriptions were written.”

The lòhren absently scratched his chin. “Actually,
there may even be a record in Esgallien. Conhain’s grandson, Danhain, was
involved in a battle with the Azan. I saw the scroll many years ago in the
archives, but I don’t remember exactly what it said. I’m sure it mentioned
something about an unusual shazrahad and sword though, and it may reveal
something to us.”

“Do we have the time for that?” asked Lanrik.

Aranloth considered things for a moment. “We‘ll make
time. It disturbs me that I can’t read the other inscriptions – they may be
important. Anyway, the archives are on our way, and it won’t take long to find
the scroll.”

They rode once more and some time later came to the
city wall. It was an ancient though solid structure built of plastered brick
and some thirty feet high and ten deep. Lanrik had heard that newer walls
further north in Camarelon and Cardoroth were even taller and deeper.

The gate was a different matter. Replaced several
times during the history of the city, it was strong and durable. It retained its
original name: River Gate, for it led to the ford. Gold Gate, so called because
it opened the way to Caladhrist, was on the northern wall.

He looked at the tall towers on each side of the
entrance where fifty-foot images of Conhain were carved in high relief. He was
clad in war raiment, helm and chain mail finely depicted. In his hand he held a
naked sword, ready to strike, the tips of the blades touching above the center
of the gate. It was a warning to any army that crossed Esgallien Ford that
breaching the walls would not be easy.

Two of the City Guards, over six feet but miniature
compared to the carvings, stood watch as the travelers rode through the dim
gate tunnel, the clatter of hooves loud in the confined space. On their left
the open gate rested against the wall, the iron dull in the shadows, but the
bars as thick as a man’s arm.

The Hainer Lon, its laid stone thirty paces wide,
commenced here. They followed it, avoiding the ruts grooved by the wheels of
innumerable wagons through the centuries. On either side were tenement
buildings several stories high. They were built of pale stone, and at their
fronts were porticoes containing shops that sold the necessities of daily life
in Esgallien.

The people of Esgallien bustled on either side and
did not seem perturbed by the threat of war. They crowded the footpaths,
talking, joking and bantering with friends and strangers alike. They bargained
with traders while vendors called out the merits of their produce or wares.
They had complete confidence in their army and the defensibility of the ford
and thought life would continue as normal, but Lanrik knew how easily it could
have been otherwise.

It always jolted him to come here after the
stillness of Galenthern. There was a thrum of humanity, and the people were
good-natured and happy. The streets, day or night, were full of men dressed in
bright cloaks, women in colorful dresses and everywhere were laughing children.

Aranloth’s foretelling worried him though, and he
broached it with the lòhren.

“You told the king that one day the enemy would
overrun the ford and attack the city. Did you really mean that?”

Aranloth guided the roan around a group of children
whose playing had spilled onto the road.

“I have little control of when visions come upon me,
or what I see, but I can describe them accurately. I saw elugs surging through
the ford and marching on Esgallien. There were images of the king too, while
the city was besieged, and bitterly will he regret some of his decisions.”

“Do you think the city will ever fall?” asked
Lanrik.

The lòhren did not answer straight away, and Lanrik
looked at his surroundings. If the city were taken what would happen to all
these people? Would they be put to the sword, or enslaved? What would be worse?

“It’s at risk,” Aranloth said. “It has been since
the beginning, but the risk is greater with a weak king. The city could fall,
but I voiced my foretelling to help prevent that. There are other powers in
Esgallien beside Murhain, and forewarned they may avert disaster, or lessen its
magnitude.”

Erlissa had been quiet for much of their travels but
spoke now.

“Nothing lasts forever, Lanrik. Whether it’s
tomorrow, in twenty years or another thousand, one day all Esgallien’s people
will be dust and the buildings broken and fallen. Even the Hainer Lon will
return to grass.”

Lanrik did not reply. He realized that her
perspective on life was wider than his. The tragedy she had endured in her
youth had shaped her in ways that he could not guess. The need to go on this
quest was affecting her too. It had depressed her, but he knew she was
extraordinary. She was someone who could plumb the deeps of despair and yet
still reach the heights of joy. He noticed Aranloth was looking at her
speculatively too.

To the right of the Hainer Lon the ground began to
drop away, and they passed at various times the great structures central to
Esgallien society. There was the Hamalath, where actors performed plays and
brought to life the events of history and popular dramas. Massive columns of
intricately carved granite flanked its entrance. Beyond were hundreds of rows
of stone benches terraced into the slope overlooking the stage. Five thousand
people could sit in the Hamalath and see and hear every move and word of the
performers.

Further along was the Merenloth where people
gathered to hear the debates of philosophers, declamations of poets and the
chanting of bards. The structure was similar to the Hamalath but smaller.
Behind it was a many-storied building whose stone threw back the voice of a
speaker onto the crowd. Even as they passed the entrance, they caught the words
of an ancient lay telling of the exodus of the Halathrin and their arrival on
the pine-clad shores of northern Alithoras.

Eventually they came to the inner district. The
footpaths were tiled with mosaics of bright color and intricate artisanship.
The buildings, larger and faced with decorated marble, flew flags indicating
the residences of nobles, the prosperous or the famous.

An extended series of granite arches opened on their
right into the Haranast, the largest and most popular facility in the city. A
basalt stele dedicated it to Conmur, Murhain’s grandfather, who had initiated
its construction at great cost and with enormous labor. It could hold ten
thousand people who, from the terraced hillside, observed a level field where
horses raced. The track was one hundred and fifty paces long and over fifty
wide. The riders rode its length, taking a dangerous turn around carved posts
at each end.

Near the center of the city the slope on their right
became less steep. The oldest facility was built here, the Karlenthern, where
most activities of the Spring Games were held.

The Karlenthern was small, seating fewer people than
the other facilities. The benches were no longer level and showed damage from
large crowds and long weathering. It had been built in the first years of the
city, and the Spring Games held there ever since, though the games had
originated earlier. They came from antiquity, before Esgallien was built,
before Conhain rode with his people out of the west, before even the Halathrin
came to Alithoras. Lanrik felt the history of this place, both the city’s and
his own. It was here that he had watched Lathmai win the archery contest, and
he remembered that one of his promises to her remained unfulfilled.
Gwalchmur
is still alive.
He rode past the entrance and noticed Erlissa’s uncanny
gaze on him.

The Hainer Lon opened onto Conhain Court, the heart
of the city, and Aranloth halted. It was a large square, colonnaded on all
sides, and it contained bronze statues of all Esgallien’s kings and queens.
Some were mounted for hunting, some dressed for war, some wore their crowns and
royal regalia, some were stern, some cheerful, but all were part of the long
history of the city. None more so than Conhain, shown astride his warhorse,
suffering and determination fixed in every line of his face as he held high the
famous Red Cloth of Victory.

The Esgalliens had learned their architecture, art
and way of life from long association with the Halathrin before Conhain brought
his people some five hundred miles to the east. But their ennoblement had come
at a cost of lives and blood, fighting the Halathrin’s enemies. A thousand
years had turned those times into legend and myth, a remembrance of blended joy
and despair.

At the center of the square was a large and circular
dais thirty paces in diameter and raised three feet high. It was a place of
ceremony, of public announcements, royal weddings and funerals. It was here, in
the oldest and most treasured event of the Spring Games, that he had fought
Mecklar in the sword tournament. It was one structure in the city owing little
to the Halathrin. It was a relic of a time that was ancient even before they
came here and of a distant land where the people gathered at rings of standing
stones and man-made hills.

Aranloth led them to a shop selling nuts, dried
fruit and cured meats. “We’d better buy supplies,” he said.

The lòhren haggled good-naturedly with the owner, an
ever-smiling old man in a red cloak, who helped them fill their saddlebags
after the purchase. A little further on, they bought hardened leather
water-flasks from a young girl in a small stall.

When they left Aranloth pointed with his staff.
“That’s the building we want. It houses the City Archive.”

“Are you
sure
we have time for this?” asked
Lanrik.

“It won’t take long. I know the place well, and I’ll
find what we need quickly. There’s something unusual about your sword, even for
a shazrahad blade, and it troubles me.”

They made their way along the edge of the square and
tethered their horses to iron hooks set into the building’s portico. Aranloth
led them up a wide flight of marble stairs, and they passed two City Guards
stationed at massive oak doors. The interior had the spacious but dark atmosphere
of most of Esgallien’s buildings. The roof, a vast dome high above, was
decorated with a mosaic of a retreating elug army harried by a combined force
of men and immortal Halathrin. The artisan had captured the disorder and panic
of the elugs, the straining of men and the grace, vigor and aloofness of the
Halathrin.