Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (14 page)

“The wolves have gone,” Erlissa said.

Lanrik knew the howling had long since stopped, but
now the baying came again. The sound carried eerily over the otherwise silent
downs then ceased.

Aranloth stood. It was the easy rising of a young
man, not the old man that he was, and there was anger in his features.

“I’ve heard those hounds before!”

He stamped the end of his staff into the ground and
strode to the horses.

“I didn’t think to hear them again, but they’re on
the hunt and we’re their quarry. We have other enemies this night than the
Royal Guard. Ride! And don’t look back!”

Lanrik and Erlissa did not ask any questions. They
had not seen him like this before, and Lanrik wondered what could disturb him
so much when the attack of the Royal Guard had left him unperturbed.

They had saddled the horses and moved onto the road
before Lanrik spoke.

“What’s hunting us?”

“The hounds of Ebona. The hounds of the otherworld.
Creatures of ùhrengai. They have many names: all of them mean death.”

Aranloth urged the roan into an ever-faster gallop,
and the others followed, the baying of hounds loud and excited behind them.

They raced along in a wild chase. Nighttime shadows
flitted past, and the light of stars cast wavering shadows. It was a perilous
ride where to misstep or fall would kill, but Halathrin roads were wide and
even, and they trusted that there would be no potholes to break a horse’s leg
or tree roots to trip them.

Lanrik was surprised when Aranloth slowed. He
appeared to look for some landmark and then moved off the road. They now went
at a slower pace, moving southeast over stony ground, shallow rivulets and
through a river ford.

The lòhren turned to explain. “Even hounds of the
otherworld must hunt by sight and scent. This will slow them.”

“But didn’t we have a better chance of outrunning
them on the road?” asked Lanrik.

Aranloth ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps,” he
said. “These hounds are not as others though. Few horses in Alithoras could
outrun them – and only when they were fresh.”

“Then what are we going to do?” asked Erlissa.

“The only thing we can,” Aranloth said. “We must
find a place to make a stand. But we’ll have time to find somewhere to better
our chances.”

They pushed on. The baying and yelping of the hounds
rose in waves of excitement behind them, and Lanrik noticed after a while that
they were on a road again.

Shortly, the baying turned to whines and uncertain
barks. The hounds had evidently lost their trail, but Lanrik knew it would not
be for long. They would cast around until they found it again then chase once
more.

Ahead of them was a mass of trees. It was a dark
smudge extending as far as they could see in either direction.

“The Woods of Alonin,” the lòhren informed them.
“Long did a group of Halathrin dwell here. Some say a remnant still does. If
so, they’re deeper than we can go tonight.”

Aranloth ceased speaking and listened. The baying of
the hounds intensified into a fury of excitement and noise. “Ride!” he said.

He kicked the roan into a gallop, but when they
passed beneath the trees they were forced to slow again. It was very dark, and
the smell of leaf mold and forest was strong.

They did not have to travel far to reach Aranloth’s
destination. The road led toward a mass of jumbled stones covering tens of
acres of ground. It was only as they neared that Lanrik realized the stone was
not natural: the piles were formed by broken pillars and walls. This was once a
city. Not as large as Esgallien, but a city nevertheless. He recognized a
pattern of streets, even parks where trees grew thickly. In the center was a
tower, overthrown and dilapidated, and Aranloth led them with a clatter over
cracked flagstones and down a shadow-haunted street toward it.

Scattered all about the tower was a ring of fallen
and shattered stones. The foundations on one side were intact though and formed
a half moon of wall some twenty feet high.

They tied the horses near the wall and moved to face
outward. The baying of the hounds drew close and filled the forest. Lanrik
noticed that flame had once swept the tower. Masses of charred timber littered
the ground, and black scorch marks defaced the walls.

“It’s a good place to make a stand,” he said. “Our
backs are shielded.”

 Aranloth nodded. “There’s another reason. The
hounds are creatures of ùhrengai. These ruins will confuse them and reduce
their strength. They won’t like the regular pattern of the streets, the
flagstones beneath their paws, or the very scent of civilization that still
lingers in the air.”

Lanrik was nervous. Talking might take his mind off
what would shortly come.

“What civilization? I’d guess it to be a Halathrin
city, but I’ve never heard of it before.”

“So it was,” confirmed Aranloth. “You haven’t heard
of it because it was destroyed before Conhain founded Esgallien. The Halathrin
warred with elugs in these lands long before your ancestors came, even before
they befriended the Halathrin in the days that are legend to your people. But
this city, and the Tower of Haladhon in which we now stand, is remembered by
some.”

Aranloth paused, his eyes searching the outer ruins,
but his mind seemed elsewhere.

“It was in this tower that the lady Alonùradth wed
Lord Carandùr, and on that day there were no shadows, no charred stones, no
ruins, but rather the Woods of Alonin lay beneath a gentle midsummer sun. More
gentle still were the eyes of Alonùradth. But neither gentleness, nor the
bravery of her husband, saved her from the curved swords of the elugs when the
city fell.”

Lanrik thought of the passing of time in this place.
A city had risen; men and women had walked these streets while his ancestors
had gathered at standing stones and celebrated the birthing sun in midwinter.
And stone and people had fallen before Conhain even came to Esgallien.

He had no further time to ponder for the hounds were
upon them. They growled, snarled and moved like swift shadows behind piles of
stone and ruined walls. The elusive movements drew closer, and here and there,
they caught a glimpse of the beasts. Their shoulders stood waist high to a man;
their frames were massively muscled, and they were bigger than any dog Lanrik
had ever seen.

The horses whinnied in fear. A beast appeared to the
right. It rushed toward them, jaws slavering, massive body straining, paws
slamming against the stone paving. White flame burst into it, and the hound
twisted sideways and tumbled behind cover. It whined in the shadows.

Aranloth lowered his staff. “They’ll be more careful
now,” he said grimly.

Lanrik kept his eyes on the outer perimeter and did
not respond. But he had seen the lòhren-fire, and it seemed Aranloth had power
after all.

The hounds grew quiet. Far away in the night, there
was the sound of fast-ridden horses. Lanrik glanced questioningly at the
lòhren.

Aranloth shook his head. “It’s not likely to be
help. Probably just the remainder of the Royal Guard.”

Lanrik knew he was right, but they were still hard
words to hear. The lòhren-fire had given the hounds pause, but Aranloth could
not be everywhere at once. Lanrik held the shazrahad sword tightly, but sweat
was making his grip slippery. He would soon find out if naked steel was a match
for otherworldly flesh. But the legends of Esgallien suggested that it was not.

The hounds roamed the shadows. They came closer,
their massive paws loud on the flagstones. They allowed themselves to be
glimpsed, and their growls and snuffling breath possessed the night. Lanrik
felt a wave of malevolence and sensed their purpose: they were trying to instil
fear in order to panic their quarry into flight.

He took a deep breath.
Clear like water; cold
like ice
. Remaining still, he noticed that Aranloth also waited patiently.
He heard Erlissa move, and turned to see that she was calming the terrified
horses.

The hounds came closer. They were now in full view,
and their muscles bunched and rippled beneath sleek coats as they padded. He
sensed a change in their mood; a direct attack was imminent.

He prepared for their rush, but at that moment
Aranloth swept his staff in a wide arc. White flame sprang from the broken foundations
of the tower and joined the remaining wall behind them to form a continuous
ring. Tongues of lòhren-fire, tinged red as once the embers of the destroyed
building had glowed, danced and leaped in a man-high wall. Yet not so high that
the beasts could not jump it.

The hounds backed away at first, and then they
pressed close to the flame. They had been baulked, but their hunger to rend
flesh grew into a frenzy, and they cavorted madly, growling and snapping at the
air.

One of the beasts bunched its hind legs underneath
it. Muscles bulging, it leaped over the ring of flame. It would have sailed
clear, but a single tongue of lòhren-fire licked up and around its arched body.
The hound twisted in the air. Landing awkwardly, it rolled on the ground to rid
itself of the pale fire on its dark coat, but it adhered like burning oil.

The hound bit at the flame and came to its feet in
rage. Its lips retracted hideously as it growled, and the red-tipped ears
flattened. It prepared to attack, but Aranloth was quicker and he strode
forward and thrust his staff toward its chest. Flame burst in a stream of white
lòhrengai. It caught the hound squarely and drove it backward until it was
knocked off its feet. Aranloth did not relent. The hound tried desperately to
gather itself, but its growls turned to tortured yelps. The stench of burning
hair and flesh filled the air, and in moments the creature was a mass of flame.
When the lòhren-fire ceased, only ash remained.

There was no respite. The other hounds leaped over
the barrier. As with their leader, tongues of white fire wrapped around them.
They landed inside the ring and turned and snapped where the flame burned them.

Aranloth unleashed a spray of lòhren-fire. It caught
two beasts and knocked them back, pinning them against the ring of flame. The
wall flared at their touch, and they yelped while their massive bodies strained
against the forces burning them. Lanrik saw that for all the damage being
inflicted they could yet break free, but he had his own problem. The fourth
hound approached him.

The creature pulled back its lips, exposing
predatory teeth and a monstrous jaw capable of snapping bone. Growls, throbbing
with enmity, rumbled from its throat. It almost unnerved him, but he forced
himself to step forward.

The hound leapt at his throat, and he swung his
sword and slashed with all his strength. The blade struck fur and muscle but
did not cut as it should have. It drew blood, and the creature flinched, but
what would have killed a normal dog only wounded a creature of ùhrengai.

The sword was battered from his hands as the massive
weight of the animal hit him. He staggered and fell. He had achieved something
though, for the hound had twisted to avoid the blade, and its head was buried
against his shoulder whereas otherwise the great jaw would have already ripped
out his throat.

As he fell, Lanrik gripped the beast. One hand
locked around a foreleg, and another took hold of an ear. He strove to roll
sideways; to fall with the animal on top was to die.

They landed side by side with a thud. The hound
scrambled to get its legs beneath it, its jaw opening and closing, seeking
Lanrik’s throat. The creature was getting on top, one massive paw repeatedly
ripping his leg as it tried to find purchase. In moments, it would kill him,
and there was nothing he could do.

He saw swift movement as Erlissa hurled herself
through the air. She smashed into the creature with her shoulder and dislodged
it from him.

He rolled forward and grabbed the sword as he surged
to his feet and stepped between the hound and Erlissa’s sprawled body. The
creature snarled, a ruff of fur bristling on its neck, and its hind legs
bunched to leap.

But it never did. White flame erupted all around it,
knocking it down. Lanrik saw its fur catch fire. He watched as its pelt shrank
and blackened, exposing flesh and bone. The smell of burnt hair was putrid. It
yelped until its throat burned away, and in moments there was nothing left but
ash.

Lanrik was nearly sick, but he forced himself to
look around. Aranloth had killed the other hounds, so he turned on shaky legs
toward Erlissa. She sat on the ground, a trickle of blood coming from her
temple but otherwise unhurt.

He held out his hand and helped her up. “That was
one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you did it –
especially the way things have been.”

He watched as Erlissa felt her face gingerly and
managed a smile. “For someone so smart you can be really stupid. Just because
we don’t agree on some things doesn’t mean we aren’t friends. You saved me from
an elug army and an elùgroth. You and I will
always
be friends. No
matter what.”

Lanrik was astonished.
Will she ever cease to
surprise me?
He hesitated, searching for the right reply, then heard the
approach of riders and the moment was lost.

Aranloth, the diadem on his forehead glinting, came
to their side and they looked through the flames, which lessened in height and
intensity. Four riders appeared. They came to a halt and looked at them over
the dying flames. Two of them, as Aranloth had guessed, were Royal Guards. The
others were a shock.

A low hiss from Erlissa voiced a name. “
Gwalchmur
.”

This was the traitor responsible for the deaths of
Raithlin, including Lathmai. Lanrik felt the full force of his promise to her.
He remembered her broken body, the blood and wounds, her eye burned from its
socket; images that would haunt him all the days of his life. Now, he had the
chance to fulfil his promise, but the words of the Raithlin creed ran through
his mind as well.

The other man was Mecklar. What was he doing in the
company of a traitor? What was he doing here at all?

The flames ebbed and Mecklar spoke. “It’s a long way
from Galenthern. Had I known you’d cause so much trouble, I’d have ensured you
never returned to Esgallien. But I can fix my mistake. You won’t cause further
problems. Ever.”

Lanrik did not know what to say. Mecklar was a
traitor too, in league with Gwalchmur, and working toward the destruction of
Esgallien.

Aranloth answered. “Not all mistakes can be
remedied. They can be repented though. I sense the mark of Ebona upon you, but
even she cannot force you against your will. Turn aside, Mecklar. She’s a
harder mistress than you know.”

Mecklar looked at the lòhren. Finally, arriving at
some decision, or merely responding to a thought that amused him, he laughed.

“Is that the best you can do, lòhren? I’ll take my
chances with Ebona. She has power, real power. And what of you? You managed to
kill her hounds, but what’s that achieved? It’s only delayed you enough for us
to catch up.”

“A circumstance you may regret.”

Mecklar grinned. “A
threat
from the great and
wise Aranloth?”

“Merely advice. Something for which I’m often asked
and rarely, in the end, reproved for.”

“Spare me,” Mecklar said. “Neither advice nor
threats will help you now. Whatever power you have, even if you can use it on
normal men, was spent on the hounds. And we outnumber you.”

Aranloth looked at him solemnly before shifting his
gaze to Gwalchmur.

“Don’t you know? You’re no longer normal men. The
mark of Ebona is on you, and eventually you’ll discover what that means. But remember,
you can repudiate her should you wish to.”

“Enough!” Mecklar said. “The time for talk has
passed.”

He drew his sword, as did the others, but the flames
had not quite died.

Lanrik looked at them all. This would be a fight to
the death, and Mecklar alone was as much as he could handle. It seemed as
though his feeling that one day the fight of the Spring Games would be finished
was true. But while he contended with Mecklar, the other three would be free.
What help Aranloth would provide, he did not know, though it was obvious that
he was weary, and Mecklar might be right. The lòhren seemed reluctant, or
unable, to use power against men.

Aranloth leaned on his staff, seemingly exhausted,
head drooped and resting on frail hands that gripped the top of the staff. Yet
something in the set of his mouth suggested intense concentration.

The ring of white fire wavered again, and the riders
edged closer. Lanrik thought he heard noise somewhere in the ruins. He heard it
again, this time louder, and he identified it as drumming. Not the beating of a
single drum, but many, and they were elug drums. War drums.

The fire weakened, but the riders now looked behind
them. The drums grew louder. They were not beating a marching pace, or a
warning to invoke fear, but a battle rhythm.

As well as the drums, Lanrik now heard shouts and
screams. There was fighting in the streets, and it was coming closer. Fires
sprang to life, buildings burned, and vague forms moved in the flickering
shadows.

A mass of elugs pressed hard against a small band of
retreating Halathrin. They were badly outnumbered but gave way grudgingly. The
elugs screamed curses but the Halathrin fought silently. They were white-clad
and fair-haired, tall and proud. Their pale swords did bloody work, in which
they took no joy, nor did they show anger. There was suffering on their noble
faces though, for their city burned about them.

The battle drew close to the tower, and Mecklar
shouted in frustration. He stabbed his sword toward Lanrik. “I’ll kill you
yet!”

He would have said more, but the other riders had
already hastened away and he followed them. They disappeared in the shadows and
headed toward the opposite side of the city.

Aranloth lifted his head from the staff. He was pale
and weary, anguish in his expression.

“Quickly,” he said. “We must get back to the
Halathrin road.”

The ring of fire darkened to the color of cold
embers then flickered out while they mounted their horses. Aranloth led them
onto the street. Halathrin warriors were all about them, and just ahead was the
pressing mass of elugs, their faces cruel and vicious. The flagstones were
slick with blood, corpses littered the ground, and the stench of death was
strong. But Lanrik realized it was all an illusion.

Neither Halathrin nor elugs heeded them as the
horses walked through the battle.

“It’s not real,” he said. “How can that be?”

Aranloth said nothing but Erlissa answered. “It’s
real enough in its way. This is what happened all those years ago when the city
was destroyed. This was part of the battle.”

Aranloth spoke, his eyes fixed ahead. “The city
remembers. The stone remembers. Even the earth remembers. Nothing will forget.
Not even when the ruins are swallowed by the ground and tree and grass grow
over it all.”

The lòhren, his face pale and grey, rode onward. For
once, he looked the old man that he was.

Erlissa followed with Lanrik. “It taxes him,” she
said. “It’s the nature of lòhrengai. He’s giving life to all that you see
around you; the blood-lust of the elugs, their glee in destruction, and the
torment of the Halathrin. But it’s flowing into him as well.”

A lone Halathrin staggered down the street, and
Aranloth averted his gaze. Blood dripped from his sword, and his white raiment
was gore-splattered. Alone of all the Halathrin they heard him. “Alonùradth!”
There was such anguish in his voice that they wished they had not. He looked at
them unseeing, his eyes wide and bright, tears on his high cheeks.
“Alonùradth,” he said again, this time a ragged whisper, and he stumbled on and
disappeared among the shifting shadows.

Aranloth kicked the roan into a gallop, and they
sped down ancient streets where the past walked in the world of the present.

It felt to Lanrik as though the night would never
end, but eventually they made it to the Halathrin road and dawn came. They
plodded forward without pause, for they knew Mecklar would not have given up
the pursuit. He had been stymied, but only temporarily.

Yet they could not continue without rest
indefinitely, and at midmorning, they stopped at the wooded crest of a down
that had a long view of the road behind them. There they sat and ate a cold
meal.

“We could try to lose them,” Lanrik said. “It would
be difficult though. There are few trails that Gwalchmur couldn’t follow, and
it would cost us time.”

“Too much time,” Aranloth said. “We have swift
horses and the road is good. Our best chance is to stay on it and travel fast.
Anyway, once we reach Enorìen the influence of the Guardian will prevent
pursuit. No one enters the hills without permission.”

“Are you sure?” asked Erlissa.

“It’s my belief,” Aranloth said shortly. “We’ll find
out for certain when we get there.”

“And when we leave Enorìen?’ asked Lanrik.

“No doubt they’ll be waiting for us, but they won’t
know where to start the chase. That will slow them down but the power of Ebona
is in them. I think they’ll find us. We’ll need to be rested and prepared. For
now, however, I have to sleep.”