Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (15 page)

The lòhren lay down in the shade cast by a stand of
hazels, and it seemed as though he slept instantly.

“Last night still troubles him,” Erlissa said. “The
lòhrengai he used was dangerous, and he’s not as he was. He has a depth of
compassion that I’ve seen in few people, and the fall of the city weighed on
him. He felt it in his heart as though he were there. He
was
there.”

“Who actually is Ebona?” asked Lanrik.

“She’s the witch in the woods. I know little about
her except that she holds great power and is something from Esgallien’s past.
To be honest, I thought her nothing more than a story, but Aranloth obviously
knows better.”

Lanrik knew they should set a watch but it was
impossible. They were all weary and had to sleep. He lay down and Erlissa did
likewise. He realized a little later that her words about lòhrengai could be
taken two ways. Had she meant that it made things real for Aranloth, or had she
suggested that he was actually present? Nothing except the immortal Halathrin
lived that long though, regardless of the legends.

He woke a little later. He was not refreshed but
some strength had returned. Erlissa was speaking animatedly, perhaps even
arguing with Aranloth near the hazels, but he was pleased to note the lòhren
had regained color and energy.

The two of them came over. “We must leave soon,” the
lòhren said. “Ebona’s influence on Mecklar and Gwalchmur will soon be apparent.
She’ll extend her power through them, and it may be that I cannot always
contend with it. We were lucky with the hounds, but may not be so again.
Erlissa will be targeted, for without her there’s no hope for Lòrenta. Ebona will
have perceived that, if not the very nature of our quest, but steel is no match
for ùhrengai.”

“Steel is all I have,” Lanrik said.

“You have courage, also.”

“It wasn’t enough against the hound. It would have
killed me if not for Erlissa and the lòhren-fire.”

“If you would have more than steel and courage, draw
the shazrahad sword.”

Lanrik hesitated, then did so. The pattern-welded
blade glimmered in the air.

“The sword is steeped in history and prophecy. I
don’t want to add to that, for lòhrengai can have unexpected results, and
already too much rests on the blade. Yet, if you wish it, I will. I can infuse
it with power.”

“What do you mean by unexpected results?” asked
Lanrik.

Erlissa interrupted. “Don’t even think about it,
Lan. He means it’s dangerous.”

“You saw what happened with the hounds,” he said. “I
merely slowed one of them. It could easily have killed me, or you. I can’t risk
that again.”

Erlissa turned to the lòhren. “Don’t do it.”

Aranloth looked at her kindly but shook his head. “I
do, as always, what I must. The danger Ebona poses is more than a man can deal
with, however courageous. And she will seek to separate me from both of you.
It’s for him to choose.”

The lòhren spoke once more to Lanrik. “If I infuse
the blade with lòhrengai it will give you some defense against ùhrengai, and
elùgai too, which may be needed before the end. There is risk, but I would not
offer to act if I thought it too great.”

Aranloth looked at him intently. “Understand this.
With lòhrengai, nothing comes from nothing. It may infuse the sword, but it
must draw force from somewhere. You will be its source – your courage, mind and
spirit. It will draw on your strengths and weaknesses alike, and you must be
careful. The choice is yours.”

Lanrik thought quickly. There was obviously risk,
even if he did not understand it fully, but the benefits were necessary. The
hounds would have killed Erlissa, and he had a feeling her life would be
threatened again.

“Do it,” he said.

 Erlissa turned away, and Aranloth looked him in the
eyes. “Hold the blade out and keep steady. Whatever happens, don't let go.”

Surprisingly, the lòhren laid his staff on the
ground and traced his fingers along the sword, across script, blade and edge.

Light glowed at his fingertips. It strengthened
until white flame burned on the blade wherever his fingers passed. The
pattern-welded metal shimmered more than usual, and lights were trapped within
the blade like fish swimming beneath the surface of a lake. They moved of their
own accord.

The flame intensified. The script flared, bursting
into argent light. Aranloth clamped his palms against each side of the sword’s
tip, and flame roared to life. Lanrik could feel it in the blade like a living
thing. It filled it until bursting, and then it surged up the hilt and into his
hands.

He nearly let go, but the flame did not hurt. He
tightened his grip, and white tongues ran up his arms, to his shoulders and
neck, and engulfed his head. He could see and hear nothing. All he could feel
was lòhrengai. It tugged at him, pushed at him and entered his mind. It roared
inside until he could no longer think.

The lòhrengai faded then retreated down his arms and
back into the blade. The light flickered and was gone. But Lanrik still felt
its presence.

“It is done,” Aranloth said solemnly. “For good or
for ill.”

Lanrik sheathed the blade. He felt strange; not
unwell, but somehow different. The feeling faded swiftly though, and by the time
they mounted and rode it was gone.

He did not regret what he had done. He would do
anything for Erlissa and pay whatever price was asked. But he knew that the
power of the sword would be a reflection of his mind. His desire to protect
Erlissa was good, and he cherished the Raithlin code, yet he had other thoughts
as well. He burned to finish his fight with Mecklar, and irrespective of the
Raithlin code, he must fulfil his promise to Lathmai. Gwalchmur had to die. How
would those things shape the power of the sword, and in turn, affect him?

The man was called Lonfar. It was not his birth
name.

He dragged his gaze from the book he was reading to
the banging on his door. He was a librarian who wanted quietude, but his past
was violent. Although these days his hand was accustomed to a writing quill, it
had once hefted naked steel. And though he had come free willed to Lòrenta, it
was a prison, for elsewhere his life was forfeit.

“Come in,” he said.

His acquiescence was redundant. The door jerked open
even as he spoke.

One of the students hurried into the room, but
flustered by the urgency of what she had to say struggled to speak.

Lonfar encouraged her. “What is it, Carèthlath?”

Like him, a Halathrin name had been given to her.

She composed herself. “Lòhren Aratar is at the
gate-tower and wants to see you.”

He though she was finished, but with a rush she
delivered the important part of her message. “An elùgroth has come!”

Lonfar slowly closed his book. Carèthlath was
wide-eyed with excitement, but all he felt was fear. It was best not to show it
though. Neither she nor the other students were ready for what he knew about
elùgroths.

“Did Aratar say why he wants me?”

The girl, struck silent once more, shook her head
vigorously.

The lòhren might not have told her, but Lonfar could
guess what they would ask of him.

He sighed and dismissed her. She turned on her heels
and dashed through the door; no doubt to seek out her friends and tell them
about her adventure.

He left the room a few moments later. It was small
and sparsely furnished, but it was his home now, and he liked it. His duties as
librarian were not onerous and left him time for study. He spent many hours
just reading and forgetting his old life.

Lòrenta’s library overwhelmed him with choice, and
at first, he did not know what to read. He had followed his inclinations
though, first studying his own nation, and then the wider expanse of Alithoras
and the history of its lands and peoples.

He strode through the library. Lore was gathered
here that would stagger the most learned in Alithoras, and a lifetime of study
would not encompass a hundredth part of it. There were histories of realms that
had long since ceased to exist or been transformed by the chances of time;
there were treatises on the diseases of livestock and their effective
treatments as well as discourses on topics as variable as the habits of nudaluk
birds or the building of ships. Nothing was too grand or too small for the
lòhrens’ thirst for knowledge. All life, learning and history was precious to
them, and the body of lore constantly expanded for they frequently returned
from many lands to record their experiences.

He walked down a long corridor that had aisle after
aisle running off it, each containing innumerable shelves laden with closely
packed books and scrolls. It was only one of many; the Halls of Lore were
massive.

Lòrenta was a fortress, walled and many-towered,
though ùhrengai rather than soldiers guarded it, and its ramparts were symbolic
rather than practical. The stronghold represented the lòhrens’ undertaking to
protect knowledge and defend the people of Alithoras.

The walls were rendered with white marble, and the
slender towers pierced the air. The battlements were both high and deep, but it
was the ùhrengai that would repel any sorcerous attack. He doubted the elùgroth
intended such a thing, though his purpose would nevertheless be malevolent.

He exited the library and entered the great
courtyard at the heart of the fortress. Trees, gardens and soft-grassed lawns
covered it; sunlight streamed down from the square of open sky high above.
Students, many of them otherwise homeless or orphaned, sat on the ground or on
wooden benches discoursing with their teachers. These were often not lòhrens
but former students who excelled at their own studies.

He reached the middle of the courtyard and stopped
momentarily to observe the fountain that dominated it. It was constructed of
white granite, and the centerpiece of the basin was a tall statue of a lòhren.
The figure thrust his staff in the air, and water shot out its end before
falling in a frothy cascade over his shoulders and splashing into the pool.

This was one of Lonfar’s favorite places. It was
calm, and tranquility seemed to settle everywhere with the gentle mist of water
that wafted from the fountain. Ringing it were white benches where the lòhrens
often met, even sometimes the Lòhrenin itself when its members were recalled
from abroad.

It was at this very spot that Aranloth had offered
him a permanent role in their community. It was here that he had renounced his
old life and turned to the new. He had found a friend here, and the serenity he
often lacked elsewhere that caused him to say what should not be said. Aranloth
called it the Eye of the Storm, for deep in the earth whence the water sprang
was also the source of the ùhrengai that protected Lòrenta. When provoked, it
could wreak destruction on enemies outside the fortress, but within it emanated
harmony.

With regret, he continued across the courtyard until
he entered the fortress’s corridors again. As elsewhere, they were wide and
well lit by many windows, and he walked them for what seemed a long time. The
distance to the gate-tower did not worry him; he was not a young man anymore,
but he retained the fitness of his youth, and he could walk from sunup to
sundown. He hoped some of his other talents remained too: he would need them.

He eventually came to the tower and climbed its
spiral stairway. At the open aired top, he found Aratar and the other half
dozen lòhrens currently resident in the fortress. In winter there would be many
more, but during summer they were dispersed to the far reaches of Alithoras.

They turned and looked at him but did not speak. He
sensed their unease and broke the silence himself.

“I understand an elùgroth has come?”

Aratar pointed a long and bony arm over the
battlements. “See for yourself.”

Lonfar stepped close and looked over the stonework.
Hills surrounded the fortress; the higher slopes were moorland covered with
ling and bracken while a scattering of stunted trees and dwarf shrubs hunkered
low to the ground. He spotted several kestrels that hovered and wheeled, their
keen eyes seeking the movement of mice or voles.

He drew his gaze nearer and saw the elùgroth. A
large birch wood covered the lower land in front of the fortress. The sorcerer
stood outside its eaves, his black cloak in stark contrast with the
silver-white trunks of the trees. He was not trying to hide; he merely waited.

Lonfar knew what would happen next, and he took a
few moments to compose himself. His gaze wondered to the moorland, and he
sought the peace that he had often found exploring those lonely slopes. The
ling was not yet in flower, though when it commenced later in summer the hills
would blaze with purple. In autumn, deer would begin the rut, and the roaring
of stags would carry across the wastes. The soil, shallow and acidic, promoted
little growth except for the ling, and on lower slopes birch trees. Fog often
blanketed the wild hills, and they were perilous to traverse because of the
many waterfalls, crags and deep tarns.

As much as he tried, he could not find the
tranquility he sought. Memory alone did not serve, and he turned his attention
back to the elùgroth. The sorcerer was motionless. He gave no sign and made no
aggressive move, but the malice in him buffeted the fortress in waves. This was
not any elùgroth, but one of their masters. He was adept in lore that would
crush the soul of an ordinary man.

If they wished to find out what he wanted, someone
would have to leave Lòrenta and speak to him.

Lonfar knew the lòhrens would ask him to do it, and
he did not blame them. He had no lòhrengai and could not defend himself; but
likewise he was not a threat, and in that manner a fight might be avoided.
Also, they would want him to check if there were others, a task for which he
was better suited. After all, he had the skills of a Raithlin. He had renounced
his old life for good reason, but it seemed fate was determined to thrust it
back at him.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“Yes,” Aratar said. “You’re the logical choice.”

“And if he attacks?”

“We don’t think he will. We’re mindful that you’ve
sworn an oath never to draw a blade again – but we ask what we must. No one
here will think worse of you should you be forced to try and defend yourself.”

Lonfar looked at the old men around him. They were
kindly people and uncomfortable with what they were doing. He did not suppose
Aranloth would have asked it of him. Or would he? Necessity was a hard
taskmaster.

Aratar was waiting patiently for a response. He
looked at him serenely from bright eyes below the diadem that all lòhrens wore.

“I’ll do it.”

The old man nodded, and Lonfar sensed a release of
tension in the others.

“Come around from behind him,” Aratar said. “We want
to know if there are others.”

“How long has he been there? Lonfar asked.

“He was first seen at dawn and hasn’t moved since.
You’ll have time to scout; we don’t think he’ll go anywhere until he’s said
what he’s come for.”

Lonfar nodded in agreement and turned to walk back
the way he had come.

“Good luck,” Aratar said.

Flashing the lòhren a tight grin, he descended the
stairs. He returned to his room and pulled out a pine chest stored under his
bed, then opened it.

On top was his Raithlin cloak, neatly folded but
worn and travel stained. The trotting fox stitched into its breast brought back
memories, but he pushed them aside. Now was not a time for reverie.

Underneath the cloak lay a polished aurochs horn. It
was old, a family heirloom that had passed through the hands of generations. It
reminded him of the wild spaces of Galenthern that he loved and yearned for.
Perhaps that was why he liked the moors so much. They were both wild and free
places where a man felt infinitesimally small and yet an integral part of
things.

He put the horn aside; it would serve no purpose in
his mission. What he needed was his sword. It lay beside its sheath, untouched
since the day he had entered these walls, but coated with oil and rust free.

He reached for it, took hold of its hilt, and
paused.

It felt good in his hand, and he might need it, but
what he needed most was diplomacy. He would have to ensure he said nothing to
provoke the elùgroth, but that was his weak point; that was why Aranloth had
brought him here in the first place. He had a habit of saying what he thought,
and it had always got him in trouble. His words to Murhain were the worst
though. They had put a price on his head. And the price remained. Assassins
were still looking for him. They had found him often enough, and he was tired
of the killing. Aranloth’s suggestion to come to Lòrenta and leave the name of
Conrik behind had been good.

The sword was part of his old life. It had always
come to his hand as easily as cutting words to his mouth. Either could get him
in trouble. But the sword had spilled blood, killed people, and he had no wish
to do that again. He had sworn to end the days of his fighting, and he would
keep that promise.

He threw back the blade with a clatter and slammed
down the lid of the chest. He would not carry it again, no matter that the
lòhrens approved. They might not judge him, but he would judge himself. It was
stupid to face an elùgroth without it, even if its usefulness against a
sorcerer was doubtful, but he had made his oath for good reason, and it was a
promise to himself that he would not break.

He put on the Raithlin cloak and left the fortress
through a rear entrance and skirted the birch wood. Moving with slow purpose,
he studied the terrain as he walked. He chose the route of maximum cover and
watched the ground with care, looking for spoor.

For a long while, he found nothing but the
pear-shaped tracks of foxes and traces of the shy but ubiquitous deer that
roamed the hills. A fog rolled down from the moors and swept over the wood. He
came to rocky ground and a mist-topped tarn, its water dark and still. The
periphery was thick with reeds and swathes of bracken that dripped with dew,
and it was here that he discovered the elùgroth’s tracks. The heel imprint of
his left boot, marked with a drùgluck sign to warn people against following,
was clear. The tracks were well spaced, the paces of a tall man who stepped
with purpose and made no effort to conceal himself.

He traced them back for some half an hour, looking
to see if others had come with him and split away before reaching the wood. He
found nothing. The sorcerer was alone, and now he must face up to his hardest
task: to speak with him and discover what he wanted.

He retraced his steps to the birch wood. Entering
it, he walked easily and quickly. The wood was open, far more so than the woods
of Esgallien, and though it provided cover he chose not to use it. He did not
wish to surprise the sorcerer; that could lead to a misunderstanding and would
be a mistake. Instead, he sang a song with a rousing chorus that was once
popular in Esgallien’s less reputable taverns and boldly declared his presence.

As he approached the end of the wood, he caught
blazing glimpses of Lòrenta’s white walls through gaps in the timber. He walked
wide of where he had earlier seen the elùgroth and came out into the open
before he swung around toward him.

He was still there. The lòhrens, mere figures in the
distance, watched from their high vantage on top of the gate-tower. He could
sense their anticipation. He fancied he could also feel their relief that it
was not them out here. He did not blame them; this was a high-ranking elùgroth,
likely beyond even their combined power, and their logic that he had the
greatest chance of survival, though unfortunate for him, was impeccable.