Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (2 page)

He veered to the northern side of the tor, and
Mecklar looked at him questioningly.

“There’s an easy path up the southern side,” he
explained. “We’ve been visible since dawn, and whoever’s up there knows we’re
coming. They’ll probably be expecting us to take that way, but until I know
what’s happening, it’s best to be unpredictable.”

Mecklar only grunted but changed course readily.
They moved as quickly as possible up the tor’s slope but had to slow frequently
to navigate around boulders and find a way through thick stands of stunted ash
and birch. The air became still and dead. The light grew dim beneath the trees,
and the only thing they could hear was the ceaseless hum of insects.

When they broke through to the top it happened so
suddenly that the full light of the sun dazzled Mecklar. Lanrik, expecting it
and careful to shield his eyes with his hand, was the first to study the small
plateau.

It was bare of trees but strewn with massive
boulders. Climbing the last few steps, he reached the top, and mile after mile
of the bright green plains came into view. He did not give this any attention.
The summit, perhaps only fifty paces across, held his interest. He saw on its
southern side the remnant of the fire.

There was no sign of the Raithlin who should be there.
Where had they gone? He did not doubt that a scout had lit the fire and saw
clear signs of their activity. Low branches along the southern trail had been
broken to fuel it, and there were deep scrapes on the ground indicating the
Raithlin had been injured and dragged themselves across the earth. That being
the case, they could not have gone far.

He studied the plateau more closely. The boulders
cast large shadows, and if he were injured it was in just such a place that he
would rest. He walked slowly across the summit.

He saw the boots first. They were of the soft
doe-hide that the Raithlin preferred for comfort and maneuverability. He
noticed the rest of the body immediately afterward. The grey pants and tunic
were ordinary, but the forest green cloak and hood were the garb of the scouts.
He knew when he got closer that he would see on the cloak the Raithlin motif: a
trotting fox looking back over its shoulder. It would be woven with red thread
above the heart just like his own. The etching on the blade of his sword showed
the same design.

He hesitated before taking the last few steps. Both
of the scout’s legs were broken, and he saw the gleam of exposed bone. The
cloak was tattered and bloodstained. A large rip tore one side, exposing a long
wound, blackened at the edges and raw in the center. The scout’s face was
burnt, almost beyond recognition of being human. The hair that was left was
shriveled, and the skin of the face covered in blisters and seeping blood. He
knew all the Raithlin but could not tell who this was. He felt sick but forced
himself closer.

He knelt down carefully beside the body. Impossibly,
one eye flicked open and held him with its gaze. Of the other, only a ruined
socket remained. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. How could anybody
suffer such injuries and live? Not only had they endured unimaginable pain,
they had worsened it by dragging themselves along the trail to collect branches
for the fire. How many torturous journeys had they made, alone and uncomforted,
to gather enough material? And for what purpose?

He had little time for such thoughts as the scout
gripped his shoulder and tried to speak. He pulled off his pack and retrieved a
water flask, dribbling a little at a time into the Raithlin’s mouth. He sensed
Mecklar approach from behind. An idea occurred to him, and he turned quickly
and saw that his companion had drawn his sword.

“You won’t need that. Whoever’s done this has gone.
What I need now is a tuber from one of the
elendhrot
bushes that grows
on the path to the summit. Do you know the plant I mean?”

“I know it,” Mecklar said, his eyes fixed on the
wounded Raithlin.

“The tubers are near the surface. I only need one.”

Mecklar shifted his attention to Lanrik. “No
medicine can heal those injuries.”

“Just get me the tuber!”

Lanrik knew the injuries were beyond help, and he
guessed the scout had at most half an hour to live. The elendhrot was not for
healing though; immediately beneath the purple skin of the tuber was a pithy
substance that yielded a pain-easing juice.

He held the scout’s hand until Mecklar returned,
then put down the water flask and took the tuber offered to him. He worked
quickly with a knife to peel away its dark skin and obtain some of its
interior. A pinch was all he needed, and he placed it in the Raithlin’s mouth.
The scout swallowed and mumbled.

Mecklar looked agitated. “Did you understand that?”

Lanrik shook his head but the scout tried again.

“It’s bitter.”

Mecklar backed away. “It’s a woman!”

Lanrik found Mecklar’s observation annoying but
ignored him. What he wanted to know was who she was.

He leaned closer. “What’s your name?”

He flinched at the anguish that showed in her
remaining eye.

“You don’t . . . recognize me . . . Lanrik?”

He bit his lip, unable to answer.

She closed her eye. “Don’t think of me as I am now .
. . Promise to remember me as I was when I won the archery tournament in the
Spring Games.”

Lanrik’s memory flew back to those special three
days of the year, and he knew her instantly. “I promise, Lathmai,” he said. He
would try to keep it but knew he would struggle all the days of his life.

The archery tournament was held the day before the
sword final, and he was near her when she took the winning shot. Her brown hair
was luxurious, and her eyes shone with mischief. She surprised him with a kiss
after receiving the Red Cloth of Victory, and then danced away with her friends
giving him a backward glance and flashing smile. They had been friends, perhaps
something more, ever since.

He looked at her now: shriveled, blackened, broken
and robbed of her vitality. He had not understood before this moment how much
hurt filled the world.

“There’s something . . . you need to know,” she
said. “Look to the south and you'll see an army. The enemy is coming . . .
Esgallien is in peril.”

He could barely grasp what she was saying. It was
all he could do to hold her hand and not cry.

 “Other scouts will have noticed your fire. They’ll
do whatever needs to be done.”

Lathmai shook her head violently. “The other scouts
are dead,” she said. “All of them. You’re the last hope of Esgallien.”

“They can’t be dead,” Lanrik said. He wondered if
she was delirious.

Lathmai’s grip tightened. “Gwalchmur betrayed us . .
. he knew where the scouts were positioned.”

Gwalchmur was a Raithlin and Lanrik’s mind reeled.

“He’s only one man,” he said at last. “He couldn’t
kill them all.”

“He’s not alone,” Lathmai said. “He’s with an
elùgroth. Gwalchmur led him to the other scouts . . . and the sorcerer killed
them. They stalked me at night . . . told me I was the last . . . then left me
to die.”

She shuddered, and he knew her time was short. He
squeezed her hand and felt no response, but she spoke once more.

“I watched you move across the plains. The smoke was
to attract your attention, though I didn’t know it was you. I’ve done all that
I can . . . my strength is gone. You’re the only one who can save Esgallien
now. Promise me . . . you’ll not let my suffering be for nothing. Promise me
you’ll save our home.” Her grip suddenly tightened. “Promise me . . . you’ll
kill Gwalchmur!”

Lanrik closed his eyes and bowed his head. He felt a
foreshadowing of fear at what such a promise might lead to. He also knew that
he would defy an entire army, even an elùgroth, for Lathmai’s sake.

“I will,” he said.

Her grip relaxed, and her breath became shallow and
ragged. He held her hand between both of his for her last few moments.

The presence of an elùgroth explained much. If the
other scouts were dead, the way to Esgallien was open. And without being
alerted, the city would not respond in time. They
must
be warned.

The sun began to beat down, and the sheen of
perspiration on his face turned to heavy beads of sweat. The hum of insects was
loud, but there was no sound from the three people on the summit until Lathmai
spoke for the last time.

“Remember me,” she whispered.

“I’ll always remember you. Esgallien will remember
you, for you are the Raithlin who saved it.”

There was, perhaps, a hint of a smile on her ruined
face before her final breath rattled harshly in her throat and she died. One
instant he was holding her hand; the hand of a living person, and the next it
was a lifeless object. What had happened to her thoughts and memories? Where
had the will that animated her body gone? Could such things be present, and
then cease to exist in the span of a single moment?

He looked over Lathmai’s body toward Mecklar, and
his voice was cold.

“Do you understand now that the Raithlin are not
careless and do not light fires for nothing? Lathmai suffered in ways you and I
cannot imagine for the mere hope she could save her people. Do you still say
she was incompetent?”

For once Mecklar made no comment. Lanrik ignored him
and stood to look over Galenthern and saw what he had not noticed earlier.
There was a vague dust cloud on the horizon and below it, pinprick flashes of
light from sword hilts, shields and spear tips. There was a shifting of colors
and an impression of movement as well. It was, as Lathmai had warned, an army.
It was an army intent on destroying his homeland and would travel fast to do
so.

There was a more urgent danger. The enemy scouts
would have seen the smoke just as he had. They would come to investigate, if
they were not already stalking up the tor. If he and Mecklar were killed, who
would warn Esgallien?

Lanrik dragged his gaze from the approaching army.
There were things to do and panicking about its approach, or the proximity of
enemy scouts, would not help.

He looked at Lathmai’s broken body. “We’ll build a
cairn,” he said. “I won’t leave her unburied in the wilderness.”

Mecklar was going to object, but something in
Lanrik’s mood made him hesitate.

“There are rocks everywhere. I guess it won’t take
long,” he conceded.

Lanrik retrieved her rapier; he had an idea on how
to use it later. They formed the cairn against the lee of the boulder by using
smaller stones first and then rocks of increasing size. When they covered
Lathmai’s face, grief stabbed at Lanrik’s heart like a knife, but he was
unwilling to share it with Mecklar and they labored in silence.

All the while a feeling of rage against the
shortsightedness of the king, the provocation of his counsellor, and most of
all, Lathmai’s killers began to build. He hardened his heart.
It’ll motivate
me for what I must do next.

Everything was still. The only sound came from the
hammering of a nudaluk bird seeking insects in a tree trunk on the southern
side of the tor. He was glad of the noise, for it meant that no scouts
approached from that direction.

They finished the cairn, and he fixed Lathmai’s
rapier in its crest with the hilt set firmly into the rocks. He did not tell
Mecklar why.

There was no time for a ceremony, but Lanrik placed
his right hand over the trotting fox motif on his cloak and voiced the simple
Raithlin creed that he knew meant so much to her:

Our duty is to
serve and protect

Our honor is to
fight but not hate

Our love is for all
that is good in the world

He did not look at Mecklar. The king’s counsellor
represented everything that was going wrong. Why did the good like Lathmai die while
the lesser lived?

Mecklar shuffled his feet. “That’s all we can do.
We’d better get back to Esgallien quickly.”

Lanrik lowered his hand and turned toward him.
“Quickly won’t be soon enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the enemy will march rapidly. They killed
our scouts to provide an opportunity to take the city by surprise, and they
won’t squander it. We’d only reach Esgallien a little before them.”

“They’ll still get a warning – the army will just
have to respond quickly.”

“It’s not that simple,” Lanrik said. “The defenses
are well organized but it’ll take time to mobilize them. Orders must be given,
messages relayed and equipment retrieved. Men must gather in their companies
and march several miles to the ford. Without sufficient warning they won’t be
ready in time.”

Mecklar chewed at the nail of a grubby thumb.

“There’s nothing to be done about it. Why worry
about something we can’t change?”

“There
is
something to be done about it,”
Lanrik said. “I‘ll stay behind and slow the enemy. If I can give Esgallien an
extra half day it would make all the difference.”

Mecklar dropped his hand and spat. “You can’t be
serious?”

“There’s no other choice.”

“
No other choice?
” Mecklar repeated in
astonishment. “Surely not even a Raithlin can be so arrogant and deluded. One
man can’t defy an army!”

Lanrik answered him evenly. “If you’re correct, then
nothing is lost except another
incompetent
scout. You’ll still return to
the city and warn them.”

He reached down to the pack on the ground and took
out one of the water flasks and some packages of food. He passed the rest to
Mecklar.

“There’s no more time for talk. You’d better go
quickly, and I suggest you discard the tent and sleeping rug. You’d find them
heavy.”

Mecklar grabbed the pack and swung it awkwardly over
his back. He tightened the straps and stared hard at Lanrik for a long moment.
Then he turned and trudged off without speaking.

Lanrik watched until he disappeared. He had done his
best to carry out the mission the Lindrath had given him and avoided being
provoked into saying something foolish, despite Mecklar’s needling. What report
the man gave was out of his control, and he must now concentrate on the task at
hand. He climbed the boulder, careful to hug close to its surface so as not to
outline himself, and studied the green expanse of Galenthern once more.

The enemy would have sent scouts ahead of the army;
it was just a matter of finding them. They would be moving, and that was what
would give them away. Unless they had already reached the cover of the tor, in
which case he was a dead man.

His eyes carefully scanned the vast grasslands, but
he knew it would be easier to find them if he could put himself in their
situation. If he were down there, how would he approach the tor?

The plains appeared perfectly flat from this height,
but that was illusory. In reality, there were folds and gullies, small patches
of trees and areas of long grass. He would travel beneath the trees and along
the gullies in order to take advantage of their concealment.

It was in a gully that he spotted a half dozen of
them. They were about five miles away, working their way through scattered
ferns that grew nearly man high. It would be at least an hour before they
reached him, and he had some time to think.

Was Mecklar right? Were the Raithlin arrogant and
over sure of their abilities? Perhaps, and yet they had real skill, acquired
and honed over many generations. If he could accomplish his aim, it would
surely prove to King Murhain the necessity for maintaining them. It would also
ensure Lathmai’s death was not in vain. And there
were
ways that one man
could slow an army.

He cast his mind over the ancient legend of
Galathar. Stories had been told for a thousand years about the Halathrin hero.
He was a prince among those immortal people and had slowed an army that would
otherwise have destroyed their realm. He had done it alone, and though he was a
great warrior, he had achieved the feat by other means.

Lanrik shivered. It would be folly to think of
himself as anything like the Halathrin. He was no prince in hiding either; not
even a minor noble. Nor was he a golden-haired hero with a piercing gaze like
they all were in stories. He was just an ordinary man with a liking for peace
and quiet. But being ordinary was no reason not to attempt the extraordinary.

Whatever the case, it was time to make a plan.
Events were unfolding, and his life and that of his people would be made anew.
What had his uncle taught him about a crisis? His voice always carried a bitter
edge, unless he was talking about the Raithlin skills, and he could almost hear
him speak one of his favorite axioms now.
Clear like water; cold like ice.

His eyes looked over the plains but saw nothing as
his focus turned inward, and he assessed the situation dispassionately. One man
could not fight an army. That was a weakness. What then were his strengths? He
was independent. He could hide and maneuver. He was able to transform thought
into instantaneous action. An army could not do these things, being enslaved to
habit, order and the slowness of chain communication.

What else? There was always more. No problem was
insoluble, nor was there only one way to solve it. How could he put these
strengths to use? Elugs, who would constitute most of the enemy, were deeply
superstitious. That would be the key to it all. If he could not physically slow
an army, he must use his strengths to trigger a mental state so that the
soldiers were hesitant to march and therefore slowed themselves. Plans unfolded
in his mind. They all lead to one final gamble at the end though; a gamble
about which he was not yet ready to think.

The end would come when it was time. For now, he
must make a beginning. He slid off the bolder and retrieved charcoal from
Lathmai’s fire.

The elugs would probably approach along the southern
path. They could also circle the tor’s base, split their force, and come up the
northern way as well. He would prepare for all contingencies.

Quickly he traced a pattern on both sides of the
boulder in broad, black strokes. The pattern was three slanted lines, going
from right to left and each one longer than the previous. It was a sign of
death in the Graèglin Dennath, the harsh mountain range to the south that was
the homeland of the elugs. They called it a drùgluck, and it served as a
warning to stay away from a place, usually because of poisonous fumes escaping
cracks in the earth, but it also marked sacred areas that served as gateways to
the spirit world or locations where the dangerous effects of elùgai, the
sorcery of an elùgroth, lingered. Often it signified all three at the one spot.

Working swiftly he laid out rocks in the same
pattern in front of the boulder. Next, he broke a leafy branch from a nearby
tree and descended the northern path. He went onto the plains and did his best
to brush out Mecklar’s tracks heading toward Esgallien. Coming back, he made no
effort to hide their older prints from this morning and their ascent of the
tor. He wanted the elugs to think that they were still up here and hide the
fact that the city was being warned.

He glanced at Lathmai's fire. It had gone out, and
to light it again would reveal to the elugs that someone was still on the tor.
On the other hand, what was most necessary was that Mecklar reached Esgallien,
and fire would help concentrate the elugs’ attention away from him and toward
the tor. He swiftly gathered more fuel, including green leaves that would
produce dark smoke, and stooped to relight it.

He looked about him grimly. The scene had been
prepared, and when the elugs arrived they would have much to contemplate. He
used the branch once more to erase all sign of his movements. Irrespective of
the risk, it was vital to his plan that he stayed on the tor, and he positioned
himself in the shadow of a boulder toward its eastern edge. From here he had a
good view of most of the summit, especially Lathmai’s cairn and her rapier.

Time passed slowly; his mind moved between states of
anticipation and dread, but none of his inner turmoil showed in his body. After
stringing his bow, he sat cross-legged and still, an arrow knocked to the
string, and the weapon resting loosely in his hand.

He heard and saw nothing out of the ordinary for a
long while yet still knew when the elugs arrived: the nudaluk bird grew silent.
There was now only the intermittent hum of insects on the hill.

Many minutes later, he saw the first elug. It had
crawled up the southern path and only its head was visible. It watched until it
was satisfied that no immediate threat was present, and then stood slowly, taking
several steps onto the plateau. There it stayed, its scimitar drawn, and an
alert look in its eyes as it scanned the summit. A long while its gaze rested
on Lathmai's cairn.

The elug’s dark skin, tinged with green and slick
with sweat, was visible where its rough tunic did not offer cover. It had been
a hasty journey to the tor.

Lanrik surmised this was a test: a bait to see if
anybody was still on the plateau and to induce an attack that would reveal
their location. The lone elug remained close to the rim and could make a quick
retreat while his companions remained safe, awaiting a signal to come up.
Sensing no threat, the elug gave an impatient flick with the point of his
scimitar.

Another four emerged. They each wore their scimitars
on back scabbards in characteristic elug fashion. Their long limbs were
ungainly and they moved awkwardly, yet Lanrik knew they had speed and strength
equal to any man and perhaps greater endurance. They were deadly fighters in a
group, but individually they often lacked courage.

Fear touched him as they stood upon the summit, and
their cruel gaze swept over it. One of the elugs stared into the shadows where
Lanrik waited, and his breathing slowed.
Clear like water; cold like ice.

The elug’s eyes turned away after a while and
focused on Lathmai’s cairn. It drew their attention as he hoped it would, and
the longer they studied the signs he had left and the sword rising from its
top, the more he sensed their uneasiness increase.

The elugs moved forward cautiously. One kicked dirt
over the fire to stop the smoke. They continued to scan the summit, faces
turning and hard eyes darting to and fro, and yet always their gaze was drawn
back to the one place. Hesitantly, they gathered before the cairn.

Lanrik was worried because there were only five.
Where
was the sixth?
Regardless, he knew he had no choice but to put his plan
into action at the moment of maximum effect on the enemy’s superstition. That
moment had nearly arrived.

One of the elugs stepped closer to the cairn, and
the others watched him intently. This was something beyond their experience or
expectation. What were drùgluck signs doing here, in the homeland of the enemy?
Was its warning legitimate?

The elug stepped forward, one foot resting on the
cairn, and reached with its left hand toward the blade. Pausing, its eyes roved
the summit. From where Lanrik watched, he could see fear in its expression, but
perceiving no threat it regained a measure of confidence. It tensed, ready to
pull out the blade.

This was the moment Lanrik was waiting for, and he
acted instantly. In one practiced motion he drew the bow and loosed the arrow.
The shaft flew straight and pierced the elug’s neck. He stiffened and stood
transfixed for a moment, then toppled away from the cairn.

Cries of dismay came from the remaining elugs.
Lanrik stood and knocked a second arrow to the string. He pulled and released
and another elug reeled and fell. Three remained, and now they knew where their
attacker was. They rushed toward him, scimitars flashing wildly as they bridged
the gap. Once more Lanrik fired, and another elug screamed and collapsed. The
remainder came on.