Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (21 page)

Aranloth turned aside. He avoided a hollow that was
spongy with water that seeped into it from higher ground, and Erlissa caught
his eye and spoke.

“The sooner we’re finished, the better,” she said.

“We’re getting close,” the lòhren replied casually.
“See how the ground is turning boggy? We’re nearing the source of the Carist
Nien, and beyond that is the fortress of Lòrenta.”

“I didn’t just mean the fortress,” she said. “I’m
done with the whole venture. I’ve had enough of being hunted and attacked.”

Aranloth gave no answer, but his silence did not
stop Erlissa from speaking her mind.

“And the lòhrengai is the worst of it.”

Lanrik felt her glance slide over him and quickly
shift away.

“Nothing with lòhrengai is as simple as it seems,”
she continued. “I’ll find the Morleth Stone, but that will be an end to it.
I’ll do no more.”

Aranloth stiffened as she spoke, but he eased back
into his saddle and rode on.

Lanrik had not seen the lòhren react like that
before. Erlissa looked away and went silent without noticing the effect of her
words. But there
was
an effect, and Lanrik had the sudden feeling that
there was more going on than what the lòhren had told them. Her words were
about the sword, but he felt that Aranloth’s reaction had something to do with
Erlissa herself. He knew the lòhren would never hurt her, but he also knew that
he did what was necessary. Would he lie though? Lanrik did not think so, but
that did not mean he had told all of the truth. The more he thought about it
the more he knew he was right. He fondled the sword hilt absently as he
searched for answers.

The day drew on. The headwaters of the Carist Nien
came into view, and then late in the afternoon Lòrenta itself appeared against
the horizon. It was a mighty fortress, white walled and many towered. Legends
described it as shinning with an inner light, and while he could see why that
was so, with his hand on the sword, he realized there was also a greyness about
it that was neither mist nor fog. He felt the otherworld; he sensed elùgai, and
at the same time Aranloth let out a long sigh.

“We’re nearly too late,” he said quietly. “The
fortress is assailed, and all that is in her, the artefacts of the lòhrens, the
wisdom of the ages and the people dwelling there, are imperiled.”

He spoke with a catch in his throat. The fortress
and the danger it was in meant something more to him than just a battle against
enemies, however important that was. This was his home. It was a place that he
loved, but one that he may never see again.

Lanrik understood how he felt.

The afternoon light faded swiftly, and darkness
veiled the remote hills. Night shadows swallowed Lòrenta, but Aranloth, deep in
thought, stood unmoving and stared in the direction of his fortress home.
Lanrik and Erlissa set up the camp and did not disturb him.

They lit no fire. The lonely wilderness pressed in,
and Lanrik could scarcely remember his last hot meal. He did not complain
though. Food was the least of his troubles, for somewhere nearby were
elùgroths. Nor could he forget Mecklar and Gwalchmur. They troubled his
thoughts constantly, and he would have no peace until he fulfilled his promise
to Lathmai.

They eventually ate a meagre meal. Aranloth, the
oaken staff resting in his lap, spoke when they were finished.

“The Morleth Stone has nearly done its work,” he
said. “We must hurry, yet we can’t be sure where our enemies are. The elùgroths
are likely to be at the front of the fortress, but Mecklar and Gwalchmur could
be anywhere.”

“Could they have beaten us here?” asked Erlissa
doubtfully.

Aranloth shrugged. “We travelled fast, but they’re
driven by Ebona. If they’re not here already, they’ll arrive soon. They won’t
spare their horses.”

Lanrik had no doubts. Their own alar mounts and the
lòhren’s roan had been pushed hard, harder than most in Esgallien could have
endured, but Mecklar and Gwalchmur had quality horses and would squeeze every
drop of life out of them. He knew they were close by somewhere. And there was
Ebona too. She would arrange more trouble if she could.

If Aranloth was concerned, he did not show it. “We
can’t afford a confrontation with any of our enemies, but there are many
entrances into the fortress, and not all of them can be watched. We’ll go
through a hidden way at the back and use the cover of night to conceal our
presence.”

For a little while longer, they sat together without
speaking. The end of their quest was in sight, but all that they had suffered
and risked would be in vain if they did not save Lòrenta.

Lanrik thought of what had brought them to this
point. It had started with the plume of smoke on Galenthern, and he had known
at the time that his life was going to change. He had not known to what extent
though. Who could have predicted the things that had happened to him since that
morning?

The best of it all was Erlissa. But he was losing
her and could see no way to prevent it. He would not betray Lathmai by failing
in his promise to find and kill Gwalchmur. Yet Erlissa would condemn him for
it.

He needed the sword to accomplish his goals, even if
she thought otherwise. He now recognized the truth of her advice that its
lòhrengai was changing him, but it was a sacrifice he must make. He turned
toward her. She rested her chin in the cup of her long-fingered hands and
stirred when he looked. She refused to meet his glance though. She was still
angry with him . . . or maybe disappointed. It was a new thought, and it shook
him.

He sensed that she still had some feelings for him.
Irrespective of her easygoing attitude, he knew that her emotions ran deep.
That she had lost both her parents when she was young made it hard for her. She
was forced too early in life to learn that love inevitably led to loss, yet he
thought that she was strong enough to overcome that.

Aranloth stood up and broke the silence.

“We’ll rest for a few hours. Get what sleep you can
– I’ll keep watch.”

The lòhren moved to the edge of the camp. The rain
had stopped and the sky was clear, but toward the fortress it was dark. Lanrik
felt sorcery at work. It throbbed at his senses like a distant storm. He
intended to doze lightly because he was fearful of Ebona’s influence on his
dreams, yet he was near exhaustion and drifted into a deep sleep. It only
seemed moments though before Aranloth gently shook his shoulder.

“It’s time.”

The lòhren showed no signs of tiredness, even though
Lanrik was sure he had not slept. It was another reminder that he was something
more than just a kindly old man. He could not match a dozen elùgroths, but he
was still a power in the world.

The hills were hushed. The evening was old, and the
stars bright as on a winter’s night. Silvery dew lay thick on the grass, and
the horses left tracks as they walked toward the fortress. A fox crossed the
slope ahead, its fur slick with moisture. It hastened to its destination with
less caution than it would usually have used and paused in mid-stride when it
saw them. It observed things intently for several seconds but sensed no danger
and paid them no further heed as it trotted away purposefully.

They continued on their own journey until the
fortress was only a few hundred paces away; a dark shape in the night that
seemed little more substantial than a midnight shadow. The air grew cold, and
the warm breath of the horses turned to vapor. Even as they drew close, it
remained little more than a vague outline. Aranloth was right; the elùgroths
had nearly accomplished their task.

The lòhren turned and signed for total quiet before
going forward cautiously. The ground angled upward as the rear of the fortress
was built on a stony outcrop. Tufts of stunted grass studded the uneven
surface, and the rock was pale in the dim light.

The slope steepened, and they dismounted and led the
horses by hand.

“Be careful,” Aranloth whispered. “Noise travels far
at night.”

Erlissa nodded her understanding, and Lanrik studied
the fortress wall higher up on the outcrop. He could not see any entrance but
noticed that it appeared more like a weak reflection in murky water than
something solid. The closer they got the more he sensed that something was
wrong.

The fortress was still over a hundred feet away, but
insubstantial or not, it towered above them. Soon they reached a cliff-like
face on the outcrop, and Aranloth led them to a cave, its opening wide and
obvious.

Lanrik leaned in close to the lòhren and spoke
softly. “This is a
secret
entrance?”

Aranloth appeared amused. “Yes. Why don’t you go
first, and see if you can find the way?”

Lanrik hesitated then took the lead. He paused in
the cave mouth to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark interior and to listen
for any noise. He studied the ground in front of him as well, but there was no
sign that anyone was inside.

He led them into the cave. It was not large but
would shelter several people and their horses. The floor, of sand and scattered
rocks, contained in its center a fire-pit surrounded by large stones. A pile of
fine kindling and wood was stacked nearby. Aranloth took some of the kindling
and ignited it with his flint. When it came to life he set alight a branch,
which he held aloft to illuminate the cave.

They studied the walls about them. The chamber was
round, though not man made, and the dome-like roof was darkened by smoke.

 Aranloth handed him the improvised torch. “Do you
see the way into the fortress?”

Lanrik looked about him intently then walked around
the walls and checked them closely. They were all solid and without any crack
or crevice that might indicate a secret door.

He returned from his inspection. “I can’t find
anything.”

Aranloth gave him the roan’s reigns. “The best way
to hide something is to put it in the open.”

He walked to the fire pit and knelt to the side of
one of the larger stones that circled it. He placed both hands on it and used
force to pull it in the direction of the cave entrance. It did not budge, but
there was a loud click. The lòhren stood and used his foot to push once more
against the rock, this time in the opposite direction.

The floor of the chamber thrummed, and there was a
grinding noise. To Lanrik’s surprise, a large portion of the sand covered
ground slid forward smoothly until an opening revealed a wooden ramp. It had a
steep downward slope but was wide enough for a horse to use. The flickering
light of the torch did not reach the bottom.

 Lanrik shook his head and pursed his lips. “I’d
never have found it.”

Aranloth shrugged. “It’s not meant to be found. But
once used the sand is disturbed and shows the false floor. That’s not a problem
coming out because it can be brushed back to look natural again. Going in, as
we are, is another matter.”

Aranloth took his horse’s reigns back. “We have to
hurry now. There’s still much to do before we enter the fortress.”

He led his horse down the ramp. It did not like the
narrow confines or the steep slope, but with coaxing it went forward, and the
others, seeing it going that way, followed without trouble.

The lòhren held the branch up when they were all
through, and the mechanism for the opening flickered into view. It was a device
of oiled iron wheels and a slab of stone. He closed it, and when the outside
world vanished from sight, went to the front again and led them on.

The narrow tunnel soon went forward at an upward
angle. They followed, the hooves of the horses muffled by sand-covered stone.
The passageway did not last long however. After a little while it opened up
into a cavern. They could not see much but could tell from the hollow sounds
that the area was large.

Aranloth touched his burning branch to several
torches on the wall. Soon the chamber was lit with dancing light, but the
tunnel remained a dark mouth behind them.

Ahead, a set of stairs was carved into the stone and
led to a raised platform. Beyond that was a massive iron gate set in the wall
of the fortress. The bars were pale with rime and contrasted sharply with the
darkness beyond them. That darkness, Lanrik knew, was the inside of Lòrenta.
They were on the brink now.

“I don’t see any sentries,” he said.

Aranloth followed his glance toward the gate. “No,”
he replied. “Lòrenta is built as a fortress and has ramparts and towers. But
that’s symbolic rather than practical. What it guards, what it's a sanctuary
for, is protected instead by ùhrengai. Nothing can enter that the lòhrens don’t
allow. I’ll mark you each with a special kind of lòhrengai before we go in.
Otherwise, you would be repelled.”

“Repelled, or killed?” asked Erlissa, distaste of
lòhrengai in her voice.

“A good question,” Aranloth said. “In your cases,
repelled. Others, such as an elùgroth, would be killed. But they would retreat
when they felt the power stir against them.”

The lòhren was done with explanations. “There’s
little time left,” he said briskly. “Lòrenta is deep in the spirit world, and I
must prepare the mistletoe before we cross the threshold.”

He retrieved the three berries from his cloak. They
were still fresh, unchanged since they were picked, and they glimmered in his
hand with a hint of pale light. Lanrik was reminded of the half moon rising
over the dark forests of Enorìen.

“To invoke their power,” Aranloth explained, “I have
to use complex and tightly controlled lòhrengai. Whatever happens I mustn’t be
disturbed. Otherwise, the properties of the berries will be lost, and we won’t
be able to enter Lòrenta.”

The lòhren walked up the stairs to the raised platform
in front of the gate. Lanrik and Erlissa left him to his work and waited in
awkward silence. He wanted to talk but could not find the right words.

He sensed her discomfort and thought the sword was
on her mind. She had warned him against it when Aranloth first infused it with
lòhrengai. She had warned him again when he used it to fight off Mecklar in the
gorge that led up from the Angle. He had rebuffed her, the last person in the
word that he wanted to, and had created the distance between them. She had
ceased trying to warn him, but he sensed something else of her mood; she had
not ceased to care. That was why she was upset.

Aranloth’s voice drifted from the platform. He sat
near the rime-coated gate and chanted softly in a foreign language. It might,
or might not have been, Halathrin. Lanrik could not hear it properly, but the
lòhren’s words flowed sonorously and filled the cavern. There was power in them
too, and he felt lòhrengai grow and strengthen as the chanting deepened and
became more urgent.

He suddenly stiffened. He had heard something out of
place. Something from beyond the light of the torches, back toward the
beginning of the tunnel. He strained his ears and listened intently. He no
longer heeded Aranloth’s chant or Erlissa’s soft breathing. He concentrated
only on the passageway.

He was right. He heard it again, closer now, and he
stood up and motioned Erlissa to stay back. He stepped toward the opening of
the tunnel and drew the shazrahad sword. Its warmth pulsed through him, and
something else too; eagerness.

He soon knew why. What he had long feared, or long
hoped for, he was no longer sure which, had occurred. Mecklar and Gwalchmur
walked from the dark mouth of the tunnel into the flickering light. They led
their mounts, pitifully spent and gaunt creatures with dull coats caked by dirt
and sweat. The horses stepped slowly and their heads hung low. Their lackluster
eyes looked at the ground, and they showed no interest in their surroundings.
They had been cruelly used, and anger rose in Lanrik. In response, the pulse of
lòhrengai in his sword quickened.

He observed his countrymen, and they looked back at
him. There was no surprise or hurry among any of them, merely a sense of the
inevitable coming to pass. Events that had begun on the wide expanse of
Galenthern would find fruition in the hemmed in land of the lòhrens, at the
very gate of their fabled fortress.

“We’ve caught up with you, at last,” Mecklar said
conversationally.

Lanrik looked at him coolly. “The day of reckoning
has come.”

The King’s Counsellor let go his horse’s reigns. It
stood exactly where it was, a miserable and exhausted creature.