Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (22 page)

Mecklar had lost weight and been hardened by the
long journey, but he was still a large man. Lanrik remembered how fast he could
move, as well as the strength and skill of his blows. None of these things
would have diminished. If anything, he would be more dangerous. Nor had he lost
the heavy-lidded gaze that weighed, judged and planned to minute detail in a
single glance

Mecklar slowly drew his sword. “I’ll finish things
now – as I should have done on Galenthern.”

Lanrik stepped forward. His eyes flicked to
Gwalchmur, but the Raithlin remained still and silent.

Mecklar noted his look. “Gwalchmur will stay out of
it. The pleasure of killing you will be mine.”

Lanrik felt a sense of rightness settle over him.
“We’ll finish the fight we began at the Spring Games.”

Mecklar cocked his head. “The Spring Games? A
strange thing to say. I’d almost forgotten our match, but I’ve not forgotten
that it was finished. And I won.” He raised the tip of his sword. “As I will
again.”

“You didn’t win. The king merely awarded you the
prize.”

Mecklar shrugged and stepped closer. His sword wove
slowly through the air, and his eyes burned feverishly. The fight was about to
begin, and he did not answer.

Erlissa spoke from behind, and Lanrik heard concern
in her voice. “Be careful, Lan.”

The combatants drew close and he saw Mecklar
grimace. Was he injured? That would make the fight easier, but then he sensed
the presence of Ebona and saw the likeness of her haughty expression creep over
his opponent’s face. The witch wanted to kill him and make certain of things
herself. Gwalchmur also watched, a sick look on his face.

Lanrik’s sword throbbed, but the lòhrengai subsided when
Mecklar groaned and thrust Ebona away. He sensed it would be for the last time.
Her influence was growing stronger, but at least this battle would be man
against man, steel against cold steel.

Mecklar looked at him viciously. Hatred, frustration
and the lust to kill blazed in his eyes. Ebona was not in control, but he had
long since succumbed to her ùhrengai. It fed on the darkness within him, and
its power magnified it.

He had passed beyond the threshold of sanity.

Mecklar, nimble on his feet, moved in quickly and
attacked with a flurry of swift blows. Confident in his skill and sure of
success, he struck with effortless grace and ease.

His strokes were not light though. Lanrik felt their
force jar his bones and run down to his feet. He tried to deflect rather than
block, but his opponent had an uncanny ability to anticipate his defense and
catch him in unfavorable positions.

He felt the first trickle of panic and strove for a
sense of calm. The fear that Lathmai might not be avenged prevented him from
attaining it.

He retreated, but Mecklar shadowed him seamlessly
and continued his attack. Lanrik gritted his teeth. He had not defied an army
of elugs and rescued a prisoner from the shazrahad’s tent only to be killed by
a single man. It was time to retaliate. He swayed away from a brutal stroke and
surged forward. He thrust, struck and sliced at killing points and forced his
opponent back.

Mecklar gave ground adroitly. His blade turned and
shifted in harmony with his footwork and deflected all blows. He absorbed the
attack, and when Lanrik’s momentum slowed, he launched his own blistering
offensive.

Lanrik retreated once more, but he felt better now.
Mecklar was not holding back. His eyes burned feverishly, and though he
attacked with all his skill and strength, none of the blows landed. Lanrik
started to relax his muscles and allow the tenseness of his body to flow away.
It felt as if there were no past or any future, only the here and now, the
fight his entire existence.

His opponent continued to shift smoothly between
attack and defense, advance and retreat. He showed no fault or weakness to
exploit. His iron-hard muscles, hidden beneath layers of fat, were infused with
skill from years of practice. His expertise, strength and bodyweight were
unified so that he struck with power, and the harsh clang of metal against
metal crashed about the chamber.

The fight ebbed and flowed. Mecklar’s eyes flared
with ever-greater fury, and he struck with increasing viciousness. Lanrik
became calmer though, and his body more supple. He was surefooted, and
retreated again and again to absorb his opponent’s attacks, but advanced when
there was opportunity.

Their contrasting styles were evenly matched, yet no
fight conducted with sharp-edged blades could continue for long. The slightest
error by one would give a killing chance to the other, and Lanrik made the
first.

He slashed at his opponent’s neck, and the shazrahad
blade sang through the air only inches away, but he committed himself a little
too far and was vulnerable to Mecklar’s counterattack. His blade was high while
his enemy’s was low. Mecklar, his eyes wide in triumph, surged forward in a
classic thrust. He drove up from his feet, added the power of his waist, and
stabbed with the point of the weapon.

Lanrik could not bring his sword to bear or retreat
quickly enough.  He reacted by instinct and performed a technique his uncle had
made him practice for desperate situations. Instead of trying to move back as
expected, he twisted sideways at the last moment. The blade scraped along his
stomach and burned like a lash of fire, but he avoided the lethal blow.

The King’s Counsellor was surprised and started to
withdraw, but Lanrik stepped in and ruthlessly smashed the hilt of the sword
into his face. There was a loud crack of bone, and his enemy reeled away.
Lanrik followed him and ran him through with the same classic thrust that he
had just avoided himself. The blade slid underneath Mecklar’s ribcage, and the
point stabbed up toward his heart.

Bloody foam frothed at his mouth. His eyes had been
bright with madness but now showed disbelief. They closed as Lanrik withdrew
the sword, and he slumped to the ground and coughed wetly. He tried to rise,
then went suddenly still, and a dark pool of blood seeped onto the stone floor.

Mecklar was dead, and all was silent except for the
chanting of the lòhren. Lanrik felt a rush of triumph. He had killed his enemy
with the shazrahad sword, though not by any advantage of lòhrengai. He could
feel power in the blade. It raged from the metal into his body like a wild
animal seeking to destroy those who had caged it.

He stood where he was and trembled, drawing in
ragged breaths. He felt something within him grow and expand. His sense of
sight sharpened; his hearing became acute; he had greater insight into the
world and the intent of the people around him.

He understood that everything was in a state of flux
and that this was a pivotal moment in his life. It would set the direction of
his future just as seeing the plume of smoke on Galenthern had led him to
Lòrenta.

He observed with detachment as Ebona struggled to
control Gwalchmur and make another attack. The Raithlin had never been as
deeply under her influence as Mecklar though, and was divided in his loyalties.
He would not succumb, at least not yet.

The bloodstain slowly expanded about Mecklar’s
corpse, and Lanrik perceived how he had been dominated by ùhrengai. Ebona had
planted the seed of his destruction in the fertile soil of his lust for power
and wealth. He realized that something similar was happening to him but felt
powerless to contest it. The lòhrengai was feeding on the darker side of his
mind, drawing strength from him, and its roots felt too deep to pluck away. And
why would he want to? With the lòhrengai, he would be a power in the world. He
did not need Ebona. He saw the path that he could take to become king of
Esgallien and set right Murhain’s wrongs.

He looked back at Erlissa and saw that her eyes were
intense with fear. He knew instinctively that it was not for herself, but for
him. Doubt clouded his mind, and for just a moment he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he saw Lathmai, and she
seemed so real that he involuntarily groaned. Her legs were broken, and shards
of bone gleamed white through patches of bruised flesh, but she stood upright.
Her tattered cloak was soaked with blood.

Slowly, she raised her arms in supplication. “Must I
beg you to keep your promise?”

He tried to speak, but his throat was dry as ash.

She shambled forward, and the bones in her leg
grated against each other. The wound in her side opened and glistened with
fresh blood.

“Why haven’t you killed him yet?”

She stopped and swayed before steadying herself. One
eye gazed at him, clear and pleading; the other was a ruined socket.

He tried to look elsewhere but could not. Her
features sharpened; the burnt and blistered skin of her scalp, where her hair
had burned away, flushed purple.

She raised a fist. “Traitor! Look at me.
Look at
me!
Do you see what I endured? Will you betray me?”

Tears sprang to his eyes and ran down his cheeks.
The moment of final choice had come, and the future would follow as it must.

He remembered Lathmai as she lay dying on the Tor.
Once more, he heard her ask for revenge, and he perceived the dark source of
pain and suffering that was its wellspring. If she had lived she might have
conquered it, but she never had that chance. He sensed something similar in
Mecklar, who had the time to change but succumbed instead.

His promise to her had been wrong. It was better to
break it than let the darkness within overwhelm his life. He turned toward
Gwalchmur and cast the shazrahad sword to the ground. Lathmai’s image faded. As
though from a great distance, he heard Aranloth’s chanting reach a crescendo.

He was about to speak when Lathmai appeared again.
This time she was beautiful and looked just as she had at the Spring Games.

He gazed at her through stinging eyes, and she
smiled sadly. “Thank you,” she said. “I wouldn’t have asked you to make such a
promise had I known its cost.”

Her smile brightened. “I couldn’t take my words
back. But you’ve given me your last gift – you did it for me.”

He shook his head and found his voice. “Not the
last. The last is that I’ll never forget you.”

Her eyes gleamed and she vanished.

He looked at Gwalchmur. The Raithlin had, at least
for the moment, suppressed Ebona and his expression was one of surprise. The
visions of Lathmai must have troubled him, and the last thing he would have
expected was that his enemy would face him without a weapon. Lanrik acted
swiftly to take advantage of the moment.

“Your betrayal of the Raithlin was shameful,” he
said. “Yet all who live make mistakes. Yours was worse than most – but I
forgive you.”

He looked at his enemy with steady eyes. “There’s
been enough killing. Will you leave us free to try and accomplish our task?”

Gwalchmur stared at him. A long time he remained
motionless, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. Lanrik realized that
the lòhren had ceased chanting.

Like a man who had just woken Gwalchmur blinked
repeatedly, and his hand relaxed.

“Much has happened that I don’t understand,” he
said. “But I too am tired of killing. I’ll leave you in peace, though I fear
that Ebona will usurp my mind.”

Lanrik heard dread in the other man’s voice. The
power of the witch was strong, just as the lure of the sword had been.

“You’ve rebuffed her,” he said, “and her influence
over you will diminish as you walk away. Her power is like a flame – it needs
kindling to start. If you leave with hope and goodwill in your heart, she’ll
have no further hold on you.”

Aranloth spoke from behind. “Already her power is
lessened,” he said. “Look inside yourself, and you will know.”

Gwalchmur nodded slowly. “You’re right.” He ran a
hand through his hair. “But after what I’ve done, how can I dare to hope?”

Lanrik looked at him with pity. He was a tortured
man, and his deeds would haunt him all the days of his life. And yet, his
senses still acute, Lanrik had a sudden feeling that Gwalchmur’s regrets would
drive him to great accomplishments. He would play a pivotal role in the future
of Alithoras.

“You have rare skills,” he said. “While you can
never return to Esgallien, they could be used to benefit people all over the
land. Perhaps, in helping others, you’ll help yourself.”

Gwalchmur bowed his head. “You don’t seek to punish
me.” A moment later, he looked up, his expression fierce and determined. “But
I’ll punish myself. I pledge my life to the service of Alithoras, even though
it costs me dearly.”

He retrieved Mecklar’s sword and scabbard. Removing
his own he strapped the new one on, and then, carefully, he stepped forward and
offered Lanrik the hilt of his old one. “I’m unworthy,” he said. “You would
wear it for the greater Renown of the Raithlin.”

Gwalchmur gathered the reigns of Mecklar’s horse and
his own, then led them from the chamber without looking back.

The sword felt heavy in Lanrik’s hand after the
shazrahad blade. He withdrew it part way from the sheath and revealed the motif
of the trotting fox looking back over its shoulder. It was identical to the one
he had lost in Esgallien Ford.

He had a Raithlin sword again, and it felt good. But
he realized that while he still treasured their teachings he no longer defined
himself by being part of them. The world was wider and deeper, more perilous
and infinitely more mysterious than any single worldview encompassed.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned around. It
was Erlissa. Without hesitation, she took him in her arms and hugged him
tightly. He felt the barrier between them drop away, and when she released him,
Aranloth approached.

“That was well done,” the lòhren said.

He glanced at the shazrahad blade on the ground.
“You needn’t fear it anymore. You know what’s inside us all. If you allow the
lòhrengai to draw only on the good, you’ll achieve much.”

Lanrik picked up the sword, and it felt weightier
than he remembered. He had two now, and did not know which to use, but that was
a problem for another day. There were more pressing matters.

He looked at the lòhren. “Was it really Lathmai?”

Aranloth sighed. “I cannot be sure.” He swept a hand
all around them. “Several forces are at work in this chamber. The power of the
mistletoe berries has been invoked, and the Morleth Stone has brought Lòrenta to
the brink. There’s the lòhrengai of the sword, not to mention the ùhrengai of
Ebona. Also, there were
two
images of Lathmai. They needn’t have had the
same source. We’re caught between worlds, and the laws of nature are distorted,
even reversed. The normal and spirit spheres are conjoined, and it’s as though
night and day existed at the same time. Death is become life, and life death.”

“I hope it was her . . . she seemed happy at the
end.”

Aranloth gazed at him with compassion but did not
answer.

“What do we do now?” asked Erlissa.

Aranloth gripped his staff tightly and looked
determined. “What we came for. We must use the mistletoe and pass into
Lòrenta.”

He opened his hand, and the three berries lay on his
palm. “Take one and eat it,” he instructed.

Lanrik noticed that they had changed. They gleamed
brilliantly and had swelled. His was heavy in his hand when he picked it up,
and when he placed it on his tongue it was cold. He bit down, and its juices
filled his mouth. He could not describe if it was sweet or bitter, but it
tasted like nothing he had ever eaten before. He felt its power, the ùhrengai
that it contained, creep through his body. It was cold and slow to act whereas
the lòhrengai of the sword was hot and fast.

Erlissa ate hers slowly. The lòhren ate last, but he
consumed the berry quickly and waited for the others to finish.

“We must leave the horses,” he said.

Lanrik was loath to do so, and Erlissa seemed upset.
“Must we?”