Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (23 page)

“We have no choice,” the lòhren said. “They cannot
enter the spirit world with us.”

 He went over to his roan and ran a hand along its
neck. “We‘ll return for them soon. They’ll be safe until then.”

He turned away from the horse. “Come!” he said.
“It’s time.”

He went to each of them in turn and placed a hand on
their forehead. He muttered a brief phrase, and lòhrengai warmed his palm.

“We can enter Lòrenta now.”

He took a torch from the wall and walked up the
stairs to the rime-coated gate. Three times he tapped the metal with the end of
his staff, and three times lòhrengai flickered. On the third, the gate creaked
and opened. Ice shattered and fell from its bars like snow, and a momentary
blast of cold air struck them. When they had passed through Aranloth swung the
gate, and it closed with a loud clang.

Lanrik felt an immediate change. They had been on
the threshold in the previous chamber, but now they were inside Lòrenta, within
the spirit world. The air was still and cool. Everything about him seemed
tinged with grey and void of color and life.

He wondered if they would be able to save the
fortress. Most of all he wanted to know what Aranloth had hidden from them on
the journey.

Erlissa’s hand was in his as they walked forward.
They would soon find out.

They walked as ghosts through the halls of Lòrenta.
Aranloth’s torch was the only spark of life in the shadow-cluttered passages.
Dust lay undisturbed in the long corridors, and closed doors, hinged with bands
of rusted iron, flanked their sides. Outside, there were bright walls and
flag-flying towers, but deep inside the buttress of rock that formed the base
of the fortress, it felt like a tomb.

Lòrenta dominated the history of Alithoras, and
Lanrik felt strange walking through it. Lòhrens journeyed far and long, their
exploits the stock-in-trade of bards across many lands, but this was where they
all started from.

The bare stone was grey, and he grew tired of the
changeless walls and floor. The very air seemed dreary, all color and life
washed away by sorcery. The fortress would remain that way, trapped in a
nowhere world, until they broke the power of the Morleth Stone.

The drudgery was only relieved by ornate stairwells
that led to higher levels. Stone rails spiraled upward, carved with a
decorative finish, but the steps showed the wear of passing feet: smooth
hollows in their middle. How many years had that taken? He could not guess, but
Lòrenta was old, even ancient.

He glanced at Erlissa. She had been silent and
withdrawn for some time.

“What’s wrong?”

She frowned and searched for an answer. “Something
troubles me . . . I don’t know what.”

He touched her elbow reassuringly, and they turned
another corner. Her instincts had proven correct since Galenthern, and he would
not doubt them now. If she was worried, there was a reason for it.

They climbed yet another stairwell and at last
reached the aboveground chambers. The passages widened and glass windows,
framed by peaked arches of carved stone, looked to the outside world. Little
was visible though except a grey dawn, dull and muted.

Mosaics decorated the floors, and the doors on
either side were now open. Some rooms were bare, but many contained apparatus
that he had never seen before and for which he could not even guess a purpose.

One room however, larger than most, contained things
he understood. It was an armory. Near the entrance were swords carefully
mounted on individual stands, and behind them was an array of others collected
on racks. There were rapiers, scimitars, long and broad swords: he knew all
their various types, but the artisanship was different from anything in
Esgallien. Some were finely worked pieces of art, others plain and brutal
killing weapons. It looked like they had come from many lands, possibly even
different eras.

Behind the swords were more weapons: hammers, clubs,
long-handled axes, halberds and spears. There were darts, slings, recurve and
long bows, javelins, hauberks, helms and all manner of war accoutrement. There
was even a battering ram, a massive construction of oak and rusted iron. The
timber was blackened by fire and oil, the iron warped and dented. It had seen
use in war, and a quick glance at the other artefacts showed many were damaged
too. The room was not just an armory; it was a remnant of the history of
Alithoras. A shiver ran through him. What battles had these weapons been used
in? What long dead heroes once held them in their living hands?

Aranloth strode by without slowing, and soon they
came to another room. This one contained musical instruments. There was a wide
variety of pipes, harps, cymbals, zithers and gongs. There were also elug war
drums and against the far wall the man-high carnyx horns of Esgallien. At least
Lanrik thought so; it would not surprise him if they came from other Camar
tribes or even from before Conhain had led his people into Esgallien.

“Why do the lòhrens collect all these things?”

Aranloth barely slowed his stride. “To preserve
history. Much is lost – it always is from age to age, but a glimpse is kept
alive here. And it’s studied too. How could lòhrens teach if they didn’t know
the land’s past?”

They turned a corner into a great hallway. A series
of vast chambers ran off from it, each containing innumerable shelves packed
with books and scrolls. Aranloth halted and swept his arm in a wide arc.

“The Halls of Lore,” he said. There was a hint of
pride in his voice.

Lanrik was amazed. The books seemed numberless, and
he got an inkling of how much knowledge the lòhrens collected and their role in
Alithoras. Small wonder the enemy wanted them destroyed.

They walked on but paused when they came to the
doorway of yet another massive room. It too was part of the library, its walls
cased with bookshelves and desks, though its center was clear. Children played
in the open space and did not notice the weary figures grouped at the dark
entrance. Many laughed loud and free, showing no fear for the fate of the
fortress, but worry marked the somber faces of the eldest.

After several moments Aranloth strode away. Renewed
determination stiffened his back, and he led them into a great courtyard.
Morning had come, but the day remained grey. The lawn felt soft and lush but
looked dull to the eye. Neat and well-tended flowerbeds were everywhere, but
they too were drained of color, and the leaves of the trees were lackluster.
Lanrik glanced up at the sky, and it was heavy with scudding cloud.

In the middle of the courtyard was a fountain, and
Aranloth walked swiftly past. Lanrik paused and studied it carefully though. It
was built of white granite, and the centerpiece was a statue of a lòhren. It
seemed just as old as the rest of Lòrenta, yet the likeness to Aranloth was
striking. It even caught the expression of compassion that so often filled his
eyes. Could there be truth to the legends? Had he lived through the centuries?
It seemed impossible, but the world was stranger than Lanrik had ever imagined,
and he was no longer so quick to dismiss things.

It was not the only change. His instincts were now
heightened by lòhrengai, and he sensed that the fountain was the heart of the
fortress. It welled with tranquility, though it also had something of the feel
of Ebona or Carnona. And just as the Guardian had searched his thoughts in the
hills of Enorìen, his mind was even now being assessed by ùhrengai. He got an
impression of the true defense of Lòrenta, but there was no time to consider
it.

Aranloth hurried him on with a quick gesture. “We’re
nearly there. The elùgroths must be at the front gate, and the lòhrens on the
battlements above.”

He led them to the far side of the courtyard and
back inside the fortress. Contrary to his words, they walked through many
corridors and climbed a lot of staircases before they finally reached the
ramparts, and Lanrik wondered if he had been purposefully distracted.

They reached the battlements, and a small group of
lòhrens turned around. They were dressed in flowing robes and leaned on tall
staffs. Their faces, grey with worry, lit up like children whose father had
come home when they saw Aranloth. They seemed to revere him, and his presence
invigorated them.

They bowed and shook his hand. Some called him
Careth
Tar,
which Lanrik understood to mean “Great Father”. It was a term of
respect as well as the title of the head of their order, the fabled leader of
the Lòhrenin.

Lanrik realized that his uncle Conrik was there too.
It was the first time he had seen him in years, but he had not changed except
for the absence of his Raithlin sword. It was strange to see him without it.

Conrik made his way through the lòhrens and embraced
him warmly. When he was done, he stood back and looked him over slowly. “You’ve
grown, Lan.”

“It’s been a long time, Uncle Con.”

“True enough. How did you get mixed up in this
business?”

Lanrik shrugged. “I’ve had a bit of trouble – it’s a
long story though.”

Aranloth was watching them, and Conrik glanced in
his direction. “The lòhren has a habit of showing up when there’s trouble. But
he usually knows how to fix it.”

Lanrik noticed that his uncle wore bandages and
realized that he moved gingerly.

“It looks like you’ve had your own problems,” he
said. “Where’s your sword?”

Conrik hesitated. He glanced at Aranloth again, and
then looked Lanrik in the eye.

“I no longer carry it. I've killed too often, and
I’m always tempted to fight when I can feel the hilt in my hand. I’ve got a new
name and job these days. I’m Lonfar . . . the librarian.”

Lanrik understood. Violence now repulsed his uncle,
and he nodded slowly.

“It’s strange to see you without a blade, but I
don’t blame you.”

Lonfar stared at him, at a loss for words at such
easy acceptance when he had obviously expected a different reaction. Aranloth
merely smiled.

“The journey has changed your nephew,” he said.

The lòhren shifted his gaze to Erlissa, as though
assessing how she might also have changed, and Lanrik wondered what he hoped to
see.

Aranloth was diverted again by the other lòhrens,
and he took his scrutinizing gaze off her.

“How did you get inside Lòrenta?”

The speaker was a bony wisp of a man, old and wiry,
but if he was anything like Aranloth he was much less frail than he looked.

“Sorcery has removed Lòrenta from the ordinary
world, Aratar. Yet there are powers more ancient than lòhrengai and elùgai.”

The lòhrens looked highly interested, and Lanrik
realized they could discuss such matters all day long. His uncle typically got
straight to the point though.

“I don’t give a damn how you got here,” he said. “I
want to know if you can help.”

Aranloth must have been used to his bluntness, for
he showed no offence at all.

“That remains to be seen,” he said. “Our first task must
be to destroy the Morleth Stone.”

The lòhrens looked confused. “But how?” asked
Aratar. “We don’t even know where it is.”

Aranloth turned to Erlissa. “I’ve brought a Seeker,”
he said softly.

Aratar looked hard at her for a moment. “That’s a
rare talent.” He nodded slowly. “Yes, I begin to see how it could be done.
But—”

“There’s little time left,” Aranloth interrupted
him. “We have to find the stone quickly.”

Lanrik noticed the two lòhrens exchange a glance.
There was something more to finding the stone than had been spoken aloud, but
Aranloth was already guiding Erlissa to the edge of the battlements.

They all looked over the crenellations. The
elùgroths sat in a wedge, and their malice thrust toward the fortress. Dark
clouds seethed in the airs above, and the birch wood bent to an unnatural wind.
It stripped leaves from the trees and swirled them wildly about the sorcerers,
but they remained as still as carved statues, their concentration unwavering.

Lanrik felt the cold blast envelop the fortress and sensed
elùgai in the air. Erlissa shivered, and he guessed why. Somewhere among the
sorcerous brethren was the elùgroth who had captured her, and she would be
reliving that memory.

Aranloth stepped to the very brink. He stood to his
full height, the staff crooked through the inside of his right elbow, and
lifted his arms skyward. He addressed the elùgroth leader, his voice couched in
a ceremonious mode suitable to enemies who had opposed each other for
centuries, and aided by some art of lòhrengai, his words rolled loud and clear
from the ramparts right down to the wood.

“Elù-Randùr!” he said, allowing disdain to drip off
the name like the dregs of a drink from an overturned cup.

“Hear me, thou creature of the shadow! Hear me, thou
craven who hidest from the light of the sun! Hear me, and cease the
spell-making of thy servants!”

Aranloth waited, and a hush fell over the world.
Those on the battlements watched him in amazement, fearful of the reaction his
insult would provoke.

A stir passed through the elùgroths in the wedge,
and they cast their gaze to the ground. Their master was challenged, and the
potential for death and destruction charged the air.

The elùgroth leader emerged from the shadows of the
wood, and a slow reply came. It welled up as though from deep beneath the earth
and rumbled over the wedge to Lòrenta’s battlements. Like the cold wind it
buffeted them.

“I hear thee, old man. I hear thee, and thine hollow
words. Dost thou challenge me? Thou hast not the strength! Mine is the power,
and it will prevail over all that is and all that shall be. Thou hast naught
but trickeries, for thou dost not embrace the Master.”

Aranloth, immutable, answered in a calm and certain
voice. “Thy power is not thine own. I sense he that upholdeth thee, he that is thy
master, and he for whom thou hast entered thralldom. Thou art but a tool.”

The voice of the lòhren rang with authority, and the
silver circlet on his brow gleamed in the dim light.

 “I know thee, Elù-Randùr, lòhren that was. I know
thy past, and surely, even as we speak, I see thy future. Get thee gone!
Leavest while thou may, or thou and thy servants shalt be overthrown. Trickster
thou callest me, but my words are true. Have I not the sight?”

The elùgroth stepped forward, and the wych-wood
staff in his grip shivered with suppressed power. His answer, cold and final,
resounded as a pronouncement of doom in the chill air.

“I will think of thee, old man,” he said, “when thou
art imprisoned in thine own fortress and I lead an army over the spent bodies
of those who would defend the cities of the north.”

Aranloth lowered his arms and abruptly turned away
from the Elùgroth. The discussion had ended as swiftly as it began.

He looked to Erlissa. “The time has come.”

Lanrik watched closely as Erlissa nodded and closed
her eyes. He could almost see her opening her senses, searching out the sorcery
that emanated from the wedge below and tracing it to the faraway Morleth Stone.
She toyed absently with the gold bracelet about her wrist while the cold wind
tugged at her hair. The lòhrens were silent and motionless, waiting for the
outcome. Conrik observed the enemy below with a stony mask of detachment.