Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (5 page)

Eventually the elugs ceased, and the largest swung
the unfortunate prisoner over his shoulder. They laughed as they walked onward
but watched Lanrik closely as they passed. Their eyes glittered in the glow of the
campfires, and he knew they could easily turn on him. Though it ate away at his
soul, he kept his head down while they walked by and ensured there was no eye
contact.

The elugs passed and made their way through the
camp, and Lanrik began to move as well. There were too many wakeful eyes on him
now, and he wished to get far away from this spot.

 He noticed groups of lethrins for the first time,
and tents became more common as he progressed. He was approaching the center of
the army. He saw wagons and changed direction slightly to avoid them. They
would hold food and were therefore the natural target of a saboteur. They would
be well guarded and he must do the unexpected.

He reached the center of the camp, and it was a mass
of large tents where the silver-bearded leadership of the army slept. Lethrin
guards stood to attention everywhere and actively studied their surroundings. A
little to the side was a cleared space where some fifty horses were tethered by
ropes to sturdy pegs driven into the ground. Even in the dim light Lanrik liked
what he saw; these were some of the finest horses in all the kingdoms of
Alithoras.

He edged his way toward them. They would provide a
concealed spot near the tents from which he could study their arrangement
without suspicion. He must somehow find a weakness in the lethrin guard and
pass undetected into one of them.

What he intended to do now would be far more
dangerous than marking the drums with the drùgluck sign. To slow the army he
must instil superstitious dread into the soldiers, whatever the risk, and what
better way than to kill the shazrahad in his protected tent and leave the sign
there?

It was not something that he wanted to do. The
taking of a life was wrong. Nor would he be killing a warrior in battle. He
would be doing it in the dark, without warning and merely to fulfil a strategy.
Yet was it not right to protect his people from slaughter? Would it not be a
crime if he had the chance to save his homeland but did not take it?

The philosophers could spin arguments either way,
but in the end they just wove a circle of words. Each argument seemed valid and
justifiable. He did not know what the answers were; he had only his inborn
sense of rightfulness to guide him and his own conscience to serve as judge.

His people had a right to freedom, whatever that
actually meant. The world did not allot freedom or subjugation according to a
carefully calculated plan. A community won, or guarded it, by their actions. It
was something that could be lost if actions were not taken to protect it. That
was what he would do now. The army had
chosen
to invade his lands. Azan
men had
chosen
to lead the horde. If they had not done so they would be
in no danger from him, and yet they had, therefore it was right to counter
them.

He hardened himself for what he must do. Not all
choices in life were easy, and not all consequences light. But it was a small
thing compared to Lathmai’s sacrifice.

He reached the nearest horses and spoke softly to
them, moving with sure and confident motions. Some cocked their heads and
watched him while others blew wind. He moved among them, talking and stroking
their necks.

The horses quietened. A little to his right a
stallion eyed him. It was a tall horse for one of the Azan breeds, the alar as
they were called, and its coat was black as midnight without a star or even a
single white sock. It looked at him with blended intelligence, alertness and
curiosity. It was no time to study the conformation of a horse, but he could
not help but make his way over for a closer look.

The stallion moved smoothly and freely which
promised a good action, and it had wide and flexible nostrils for the drawing
in of breath. Its neck was neither too long nor too short, and its legs were
set down square and straight. The back was almost straight, having as it should
just a slight rise above the hips.

Lanrik moved forward and rubbed a hand along its
hindquarters. The forequarters acted more in the nature of balance; it was from
the hindquarters that the propelling power came in a series of successive
springs. The stallion’s rump was rounded, muscled and deep. No one could really
judge a horse just by its looks, but they were a guide, and Lanrik realized he
was in the presence of a stallion fit to father a breed.

The immortal Halathrin had brought horses with them
during their exodus into the land long ago. They named their new home
Alithoras. It was pristine and fresh, but they brought much of their old life,
marvelous things as they seemed to those who first met them, to ease the burden
of their transition. Little was more precious to them than their horses. They
were longer lived than men and yet during their lifetime would bond with only
one rider and allow them alone to mount. They were the fastest creatures in the
land, yet even the Halathrin favored the alar breed and sometimes rode them
into battle.

He moved forward for a better look at the tents.
Staying in the deep shadow between horses, he looked out over a row of saddles
stacked along the length of the picket line.

What he saw did not fill him with confidence. There
were many tents, each guarded at the opening by a pair of lethrins. As the
tents were set up in close proximity, the lethrins who guarded their own also
had a clear view of the back of the tent in front of them. How would he gain
entry?

What he needed to do was determine in which tent the
shazrahad slept. Perhaps that was not so difficult because the tents were
different sizes and of different quality. One of the closest, in fact a tent in
front of all the others, appeared larger than the rest. It was certainly large
enough for the leader and a number of his servants. The Azan people were
haughty, but if the shazrahad had set his tent before the others to show
superiority instead of somewhere in the middle for anonymity, he might pay
dearly for his pride.

Lanrik looked closely at the two implacable lethrins
in front, and then something behind them caught his attention. It was dim in
the shadows, but he was sure he could see, propped up against the tent, the
faint outline of the horn the shazrahad had ordered blown to stop the march. It
was ready to hand for the call to march tomorrow.

So far so good. He had located the right tent. But
how could he get inside it?

Lanrik was in trouble. Never before had he faced a
task upon which so much depended. His Raithlin training was comprehensive, but
none of his instructors would have guessed that he would one day be required to
infiltrate an enemy army and steal into the guarded tent of its commander to
kill him.

Yet that was what he must achieve. To attempt it he
needed to clear his mind, put aside his misgivings, and break things down into
their simplest components.

His training
had
included penetration of
enemy camps. The Raithlin, though separate from the regular army, were formed
to carry out such tasks, and there were methods to follow and procedures to
adopt. His greatest obstacle to reaching the tent was the vigilance of the
lethrin guards. They would see him. His first consideration therefore was to
find the route that would best hide him.

The most obvious factor was that a fire burned to
the right of the tent and cast a deep shadow to the left. Also, the lethrins
must look in that direction, and the light would hinder their night vision. He
considered this in the context of the Raithlin principles of concealment: the
eye recognized movement first, silhouette second and color last.

His grey cloak blended with the shadow to the left,
and that would help to eliminate any silhouette. The elug scimitar would lie
flat on his back and actually help to break up his outline.  He could not avoid
movement, but by taking his time and seeking a path over the lowest ground, he
could minimize its risk.

He felt something on the back of his hand and realized
it was beginning to drizzle again. A gusty breeze rose, and he decided to act
straight away. The shower would not last, but it would offer some additional
concealment and help cover any noise he made.

The grass was slick with moisture, but he paid it no
mind as he dropped to the ground. The horses did not like it but made no
commotion while he crawled forward in the way of the Raithlin: palms on the
earth, elbows close to the body to provide support and reduce silhouette, his
weight borne on the forearms and one leg at a time to lift his body just enough
to avoid scraping noises.

The grass of the plains was trampled into the earth
and provided scarce cover, but at least it did not make much noise. He crept
forward until he came to the saddles. From this point he would have no
concealment except for the slight depressions in the ground that he must seek
and follow. He would have to move very slowly and rely mostly on the shadow
cast by the fire. It would take a long time to reach the tent, and he felt that
the night, and his chance of escaping the camp before dawn, was slipping away.
But haste would only get him killed.

The drizzle continued and he crawled forward. He
kept his head down most of the time, for the shine of a person’s face often
revealed them in the dark, but it meant that he could not see the lethrins. He
did not know if they looked in his direction or showed signs of suspicion; he
had to trust to the shadow and his skill.

The drizzle let up and he stopped. It was time to
rest anyway, because moving this way was difficult. He lifted his head just a
little, and the lethrins did not appear to show any interest in the place where
he lay. He took some deep breaths and ignored the wetness that seeped into his
clothes.

What he must do first was stay out of the firelight.
When he reached the deeper shadows cast by the tent then he could change
direction. Noise drifted from somewhere far away in the camp, and he moved once
again as the guards’ attention was momentarily distracted.

He went on for some time, and though he moved
slowly, he made good progress. In his current position he could see the lethrin
guards at the opening of the tent to the rear and left of the shazrahad’s. They
were looking in his direction but until now had given no indication of
suspicion. For some reason they suddenly appeared uneasy, as though unsure of
what to do. Had they seen or heard something?

The tent flap opened and one of the officers
emerged. He was a tall and stern man, and he ran his hand through his long
beard thoughtfully. He did not speak to the lethrin or acknowledge their
presence, and Lanrik lay perfectly still and waited.

The officer looked upward to study the sky. He spent
some time doing so, observing first the northern quarter and then the other
directions. He was probably trying to determine what weather the army could
expect on their march tomorrow and to make plans for it.

Lanrik could have told him: it was going to rain.
The wet would hinder the army, making it uncomfortable and lowering its morale.
Water would seep into their clothing and equipment, and the earth of the
plains, churned by countless feet into a sticky mess, would cling to
everything.

Another shower passed over, heavier than before. The
officer turned his back on the night with an air of revulsion and returned to
the shelter of his tent. His back was stiff with disgust, and he still did not
acknowledge the lethrins, nor did they appear to expect it; their
expressionless faces remained trained outwards in unbroken watchfulness. The
officer’s dissatisfaction amused Lanrik, but hoped that by morning the weather
would be the least of his enemy’s problems.

He continued forward and breathed a sigh of relief
when he reached the long shadow cast by the shazrahad’s tent. Though he was
closer to the lethrin he was now actually harder to see. He angled directly
toward his goal and found a slight depression in the ground, which he followed.
It was wet and cold, and the slickness of mud covered him, making progress slow
and unpleasant.

Time passed, showers came and went, but the fear of
discovery was ever present. After what seemed an endless period he finally
neared the tent. Was it partitioned? If so, would the shazrahad be in the front
or back?

The depression turned and ran near the back of the
tent. Entering was the most dangerous moment as he would be at increased risk
of discovery. He wanted to be as far away as possible from the lethrins
guarding the tent to the rear, as they had a direct line of sight toward him.
Similarly, he wanted to distance himself from the lethrins who stood to
attention at the front of the shazrahad’s tent, as they would be most likely to
hear any noise. He decided to move out of the depression and crawl to the
middle.

The canvas was heavy with moisture and secured by
guy ropes and pegs that held the walls to the ground. He had two choices. He
could try to slit the canvas with a knife, though it was strong and would make
noise. If he chose this method he would have to proceed very slowly for he did
not know who was on the other side or how close they were. It would be risky.
The alternative was to pull one of the pegs out of the ground. These were made
of metal rods, with the top bent over, and hammered through an eyelet woven
into the bottom of the wall.

The peg looked secure and he tested it without
result. No doubt a special tool was normally used to remove it, but he would
have to rely on his sword to provide the required leverage. This had its own
dangers as a drawn blade might reflect some light and reveal his presence.

It was time to spend a few moments in thought.
Either choice was dangerous, but levering out the peg was probably the safest.
Most of all it had one great advantage over slitting the wall: when he was
done, he could replace the peg and hide his method of entry. This would support
the sense of a supernatural agency at work that he was trying to engender. He
made his decision and acted.

Slowly, and with care to make no noise, he
unsheathed his rapier. The elug scimitar was too unwieldy for such a job and
more visible. He worked at the peg, taking his time and finding the point of
maximum leverage. He was frightened the sword would slip and make a loud noise
or sudden movement.

He tried several times, but the peg was firm in the
ground. Risking greater force he attempted it once more, and this time it gave
way with a distinct noise. It was not loud, yet audible to an alert guard, and
a ripple went through the canvas wall as well.

The guards at the front of the tent were the
greatest danger. He pressed his body as flat as possible against the earth and
kept his face down but watched in their direction from the corner of one eye.
Fear gripped him as he saw the enormous bulk of a lethrin step into view. Its
iron mace, loose but ready in a massive hand, was dull red in the slow flicker
of firelight.

The lethrin took a pace forward and peered closely
at the spot where Lanrik lay. Was he visible? He thought not, and yet if the
lethrin stepped any closer even the shadows and his stillness would serve no
longer. He prepared to surge to his feet.

The lethrin stood its ground. Long moments passed
then abruptly it turned and walked away. Lanrik breathed a sigh of relief, but
his heart pounded in his chest for some time.

He waited where he was and remained motionless. If
he made any further noise now it would be too suspicious, and the guards would
investigate thoroughly.

The minutes passed. Rain began to fall quite
heavily, but there was no further sign of the guard nor could he hear any
movement from within the tent. He steeled himself to move again.

The rapier would hinder him inside and he sheathed
it. In its place he drew a knife and carefully wiped both sides of the blade
through mud to reduce any chance of its glinting in the darkness. Keeping his
head low to the ground, he took the loose section of canvas wall in his left
hand, held the knife ready in his right, and slowly lifted the material until
there was sufficient gap to reveal what lay beyond.

It was dim. However, a candle shed some wavering
light across the interior. It was set on a three-legged table near the front
entrance and burned within a large holder of intricately carved horn.

A scent of exotic spices filled his nostrils as he
scanned the rest of the room. The abundant luxury of it astonished him. A path
of crimson silk led from the entrance down the middle of the room and stopped
at a flap in the dividing wall at the last third of the tent. He could see
nothing of the other room.

Woolen rugs covered most of the canvas floor. On the
near side, silken cushions in an array of colors lay in a circle. Among them
was a tall and elaborate chair, nearly a throne, of black walnut polished to
gleam like oiled iron. This would be where the shazrahad held council with his
captains and where he received messengers.

Woven tapestries decorated the canvas walls. No
doubt these told stories of the Azan people or even the shazrahad’s own career.
Hung as decoration from the bottom of the fabric were gems, pearls and the
ubiquitous carved horn that the southern people admired so much.

On the far side of the room three men lay on piled
sheepskin rugs beside chests with gold bands and clasps. No doubt they were
aids, and though still, Lanrik could not tell with certainty that they were
asleep. The shazrahad himself was not there. Anybody who sat upon a throne to
talk to his captains would not sleep near his staff. He would use the other
room.

Lanrik studied the dividing wall closely. There was
a flap at the end of the crimson aisle, the wall unpegged in contrast to the
outside, and he would therefore be able to gain entrance closer to where he
was.

Delaying further would not benefit him, and he eased
himself inside. The carpeted floors helped subdue any noise, and there was no
movement from the aids, but it was best to stay low to the ground, and he
crawled through the room until he came to the partition. There he lay still and
placed his ear to the wall. He listened for several minutes, but there was no
sound of movement from beyond.

Lifting the wall just a little he peered within.
There was no candle and the room was completely dark. It would not serve to be
overly cautious because the longer he delayed the greater the chance the candle
light would be seen through the gap he had created so, he slid under the wall
and let it fall behind him.

Darkness, black as an unmeasured pit, shrouded him.
His skin prickled for he could see and hear nothing; it was dark as the tomb.
At the thought of death a shiver ran through his whole body. Its presence was
all about him, and he felt that at any time his life could end. Yet he also
sensed that he was at a crossroads, and what happened here would change his
life forever.

For one of the few times since leaving Lathmai’s
cairn he felt indecisive. What should he do now? He did not want to grope
around in the blackness of the tent. He was far too likely to make a noise.

There was only one thing to do. Regardless of the
risk, he must lift the dividing wall high enough to allow sufficient candle
light through so that he could see and memorize the layout. Time was slipping
away from him, and a feeling of recklessness was growing. He would do what he
must and the consequences would follow.

He lifted the wall quite high and wavering light
entered the room. It was dim at first but then his eyes began to adjust. It was
smaller in here but decorated with the same opulence. At the far end a low
pallet stretched across the floor, and on top of this lay the shazrahad. The
scarlet headdress that he wore around his head during the day lay on a polished
table near the entrance to the chamber. A silver pitcher rested there too, as
well as the curved tulwar favored by his people.

Lanrik swept his gaze over the rest of the room, and
what he saw in the deeper shadows near the back shocked him. A young girl,
dried blood on her face, was tied to a chair. She was cloaked all in black, and
a heavy hood hung behind her shoulders. A dark staff lay across her lap. He
realized that these were no ordinary items: they were the regalia of an
elùgroth. And yet the girl was tightly bound. Most disturbing of all was that a
stained hangman’s noose hung from the ceiling before her eyes.