Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (9 page)

“I did what was necessary,” Lanrik replied, not
wanting any attention.

“It was necessary,” the Lindrath said, “but it was
more than could have been asked.”

Lanrik shrugged uncomfortably. “Lathmai gave even
more.”

The Lindrath looked at him carefully and then nodded.
“She‘ll be honored,” he said quietly.

Lanrik knew he meant it. They were simple words, but
behind them was the weight of everything that it meant to be a Raithlin. They
were a close group, little given to showing emotion but bonded by the hardships
of their training and the purpose they served.

Lanrik beckoned Erlissa over and introduced her to
the Lindrath. She told him what she had learned of the threat to the lòhrens.
His eyes widened as she spoke, and he shook his head as though denying that
such a plan could exist, but there was no hesitation in his voice when he
spoke.

“Lòhren Aranloth is with the king’s retinue,” he
said. “The last time I saw him though, he’d gone off into a field saying he
needed to think. We’d better track him down.”

The Lindrath led them through the army and to a
place behind the king’s banner. They forced their way through the hedgerow and
into the open field beyond. It was pastureland, and the red cattle in the
paddock looked at them briefly and then continued to graze placidly. It was a
repetitive and peaceful sound.

The lòhren was an old man. He sat on a tree stump,
his long legs gathered under him. He stood when they neared, and Lanrik watched
him closely. His actions were fluid and graceful. Regardless of his appearance,
he moved as no old man Lanrik had seen before. He carried an oaken staff but
did not lean on it. He was dressed in white robes and his hair was white also.
His face was wrinkled but the skin was clear and a healthy pink. A diadem
circled his brow, nearly hidden by his hair, and was engraved with some strange
symbol that tugged at Lanrik’s memory, but he could not see it clearly or
recall its significance. The man’s eyes were sea-grey: the deep eyes of someone
who had seen the highest joy and the lowest tragedy. They were eyes that looked
into the hearts of men and read souls as others did the pages of a book. Lanrik
had a feeling that his thoughts and nature were being considered as a smith
would study the virtue of a new metal.

The old man strode forward and met them.
Surprisingly, he spoke to Erlissa first.

“Are you well, my child? A shadow has fallen on you
since last we met.”

Erlissa had made no mention of the fact that she
knew a lòhren. 

Her shoulders slumped. “It’s as you guessed long
ago, Aranloth. The enemy tried to make me join them.” She straightened and
glanced at Lanrik. “But he saved me.”

Aranloth looked at her sadly, and Erlissa turned
back to him. “I’ll still not join the lòhrens though.”

“Peace, my child.”

Aranloth turned his attention to Lanrik. “You’ve
done well,” he said. “Apart from saving Erlissa, the talnak horn and the
shazrahad sword you wear are tokens of success.”

Lanrik was surprised. A talnak must be the type of
an animal hunted by the Azan to obtain the distinctive horn. It was knowledge
the Raithlin did not possess and proved that the lore of the lòhren, even of
lands in which it would be death for them to walk, was far reaching.

“How did you know about the sword?” he asked.

Aranloth laughed freely, and it contrasted with the
dignity of his bearing. “It was a simple guess,” he said. “You rescued Erlissa
and took a talnak horn from the enemy. Such a prisoner and the horn would only
be kept in the shazrahad’s tent. Given that you were there, and observing the
scabbard and the ruby on its hilt, the sword must have been his.”

“So it was,” Lanrik said. “And it must be more
valuable than the horn for he was interested only in getting it back.”

“Really?” the lòhren said thoughtfully. “Talnak
horns are of great ceremonial value to them. Both horns and swords are
heirlooms handed down through centuries, and they each represent courage; one
for the hunt and the other for combat. Tell me – is there script on the blade?”

“There is,” Lanrik said.

Aranloth rubbed his chin. “I’ll look at it later and
see what it says. But for now, there are no doubt other matters to discuss. You
would not otherwise have come to see me when battle is about to be joined.”

Erlissa briefly recounted what she had heard in the
shazrahad’s tent, and the true purpose of the enemy. Aranloth listened closely,
and so too did the Lindrath, but he also eyed Lanrik from time to time. That
slowing the army had involved entering the shazrahad’s tent obviously surprised
him.

Aranloth remained calm. His face was serene and
showed no hint of disquiet. He must have felt it though, and Lanrik was
impressed. This was a man who got things done while others panicked.

“Are you certain they spoke of a Morleth Stone?”

“They used the term several times.”

“And it will be taken to one of the mountain ranges
north of Lòrenta?”

“Yes, but they didn’t say which.”

“It could be Anast Dennath or Auren Dennath,”
Aranloth said. “It’s ill news either way. Morleth Stones are dangerous. They
offer a way for many elùgroths to use sorcery in unison. Their making is not
without cost though: elùgroths would have died.”

The Lindrath looked puzzled. “But why take the stone
to the mountains and not Lòrenta?”

Aranloth answered, searching for a simple way to
explain. “Lòhrengai and elùgai gather energy. It becomes part of us, and bent
to our will, is transformed. It cannot be completely changed though and retains
much of its original nature. The elùgroths assembling outside Lòrenta will be
linked to the energy the stone absorbs from the mountain peaks. The mountains are
a different world: not quite of the earth nor yet the sky; bathed in bright
sunlight but deathly cold; at the top the world yet littered with seashells. I
believe the elùgroths intend to open a way into the spirit world; a place
between life and death. Lòrenta will be drawn within, and though not destroyed,
it will be cut off from us, and we from it.”

“I thought Lòrenta was protected against assault?”
Lanrik said.

“It is,” Aranloth answered. “The defense comes to
life during an attack, but as Lòrenta won’t actually be harmed, it won’t
respond.”

Lanrik was not sure what to make of all this. Talk
of spirit worlds and the like was beyond his experience, but just because there
were powers at work beyond his understanding did not mean that he could ignore
them. He remembered what elùgai had done to Lathmai.

Aranloth was thoughtful for a long while before
speaking again. “Without lòhrens all Alithoras is vulnerable,” he said.

Erlissa looked at Lanrik. “That’s why we brought the
news to you quickly.”

Aranloth nodded in acknowledgement. “Yet the
elùgroths have too great a start.”

“There must be a way to stop them,” she said.

 “I have not the strength on my own,” Aranloth
replied. “And I have not the time to find enough lòhrens. Beyond doubt, Lòrenta
will be driven into the spirit world. But it must be kept there some time for
the sorcery to bind permanently. If the stone was destroyed before then,
Lòrenta could be saved.”

“Then there
is
a way,” Erlissa said.

“Assuredly,” the lòhren replied, and he looked at
her with sad eyes.

Erlissa returned his gaze for some moments before
hanging her head.

Lanrik knew she had realized something he could not
yet see yet. He put his hand on her shoulder. “What’s happening?” he asked.

It was Aranloth who answered. “The Morleth Stone
could be anywhere in the mountains,” he said. “Only Erlissa has the talent to
find it in time.”

Erlissa’s head snapped up. “I
won’t
join the
lòhrens,” she said. “And I’ll not be part of this battle. My parents gave their
lives to heal rather than hurt. They went where they were needed, whether the
people were poor or rich, bad or good; they helped everyone they could without
judging. I can do no less than follow their example.”

“I understand,” Aranloth said. “I do not ask you to
join us, but I will say this. You are the only hope of finding the stone in
time to destroy it. If that is not accomplished, Lòrenta will be lost. And the
lòhrens, scattered and susceptible, will be killed.”

Erlissa shook her head. “I want no part of this! Do
you think I’m blind? Once I’ve found the stone you’ll be able to destroy it.
What then? The elùgroths, linked to the stone, will be killed! Tell me it isn’t
so?”

“If the stone is destroyed the elùgroths will
perish,” Aranloth confirmed. “That is a certainty. Its counterpart is that if
the elùgroths succeed, the lòhrens will die. One of these will come to pass.
You can help, or not help. Through no fault of your own, that is your choice.”

Erlissa rubbed her eyes. “If I say no?”

“You must not.”

“Why, Aranloth? Tell me why?”

“Because to say no puts all of Alithoras at risk.”

“You’re giving me a choice that is no choice!”

“I
also
do what I must,” Aranloth murmured.

Erlissa was silent for such a long time that Lanrik
thought she would never give an answer. She repeatedly turned and twisted the
gold bracelet that she wore as though it somehow held an answer. All the while,
the old man watched her with eyes that understood and regretted her turmoil.

The cattle grazed contentedly in the paddock, small
birds piped and tweeted in the hedgerow recking nothing of the fates of men,
lòhrens or elùgroths. In the distance was the clamor of armies and the rumble
of elug drums.

“Very well,” Erlissa said at last. Her face was pale
and her voice listless. “I’ll find the stone for you, but the death of the
elùgroths will be on your head. I’ll have to go to Lòrenta to do it. I must
feel the energy of the thing before I can trace it back to its origin.”

 “I know,” Aranloth said. “We’ll leave today.”

The lòhren turned his gaze to Lanrik. “You also must
come,” he said.

Lanrik was stunned. He had not expected this. He
wanted to help Erlissa; she seemed to need it even more now than she had in the
shazrahad’s tent, but while Esgallien was being attacked his duty was to it.

“I can’t,” he said. “The Raithlin will be needed
here.”

The lòhren hesitated. “I understand,” he said. “Will
you at least come with Erlissa and me while we see the king? We must tell him
what’s happening . . . and you may learn something to change your mind.”

“Of course,” Lanrik said. “But I’ll not change my
mind.”

The lòhren did not answer but glanced at him with an
expression that might have been pity. It was a look that worried Lanrik.

Murhain showed them little interest. His retinue of
a dozen men sat in the shade of a canvas sheet stretched between tall trees.
They were the elite of Esgallien society: rich, perfumed and luxuriously
dressed. They drank watered wine from polished goblets; gold and jewels flashed
from pale hands; and they pretended with calculated failure not to notice
Lanrik’s disheveled appearance. Mecklar was present, and Lanrik had a feeling
that things would not go well. The king’s counsellor smiled coldly at him.

He had more time and respect for people like
Gilhain. He doubted any of these men had ever worked, and while they sat on
camp chairs and sipped wine at leisure, soldiers were ready to risk their
lives.

Aranloth had told them something about the king on
their way here, and the lòhren’s words ran through his mind.
The blood of
kings can be a curse. Everywhere Murhain looks he sees the achievements of his
father and forefathers for a thousand years. Some people have a spirit that
thrives on this, and it spurs them to great heights. For him, it is a crushing
weight. It forces the worst from him.

Lanrik’s thoughts were interrupted as Murhain spoke
to Aranloth sarcastically.

“Nice of you to join us.”

Aranloth did not answer. He leaned on his staff and
gazed steadily at the king with those sea-grey eyes that seemed to see all
until Murhain looked away.

“O king,” the lòhren said. “I sensed no elùgroth
with the approaching army. This troubled me, for I had expected one, and I went
somewhere to think.”

“You always come and go as you please,” Murhain
said. “But the rest of my retinue stays with me. That’s the kind of loyalty I
need as we face the enemy.”

Aranloth smiled, but it took none of the sting from
his words. “I am not of your retinue, though. I am merely a wanderer in this
land, and is not well-spoken counsel worth a thousand ill-conceived
whisperings?”

Murhain turned red and the lòhren went on. Briefly,
he explained what Lanrik had done to slow the enemy, how he had rescued Erlissa
and what she had discovered of the plan to overthrow Lòrenta. The king appeared
bored, which made Lanrik angry, but sudden activity in the elug army diverted
everyone’s attention.

Boom! The war drums of the elugs rang no longer to a
marching rhythm but to something more frantic. The vast mass of the enemy
commenced clashing sword against shield and stamping the ground with iron-shod
boots. The drums strained, and the hideous voices of the elugs rose in frenzied
ululation.

Ashrak ghùl skar!
Skee ghùl ashrak!

Skee ghùl ashrak!
Ashrak ghùl skar!

The chant flowed without beginning or end. All the
while the beating of the drums grew louder and faster. The stamping of boots
thundered, and a cloud of dust lurched slowly above the horde and dimmed the
faltering sun.

The king’s voice, trembling and breathy, broke the
silence of his retinue.

“What are they saying?”

Aranloth shifted his steady gaze from the elugs to
Murhain.

Death and
destruction! Blood and death!

Blood and death!
Death and destruction!

In the dusk-like noontide, there was a sudden boil
and swirl of silvered chain mail. Precious stones glinted dully on the black
tunics of a hundred lethrins. They separated from the host and surged into
Esgallien Ford. In their wake scrambled a thousand elugs; leaping, jumping,
stumbling. The Careth Nien, white with froth and foam, churned about them.

Water rose to the lethrins’ thighs; to their waist;
to their chests, but their mile-eating stride carried them forward. They neared
the northern bank before Esgallien’s longbows thrummed, and arrows flashed
through the air. The lethrins, disdaining shields, lifted high their iron maces
and trusted to hard skin and mail vests. Arrows bounced, broke and shattered.
The lethrins came on, but a few toppled, transfixed through eye or neck by
black-fletched shafts.

Wave after wave of arrows, fired with speed and
skill, struck mercilessly. Further lethrins were cut down, and arrows fell all
the more thickly on those remaining. The onrush slowed and then stopped. Iron
maces fell from massive hands. The lethrins slid into the water, silvered vests
sinking deep, and they were gone.

The elugs neared. They carried shields but many lost
their balance, and having to swim to regain it, were forced to discard their
protection. The current swept some away.

The remainder screamed and cursed, first at the fast
flowing water and then each other. The river took its toll, but more than two
thirds approached the northern bank. Countless bows released once more, and
sure-flighted arrows sped to their targets.

The elugs milled uncertainly. Arrows struck them.
Some hissed, uselessly piercing water, others rattled off shields; many struck
unprotected flesh. A mass of bodies floated and bobbed downstream.

The attackers had not reached within a hundred paces
of the bank, but they had endured enough and turned to flee. The war drums
stopped then commenced a slower beat. Their sullen sound filled the river
valley, and the flights of arrows ceased.

“Keep shooting!” yelled the king. “Shoot and kill
them all!” He turned to his retinue. “Why don’t they shoot?”

The luxuriously dressed men did not know the answer.
Lanrik did, but it was the Lindrath who answered.

“The commander could have killed more elugs, but he
wanted them to know that retreat was safe. That way it will be encouraged in
future attacks.”

Lanrik did not think there would be too many more attempts
though. The enemy had been decisively repelled. Esgallien was prepared, and he
had fulfilled one of his promises to Lathmai.

Aranloth spoke once more. “O king,” he said. “The
ford is well defended, because of the time Lanrik bought us, and there is little
chance of the elug host breaking through.”

“No chance at all,” Murhain said. “That is certain,
but the role Lanrik played is less obvious.
Mecklar
brought word of the
approaching army. We only have the Raithlin’s word for what he did, and that
isn’t worth much given it was one of their own who betrayed Esgallien.”

Lanrik’s anger was steadily increasing, but he
clenched his teeth.

“Harsh words, O king,” Aranloth said. “Erlissa’s
story confirms the truth.”

The king scowled. “I, who am descended in true line
from Conhain, will be the final judge of that.”

“You are the king,” Aranloth said, “but will you not
acknowledge the evidence of Lanrik’s actions and how the Raithlin skills helped
save the kingdom? Will you confirm their ongoing existence?”

Murhain looked toward Mecklar, and Lanrik waited
anxiously. There was an undercurrent of tension here, of old arguments lying
beneath the surface. What held his attention most though was that a decision
about the Raithlin’s future could be made.

The king turned back to the lòhren but did not meet
his gaze. “I have considered things,” he said. “I’ve weighed them up, carefully
reviewed all contingencies and put in place plans to manage risk. The benefits
of my policy will unfold over time, and to expedite the process I will
communicate my reasoning personally to those affected. People will understand
the decision and realize the benefits implicit in change. Communication is the
key.”

Lanrik went cold inside. He’d heard this kind of
talk before. They were empty words, but hidden within them was the outcome the
Raithlin feared.

Aranloth leaned on his staff. “O king, what is your
decision.”

Murhain gathered himself. He straightened in his
chair and spoke as though he was giving a well-rehearsed speech.

“I declare the order of the Raithlin disbanded. The
maintenance of their organization isn’t cost effective in view of the limited
benefits they provide. There is now doubt as to their loyalty, as discovered
recently by Mecklar, and Gwalchmur is outlawed. Lanrik will be questioned
closely by Mecklar to determine if his claims are based on truth or are
fabrications intended to prop up the Raithlin.”

There was silence. The Lindrath seemed shocked. Only
the lòhren was undisturbed; he looked as though he was waiting for something
more.

Lanrik took a step forward. “Lathmai died to save
Esgallien, and I’ve risked much. Shall I show you proof?”

He held out the scabbard that carried the
shazrahad’s sword. The gold thread and scrollwork depicting hunting scenes
caught sunlight and gleamed. The magnificent ruby at the hilt was redder than
blood, and when he drew the pattern-welded blade from the sheath the metal rang
and shimmered. The gold inlay glistened, and the script he could not read
flashed in the light. The blade intrigued even Aranloth.

“This,” Lanrik said, turning the blade in the air
before him, “is the shazrahad’s own sword. Do you think I found it lying
discarded on the grass of Galenthern? No. I entered the enemy camp, then the
shazrahad’s tent.”

The king leaned forward. His eyes were wide and
filled with greed, then he sat back in his chair and veiled his yearning.

“The fate of the Raithlin is determined,” he said.
“Your own situation is . . . more fluid. You’re dismissed for the moment, but
leave the sword behind. I’ll scrutinize it carefully.”

Lanrik was amazed at the calmness that settled over
him. He was no longer angry or nervous, though he had reason to be both. The king’s
desire was clear, and he knew that if he left the sword behind he would never
see it again.

“No,” he said, and sheathed the blade.

Mecklar reared up, his face red with fury, and his
thick fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. “Do you disobey your king?”

Lanrik remembered their contest at the Spring Games,
and once more had a feeling that he and Mecklar would finish that fight, but
not today. He shook his head. 

“If you wish to question me or look at the sword
please do so. But the sword is mine and stays in my possession.”

“Fool!” Murhain said, losing his composure.
“Soldiers in Esgallien’s army don’t keep the spoils of war! They belong to me!”

Mecklar placed a moderating hand on Murhain’s arm.
“What the king says is true, though soldiers receive a tenth part of the value.
You can be assured, Lanrik, you will get what’s coming to you.”

There were different ways to interpret that
statement. Lanrik smiled tightly.

“Your thoughtfulness is touching,” he said. “But
you’re forgetting that I’m not a soldier. The Raithlin aren’t part of the army,
and by custom established by Conhain, we keep our own spoils of war. It was a
reward for the risks we run.”

Lanrik felt a sense of satisfaction. The Lindrath
nodded in confirmation, and the king turned red. Evidently, he did not know
much about the Raithlin, but he was not so easily put off. In his
embarrassment, and despite Mecklar’s tightening grip on his arm, he lost all
discretion. “I don’t care about traditions! I want that sword!”

No one spoke after his outburst. His retinue looked
uncomfortable, and the Lindrath and Erlissa stared at him.

Lanrik, thinking of his uncle, swallowed and spoke.
“Will you come with guards to kill me in the dark, as you did to Conrik?”

 “If I must!” screamed the king.

There were sharp intakes of breath among the
retinue.

Mecklar tightened his grip on the king’s arm, but
Murhain would have none of it. “I’m the king of Esgallien – the highest
authority in the land. I do as I choose!”

Aranloth stood straight and tall, and Lanrik
realized he had been waiting for this moment. He had guessed the king would
want the sword and that Lanrik would deny him. He had somehow
known
this
confrontation would come.

“O king,” Aranloth said. “Long have I counselled you
for the benefit of Esgallien, but to little effect. In place of advice, I now
offer foretelling. Listen well!”

The lòhren’s voice slowed and deepened. It became
distant, but relentless like the muttering of a far off sea. His eyes, though
open, looked on some vision beyond their grasp. The grey depths darkened. His
knuckles whitened on the oaken staff.

“Esgallien is safe,” he said. “The enemy will not
break through. Yet they will return. In triumph, they will take the ford in the
future; and terror will march before them; the walls of Esgallien will then
seem thin and weak to its people. Too late will you heed good counsel. Too late
will you rue all your choices that went awry. King will you be; descendant of
the blood of kings, but in that hour none will obey you. Fate will sweep you
aside.”

Aranloth ceased speaking. Life returned to his eyes,
and they shone bright and clear. Murhain was deathly pale and looked as though
he would run.

Mecklar rose slowly from his chair. “None of you
will be allowed to leave here.”

Aranloth looked at him, and of all things, laughed.
“I have foretold the future,” he said, “and though that is often painful, it is
not a crime.”

Then mirth dropped from him like a discarded cloak.

“And who has authority to stop me leaving?” he
asked. “As the king noticed, I come and go as I please. I have done so for
longer years, and in more places, than you can count.”

He did not look like an old man any more; strength
and confidence was in his posture, power beyond their understanding burned in
his eyes. He made no move, nor the slightest threat, yet they sensed the might
of him, the hidden and deadly strength of lòhrengai.

He gave the king a final look, ignored Mecklar and
the rest of the retinue, and strode from Murhain’s presence. No one tried to
stop him.

“Come,” he said, as he passed the others. “Our time
here is done and we are needed elsewhere.”