Lore Of The Letharn (Book 2)

by Robert Ryan

  He wondered if it was too late to come to an arrangement with Musraka. He was willing to give up the sword, regardless of the consequences, and he felt that sooner or later the shazrahad would catch up with them. Yet he could not disregard Erlissa’s decision. If he gave the weapon to Musraka, it would place a burden on her. One that would be hard to live with, and that would worsen every time the enemy attacked Alithoras. She would see any success they had as her fault.

  The night grew old, and a new day eventually dawned. He rose early and studied their backtrail before breakfast. There was no sign of the Azan. That only served to make him uneasy. If they were not behind, they might be ahead. That Musraka would never give up was beyond question.

  Erlissa was pale and weak. She ate no food and her face was haggard. Nor did she speak. It seemed to take all her remaining strength just to get in the saddle and commence riding.

  During the morning Lanrik eased back and rode level with her.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better, Lan.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  She gave him a faint smile, but did not answer.

  “I wish I could do something.”

  She looked at him fondly. “Just get us to Lòrenta. After that, what will be will be. I have a feeling things will work out, though not in the ways we expect. You’ll just have to trust to fate.”

  “I can’t do that. I don’t have your temperament.”

  “No, you don’t. We’re very different. And yet also much the same.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  She laughed at him, and for a moment shrugged off her sickness. But the change did not last long. Almost immediately the color drained again from her face. She withdrew into herself and once more took up her battle against the poison.

  He moved back to the front. All he could do was what she had asked: get them safely to Lòrenta.

  They rode the rest of that day, stopping for regular but brief rests. The horses were tired and their pace lagged, but they followed Lanrik’s black stallion determinedly, and the riding was still swift along the Halathrin road. However, by midafternoon, the wild Hills of Lòrenta rose to their right, and Aranloth came up to Lanrik.

  “We’ll have to leave the road soon,” he said. “There are many ways to the fortress, but some are quicker than others. I know a trail through this side of the hills that’ll serve us well.”

  Lanrik studied the bedraggled group behind him. They looked tired, and Erlissa seemed less than secure in her saddle.

  “It’ll be a long night,” he said. “But I think we better ride through it.”

  Aranloth did not disagree. He pointed with his staff and spoke again.

  “See the two hills there? The higher one on the right overgrown by heather, and the lower one on the left covered in pines?”

  Lanrik nodded. “I see them.”

  “We need to reach the valley between the two.”

  Lanrik gave a low whistle to get everyone’s attention, and then led them off the road.

  The grass was longer and the ground less flat. He slowed his pace, but only a little.

  The afternoon wore on. They climbed ever higher, and the hills grew closer. The grass dried out and turned a straw color. There was plenty of rainfall in the hills, but the soil was not fertile. It was a strange land: high, remote, and as wild as any place that he had ever been. The open fells to the right looked barren of life, though he knew that was far from the case. The birch forests to his left were dark and secretive. Ahead, he took a path leading to the valley that Aranloth indicated. It was clear of trees, and though the ground was steepening quickly, it remained good riding country.

  Lanrik had explored the hills often, and he remembered being here before, but Aranloth’s knowledge of this land was unsurpassed. As night fell, bringing a swift darkness to the valley, he took the lead. Once more a light glowed at the tip of his staff, and they followed the spark amid the dark of the crowding valley sides.

  The lòhren led them truly. Tarns and sedge-lined gullies were frequent, but the paths he chose were always swift and sure. He kept them on solid ground, although the dangers of spongy earth and rocky ledges were never far away.

  They penetrated deep into the hills. It grew cold. They were now much higher than on the grasslands, and though spring had come to this part of Alithoras, winter had not yet fully loosed its grip.

  The air was still, and their path took them between hills that grew increasingly higher and steeper. Fog and cloud hugged the crests and high ridges, which glowed eerily in the dim starlight. Ice crusted the edges of the willow-rimmed tarns, which lay dark and silent in the deep shadows.

  The night wore on, and they stopped every hour to walk the horses and rest them briefly before riding once more. Erlissa did not walk at these times. Lanrik helped her onto Durnlath’s mount and led her mare by hand.

  He rode close beside her now. Several times he stopped her from falling, until at last he lifted her like a child and placed her ahead of him on the black stallion.

  The night seemed to last forever, but eventually dawn came, grey and chill. A late frost turned the dry grass silvery. There was no ice in the middle of the tarns, but mist rose from their blackish surfaces like sluggish steam.

  In the distance, Lanrik heard the yelp of a fox and from the high fells the calls of grouse and quail.

  The riders emerged from a stand of birch, and there stood Lòrenta. It was no more than a mile away. They approached from its side rather than its front gate. Its ramparts of white marble dazzled the eye.

  Aranloth sighed. “Here at last.”

  Lanrik took one of Erlissa’s hands in his own.

  “We’re here,” he whispered. But her hand was limp and she did not answer. For a moment he feared she had died, but then he heard her cough and mutter.

  What she was trying to say, he did not know, for he heard at the same moment a cry from the left. He turned and looked straight at the Azan. There were more than he had seen at the Halathrin settlement. Twenty horses steamed in the cold air, and sweat lathered their coats. They had been hard ridden, and were galloping still, their riders bent low over their backs.

  “Follow me!” Aranloth commanded.

  The lòhren nudged his roan forward and raced ahead. The travelers followed him closely. He led them around the side of the fortress and toward the front gate. Lanrik thought he knew why. That entrance was always attended, and they should be able to get in quickly and have the gates closed behind them. Still, it would be a race, for the Azan were not far behind.

  Arliss fell back a little, and Lanrik did not know why. Did she have some plan? Whatever it was could wait. They had a lead, and unless something went wrong they should reach the gates ahead of their enemies.

  He yelled back over his shoulder.

  “Arliss! Catch up!”

  She hesitated, and then nudged her mount forward at a faster pace. It quickly closed the gap.

  The wind rushed in Lanrik’s ears, and dirt thrown up by the horses in front sprayed into his face.

  They drew near to Lòrenta’s portcullis, and he spotted movement on the ramparts.

  “Open the gate!” Aranloth yelled.

  The lòhren stood in his stirrups; his white robes whipping about him, and he lifted high his staff.

  The portcullis opened as they approached. The tunnel beyond was narrow and shadowy, but they raced inside without hesitation.

  There was a rush of hooves behind them as the Azan neared, but the gate dropped down with a boom. At the same time arrows fired from the ramparts struck the earth and made the horses shy.

  The travelers rode through the dim tunnel and into the bright yard beyond it. They drew to a halt. Musraka, remaining stationary on his mount and seemingly unafraid of the arrows, hailed them from outside.

  “I can wait,” he said. He was a dark shadow behind the metal bars, and there was no sign of his men.

  “Time is you
r enemy,” he said. “But it’s my ally.”

  He rode off then, and true though Lanrik felt the words to be, he quickly put them out of his mind.

  Dismounting, he carefully pulled Erlissa onto his shoulders. She was unconscious, and he wondered if they were too late.

  He gestured to Ruthark. “Make sure the horses are looked after.” He glanced at Aranloth. The lòhren said nothing but turned and strode ahead. Lanrik followed him through the winding corridors of the fortress. From time to time startled students scurried out of their way. Twice, lòhrens offered to help, but Aranloth waved them away. It took Lanrik a while to realize that someone was following them. He turned and saw Arliss.

  She shrugged. “I thought you might need me.”

  Lanrik did not answer. He went on as fast as he could. He did not know what the lòhren was going to do, so maybe Arliss could help. Strange, considering that she and Erlissa barely spoke to each other, but he was not going to refuse her offer.

  By the time they reached the great courtyard at the center of the fortress, Lanrik’s legs ached.

  “Straight to the fountain,” Aranloth instructed.

  Lanrik stumbled after him as fast as he could. He paid no heed to the green grass, nor the flowerbeds and gardens. He had eyes only for the sparkling white-granite basin, and the great statue that was its centerpiece. The stone lòhren, with his staff extended, and the shooting column of water, from which drifted a mist that canopied all around it. Lanrik felt a sensation of peace. It was the power of ùhrengai at the heart of the fortress, but it did little to dispel his fears.

  “Over here,” Aranloth said. The lòhren indicated one of the stone benches that ringed the fountain.

  Lanrik laid Erlissa down gently. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, but she seemed unconscious. Her head lolled to the side, and he took off his Raithlin cloak, folded it neatly, and placed it behind her neck.

  Her eyes flickered open, and she summoned the last of her strength to speak.

  “Be careful . . . Lan. Don’t do anything stupid looking for the cure. Musraka will seek you out, and it’s not worth the risk to the sword.”

  “I don’t care about the sword,” Lanrik said. “I only care about you.”

  She closed her eyes. “Don’t argue with me, Lan. You have responsibilities . . . to Alithoras. That comes first.”

  “I don’t give a damn about my responsibilities.” He would have said more, but Aranloth approached and looked at her closely.

  “There’s little time,” he said.

  “What can I do,” Lanrik asked.

  “Stand back. Whatever happens, don’t interfere. And don’t touch her.”

  Erlissa closed her eyes while Lanrik and Arliss moved away.

  The lòhren went to the fountain. He extended the tip of his staff deep into the pool of water that filled the basin. Lòhren-fire spurted beneath the surface. The water roiled and swirled. A seething mist rose into the air. Sunlight caught it and made it sparkle like a cloud of diamond dust.

  Tentatively, Arliss reached out with her hand and took Lanrik’s. The ground trembled beneath their feet and he felt a change in the air. He sensed the ùhrengai that lay dormant in the deeps of the earth. It woke and surged upward. Tendrils of power whipped though the courtyard, and all at once he had a sense of the vastness of time. He knew that his life, and even the legendary fortress, were nothing compared to the ùhrengai’s antiquity. It had been here since Alithoras rose from the waves; it would be here when the land sunk once more. Both man and fortress were less than a pebble on the side of a mountain.

  Aranloth left the basin and paced slowly toward Erlissa. Lòhren-fire dripped like water from the tip of his staff. He swirled it slowly through the air, and the white mist from the fountain gathered about it and thickened. He passed it over Erlissa’s still form, again and again. Mist rose from the ground and settled out of the air above. It enveloped the bench.

  Lanrik thought it was beautiful, and then he realized that it was shaped like a coffin. He shivered, and Arliss squeezed his hand.

  Without warning, Aranloth struck the ground with his staff. There was a bell-like ring from the rocky deeps in response. Suddenly, the swirling vapors stilled, and the lòhren-fire died. The white mist was now solid. It encased Erlissa like a block of crystal: cold, remote and untouchable.

  “It is done,” Aranloth said. “She is caught in a moment of time.” He walked forward, but stumbled and fell to one knee.

  Lanrik and Arliss ran to him. They helped him to stand.

  “Is she still alive?” Arliss asked.

  “Yes. But only just. All that she was, all that she is, all that she might yet be, is bound to the ùhrengai. She cannot see or hear us, she cannot think. She cannot even dream. She will sleep in oblivion until we return with the cure.”

  The next morning was bright and clear. Lanrik, well rested but troubled, looked out over the battlements. Below was a clear space and then the birch wood. Nothing moved in the open or within the trees. He remembered Elù-Randùr, who had attacked the fortress with elùgai last summer. He had escaped, though his brethren had not.

  Lanrik looked for a different enemy now. Musraka was someone else from his past, another unresolved issue. But there was no sign of him. He considered sending out a group of Raithlin, but rejected the idea. Musraka was cunning. He would not be easy to find. And what then anyway? It would only lead to a fight. No, there was no point in that. Durnlath was already dead; there was no need for others to suffer.

  He and Aranloth had arranged to leave that night anyway. Musraka would never discover where they were going. Aranloth told him that even Ebona could not guess their destination, for she had little knowledge of the Letharn. They were safe from the shazrahad.

  But did they really need to go to the Angle? There was another way to obtain the cure Erlissa needed. Musraka possessed the antidote. Lanrik knew he could track and find him. He believed he could do it unobserved. But what then? He would have to steal into their camp, find it, and then slip away undetected.

  The danger of a mission like that was great, though he had once gone into the midst of an enemy army. That gave him confidence that he could actually succeed, but there was an unavoidable weakness to the plan. Musraka would know that he might make such an attempt. After all, the shazrahad had commanded the same army that he had infiltrated. The Azan would be waiting for him, which the army had not been.

  Reluctantly, Lanrik gave up on the idea. He was willing to risk the danger, but the plan was less likely to succeed than the alternative of going to the Letharn tombs. He hated the idea of leaving Erlissa imprisoned by some sort of enchantment. He wanted to see her walk again, to smile at him and to see the flash of her eyes. But patience would serve best now. The long road was the surer path.

  It occurred to him that he had made many of these choices and been in the same situations before. It was almost as though history was repeating itself.

  His hand rested on his sword hilt. He felt something in the weapon react to his touch. That he and the blade were linked, he knew. But this felt less like lòhrengai and more like some kind of recognition. Not of him, but his thoughts. It was as though the blade agreed with him. He realized that, in a way, the sword was central to everything that had happened. Its lòhrengai had run through his body and become one with him, but he had never tried to become one with it. Another thought came to him. There was elùgai in the blade too, and even the lòhrens did not fully understand exactly what the sword was capable of, or its purpose. That was disturbing.

  He heard footsteps behind him and turned. It was Arliss.

  “Aranloth wants to see you,” she said.

  “Where is he?”

  “I’ll tell you, but promise me something first.”

  Lanrik heard determination in her voice. “What’s that?”

  “Take me with you.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Aranloth and I have already made our decision. We’re going by ourselves, an
d we’re going tonight. There’s no need for anyone else to risk themselves.”

  “Don’t you think my skills are good enough?”

  He looked at her and considered the question.

  “Of all the new Raithlin in Lòrenta, your skills are the best. But it’s not about that. I just don’t intend for any more of you to die.”

  “You take too much onto yourself. Durnlath knew what he was doing. I know what I’m doing. I’m not stupid. There’ll be risks, that much is certain. But this is certain too. You will need help.”

  Lanrik shook his head. “I think Aranloth and I can manage.”

  “I don’t think so. The unexpected always happens. If you take me with you, you’ll be better prepared for it.”

  He knew she had a point. Her skills were good enough, and something might happen that neither he nor Aranloth anticipated.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  She grinned suddenly. “You’ll agree in the end.”

  Without another word she turned and led him away. He followed her through Lòrenta’s maze of corridors. Aranloth waited in one of the many small meeting rooms. It contained only a round table and several plain wooden chairs. The lòhren, still looking tired from his efforts at the fountain, slumped in his chair. His staff lay across the top of the table. Arliss left the room and closed the door behind her.

  “Bad news,” the lòhren said without preamble, and rubbed his face. The skin of the back of his hands was pale, and his speech listless.

  “Musraka is no longer our only worry. A wandering lòhren returned from his travels this morning. He brought unsettling information.”

  Lanrik had a bad feeling. “What did he say?”

  “He told me that soldiers from Esgallien are on the move. Twenty of them – and well north of Caladhrist.”

  “There could be several reasons for that,” Lanrik said hesitantly.

  “Maybe. But you know in your heart what it means.”

  “You’re probably right. King Murhain hasn’t given up. He wants the sword. Musraka wants it too. It seems as though everybody wants it but me.”