by Robert Ryan
Aranloth sighed. “That’s true. And that makes you the best person to keep it. Yet it might be best to leave it in the fortress while we seek Erlissa’s cure. It’s safe here, but out in the wild it could get into the wrong hands.”
Lanrik thought about it. He had another sword, one that he could wield with pride – the Raithlin blade that Gwalchmur had given him.
“I agree,” he said.” But on the other hand, you’ve already suggested that Ebona is involved. And what if Elù-Randùr has something to do with all this? We might need to defend ourselves against sorcery and witchcraft. I trust in your skills, but you can’t be everywhere. Our mission must succeed, or Erlissa is lost. I won’t allow that, so if that means risking the sword, I’ll take my chances.”
Aranloth looked like he might argue, but in the end he just shrugged. “You may be right.”
“There’s another thing,” Lanrik said. He felt uncomfortable mentioning this concern, but he thought Aranloth should know.
The lòhren sensed his change of mood and looked at him sharply. “What is it?”
“I don’t think all of this is a coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“Does it feel to you like we’ve been down this path before? It’s not the first time that Musraka has pursued us. It’s not the first time that we’ve gone to the Angle. Nor is it the first time that Ebona has helped our enemies.”
Aranloth frowned as he thought about it, but did not interrupt, so Lanrik continued.
“I think the sword has something to do with it. Do you remember what you once said? That it’s an embodiment of prophecy, and that the elùgai in it works to bring Assurah’s foretelling to fulfillment.”
Aranloth’s frown deepened, but he still made no move to speak.
Lanrik went on. “I think I can feel it. When I touch the hilt, I sense the elùgai stir. Or maybe the prophecy itself. But I feel something. It sings out like a call to arms.”
Aranloth rolled his staff back and forth on the tabletop while he thought.
“It might just be,” the lòhren said at length. “But if so, there’s nothing we can do at the moment. All the more reason to leave it here, though.”
Lanrik shook his head. “I can’t do that. But when this is done, I think we should destroy it.”
Aranloth let go of his staff and sat back.
“Perhaps. I’ve been thinking about the problem since we first learned of the prophecy. It might be the answer in the end, but we’ll have to wait and see.”
Aranloth looked as disturbed as Lanrik had ever seen him. After a while, he raised his eyes and fixed him with a troubled gaze.
“You realize that if what you say is true, the sword might draw our enemies to us in the wild.”
Lanrik had not considered that. He still was not sure if his feelings were imagined or not.
“Maybe,” he said. “But there’s a risk no matter what I do.”
Aranloth did not answer. Lanrik knew the lòhren would not try and convince him again to leave it behind. Nor would he encourage him to take it. It was his own responsibility to decide, but it was clear that whatever choice he made would be a dangerous one.
7. Carist Nien
Shadows groped down from the high fells. They smothered the fortress and dulled the white marble of its walls. All was still, and the world momentarily hushed during those few moments when the newborn promise of night was freshest.
Inside the fortress of Lòrenta, however, not everything was motionless. A group of people, though quiet and subdued, gathered near a secret exit at the base of one of the walls.
Lanrik sat astride his black stallion. The shazrahad sword hung in its scabbard by his side. He would take it on this quest, for Erlissa meant more to him than anything. Yet he was mindful of his responsibilities to Alithoras. He would protect the blade. He would fight to keep it out of the hands of those who would misuse it, or, merely by possessing it, set in motion a prophecy of dark destruction.
He had not made the decision lightly, but the sword’s capacity to help outweighed its potential for harm. At least, he hoped it would be so.
He glanced at Aranloth, who slouched in the saddle of his roan. He appeared unaffected by the dangers that might lie ahead. Lanrik wondered how many times the lòhren had left the fortress on a quest. How many dangers had he faced and survived? He had done all of this before, and it showed in his relaxed attitude, yet even so, there remained an undercurrent of nervousness. Lanrik had learnt to recognize the near invisible signs: a slight narrowing of the eyes, and the tight grip of his hands on the oaken staff.
Lanrik had made another decision besides taking the shazrahad sword. It too was unsettling, but it was his job to make these choices, and he would not shirk them. Arliss was beside the lòhren. She was mounted and prepared for travel, for he had agreed to let her come. That she would be of help, he knew. But her life would be at risk also, and that disturbed him. But her presence meant a greater chance of saving Erlissa, and thereby helping strengthen the lòhrens who protected Alithoras. That was what the new Raithlin were for, and Arliss fulfilled that purpose.
They were not alone. The rest of the Raithlin, Hargil and Ruthark at their front, had gathered to see them off. They stood nearby, their faces showing a mixture of disappointment that Lanrik had not chosen them to go, envy that Arliss had been, and relief that they would remain in the safety of the fortress.
Lonfar stepped forward and shook his hand.
“Good luck, Lan.”
“Thanks.” Lanrik said. He shook his uncle’s hand warmly. “You’ll look after the new Raithlin while I’m away?”
Lonfar winked at him. “I’m only a librarian. But I’ll keep an eye on them, if you like.”
Arliss nudged her mount closer. “They respect you, old man. They’ve all heard the stories about you. They don’t care what you are now – they know what you can still teach them.”
“Well, thanks . . . I think,” Lonfar said. “How about you leave out the old man comment next time, though.”
She grinned at him. “No reason to be offended. Some girls like older men.”
Lonfar’s face reddened and he turned to Lanrik.
“You’d better watch this one Lan – she’s full of cheek.”
“I’ve noticed that myself.”
Arliss looked from one to the other, and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”
Lanrik did not answer. He did like it. But no good would come from letting her know that.
“Time to go,” he said.
“Yes, Raithlindrath,” Arliss answered with mock formality. Then she smiled at Lonfar. “Goodbye, old man.”
“Goodbye, Arliss.” The older Raithlin pointed at Lanrik. “Look after him, will you?”
Arliss looked serious for the first time. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The three of them dismounted to pass through the narrow tunnel that led to the other side of the wall. When they reached the end, Aranloth opened the door. A massive panel of stone pivoted at the mere touch of his hand, and beyond was a rocky slope that led away from the fortress.
The lòhren closed the door and when the slab pivoted back into its normal position, nothing could be seen of it anymore. The wall looked just the same as it did at any other point of the fortress.
“Quietly now,” Aranloth whispered. “Noise travels far over rocky ground at night.”
Lanrik went to the front, and they led the horses by hand for a little while. After some minutes, the slope lessened and the rocks gave way to earth and grass. They mounted and commenced to ride.
There was no sign of the Azan, nor did Lanrik expect there to be. Ebona might, or might not, be aiding them, but even her witchcraft could not pinpoint their exact location. Not with Aranloth present, anyway. The lòhren had assured them he would prevent that.
The night air grew cold, and Lanrik pulled his Raithlin cloak tightly about him. He wore one of t
he newly made garments intended for recruits, but he missed his old one that had been with him for years.
Aranloth pointed southward with his staff.
“We’d better go that way, Lanrik. I have a plan to get us to the Angle quickly.”
Lanrik veered in the direction that Aranloth indicated. He had not explored the south of Lòrenta well, for the land grew wet and boggy. He wondered what idea Aranloth had, but now was not the time to ask.
They rode quietly through the night. Fog rolled down from the brooding hills and thickened all around them. The trail was mostly silent. Occasionally, they heard foxes yelp or owls hoot within the dim tracts of the many birch woods.
The fog grew heavier until it was like a blanket cast over the whole land, and the silvery trunks of the slender birches gave way to willow trees. There were not many, but they were massive and gnarly – ancient samples of their kind that seemed as old as the hills themselves.
The travelers rode deep into the night before stopping. Their camp, positioned beneath one of the great willows, was as dry as they could expect under the influence of the fog, and though the overhanging branches would have diffused smoke, Lanrik lit no fire. They were too tired to wait for food to cook.
“We’d better keep a watch,” he suggested, chewing on some fresh bread.
“I’ll take the first,” Arliss said. “I’m not sleepy.”
They spoke little more. Aranloth lay down near the gnarled and twisted trunk, and Lanrik wrapped his cloak about himself and tried to sleep.
The horses stayed where they were, tethered to some young saplings that grew outside the shadow of the willow. They swished their tails occasionally and quietly stamped their hooves in order to deter mosquitoes. Other than that, it remained quiet except for the slow drip of water from the ends of the fog-wetted leaves.
After a time Arliss got up and moved away from the camp. Lanrik knew that it was hard to stay awake during a watch, and moving around often helped.
He drifted into a deep sleep. Sometime later, Arliss gently shook his shoulder to wake him. The fog must have thickened even further, for the night was black as a pit, and he could barely see her pale face.
“Anything happening out there?” he asked.
Arliss pulled her hood up. “No,” she whispered. Without another word she moved away from him and Aranloth to find a spot to sleep.
Lanrik though that something was disturbing her, for she was not her normal self. He wondered what it was, but his mind soon turned to another question: where exactly was the lòhren taking them?
He still had no answer by the time dawn came. The morning was grey, and the fog deep and impenetrable. But the air was full of bird calls, and though the sunrise was not visible, the east was shot through with silver light.
Lanrik lit a fire for breakfast. The willow tree would disperse most of the smoke, and the fog would conceal the rest.
When they were finished eating, Lanrik broached the subject of their destination.
“Why are we heading south, Aranloth?”
The lòhren chuckled. “I knew you’d be wondering about that. You can’t guess the answer?”
“I’ve tried,” Lanrik admitted, “But I can’t work it out.”
“Well,” continued Aranloth, “the main idea is to get to the Angle as fast as we can, isn’t it?”
“Of course, but there’s nothing faster than horseback, and —”
Lanrik stopped, and Aranloth grinned at him.
“Now you’ve got it,” the lòhren said.
“Boats!” Lanrik said. “I should have guessed. It makes sense – the headwaters of the Carist Nien must be nearby. I just didn’t realize that the lòhrens travelled that way.”
“If it didn’t occur to you, we can hope it doesn’t occur to Musraka, either.”
Lanrik nodded in agreement. “What about the horses?”
“They’ll be all right. We often use the river because it’s a quick way to travel southward. There’s a little settlement of fishermen at the headwaters who help supply the fortress with food. They’ll look after the horses for us.”
The fog hung in the air, thick and unmoving, as they rode through the dank morning. The ground grew dangerous, full of bogs and moss-covered boulders. Springs seeped water onto the hillsides and rivulets were plentiful. By midmorning, the sun had burnt away most of the fog. It clung to the lowlands and the tops of the fells, but where Aranloth led them it became ever clearer. There were few trees, and as they crested a hill the fishermen’s settlement lay before them.
There were scores of cottages. Large racks, made of long poles and wicker, faced the sun, and countless fish dried upon the framework in the open. Smoke rose from chimneys and formed sluggish columns in the still air. The scent of fish and smoke was strong.
Each cottage had a large vegetable garden and many of the larger fenced yards contained sheep and cattle.
The travelers neared the settlement and the villages who worked the fields waved. Aranloth saluted them with his staff.
The road through the settlement was muddy, but the little cottages were neat and tidy. Laughing children ran before and after them, but they stopped and went back into the village when the travelers passed through its center and continued until the road descended a steep slope. At its bottom was a long shed, and beyond that, a creek.
“It seems like a small start for a great river,” Arliss said.
“It doesn’t look impressive now,” Aranloth answered, “but the river grows wide and deep soon enough. All the hills for league after league drain into it, and many small streams and creeks contribute to its flow. Not that far away from here it’s a thunderous flood as it descends some rapids, but after that, it’s a smooth ride to the Angle.”
Aranloth dismounted and carefully knocked the tip of his staff against the shed’s wooden door. They waited until an old man, his hair silvery white but his skin nut-brown from decades of sunlight, emerged. His face split into a gap-toothed grin when he saw Aranloth.
“Careth Tar! Great father!”
Aranloth shook the man’s hand and the villager grinned even more broadly.
“Come inside,” the old man said. He popped his head back through the doorway and called out. Two young boys quickly appeared and took the horses’ reins at his bidding.
“Look after them well,” Aranloth said.
The boys did not answer but shyly bobbed their heads in acknowledgement.
The travelers followed the old man into the shed. It was not as dark as Lanrik expected. The roof was high, and several windows and doors allowed plenty of light to enter. Tools of many types hung all over the walls, and root crops lay stacked high at one end. The opposite side contained a half-built boat, but it was different from anything Lanrik had seen in Esgallien.
The old man observed his gaze and grinned yet again.
“It’s called a shuffa,” he said. “We build them more for speed than fishing, but we use them for that sometimes, too.”
“It looks fast,” agreed Lanrik. He studied it carefully. It was a dozen feet long, quite narrow in the middle, and pointed at both ends.
“It looks like some intricate craftsmanship goes into making them.”
The old man looked prideful. “My Dad taught me how to build them, and he learned from his in turn. All our forefathers from time out of memory were boat builders. They’re simple things really – little more than a bit of light timber. It’s putting them together right that takes all the skill.”
“We’ll need to use one of them,” Aranloth said.
The old man gestured them toward a wide doorway on the far side of the shed, and they went through. Outside, the ground dropped quickly into a steep bank. The villagers had cut stairs into the earth and lined them with stone. Beyond that, a simple jetty struck out into the creek, and many boats were tied to oak posts at its side. Some were shuffas, while others were much broader and probably used for fishing instead of travel.
“Take your pick,”
the old man said. “When do you leave?”
“Right now,” Aranloth answered.
The old man looked at him keenly. “Urgent business, is it?”
“Indeed,” the lòhren said. “And dangerous business too. There are Azan in the hills – a group of twenty men. They might track us here, so you’d best prepare the village.”
The old man grinned. “We’re always ready for a fight.”
Lanrik looked at him anew. He was old, but the veins in his arms stood out from the lean flesh. Once, he was strong. Maybe he still was. But it was the glint in his eye that made him look ready to live up to his words. If the village had enough men like him, they would repel the Azan if it came down to a physical confrontation. And they likely had weapons too. Most villagers had an old sword hanging behind their front door and a long spear leaning in a corner somewhere. They would be taken down and sharpened now, and a keen lookout kept for any sign of trouble.
Aranloth shook the old man’s hand.
“We’ll leave straight away.”
The villager gave them all a friendly wave.
“I’ll pass the word around about the Azan. We’ll be ready if they come.”
Aranloth picked out a shuffa, and Lanrik helped Arliss inside. They sat down carefully, but the boat seemed relatively stable. Neither of them were used to this kind of thing, but the lòhren stepped in after them and untied the mooring rope swiftly.
“Take a paddle,” he said, “and let’s get going. You’ll get used to things quickly.”
They each picked up a long pole with a broadened end and mimicked Aranloth’s actions to start the shuffa moving. Soon they were in the middle of the creek. After that, the current took them, and they used the paddles more for steering than anything else.
They gathered speed and moved at a steady pace along with the water. The river grew as they progressed, soon widening, and the banks receded further away. It was an uncomfortable feeling for Lanrik, whose training had rarely involved boats, nor was he a good swimmer. However, he soon grew confident in the sturdiness of the shuffa, however light it was, and began to enjoy the scenery as they drifted along.