Lore Of The Letharn (Book 2)

by Robert Ryan

  The carvings were odd, perhaps because the grooves that formed them had once contained some kind of paint or colored clay that had long since disintegrated. Long processions of varied people wound around the walls. Lanrik recognized the aloof style of craftsmanship from the massive carvings in the ravine on the other side of the river. This was much smaller, more refined, and yet eerily similar in the mood of authority and awe that it inspired.

  Men, women and children were shown wailing in the procession. Stern warriors surrounded them, heavy swords and halberds in their hands. Long-robed priests, or sorcerers, led them, staffs in one hand and ceremonial daggers in the other.

  At the very head of the winding line was a wagon, drawn by two white oxen. It seemed like a funeral procession.

  Aranloth paid the carvings no heed. He walked straight to the stone monument on the far side of the room. It was squat and ugly. Tall as a man it stood, though wider than it was high. Each of its four faces was blank, unlike the monument that Lanrik had seen marking the opening of the tombs on the other side of the river.

  He soon noticed however that the four sides were not quite blank. There was no writing, yet each face showed a small carving near the top. One a crescent moon, its opposite a radiant sun. The remaining two faces bore the image of a woman. A set of scales held in one hand and a saw-toothed dagger in the other. Her hair was long, and serpent heads sprouted from its ends.

  Beyond the stone was a waist-high slab of red granite, pit-marked by age and covered by mold. On its far side was the dark mouth of a tunnel. Stairs led down at a steep angle into the rock, and above the opening was a lintel, inscribed with marks in a series of lines, dots and half circles. Lanrik knew it for the writing of the Letharn, and guessed its meaning.

  “What does it say?” Arliss asked.

  “There’s little time,” the lòhren answered, “and yet you should know before you enter.”

  He did not look at it. But when he continued, his voice was assured, though reverent.

  Attend! We who mastered the world are become dust. We possessed the wealth of nations. Gold adorned our hands; priceless jewels our brows; bright were our swords. The world shuddered when we marched! Now, our glory lies unheeded in the dark of the tomb. Servants mutter secret words as they walk the hidden ways. Death and despair take all others!

  Arliss snorted. “The ancients didn’t have much of a sense of humor," she said.

  Lanrik frowned. “Don't make light of it, Arliss. I don’t think the Letharn made threats lightly. They protected their riches, and that protection still exists.”

  Arliss shrugged, but did not reply.

  “This is the last chance to turn around,” the lòhren said. He looked at each of them in turn.

  No one moved.

  “Then follow me!”

  He faced the front again and carefully descended the stairs.

  The roar of the waterfall dulled further. The stairs were wide, but the ancient stone was crumbling at the edges. They went deep into the earth before the path suddenly leveled out. It swiftly grew dark, and Aranloth’s staff began to glow.

  The group kept close together. Aranloth remained in the lead, and Lanrik was happy to walk behind him. His Raithlin skills were of little use here.

  They followed the tunnel. It was both wide and straight. Brass brackets were fixed into the stone wall; brackets that once must have held wooden torches for light. Lanrik could picture a long line of people coming through here, and he guessed that the royalty of the Letharn, when laid to rest in the tombs, followed this same path in a funerary procession of pomp and ceremony.

  There was room for many to walk abreast and countless mourners to trail behind. He supposed that the carvings in the building above showed exactly that. And yet how did they get the ox-drawn wagon down the stairs? He thought about it as they walked and finally came to the conclusion that the ancients built a temporary ramp for the purpose.

  After a while, Aranloth stopped and listened.

  “What is it?” Lanrik asked.

  “I’m listening for the guards, but I can’t hear them. They’re probably deciding whether or not to come after us.”

  “They’ll come,” Lanrik said.

  Aranloth sighed. “I hope not.”

  He led them on again. Lanrik realized that somewhere above ran an entire river. The wright of the water and the stone above him made him nervous. He wondered if it was safe and feared that it would collapse. Yet that must be unlikely. The tunnel had been here for thousands of years, predating even the exodus of the Halathrin into Alithoras. At one point, he traced a hand along the stone wall, but it, just like the floor, was dry. He put the river out of his mind.

  They continued forward until they came to a vast recess. It was triangular, a shape that the Letharn seemed to favor. Stone benches ran along the sides. Here, if not in the building above, were once decorations.

  What looked like cushions had rotted to dust on the stone. Around them, the walls were carved with yet more scenes from the funerary procession. The wagon, the white oxen, and the men in long robes featured prominently. The priests now seemed to mutter under their breath as they walked.

  Aranloth paid none of it any heed. He walked forward toward an opening on the opposite side of the recess. Lanrik wondered how many times the lòhren had been here. He could read the Letharn’s language, he knew at least some of their secrets, and he could find his way through their tunnel system. How had he come by this knowledge?

  The lòhren stopped. A portal stood before them. Two naked women were carved into the stone on each side. They were life-size and lifelike. Lanrik repressed a shudder, for the looks on their faces were terrible and cold. They each held high the saw-toothed daggers that he had seen in the building above; a clear threat. The strange writing of the Letharn was inscribed at their feet; the deep grooves filled by black stones. It was short, whatever its meaning.

  “What does it say?” Arliss asked.

  The lòhren ignored the carvings of the women, but he looked closely at the writing.

  “It says, in the tongue of the Letharn, who are no more, Harak kur likkil, harak ben luluck. They are words that now no man speaks, and few dared even in the days when the harsh hand of the Letharn ruled these lands. But their speech is dead, was long dead before the Halathrin came. But once those words meant something, and they inspired fright even among the ancients, that race who often knew strife but seldom fear. When they were uttered, the strongest warrior would cringe, kings would bow their head and queens would wail.”

  “So, what do the words mean?”

  “I am death. I will devour you.”

  No one spoke and Aranloth turned and listened again. Far away there was a dim sound of movement. Thrice the lòhren struck the butt of his staff against the stone floor, and thrice the echoes ran along the length of the corridor. Then he spoke, and by some art of lòhrengai, though he did not shout, his words were loud.

  “Turn back, fools! You will die if you follow. I cannot protect you from that which stalks the paths ahead.”

  There was no answer save for the heavy silence of the dark tunnel.

  The lòhren waited several moments, and then gestured to the others.

  “Come,” he said. “Whatever you do, do not touch anything, for the poison on the treasures will kill you. Step only where I step, and listen carefully to what I say. If you follow my instructions, you will live through what comes, though you will gain memories to haunt you all the days of your life.”

  He stepped through the portal. Straightaway the tunnel changed. It widened again and was no longer so smooth. Here, the caves seemed natural and the Letharn had spared little time carving and shaping them. Even their seeming endless supply of laborers could not do everything.

  Lanrik thought of asking what protected the tombs. He wondered why Aranloth had not volunteered the information, but the lòhren was always secretive. Yet in this case there was probably a good reason. It was better to confront some dang
ers only when necessary, rather than struggle with the fear of them beforehand and thus be weakened.

  Alcoves, dark and musty, were set into the walls at irregular intervals. Above each was more lettering in the strange script of the Letharn. The tip of Aranloth’s staff did not cast much light in the recesses, but Lanrik saw the remnants of bones and rotted furniture. There were tables, many broken but some intact, and chairs, cups and pottery. The bones were positioned neatly, each laid to rest with the skulls toward the far end of the niche. Other bones littered the floor of the main tunnel, and the travelers stepped carefully around them. Rusted swords and other weapons lay discarded on the ground.

  “They are not Letharn,” the lòhren said quietly.

  Lanrik asked no questions. He understood what they were: grave robbers, killed before they escaped.

  A sound of shuffling, of murmuring and whispering, came to his ears. He wondered if it was the river, or the subdued sound of the waterfall, but he knew it was not. Something else walked the tunnels with them.

  The stench of ancient death was suddenly strong, and the very dark began to whine; a long and high-pitched moan like the keening of a thousand throats. It filled the shadows, brought them to life, and finally rose to an angry wail.

  A chill breeze blew down the tunnel. Aranloth stopped walking. He spoke as before, not loudly, but his voice carried.

  Har nere ferork. Skigg gar skee.

  The wailing subsided, with seeming reluctance, and the wind stilled. The scent of death remained strong, but whatever was in the tunnel with them dissolved back into the shadows of which it was made and receded.

  Lanrik wondered what the Lòhren had done. He had spoken in a language that sounded like the Letharn’s own. At least like what had been written on the lintel. He thought about that warning not to enter. It said that servants mutter secret words as they walk the hidden ways. Had Aranloth somehow learned those words? They must be some kind of charm or password that offered protection against whatever guarded the tombs. If so, he understood why the guards would not be protected. They did not know the charm.

  Even as he thought of the guards he heard something in the tunnel behind them. The wailing rose again, loud and fierce, but this time it was not directed at them. A little while later there were alarmed shouts, and then fear-driven screams. Then there was silence once more.

  Aranloth broke it. “I warned them,” he said. “I warned them, but they would not listen.” He walked on, his head bowed, and said no more.

  Lanrik let out a long breath. Here, in the dark of the tombs, the only thing that stood between them and death was Aranloth and his understanding of the lost lore of the Letharn.

  At least they had protection. The soldiers from Esgallien had died. Once more, men lost their lives in service to a corrupt and foolish king. How many had done so because of Murhain’s greed for the sword? It was time to do something about it, although he did not know what. Nor was this the time to think about it. The skin of his neck prickled. The wailing pierced the dark again.

  18. Wrath of the Wizard-priests

  They continued through the tombs. The wailing voice followed them, a constant presence in their wake that muttered, whispered and whined in frustration. At times, it was more than a voice. When Lanrik looked back, he often glimpsed strange shadows that flittered away from the light of Aranloth’s staff. He noticed, also, that the somber face of Arliss shone palely in the dim light.

  From time to time the lòhren gave voice to the charm that kept them safe: Har nere ferork. Skigg gar skee. But as they walked, Lanrik realized that Aranloth spoke it more frequently, and the force that guarded the tombs, whatever it was, did not withdraw so much.

  They went forward through the endless dark. The tunnel veered one way and then another, but always it had a slight downward angle.

  The niches to either side changed: no more the broken furniture and cheap clay vessels; here rested the wealthy of Letharn society. Carvings decorated the tall walls, intricate and extensive. In places, bright murals gleamed in the fitful light, revealing scenes of hunting, fishing, wine-making and the day-to-day activities of long-ago lives.

  On the pointed fingers of the dead glittered jewel-encrusted rings; twisted arm bones ran through bands of beaten gold. About the once-bright necks of women hung necklaces, yet these now shone against a background of grimed flagstones and dark-eyed skulls.

  The number of graves was astonishing. Lanrik wondered if all the Letharn dead, through a long and prosperous history, were buried here. For not only was there the main tunnel down which Aranloth led them, but many others that branched continually to either side. Truly, he thought, the rock beneath the river was a catacomb like no other, for here the dead must outnumber the living of all the cities and lands of Alithoras.

  The thought depressed him. He began to think that life was futile, that in the end he too would be reduced to nothing but dust. The weight of the stone piled high above, and the mighty river that coursed atop it seemed to press down and crush his spirit. The shadows stirred and groped, and he thought he heard the slap of footfalls in the great dark behind him. Perhaps a quick death at the hands of the force that guarded this place would be best. He would die anyway.

  Even as his thoughts darkened, the voice of the lòhren rolled through the caverns once more. Har nere ferork! Skigg gar skee! This time he spoke the words with great force. The shadows receded, and the light at the tip of his staff shone hopefully against the night.

  “Have courage!” urged the lòhren, and he walked forward with a high head and sure strides.

  Lanrik felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Aranloth led them without fear, and he would follow in a like manner. Death would claim him one day, but he need not make it easy. And there was much that he might yet achieve.

  The wailing turned to a distant whine, and Lanrik ignored it. He looked instead about him, wondering once more at the size of the place, but no longer intimidated by it.

  They did not speak to each other, but they all looked with curiosity as the tunnel began to change again. It narrowed into a passageway. The niches in the wall and the dead that filled them were no more.

  On turning a corner, they entered an open chamber. The floor was a grand mosaic of colored stones. Long benches of white marble, where a multitude could sit, ringed the walls. The open center was surrounded by tall walls, carved with massive figures. The whole vast space was overhung by a domed roof, man-made, smooth and painted to show scenes of people and rituals that must have meant much to the Letharn but were lost on Lanrik.

  All about the travelers were more signs of a funerary procession. The wagon and oxen appeared again, and the wall carvings were beaded with gold and silver and strange gems that glinted in the first light for tens of centuries.

  Aranloth sighed. “It was here that the Letharn rested during funeral ceremonies. After, they moved on to the next level. The rich, the noble, even kings and queens were laid here for an hour while the wizard-priests performed rites and the weary mourners found what ease they could. We should rest, too.”

  They sat down on one of the benches. It felt strange to Lanrik, for it occurred to him that he now sat in the same place that a race of people, which had not walked the earth for thousands of years, and about whom little was known except for dim rumor, once rested just as he.

  He looked at Aranloth and spread his arms wide to indicate everything that surrounded them.

  “How do you know all these things?”

  The lòhren let out a long breath.

  “You know that I am old – that I have lived many lives of men. But I am older even than that. I walked these halls when the Letharn were at their zenith …” He hesitated, and then went on. “I hunted the Angle with the rulers of the land and many realms beyond. I crossed the rivers and explored distant lands – before the Duthenor came, before the Camar, before the Halathrin trod those paths. And I came here also, to the very heart of the Empire that was, and in these shadow-haunted hall
s watched while the great of an age that is lost were buried.”

  Lanrik looked at him and did not speak. What reply could he make? There were no words to encompass how he felt, or the awe in which he held the lòhren.

  Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he had another thought. Aranloth had lived through the eons, preserved by some power of lòhrengai or ancient lore of the Letharn, but the world that he knew was gone. It lay about him now, reduced to dust and broken bones. Of everything that he once loved, nothing remained. Now, Lanrik understood better that look of compassion, sadness and regret that often marked the lòhren’s face.

  The wailing dark seemed to leave them alone in this resting place. Yet they must continue on, and the lòhren eventually stood. Once more he held up his staff, and like a man preparing for some great task, he straightened his shoulders and lifted up his gaze.

  “The last stretch lies ahead,” he said. “Soon, we’ll come to the burial chambers of the wizard-priests where the implements of their trade, and the poison that covers the treasure, as well as its cure, is stored. After that, we will leave as swiftly as we may. This is no place for the living or the light of heart.”

  He led them to the other side of the chamber. Here, a set of marble stairs wound down into the dark, like a white spiral into a pit of shadow.

  Down they went, their steps shuffling along the stone. At length, the staircase ceased. Before them stood a great portal. Three massavise slabs of marble formed a doorway. Engraved on either side were the naked women, their saw-toothed daggers held high, their expression wicked and deadly. Gold filled the deep-cut lines of their figures, and it shimmered and sparkled in the light of Aranloth’s staff giving them a semblance of life and movement. On the high lintel was more writing in the script of the Letharn.