Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

by Robert Ryan

  He walked onwards and the army swallowed him. The edge of the encampment was now out of sight, and elugs were everywhere around him. Most were asleep, but some were alert and watchful. He felt death in every glance, yet he made himself walk smoothly and with confidence as though on some errand.

  At times there were paths through the host, and at others he stepped over sleeping soldiers. Here and there a fire flickered and about it a group of elugs sat and talked. He caught many of their words, harsh and guttural, but few held meaning for him. He guessed they were no different from the soldiers he knew and were probably telling stories of the great fighters they knew or the exploits of other elug armies. By morning, he hoped they would be talking instead about what had happened during the night and that superstitious dread mired their steps.

  He kept going and adjusted his scimitar so that it stood out clearly on his back. It was this more than anything that enabled him to walk through the camp, for it gave him the look of an elug in silhouette. But he quickened his pace for night was passing, and he must be gone before dawn.

  Suddenly he saw a group of a half dozen elugs approach. It was too late for him to angle away without appearing suspicious so he looked downward and kept going. The elugs quickly bridged the gap.

  He realized that something was wrong, for the elugs kept to a tight circle about one of their own – perhaps a prisoner caught trying to desert or steal equipment. Lanrik moved a few paces to the side, all he could manage without stepping into a group of sleeping soldiers, and waited for them to pass.

  They eyed him carefully as they neared, and the prisoner took the opportunity of this distraction to attempt an escape. Like a leaping deer he tried to slip through the circle, but a hairy hand reached out at the last moment and caught his elbow then a steel shod boot smashed into his knee. There was a distinct crack and the elug fell in a wailing heap. The elugs closed round him once more, and their boots flew as they kicked and stomped him. The wailing soon stopped as the creature lost consciousness, but the punishing blows continued for some time. This was cruelty beyond anything Lanrik had seen, and enemy or otherwise, he fought down a nearly overwhelming urge to intervene.

  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?

  5. Dark as the Tomb

  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 wel
l.

  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.