Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

by Robert Ryan

  Woolen rugs covered most of the canvas floor. On the near side, silken cushions in an array of colors lay in a circle. Among them was a tall and elaborate chair, nearly a throne, of black walnut polished to gleam like oiled iron. This would be where the shazrahad held council with his captains and where he received messengers.

  Woven tapestries decorated the canvas walls. No doubt these told stories of the Azan people or even the shazrahad’s own career. Hung as decoration from the bottom of the fabric were gems, pearls and the ubiquitous carved horn that the southern people admired so much.

  On the far side of the room three men lay on piled sheepskin rugs beside chests with gold bands and clasps. No doubt they were aids, and though still, Lanrik could not tell with certainty that they were asleep. The shazrahad himself was not there. Anybody who sat upon a throne to talk to his captains would not sleep near his staff. He would use the other room.

  Lanrik studied the dividing wall closely. There was a flap at the end of the crimson aisle, the wall unpegged in contrast to the outside, and he would therefore be able to gain entrance closer to where he was.

  Delaying further would not benefit him, and he eased himself inside. The carpeted floors helped subdue any noise, and there was no movement from the aids, but it was best to stay low to the ground, and he crawled through the room until he came to the partition. There he lay still and placed his ear to the wall. He listened for several minutes, but there was no sound of movement from beyond.

  Lifting the wall just a little he peered within. There was no candle and the room was completely dark. It would not serve to be overly cautious because the longer he delayed the greater the chance the candle light would be seen through the gap he had created so, he slid under the wall and let it fall behind him.

  Darkness, black as an unmeasured pit, shrouded him. His skin prickled for he could see and hear nothing; it was dark as the tomb. At the thought of death a shiver ran through his whole body. Its presence was all about him, and he felt that at any time his life could end. Yet he also sensed that he was at a crossroads, and what happened here would change his life forever.

  For one of the few times since leaving Lathmai’s cairn he felt indecisive. What should he do now? He did not want to grope around in the blackness of the tent. He was far too likely to make a noise.

  There was only one thing to do. Regardless of the risk, he must lift the dividing wall high enough to allow sufficient candle light through so that he could see and memorize the layout. Time was slipping away from him, and a feeling of recklessness was growing. He would do what he must and the consequences would follow.

  He lifted the wall quite high and wavering light entered the room. It was dim at first but then his eyes began to adjust. It was smaller in here but decorated with the same opulence. At the far end a low pallet stretched across the floor, and on top of this lay the shazrahad. The scarlet headdress that he wore around his head during the day lay on a polished table near the entrance to the chamber. A silver pitcher rested there too, as well as the curved tulwar favored by his people.

  Lanrik swept his gaze over the rest of the room, and what he saw in the deeper shadows near the back shocked him. A young girl, dried blood on her face, was tied to a chair. She was cloaked all in black, and a heavy hood hung behind her shoulders. A dark staff lay across her lap. He realized that these were no ordinary items: they were the regalia of an elùgroth. And yet the girl was tightly bound. Most disturbing of all was that a stained hangman’s noose hung from the ceiling before her eyes.

  He looked closely at her. Even in the dark he could tell she was Esgallien rather than Azan. Her hair was black but her skin milky pale. He could not see her eyes, but they would likely be green. What he could see was her expression. She was awake, and her alert gaze scrutinized him, showing neither surprise nor fear. There was merely a sense of waiting to see what would happen.

  Lanrik was at a complete loss to understand the scene before him, but he raised his finger to his lips and gestured for silence. Slowly he let the dividing wall close until it was completely dark once more. In the distance he heard a loud commotion. He guessed that far on the edge of the camp soldiers had discovered the slain elug, and the drùgluck signs, and that word was spreading. There were calls of ghash, the elug name for a malevolent spirit. Lanrik smiled grimly in the dark. Things were going to plan. Or at least they had been. They were falling apart now though. The calls would soon grow louder, and the shazrahad and his aids would waken. He had very little time left in which to act.

  He now faced a dilemma that he could not have foreseen and for which no amount of Raithlin training would prepare him. His whole purpose in coming here was to kill the shazrahad and disrupt the march of the enemy. Yet regardless of the inexplicable elùgroth regalia and the girl’s bizarre circumstances, it was clear to him that she was not an elùgroth but a prisoner. And she needed help. The purpose of the hangman’s noose, if nothing else, was plain enough: it was to remind her how easily her life could be taken and to intimidate her. He did not know what she had already endured, but her future in the hands of an enemy army was unthinkable.

  Should he move to kill the shazrahad? If he did so it could cause a noise and wake the aids, assuming the commotion from outside had not already done so. There probably would not be enough time after that to free the girl and escape. Or should he release the prisoner and abandon his plan? That would mean jeopardizing the future of a nation in order to help one person.

  The calls of ghash were growing loud and frenetic; he had just moments in which to make up his mind. Already he might have left it too late.

  6. Chance Meetings

  Lanrik made up his mind and acted. He did not know if his decision was right, and he doubted that anybody else would either, though many would still judge his choice.

  He had seen the room when there was light and knew where the obstacles and clear paths lay, so he moved with purpose and trusted the woolen rugs to obscure any noise.

  In the complete dark there was no need to crawl, and he walked at full height. His eyes strained futilely, but his hearing became attuned to every slight noise.

  The faint sound of a person’s breathing warned him that he had neared his destination. He reached out with his left hand until he felt what he sought, and gripped the knife handle firmly with his right.

  “Be easy,” he whispered.

  The Raithlin blade cut through the ropes that bound the girl. She gave no answer but he sensed her silent nod in the dark.

  The cords fell away and she stood, though she was unsteady on her feet. How long had she been tied to the chair? Who was she, and why had she been made a prisoner and not killed? He had no answers and knew he never would unless he got her out of the tent and away from the encampment.

  His mission had failed. He had made a choice to save one person that could condemn an entire nation. But would a nation be worth saving if it were willing to sacrifice a girl to captivity among an army of elugs? He did not think so, and he considered that many in Esgallien would agree. They would want him to save the girl, and they would take their own chances. His uncle had a saying that he had never understood. The good of the many outweighs the one: the good of the one outweighs the many. It made sense to him now.

  His mind turned back to the present problem. Could he still salvage something of his initial plan in the next few seconds? He retrieved charcoal from his pocket and rapidly made the drùgluck sign on the base of the chair. It made a rasping noise but was much quieter than the yells growing like wildfire in the camp.

  If they managed to escape, the shazrahad and his aids would know that a person had entered the tent, but the elugs would see it as the work of a supernatural agency, a ghash. It would also ensure the shazrahad lost credibility. What army could have confidence in a commander from whom a prisoner, under his personal guard, had been spirited away? He realized that his mission might not have completely failed after all.

  He took the girl’s hand and gui
ded her toward the exit flap. Even in the dark he knew where he was going. A brazen idea came to him, and he reached to the left. He found the table where he expected it and quickly took the shazrahad’s tulwar, leaving the elug scimitar in its place. He felt for the scarlet headcloth as well. There was noise on the pallet, and the sleep-heavy voice of the shazrahad broke the quiet. Lanrik did not understand and did not answer. He snatched the headcloth and quickly pulled open the flap.

  After the blackness of the shazrahad’s room the candlelight seemed bright. One of the aids stirred, and feeling panic rise, Lanrik walked the girl straight to the point of the wall where he had entered.

  When they were outside he held up two fingers, and then pointed to the front of the tent to warn her about the guards. She nodded her understanding, and they huddled low to the ground while he drove in the peg that secured the wall.

  The shadows were leaching away, and the pale light of dawn was growing. Only the cloud cover saved them, for on a clear day they would have been seen. He had taken too long to get into the tent, and even alone the chances of escape were remote: with the girl they were near impossible.

  The clamor of the encampment was increasing, and the cries of ghash were coming from all around. Within the shazrahad’s room there was a sudden yell. Loud movements followed as the aids scrambled up, and there were questioning shouts from the lethrin guards. A moment later he heard their heavy tread as they ran into the tent.

  What could he do? There was nowhere to hide in a camp of enemies, and only moments left before discovery. To make matters worse the girl was looking at him. She had not panicked and seemed to take everything as it came, but there was trust in her eyes, and the thought of letting her down pricked his soul. To give her hope of rescue and then watch it wither would be worse than failure.

  He made his final choice of the night and wrapped the shazrahad’s scarlet headcloth around his head. Suddenly he smiled in the dark, and a wild sense of recklessness flowed through him. He recognized it as a response to intense strain but did not care: it was all he could do not to laugh. The girl caught his mood. She looked at him and her eyes gleamed. She was ready for what came next even though she had no idea what it was. He did though, for a plan had been taking shape in his mind, and though the chance of escape was remote, nothing would stop him from trying.

  He took the girl’s hand once more and led her along the side of the tent. He had no choice but to trust to the deeper shadows along its edge to hide them. They came to the front where the horn was propped against the canvas; it would be the key to what happened next.

  He snatched it up, surprised at its weight. Up close the beaten gold mouth gleamed in the flickering light of the fire, which now exposed them. The twisted horn was detailed with scrimshaw, and there were two gold bands wrapped around it connecting it to a leather carry strap. He flung it onto his back and guided the girl toward the horses. Speed was essential, but running would only attract attention.

  It began to rain. There was enraged shouting from within the tent and harsh cries from all over the encampment. Most were indecipherable, but Lanrik repeatedly heard the call of ghash.

  They reached the horses. The whole camp was beginning to boil with frenzied activity, but as yet, nobody paid them any heed.

  “Take a saddle and choose a horse,” Lanrik told the girl. She did as asked with speed and competence and wasted no time on questions.

  Lanrik stroked the neck of the black stallion he had seen before and readied his own saddle. He had thought they would have to ride bareback, but as they had not been discovered yet, he would take advantage of it.

  An elug worked up the courage to approach the shazrahad’s tent and shriek the word ghash at the top of his voice. The lethrin guards emerged and were followed by the shazrahad, bareheaded but carrying the scimitar Lanrik had substituted for the tulwar. He stepped forward and beheaded the elug with a single swift stroke.

  Lanrik had seen enough. The girl had chosen a fine chestnut mare and dawn was at hand. It was time to go, and he guided the stallion out of view to the rear of the picket line. She followed and the two of them mounted. In the growing light he saw the army that stood between them and freedom. The soldiers were awake, agitated and alert.

  They nudged the horses forward, and a wall of elugs watched them with hostility and suspicion. Only the Azan rode, but Lanrik knew the headcloth he wore was not enough to fool them.

  Sometimes the easiest way to hide was in plain sight, and the best way to avoid suspicion was to do draw attention. He reached for the horn and drew a deep breath. The sound of it grew as he winded it. It rose in volume and took on a deeper timbre, rolling in a thunderous wave across the entire encampment. It was a noise like no other: the twisted horn, its curves, and the gold mouth, made it unique. It rang across Galenthern and filled him with a peculiar thrill. It was music, a call to arms and a challenge all at the same time. It stirred his blood and fuelled his recklessness.

  The sound rumbled and finally ceased as Lanrik ran out of breath. All was momentarily silent except for the splash of rain. He swung the horn over his shoulder, noticed an unreadable look on the girl’s face as she studied him, and kicked the stallion into a gallop. She followed without hesitation.

  “Ghash!” he bellowed as he rode. He picked no path between the elugs; there was none, but they parted as the horses surged toward them, and fear and confusion spread. Some took up the call themselves, and others fled wildly. The army roiled and seethed, and those who were calm before became infected with panic. Through the turmoil ran the horses, galloping over the trodden earth, leaping the remnants of campfires and discarded equipment while elugs scrambled all about them.

  Lanrik laughed as he rode for he had unleashed mayhem on the army. The dead drummer and drùgluck signs had already been found, and word would soon spread about the prisoner who had been spirited away from the shazrahad’s own tent. The loss of the tulwar, horn and horses, treasured possessions as they were, and the headcloth symbolizing his rank, would insult him. All of this would make him furious, and therefore susceptible to errors of judgment. Even more so for he would have no superstitious dread: he would know that it was a person, and not a spirit that had shamed him.

  Lanrik glanced often at the girl. She was a good rider, but who was she? How had she been taken prisoner when the army was so far from Esgallien, and for what purpose?

  He had no answers and no opportunity to think. They reached the edge of the camp, but the perimeter guards gathered to block their path. These had observed but had not been infected by the commotion of the army. They were oblivious to its cause but mindful of their role. They were there to ensure that nothing moved in or out of the camp except scouts using the correct password.

  The elugs drew their scimitars and formed a long wall. Lanrik winded the horn once more. The sudden sound rang across the plains and smote the elugs as a weapon. It was something surprising, so far outside their experience that they began to falter. Through a gap the horses leapt and out onto the green grass of Galenthern.

  The horses galloped, the man and the girl laughed with the release of enormous tension, and the army receded behind them. Even the opening of the heavens, and a cold downpour of rain that fell in thick grey sheets, failed to subdue them.

  Eventually the cold and the wet crept upon their awareness, and the thrill of their flight subsided. They had escaped, at least for the moment, for as yet there was no sign of pursuit.

  What should they do now? Before making any decisions Lanrik wanted a rest and a talk with the girl. She was obviously important to the enemy, otherwise they would have just killed her, but now he must find out why.

  He pulled the stallion up, and she did likewise with the mare.

  “Time for a rest,” he said. He dismounted and tied the reins to a low growing bush. The girl did likewise and then flung away the black cloak. She was dressed in pants, and a green tunic belted with soft leather. The only ornament she wore was a bracelet of twiste
d gold.

  They looked at the army, and though obscured by rain and distance, it was clear that it had not commenced to march nor was there any pursuit. He glanced at the girl. She was tall and lithe, and the expression on her face intrigued him. She looked like a happy person resigned to the fact that the world was a sad place.

  She met his gaze and grinned. “Now that’s what I call havoc!”

  Lanrik thought things had turned out well. “That was the plan,” he answered with satisfaction.

  The girl held out her hand. “I’m Erlissa.” Her grip was firm but her skin was soft.

  “I won’t flatter myself,” she said. “You rescued me, but that can’t have been what you were in the encampment for. What exactly was your plan?”

  Lanrik told her of his plan to slow the army. The expression on her face barely changed, but her eyes reflected a measure of astonishment.

  “You’ve been busy,” she said

  “That’s the truth,” he agreed.

  He ran a hand through his damp hair and explained what he had originally intended in the shazrahad’s tent.

  She looked at him in silence for a moment. “You would have killed him?”

  He realized that he had fallen in her estimation, and it stung him. “I would have done what was necessary.”

  He was dirty and hungry and in no mood to debate philosophies, so he changed the subject.

  “How were you captured?”

  Erlissa shuddered. “It was my fault. I received a message that old friends of my parents wanted to see me. The messenger was supposed to lead me to a country estate, but it was a ruse. When we left the city he hit the back of my head and tied me.”

  She looked as she always did, resigned to the state of the world, but a hint of anger colored her words.

  “He changed direction then and headed across Esgallien Ford. I didn’t know why we were going onto the plains, but I knew it wouldn’t be for anything good.”