Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

by Robert Ryan

  “I thought Lòrenta was protected against assault?” Lanrik said.

  “It is,” Aranloth answered. “The defense comes to life during an attack, but as Lòrenta won’t actually be harmed, it won’t respond.”

  Lanrik was not sure what to make of all this. Talk of spirit worlds and the like was beyond his experience, but just because there were powers at work beyond his understanding did not mean that he could ignore them. He remembered what elùgai had done to Lathmai.

  Aranloth was thoughtful for a long while before speaking again. “Without lòhrens all Alithoras is vulnerable,” he said.

  Erlissa looked at Lanrik. “That’s why we brought the news to you quickly.”

  Aranloth nodded in acknowledgement. “Yet the elùgroths have too great a start.”

  “There must be a way to stop them,” she said.

  “I have not the strength on my own,” Aranloth replied. “And I have not the time to find enough lòhrens. Beyond doubt, Lòrenta will be driven into the spirit world. But it must be kept there some time for the sorcery to bind permanently. If the stone was destroyed before then, Lòrenta could be saved.”

  “Then there is a way,” Erlissa said.

  “Assuredly,” the lòhren replied, and he looked at her with sad eyes.

  Erlissa returned his gaze for some moments before hanging her head.

  Lanrik knew she had realized something he could not yet see yet. He put his hand on her shoulder. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  It was Aranloth who answered. “The Morleth Stone could be anywhere in the mountains,” he said. “Only Erlissa has the talent to find it in time.”

  Erlissa’s head snapped up. “I won’t join the lòhrens,” she said. “And I’ll not be part of this battle. My parents gave their lives to heal rather than hurt. They went where they were needed, whether the people were poor or rich, bad or good; they helped everyone they could without judging. I can do no less than follow their example.”

  “I understand,” Aranloth said. “I do not ask you to join us, but I will say this. You are the only hope of finding the stone in time to destroy it. If that is not accomplished, Lòrenta will be lost. And the lòhrens, scattered and susceptible, will be killed.”

  Erlissa shook her head. “I want no part of this! Do you think I’m blind? Once I’ve found the stone you’ll be able to destroy it. What then? The elùgroths, linked to the stone, will be killed! Tell me it isn’t so?”

  “If the stone is destroyed the elùgroths will perish,” Aranloth confirmed. “That is a certainty. Its counterpart is that if the elùgroths succeed, the lòhrens will die. One of these will come to pass. You can help, or not help. Through no fault of your own, that is your choice.”

  Erlissa rubbed her eyes. “If I say no?”

  “You must not.”

  “Why, Aranloth? Tell me why?”

  “Because to say no puts all of Alithoras at risk.”

  “You’re giving me a choice that is no choice!”

  “I also do what I must,” Aranloth murmured.

  Erlissa was silent for such a long time that Lanrik thought she would never give an answer. She repeatedly turned and twisted the gold bracelet that she wore as though it somehow held an answer. All the while, the old man watched her with eyes that understood and regretted her turmoil.

  The cattle grazed contentedly in the paddock, small birds piped and tweeted in the hedgerow recking nothing of the fates of men, lòhrens or elùgroths. In the distance was the clamor of armies and the rumble of elug drums.

  “Very well,” Erlissa said at last. Her face was pale and her voice listless. “I’ll find the stone for you, but the death of the elùgroths will be on your head. I’ll have to go to Lòrenta to do it. I must feel the energy of the thing before I can trace it back to its origin.”

  “I know,” Aranloth said. “We’ll leave today.”

  The lòhren turned his gaze to Lanrik. “You also must come,” he said.

  Lanrik was stunned. He had not expected this. He wanted to help Erlissa; she seemed to need it even more now than she had in the shazrahad’s tent, but while Esgallien was being attacked his duty was to it.

  “I can’t,” he said. “The Raithlin will be needed here.”

  The lòhren hesitated. “I understand,” he said. “Will you at least come with Erlissa and me while we see the king? We must tell him what’s happening . . . and you may learn something to change your mind.”

  “Of course,” Lanrik said. “But I’ll not change my mind.”

  The lòhren did not answer but glanced at him with an expression that might have been pity. It was a look that worried Lanrik.

  9. The Blood of Kings

  Murhain showed them little interest. His retinue of a dozen men sat in the shade of a canvas sheet stretched between tall trees. They were the elite of Esgallien society: rich, perfumed and luxuriously dressed. They drank watered wine from polished goblets; gold and jewels flashed from pale hands; and they pretended with calculated failure not to notice Lanrik’s disheveled appearance. Mecklar was present, and Lanrik had a feeling that things would not go well. The king’s counsellor smiled coldly at him.

  He had more time and respect for people like Gilhain. He doubted any of these men had ever worked, and while they sat on camp chairs and sipped wine at leisure, soldiers were ready to risk their lives.

  Aranloth had told them something about the king on their way here, and the lòhren’s words ran through his mind. The blood of kings can be a curse. Everywhere Murhain looks he sees the achievements of his father and forefathers for a thousand years. Some people have a spirit that thrives on this, and it spurs them to great heights. For him, it is a crushing weight. It forces the worst from him.

  Lanrik’s thoughts were interrupted as Murhain spoke to Aranloth sarcastically.

  “Nice of you to join us.”

  Aranloth did not answer. He leaned on his staff and gazed steadily at the king with those sea-grey eyes that seemed to see all until Murhain looked away.

  “O king,” the lòhren said. “I sensed no elùgroth with the approaching army. This troubled me, for I had expected one, and I went somewhere to think.”

  “You always come and go as you please,” Murhain said. “But the rest of my retinue stays with me. That’s the kind of loyalty I need as we face the enemy.”

  Aranloth smiled, but it took none of the sting from his words. “I am not of your retinue, though. I am merely a wanderer in this land, and is not well-spoken counsel worth a thousand ill-conceived whisperings?”

  Murhain turned red and the lòhren went on. Briefly, he explained what Lanrik had done to slow the enemy, how he had rescued Erlissa and what she had discovered of the plan to overthrow Lòrenta. The king appeared bored, which made Lanrik angry, but sudden activity in the elug army diverted everyone’s attention.

  Boom! The war drums of the elugs rang no longer to a marching rhythm but to something more frantic. The vast mass of the enemy commenced clashing sword against shield and stamping the ground with iron-shod boots. The drums strained, and the hideous voices of the elugs rose in frenzied ululation.

  Ashrak ghùl skar! Skee ghùl ashrak!

  Skee ghùl ashrak! Ashrak ghùl skar!

  The chant flowed without beginning or end. All the while the beating of the drums grew louder and faster. The stamping of boots thundered, and a cloud of dust lurched slowly above the horde and dimmed the faltering sun.

  The king’s voice, trembling and breathy, broke the silence of his retinue.

  “What are they saying?”

  Aranloth shifted his steady gaze from the elugs to Murhain.

  Death and destruction! Blood and death!

  Blood and death! Death and destruction!

  In the dusk-like noontide, there was a sudden boil and swirl of silvered chain mail. Precious stones glinted dully on the black tunics of a hundred lethrins. They separated from the host and surged into Esgallien Ford. In their wake scrambled a thousand elugs; leaping
, jumping, stumbling. The Careth Nien, white with froth and foam, churned about them.

  Water rose to the lethrins’ thighs; to their waist; to their chests, but their mile-eating stride carried them forward. They neared the northern bank before Esgallien’s longbows thrummed, and arrows flashed through the air. The lethrins, disdaining shields, lifted high their iron maces and trusted to hard skin and mail vests. Arrows bounced, broke and shattered. The lethrins came on, but a few toppled, transfixed through eye or neck by black-fletched shafts.

  Wave after wave of arrows, fired with speed and skill, struck mercilessly. Further lethrins were cut down, and arrows fell all the more thickly on those remaining. The onrush slowed and then stopped. Iron maces fell from massive hands. The lethrins slid into the water, silvered vests sinking deep, and they were gone.

  The elugs neared. They carried shields but many lost their balance, and having to swim to regain it, were forced to discard their protection. The current swept some away.

  The remainder screamed and cursed, first at the fast flowing water and then each other. The river took its toll, but more than two thirds approached the northern bank. Countless bows released once more, and sure-flighted arrows sped to their targets.

  The elugs milled uncertainly. Arrows struck them. Some hissed, uselessly piercing water, others rattled off shields; many struck unprotected flesh. A mass of bodies floated and bobbed downstream.

  The attackers had not reached within a hundred paces of the bank, but they had endured enough and turned to flee. The war drums stopped then commenced a slower beat. Their sullen sound filled the river valley, and the flights of arrows ceased.

  “Keep shooting!” yelled the king. “Shoot and kill them all!” He turned to his retinue. “Why don’t they shoot?”

  The luxuriously dressed men did not know the answer. Lanrik did, but it was the Lindrath who answered.

  “The commander could have killed more elugs, but he wanted them to know that retreat was safe. That way it will be encouraged in future attacks.”

  Lanrik did not think there would be too many more attempts though. The enemy had been decisively repelled. Esgallien was prepared, and he had fulfilled one of his promises to Lathmai.

  Aranloth spoke once more. “O king,” he said. “The ford is well defended, because of the time Lanrik bought us, and there is little chance of the elug host breaking through.”

  “No chance at all,” Murhain said. “That is certain, but the role Lanrik played is less obvious. Mecklar brought word of the approaching army. We only have the Raithlin’s word for what he did, and that isn’t worth much given it was one of their own who betrayed Esgallien.”

  Lanrik’s anger was steadily increasing, but he clenched his teeth.

  “Harsh words, O king,” Aranloth said. “Erlissa’s story confirms the truth.”

  The king scowled. “I, who am descended in true line from Conhain, will be the final judge of that.”

  “You are the king,” Aranloth said, “but will you not acknowledge the evidence of Lanrik’s actions and how the Raithlin skills helped save the kingdom? Will you confirm their ongoing existence?”

  Murhain looked toward Mecklar, and Lanrik waited anxiously. There was an undercurrent of tension here, of old arguments lying beneath the surface. What held his attention most though was that a decision about the Raithlin’s future could be made.

  The king turned back to the lòhren but did not meet his gaze. “I have considered things,” he said. “I’ve weighed them up, carefully reviewed all contingencies and put in place plans to manage risk. The benefits of my policy will unfold over time, and to expedite the process I will communicate my reasoning personally to those affected. People will understand the decision and realize the benefits implicit in change. Communication is the key.”

  Lanrik went cold inside. He’d heard this kind of talk before. They were empty words, but hidden within them was the outcome the Raithlin feared.

  Aranloth leaned on his staff. “O king, what is your decision.”

  Murhain gathered himself. He straightened in his chair and spoke as though he was giving a well-rehearsed speech.

  “I declare the order of the Raithlin disbanded. The maintenance of their organization isn’t cost effective in view of the limited benefits they provide. There is now doubt as to their loyalty, as discovered recently by Mecklar, and Gwalchmur is outlawed. Lanrik will be questioned closely by Mecklar to determine if his claims are based on truth or are fabrications intended to prop up the Raithlin.”

  There was silence. The Lindrath seemed shocked. Only the lòhren was undisturbed; he looked as though he was waiting for something more.

  Lanrik took a step forward. “Lathmai died to save Esgallien, and I’ve risked much. Shall I show you proof?”

  He held out the scabbard that carried the shazrahad’s sword. The gold thread and scrollwork depicting hunting scenes caught sunlight and gleamed. The magnificent ruby at the hilt was redder than blood, and when he drew the pattern-welded blade from the sheath the metal rang and shimmered. The gold inlay glistened, and the script he could not read flashed in the light. The blade intrigued even Aranloth.

  “This,” Lanrik said, turning the blade in the air before him, “is the shazrahad’s own sword. Do you think I found it lying discarded on the grass of Galenthern? No. I entered the enemy camp, then the shazrahad’s tent.”

  The king leaned forward. His eyes were wide and filled with greed, then he sat back in his chair and veiled his yearning.

  “The fate of the Raithlin is determined,” he said. “Your own situation is . . . more fluid. You’re dismissed for the moment, but leave the sword behind. I’ll scrutinize it carefully.”

  Lanrik was amazed at the calmness that settled over him. He was no longer angry or nervous, though he had reason to be both. The king’s desire was clear, and he knew that if he left the sword behind he would never see it again.

  “No,” he said, and sheathed the blade.

  Mecklar reared up, his face red with fury, and his thick fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. “Do you disobey your king?”

  Lanrik remembered their contest at the Spring Games, and once more had a feeling that he and Mecklar would finish that fight, but not today. He shook his head.

  “If you wish to question me or look at the sword please do so. But the sword is mine and stays in my possession.”

  “Fool!” Murhain said, losing his composure. “Soldiers in Esgallien’s army don’t keep the spoils of war! They belong to me!”

  Mecklar placed a moderating hand on Murhain’s arm. “What the king says is true, though soldiers receive a tenth part of the value. You can be assured, Lanrik, you will get what’s coming to you.”

  There were different ways to interpret that statement. Lanrik smiled tightly.

  “Your thoughtfulness is touching,” he said. “But you’re forgetting that I’m not a soldier. The Raithlin aren’t part of the army, and by custom established by Conhain, we keep our own spoils of war. It was a reward for the risks we run.”

  Lanrik felt a sense of satisfaction. The Lindrath nodded in confirmation, and the king turned red. Evidently, he did not know much about the Raithlin, but he was not so easily put off. In his embarrassment, and despite Mecklar’s tightening grip on his arm, he lost all discretion. “I don’t care about traditions! I want that sword!”

  No one spoke after his outburst. His retinue looked uncomfortable, and the Lindrath and Erlissa stared at him.

  Lanrik, thinking of his uncle, swallowed and spoke. “Will you come with guards to kill me in the dark, as you did to Conrik?”

  “If I must!” screamed the king.

  There were sharp intakes of breath among the retinue.

  Mecklar tightened his grip on the king’s arm, but Murhain would have none of it. “I’m the king of Esgallien – the highest authority in the land. I do as I choose!”

  Aranloth stood straight and tall, and Lanrik realized he had been waiting for this moment.
He had guessed the king would want the sword and that Lanrik would deny him. He had somehow known this confrontation would come.

  “O king,” Aranloth said. “Long have I counselled you for the benefit of Esgallien, but to little effect. In place of advice, I now offer foretelling. Listen well!”

  The lòhren’s voice slowed and deepened. It became distant, but relentless like the muttering of a far off sea. His eyes, though open, looked on some vision beyond their grasp. The grey depths darkened. His knuckles whitened on the oaken staff.

  “Esgallien is safe,” he said. “The enemy will not break through. Yet they will return. In triumph, they will take the ford in the future; and terror will march before them; the walls of Esgallien will then seem thin and weak to its people. Too late will you heed good counsel. Too late will you rue all your choices that went awry. King will you be; descendant of the blood of kings, but in that hour none will obey you. Fate will sweep you aside.”

  Aranloth ceased speaking. Life returned to his eyes, and they shone bright and clear. Murhain was deathly pale and looked as though he would run.

  Mecklar rose slowly from his chair. “None of you will be allowed to leave here.”

  Aranloth looked at him, and of all things, laughed. “I have foretold the future,” he said, “and though that is often painful, it is not a crime.”

  Then mirth dropped from him like a discarded cloak.

  “And who has authority to stop me leaving?” he asked. “As the king noticed, I come and go as I please. I have done so for longer years, and in more places, than you can count.”