Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

by Robert Ryan

  The creature pulled back its lips, exposing predatory teeth and a monstrous jaw capable of snapping bone. Growls, throbbing with enmity, rumbled from its throat. It almost unnerved him, but he forced himself to step forward.

  The hound leapt at his throat, and he swung his sword and slashed with all his strength. The blade struck fur and muscle but did not cut as it should have. It drew blood, and the creature flinched, but what would have killed a normal dog only wounded a creature of ùhrengai.

  The sword was battered from his hands as the massive weight of the animal hit him. He staggered and fell. He had achieved something though, for the hound had twisted to avoid the blade, and its head was buried against his shoulder whereas otherwise the great jaw would have already ripped out his throat.

  As he fell, Lanrik gripped the beast. One hand locked around a foreleg, and another took hold of an ear. He strove to roll sideways; to fall with the animal on top was to die.

  They landed side by side with a thud. The hound scrambled to get its legs beneath it, its jaw opening and closing, seeking Lanrik’s throat. The creature was getting on top, one massive paw repeatedly ripping his leg as it tried to find purchase. In moments, it would kill him, and there was nothing he could do.

  He saw swift movement as Erlissa hurled herself through the air. She smashed into the creature with her shoulder and dislodged it from him.

  He rolled forward and grabbed the sword as he surged to his feet and stepped between the hound and Erlissa’s sprawled body. The creature snarled, a ruff of fur bristling on its neck, and its hind legs bunched to leap.

  But it never did. White flame erupted all around it, knocking it down. Lanrik saw its fur catch fire. He watched as its pelt shrank and blackened, exposing flesh and bone. The smell of burnt hair was putrid. It yelped until its throat burned away, and in moments there was nothing left but ash.

  Lanrik was nearly sick, but he forced himself to look around. Aranloth had killed the other hounds, so he turned on shaky legs toward Erlissa. She sat on the ground, a trickle of blood coming from her temple but otherwise unhurt.

  He held out his hand and helped her up. “That was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you did it – especially the way things have been.”

  He watched as Erlissa felt her face gingerly and managed a smile. “For someone so smart you can be really stupid. Just because we don’t agree on some things doesn’t mean we aren’t friends. You saved me from an elug army and an elùgroth. You and I will always be friends. No matter what.”

  Lanrik was astonished. Will she ever cease to surprise me? He hesitated, searching for the right reply, then heard the approach of riders and the moment was lost.

  Aranloth, the diadem on his forehead glinting, came to their side and they looked through the flames, which lessened in height and intensity. Four riders appeared. They came to a halt and looked at them over the dying flames. Two of them, as Aranloth had guessed, were Royal Guards. The others were a shock.

  A low hiss from Erlissa voiced a name. “Gwalchmur.”

  This was the traitor responsible for the deaths of Raithlin, including Lathmai. Lanrik felt the full force of his promise to her. He remembered her broken body, the blood and wounds, her eye burned from its socket; images that would haunt him all the days of his life. Now, he had the chance to fulfil his promise, but the words of the Raithlin creed ran through his mind as well.

  The other man was Mecklar. What was he doing in the company of a traitor? What was he doing here at all?

  The flames ebbed and Mecklar spoke. “It’s a long way from Galenthern. Had I known you’d cause so much trouble, I’d have ensured you never returned to Esgallien. But I can fix my mistake. You won’t cause further problems. Ever.”

  Lanrik did not know what to say. Mecklar was a traitor too, in league with Gwalchmur, and working toward the destruction of Esgallien.

  Aranloth answered. “Not all mistakes can be remedied. They can be repented though. I sense the mark of Ebona upon you, but even she cannot force you against your will. Turn aside, Mecklar. She’s a harder mistress than you know.”

  Mecklar looked at the lòhren. Finally, arriving at some decision, or merely responding to a thought that amused him, he laughed.

  “Is that the best you can do, lòhren? I’ll take my chances with Ebona. She has power, real power. And what of you? You managed to kill her hounds, but what’s that achieved? It’s only delayed you enough for us to catch up.”

  “A circumstance you may regret.”

  Mecklar grinned. “A threat from the great and wise Aranloth?”

  “Merely advice. Something for which I’m often asked and rarely, in the end, reproved for.”

  “Spare me,” Mecklar said. “Neither advice nor threats will help you now. Whatever power you have, even if you can use it on normal men, was spent on the hounds. And we outnumber you.”

  Aranloth looked at him solemnly before shifting his gaze to Gwalchmur.

  “Don’t you know? You’re no longer normal men. The mark of Ebona is on you, and eventually you’ll discover what that means. But remember, you can repudiate her should you wish to.”

  “Enough!” Mecklar said. “The time for talk has passed.”

  He drew his sword, as did the others, but the flames had not quite died.

  Lanrik looked at them all. This would be a fight to the death, and Mecklar alone was as much as he could handle. It seemed as though his feeling that one day the fight of the Spring Games would be finished was true. But while he contended with Mecklar, the other three would be free. What help Aranloth would provide, he did not know, though it was obvious that he was weary, and Mecklar might be right. The lòhren seemed reluctant, or unable, to use power against men.

  Aranloth leaned on his staff, seemingly exhausted, head drooped and resting on frail hands that gripped the top of the staff. Yet something in the set of his mouth suggested intense concentration.

  The ring of white fire wavered again, and the riders edged closer. Lanrik thought he heard noise somewhere in the ruins. He heard it again, this time louder, and he identified it as drumming. Not the beating of a single drum, but many, and they were elug drums. War drums.

  The fire weakened, but the riders now looked behind them. The drums grew louder. They were not beating a marching pace, or a warning to invoke fear, but a battle rhythm.

  As well as the drums, Lanrik now heard shouts and screams. There was fighting in the streets, and it was coming closer. Fires sprang to life, buildings burned, and vague forms moved in the flickering shadows.

  A mass of elugs pressed hard against a small band of retreating Halathrin. They were badly outnumbered but gave way grudgingly. The elugs screamed curses but the Halathrin fought silently. They were white-clad and fair-haired, tall and proud. Their pale swords did bloody work, in which they took no joy, nor did they show anger. There was suffering on their noble faces though, for their city burned about them.

  The battle drew close to the tower, and Mecklar shouted in frustration. He stabbed his sword toward Lanrik. “I’ll kill you yet!”

  He would have said more, but the other riders had already hastened away and he followed them. They disappeared in the shadows and headed toward the opposite side of the city.

  Aranloth lifted his head from the staff. He was pale and weary, anguish in his expression.

  “Quickly,” he said. “We must get back to the Halathrin road.”

  The ring of fire darkened to the color of cold embers then flickered out while they mounted their horses. Aranloth led them onto the street. Halathrin warriors were all about them, and just ahead was the pressing mass of elugs, their faces cruel and vicious. The flagstones were slick with blood, corpses littered the ground, and the stench of death was strong. But Lanrik realized it was all an illusion.

  Neither Halathrin nor elugs heeded them as the horses walked through the battle.

  “It’s not real,” he said. “How can that be?”

  Aranloth s
aid nothing but Erlissa answered. “It’s real enough in its way. This is what happened all those years ago when the city was destroyed. This was part of the battle.”

  Aranloth spoke, his eyes fixed ahead. “The city remembers. The stone remembers. Even the earth remembers. Nothing will forget. Not even when the ruins are swallowed by the ground and tree and grass grow over it all.”

  The lòhren, his face pale and grey, rode onward. For once, he looked the old man that he was.

  Erlissa followed with Lanrik. “It taxes him,” she said. “It’s the nature of lòhrengai. He’s giving life to all that you see around you; the blood-lust of the elugs, their glee in destruction, and the torment of the Halathrin. But it’s flowing into him as well.”

  A lone Halathrin staggered down the street, and Aranloth averted his gaze. Blood dripped from his sword, and his white raiment was gore-splattered. Alone of all the Halathrin they heard him. “Alonùradth!” There was such anguish in his voice that they wished they had not. He looked at them unseeing, his eyes wide and bright, tears on his high cheeks. “Alonùradth,” he said again, this time a ragged whisper, and he stumbled on and disappeared among the shifting shadows.

  Aranloth kicked the roan into a gallop, and they sped down ancient streets where the past walked in the world of the present.

  It felt to Lanrik as though the night would never end, but eventually they made it to the Halathrin road and dawn came. They plodded forward without pause, for they knew Mecklar would not have given up the pursuit. He had been stymied, but only temporarily.

  Yet they could not continue without rest indefinitely, and at midmorning, they stopped at the wooded crest of a down that had a long view of the road behind them. There they sat and ate a cold meal.

  “We could try to lose them,” Lanrik said. “It would be difficult though. There are few trails that Gwalchmur couldn’t follow, and it would cost us time.”

  “Too much time,” Aranloth said. “We have swift horses and the road is good. Our best chance is to stay on it and travel fast. Anyway, once we reach Enorìen the influence of the Guardian will prevent pursuit. No one enters the hills without permission.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Erlissa.

  “It’s my belief,” Aranloth said shortly. “We’ll find out for certain when we get there.”

  “And when we leave Enorìen?’ asked Lanrik.

  “No doubt they’ll be waiting for us, but they won’t know where to start the chase. That will slow them down but the power of Ebona is in them. I think they’ll find us. We’ll need to be rested and prepared. For now, however, I have to sleep.”

  The lòhren lay down in the shade cast by a stand of hazels, and it seemed as though he slept instantly.

  “Last night still troubles him,” Erlissa said. “The lòhrengai he used was dangerous, and he’s not as he was. He has a depth of compassion that I’ve seen in few people, and the fall of the city weighed on him. He felt it in his heart as though he were there. He was there.”

  “Who actually is Ebona?” asked Lanrik.

  “She’s the witch in the woods. I know little about her except that she holds great power and is something from Esgallien’s past. To be honest, I thought her nothing more than a story, but Aranloth obviously knows better.”

  Lanrik knew they should set a watch but it was impossible. They were all weary and had to sleep. He lay down and Erlissa did likewise. He realized a little later that her words about lòhrengai could be taken two ways. Had she meant that it made things real for Aranloth, or had she suggested that he was actually present? Nothing except the immortal Halathrin lived that long though, regardless of the legends.

  He woke a little later. He was not refreshed but some strength had returned. Erlissa was speaking animatedly, perhaps even arguing with Aranloth near the hazels, but he was pleased to note the lòhren had regained color and energy.

  The two of them came over. “We must leave soon,” the lòhren said. “Ebona’s influence on Mecklar and Gwalchmur will soon be apparent. She’ll extend her power through them, and it may be that I cannot always contend with it. We were lucky with the hounds, but may not be so again. Erlissa will be targeted, for without her there’s no hope for Lòrenta. Ebona will have perceived that, if not the very nature of our quest, but steel is no match for ùhrengai.”

  “Steel is all I have,” Lanrik said.

  “You have courage, also.”

  “It wasn’t enough against the hound. It would have killed me if not for Erlissa and the lòhren-fire.”

  “If you would have more than steel and courage, draw the shazrahad sword.”

  Lanrik hesitated, then did so. The pattern-welded blade glimmered in the air.

  “The sword is steeped in history and prophecy. I don’t want to add to that, for lòhrengai can have unexpected results, and already too much rests on the blade. Yet, if you wish it, I will. I can infuse it with power.”

  “What do you mean by unexpected results?” asked Lanrik.

  Erlissa interrupted. “Don’t even think about it, Lan. He means it’s dangerous.”

  “You saw what happened with the hounds,” he said. “I merely slowed one of them. It could easily have killed me, or you. I can’t risk that again.”

  Erlissa turned to the lòhren. “Don’t do it.”

  Aranloth looked at her kindly but shook his head. “I do, as always, what I must. The danger Ebona poses is more than a man can deal with, however courageous. And she will seek to separate me from both of you. It’s for him to choose.”

  The lòhren spoke once more to Lanrik. “If I infuse the blade with lòhrengai it will give you some defense against ùhrengai, and elùgai too, which may be needed before the end. There is risk, but I would not offer to act if I thought it too great.”

  Aranloth looked at him intently. “Understand this. With lòhrengai, nothing comes from nothing. It may infuse the sword, but it must draw force from somewhere. You will be its source – your courage, mind and spirit. It will draw on your strengths and weaknesses alike, and you must be careful. The choice is yours.”

  Lanrik thought quickly. There was obviously risk, even if he did not understand it fully, but the benefits were necessary. The hounds would have killed Erlissa, and he had a feeling her life would be threatened again.

  “Do it,” he said.

  Erlissa turned away, and Aranloth looked him in the eyes. “Hold the blade out and keep steady. Whatever happens, don't let go.”

  Surprisingly, the lòhren laid his staff on the ground and traced his fingers along the sword, across script, blade and edge.

  Light glowed at his fingertips. It strengthened until white flame burned on the blade wherever his fingers passed. The pattern-welded metal shimmered more than usual, and lights were trapped within the blade like fish swimming beneath the surface of a lake. They moved of their own accord.

  The flame intensified. The script flared, bursting into argent light. Aranloth clamped his palms against each side of the sword’s tip, and flame roared to life. Lanrik could feel it in the blade like a living thing. It filled it until bursting, and then it surged up the hilt and into his hands.

  He nearly let go, but the flame did not hurt. He tightened his grip, and white tongues ran up his arms, to his shoulders and neck, and engulfed his head. He could see and hear nothing. All he could feel was lòhrengai. It tugged at him, pushed at him and entered his mind. It roared inside until he could no longer think.

  The lòhrengai faded then retreated down his arms and back into the blade. The light flickered and was gone. But Lanrik still felt its presence.

  “It is done,” Aranloth said solemnly. “For good or for ill.”

  Lanrik sheathed the blade. He felt strange; not unwell, but somehow different. The feeling faded swiftly though, and by the time they mounted and rode it was gone.

  He did not regret what he had done. He would do anything for Erlissa and pay whatever price was asked. But he knew that the power of the sword would be a reflection of h
is mind. His desire to protect Erlissa was good, and he cherished the Raithlin code, yet he had other thoughts as well. He burned to finish his fight with Mecklar, and irrespective of the Raithlin code, he must fulfil his promise to Lathmai. Gwalchmur had to die. How would those things shape the power of the sword, and in turn, affect him?

  15. The Eye of the Storm

  The man was called Lonfar. It was not his birth name.

  He dragged his gaze from the book he was reading to the banging on his door. He was a librarian who wanted quietude, but his past was violent. Although these days his hand was accustomed to a writing quill, it had once hefted naked steel. And though he had come free willed to Lòrenta, it was a prison, for elsewhere his life was forfeit.

  “Come in,” he said.

  His acquiescence was redundant. The door jerked open even as he spoke.

  One of the students hurried into the room, but flustered by the urgency of what she had to say struggled to speak.

  Lonfar encouraged her. “What is it, Carèthlath?”

  Like him, a Halathrin name had been given to her.

  She composed herself. “Lòhren Aratar is at the gate-tower and wants to see you.”

  He though she was finished, but with a rush she delivered the important part of her message. “An elùgroth has come!”

  Lonfar slowly closed his book. Carèthlath was wide-eyed with excitement, but all he felt was fear. It was best not to show it though. Neither she nor the other students were ready for what he knew about elùgroths.

  “Did Aratar say why he wants me?”

  The girl, struck silent once more, shook her head vigorously.

  The lòhren might not have told her, but Lonfar could guess what they would ask of him.

  He sighed and dismissed her. She turned on her heels and dashed through the door; no doubt to seek out her friends and tell them about her adventure.

  He left the room a few moments later. It was small and sparsely furnished, but it was his home now, and he liked it. His duties as librarian were not onerous and left him time for study. He spent many hours just reading and forgetting his old life.