Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

by Robert Ryan

  He drew his sword. Even as the blade cleared its scabbard he saw two Royal Guards, weapons drawn, break from a pile of sun-bleached timber to his left. They raced toward Erlissa. At the same time, Mecklar and Gwalchmur emerged from behind broken statuary to the right and closed on Aranloth.

  The shazrahad blade sang to him, and the urge to fulfil his promise to Lathmai raged to life. He would kill Gwalchmur for all the things he had done. He stepped toward his enemy and then halted, caught by indecision. What about Erlissa?

  18. We who Mastered the World

  Lanrik spun around and stepped between Erlissa and the guards who rushed toward her. He thought of his throwing knives but wanted to use the shazrahad sword. It leapt like a tongue of flame in his hand, and its power ran through him.

  The first guard slashed wildly. Lanrik stepped back half a pace and allowed the blade to pass without attempting to block it. Just as its tip went by, he lunged and drove his sword into the soldier’s unprotected armpit. The guard jerked away and staggered, then rolled to the ground and screamed. His part in the fight was over, though the wound would not kill quickly. Lanrik paid him no further heed and concentrated on his remaining opponent.

  The second guard approached more warily. He wove the tip of his blade in figure eights, and Lanrik noticed he was allowing his defense to drop just a little too low. It was a ploy to encourage a high attack that he would be ready for, and practiced at countering.

  Lanrik obliged and slashed toward his opponent’s neck. The guard dropped to one knee and prepared to thrust upward, but Lanrik was already changing the direction of his stroke, and his blade hammered down. Its edge struck between helm and mail coat, and bright blood spurted from a severed neck artery.

  Lanrik wasted no more thought on the guards. He turned, wild-eyed, toward his true enemies: Gwalchmur and Mecklar. But Aranloth had done something unexpected. He had used lòhrengai to gather the water spray that flurried across the island and hurled it at his attackers with concentrated force.

  “Ride!” he yelled.

  Erlissa mounted and followed the lòhren. The hooves of their horses clattered over the rocky ground, but Lanrik hesitated. The driving spray flew like daggers into their enemies. Mecklar struggled to stand while Gwalchmur turned and fled.

  Erlissa drew level with Lanrik. “Ride!” she yelled.

  He was caught by indecision once more. He must fulfil his promise to Lathmai: Gwalchmur must die, and Mecklar with him. But Erlissa was already riding away, perhaps into danger, and he had to help her. The warmth of the lòhrengai in the sword infused his body, but he slammed it home in its sheath. He followed Erlissa, suddenly cold to the marrow of his bones.

  The island ran parallel to the waterfall, and it took them several minutes to reach its further end. When they did so Aranloth took them quickly onto another bridge that arched over the churning water. They crossed, and the howling wind of lòhrengai and water faltered, which allowed their enemies to mount and pursue them.

  To the left of the bridge, the great falls thundered in their ears, and Aranloth urgently waved them on. Ahead, a steep ravine led to the top of the escarpment. It was hard to see through the spray of water that clouded its opening and the dark shadows of its interior. Yet, as their eyes adjusted, they saw it was narrow and treacherous with scree and unstable boulders. A ledge was cut into the buttressed cliffs on the left side, and Lanrik repressed a shudder at the thought of the climb ahead. It ran arrow-straight to the top of the escarpment above a deadly drop to the broken rocks below.

  Aranloth reached the end of the bridge and dismounted.

  “One at a time!” he yelled.

  Lanrik let the lòhren and Erlissa go first. He walked slowly behind them and spoke calm words to his alar stallion. Words that he did not feel himself. He steadfastly refused to look at the ever-increasing drop to his right, and he hugged close to the wall. He forced himself on and was a little relieved as they progressed, for the overwhelming noise of the falls diminished as the rushing water passed out of sight behind the edge of the escarpment. Mecklar and Gwalchmur were coming into view though. They had reached the ledge and dismounted.

  “They’re following!” Lanrik cried.

  Aranloth yelled over his shoulder. “Quickly! There’s a place ahead where the ledge widens into a recess. We may have to turn and face them.”

  They moved on in a slow but deadly race. Their pursuers showed less care, or less fear for their lives, and gained.

  To the right, on the cliffs of the opposite side of the ravine, was a series of giant carvings hundreds of feet high. Time and weather had blunted and cracked the images, but they were perhaps more powerful for the aura of antiquity upon them.

  There were groups of farmers who worked together in unison to harvest wheat with sickle-shaped blades before they threshed the chaff from the grain. Some of the seed was stored in underground silos, and the rest ground to flour in stone querns turned by oxen.

  Hunters with long spears, tall and aloof, left a village with their heads bent in the search for the spoor of game animals. There were miners with long-handled picks and shovels, smiths and masons, dancers and storytellers. And there were warriors too: hard looking men in leather armor with round shields and short swords. At the end of the long procession was what must have been a king and queen. They were stern and fearful to look upon, and there was an edge of cruelty in their stony glance. They wore no crowns; instead, great diadems encircled their brows.

  Lanrik was amazed at the artisanship, and had never seen anything like it before. It was not as refined as the stonework in Esgallien, but the scale of the achievement was stupendous. It must have taken decades, even hundreds of years, to carve it all into the hard rock. And it would have been dangerous work too. Men must have sometimes fallen to their deaths on the jagged teeth of stone below, and he shuddered at the thought. He took his gaze away from the carvings and concentrated on looking ahead and just placing one foot in front of the other.

  The ledge rose higher above the floor of the ravine, and his stomach churned with cold fear that seeped into his limbs. He was scared of heights, but Aranloth and Erlissa were not so afflicted. They drew ahead as the minutes passed and turned and waited for him when they reached the recess.

  He was embarrassed when he got there.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m no good with heights.”

  Aranloth placed a hand on his shoulder. “Think nothing of it. I’ve met many brave men in my time. They all feared something. Only the stupid are without it.”

  The lòhren turned and intensely studied the wall of the ledge where it joined the recess.

  Mecklar was not far away, and Gwalchmur was close behind him. Lanrik looked out beyond them both. He had a better view of things now. The Angle was visible between the two silver bands of river that formed its sides. Between was a green and fertile land that rose to a gentle-sloped hill near the middle. It seemed to him that there were buildings on it, all over its crest and far down its sides. They appeared toppled and broken, but it was too far away to be sure. He guessed that it was the city of the people who had built the ledge on which he now stood and carved the great figures opposite. He could not help but wonder what it was all for, and what had happened to them.

  Mecklar and Gwalchmur were coming closer, and he drew the shazrahad sword. At last he would get the chance to kill his enemies and avenge Lathmai. Something about Mecklar disturbed him though. As he advanced, Lanrik had the momentary feeling that it was actually Ebona approaching. Her image seemed to flicker over Mecklar’s features, and the king’s counsellor paused, a contorted expression on his face. Suddenly he stretched out a stiff arm, and blood-red fire spurted from his fingers toward Aranloth.

  Lanrik had no time for thought. He lifted his sword and stepped in front of the distracted lòhren. The warmth of the blade filled him, and he no longer feared either falling or the enemy.

  The streaking fire blinded him, but he felt it drawn to the blade and the lò
hrengai within surge in response. Both powers gathered and roiled at the tip of the blade. He thrust it forward instinctively, and white flame shot through with red arced like a bolt of lightning at Mecklar.

  The image of Ebona flung up an arm in defense, but Mecklar was nevertheless knocked off his feet and into Gwalchmur. They both went sprawling dangerously on the ledge.

  “Back!” cried Aranloth.

  Lanrik reluctantly retreated into the recess. The lòhren had decided what to do, and he raised his oaken staff and struck its tip into the stone overarching the path. Lòhrengai erupted, and with a groan and sudden crack the stone shattered, and Aranloth leapt back.

  With a deep boom that echoed throughout the ravine a huge mass of rubble slid down. Some of it plummeted into the chasm and clattered far below, but the ledge was blocked.

  Aranloth wiped stone dust from his face and looked at Lanrik.

  “Thank you!” he said. “I knew Ebona’s influence was growing on Mecklar, but I didn’t expect that attack. If not for you, I might have been killed.”

  Lanrik grinned at him. “You saved me from the hounds of the otherworld. Let’s call ourselves even.”

  “What now?” asked Erlissa.

  Aranloth studied the destruction he had caused. He seemed almost remorseful.

  “There’s no chance of them getting through for a while,” he said. “They’ll have to move the rubble piece by piece and with great care or more will pile down on them. Either that or they’ll go back and try the ravine. There’s a way, even if it’s dangerous and slow. We can have a short rest, but this is no place to linger.”

  Lanrik sheathed his sword. He quickly stepped away from the ledge and began to look about him for the first time. The recess they stood on was a large half moon shape, perhaps forty feet long and just as deep at its furthest point. In the center was a squat and ugly stone. It was as tall as a man, and wider than it was high. Each of its four faces was inscribed with strange writing.

  He went over to look, and Erlissa went with him. Aranloth, subdued, trailed behind.

  The marks on the stone were odd. They were a series of slashes, dots, and half circles, obviously some kind of script, though it was different from anything in Esgallien or any document written in Halathrin that he had ever looked at.

  “Have you ever seen its like before?” asked Lanrik.

  Erlissa shook her head. “Never.”

  He turned to the lòhren. “What about you?”

  “I’ve seen it before,” Aranloth said shortly. “There’s more of it in other lands too.”

  Lanrik looked back at the stone. It was ancient and had a brooding presence.

  “What does it say? Who made it?”

  The lòhren appeared reluctant to answer, but at last he let out a long breath and spoke.

  “It’s the writing of that same race of people who first mined Caladhrist. The stone is very old. The gap between now and the founding of Esgallien is but a tenth of the time since this place was last used. The Halathrin named those people the Letharn, the Stone Raisers, or sometimes just Arn, the builders. An apt name, but even the Halathrin, gifted with tongues, have never been able to translate the writing on the stone.”

  Erlissa tilted her head in thought. “But you know what it says.” She stated it as a fact.

  Aranloth shrugged.

  “Tell us,” she insisted.

  The lòhren looked at her with a pained expression.

  “It’s better that some things are forgotten.”

  “Is it really that bad?”

  “I’ll tell you this,” he said. “The whole area around us was a place of worship and ceremony. The island, the ledge and the carving. It’s also a place of death. The writing on the stone marks it as such, and where we stand on this recess, and the tunnel beyond, is at its very heart.”

  Lanrik had not even noticed the tunnel, but when he looked in the shadows of the far wall he saw what at first he took to be the mouth of a cave. Looking closer, he realized Aranloth was right; it was man made. It was buttressed with slabs of stone, and the lintel was inscribed with the same curious writing. Now that his attention was on it, he thought he could detect a faint odor of decay drifting from the black entrance.

  “What does the writing above the tunnel say?” asked Erlissa.

  Aranloth did not look at it. He appeared lost in thought, but when he spoke 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!

  “That’s charming,” Lanrik said.

  Erlissa slowly shook her head. “Don’t make light of it, Lan.”

  “Death and despair take all others? It’s an empty threat,” he said. “Any riches would have been stolen long ago.”

  Erlissa looked at the entrance and quickly averted her gaze.

  “The words aren’t empty. Can’t you feel it? There’s something inside. It hates the living and it kills them if it can.”

  Lanrik shrugged and looked at Aranloth. “What of the Halathrin? I bet they entered and found whatever treasure there was.”

  Aranloth was still subdued and leaned tiredly on his staff.

  “Yes. A group of them once entered. And they found riches undreamed of.”

  Erlissa looked at him carefully. “But did they return?”

  He closed his eyes. “No. Their bodies still lie within.”

  The lòhren suddenly turned away and walked to the horses. “We’ve rested enough. Now we’ll have to make good time. Our enemies will either clear the road or find another way up the escarpment. Either way, we won’t have much of a lead.”

  Erlissa turned back to Lanrik and placed a hand on his shoulder. “The tunnel is a place of death,” she said. “Promise me something?”

  Her earnestness and the seriousness of her gaze startled him.

  “Of course,” he said, without hesitation.

  “Whatever happens in the future, promise me you’ll never go inside it. No matter what.”

  “Why would I ever want to?” he said.

  “I don’t know. But the lòhrengai that gives me the Seeker sense gives me other gifts as well. Sometimes . . . I can see hidden things . . . even things that haven’t happened yet. And I have a bad feeling about it. Just promise me. Please.”

  He looked at her and was amazed at her intensity. Could she foresee his future as some lòhrens were supposed to be able to do? It did not really matter. She had asked him to do something, and he would do whatever she wanted.”

  “I promise,” he said simply.

  She nodded, accepting his answer but not making any move to follow Aranloth to the horses.

  “There's something else,” she said.

  He looked to the cave, wondering what else she would ask, but she shook her head slowly and did not take her eyes off him.

  “It’s not about that.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s the sword.”

  His hand reached down toward its hilt as she spoke.

  “What of it?” he asked.

  “It’s dangerous, Lan. Already I sense the effect it’s having on you. And I don’t like it.”

  He laughed. “Now you’re worrying about nothing. The sword isn’t dangerous. I just saved Aranloth’s life with it.”

  Erlissa kept looking at him. “I’m not saying that it isn’t useful. You might have saved his life, but what about your own?”

  He did not know what she was talking about. “My life isn’t in any danger. Mecklar and Gwalchmur, even Ebona, can’t get to us now. Not for a while anyway. And if they do, the sword will protect us.”

  Even though he had not actually touched the hilt he felt a warm flush of power run up his arm and infuse him as he thought of it.

 
; “What of the Royal Guards?”

  Lanrik was at a loss. “What do they have to do with anything?”

  “You killed them,” she said.

  “So what? It’s not the first time you’ve seen me kill.”

  Erlissa bit her lip, but she did not look away from him.

  “No, you’ve killed before. When you thought it unavoidable.”

  “So what’s the difference?”

  Aranloth glanced over because of his raised voice, but Lanrik did not care.

  “Well? What’s the difference?”

  Erlissa face reddened, but she spoke calmly.

  “The difference is simple. This time you paid them no heed. You killed them . . . and then gave them no further thought. None at all.”

  He threw his hands in the air. “They got what they deserved,” he said. “Let that be an end to it.”

  He walked away from her.

  “Think on it,” she said, and her gaze followed him.

  He did not answer, and Aranloth led them the rest of the way to the top of the ledge in silence. It levelled out and left them on flat land again. The escarpment stretched out to either side behind them, and the Carist Nien on their left flowed toward it, slow and graceful compared to the roar of the falls below.

  “Now we must ride as we have never ridden before,” the lòhren said. “The danger of Ebona grows behind us, and the threat to Lòrenta gathers ahead!”

  19. All the Days of his Life

  Lonfar’s attention drifted away from the lòhrens’ debate about how to respond to the elùgroth’s demand. Aratar had convinced them that the sorcerer might be able to fulfil his threat but could not foster an agreement on how they should respond.

  There was only one answer as far as Lonfar was concerned. It seemed obvious to him, even if the others did not see it.

  He was on the outer edge of their gathering and sat on one of the white granite seats that ringed the Eye of the Storm. Water sprayed from the fountain, and he tilted his head to watch it. He felt its peace and was content to wait until the various arguments had run their course, and then offer his own comments when they would have most effect.