Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

by Robert Ryan

  This was a change in attitude. Only a few years ago he was as reckless of his words and their consequences as he was of the blade that he had carried. His new life was improving him, both the influence of the lòhrens and the confidence he gained from keeping his vow not to wield the sword again.

  Sunlight filled the courtyard and played over its green lawns and many-flowered gardens. It was beautiful and calm, but the students’ lessons had been suspended, and it was now empty. The students, no doubt uncertain and frightened, were inside the fortress, and the courtyard was a lesser place without them.

  He noticed a sudden quiet and belatedly realized Aratar had addressed him.

  “Lonfar?”

  “I’m sorry, Lòhren Aratar. What did you say?”

  Aratar showed no sign of irritation. He never did. The hands of his long and knobby arms remained peacefully clasped on top of his lap.

  “I was telling the others that I invited you because you’ve encountered elùgroths before. You’ve also spoken to this one personally, which we haven’t. What do you suggest we do?”

  Lonfar knew he might not get another opportunity to speak. Aratar valued his opinion more than the others did, but he had not helped his cause by being inattentive. It made him look disinterested.

  “The facts are simple,” he began. “The elùgroth likely has the means to carry out his threat. If not, no harm can come to the students unless we lead them out of the fortress. The elùgroth cannot be trusted to keep his word about safe passage.”

  One of the lòhrens interrupted. “What’s to stop us from using a back exit and slipping out unobserved during the night?”

  “Nothing,” replied Lonfar. “Remember though, that while there’s only one elùgroth now, there’ll be more later. We won’t deceive them for long. We’re surrounded by wild lands and far from any protection, and we’d be hunted down and killed.”

  The lòhren frowned. “But if the elùgroth can carry out his threat, then to stay here is to suffer the same fate as the fortress.”

  All the lòhrens looked uncomfortable.

  “We’re at an impasse,” said one. “No course of action is better than another.”

  “That’s one way to look at it, Carangar,” Lonfar said. “It’s not how I do, though. To accept that is to remove our ability to act.”

  Aratar leaned forward. “And how can we do that?”

  Lonfar knew he had their attention. They were listening carefully, but he guessed that only Aratar had an idea of what he would suggest.

  “We have to hold fast and hope for help from outside. And we must take the fight to the elùgroth and attack him before the others arrive. He’s their leader, and to harm him is to disrupt their plans.”

  The lòhrens looked at him in dismay, but Aratar gave a slow nod of approval.

  “Lonfar is correct.”

  “We’re no match for an elùgroth master!” Carangar said.

  The lòhren gathered himself and went on more slowly. “There aren’t enough of us to challenge his power. Let’s be honest – only the weakest are left here. That’s why we’re teaching instead of wandering over Alithoras.”

  “What you say is true,” Aratar said. “Yet it doesn’t lift the burden that chance has laid on us. We cannot stay idle while our enemies work to destroy Lòrenta. We must hope for help from outside, but in the meantime do what we can to resist. If we delay too long, the elùgroth’s brethren will arrive and deprive us of our opportunity.”

  Aratar surveyed them all with the dispassionate gaze of a leader. Lonfar could almost see him calculating which of them would give the venture the greatest likelihood of success. The old man’s glance fell on him, and an unvoiced question hung in the air.

  He had vowed not to use his sword again and kept that promise despite temptation. His decision to lay it down was a symbol of his new life, and if he picked it up now, he was scared that he would never be able to put aside his old ways. But the idea to act was his, and he could not let others risk their lives while he remained safe.

  He nodded his acquiescence at Aratar, wondering if there was a solution to his dilemma.

  “It’s settled,” Aratar said. “Some of us will attack the elùgroth and some remain with the students.”

  His gaze swept over them again. “I’ll take on this venture, but I’ll need five volunteers to go with me.”

  Two lòhrens put their hands up straight away, and after a few moments thought, another did as well.

  Aratar waited a little while longer. “Anyone else?” he asked gently.

  His words were unanswered until Carangar cleared his throat.

  “I’ll go,” the lòhren said.

  Lonfar was surprised. Carangar always seemed fonder of talk than action, and he appeared timid and nervous. It proved that you did not really know people until they were put under pressure.

  He sighed and stood up himself. “I’ll go too, if you think I can help.”

  “Your help is welcome,” Aratar said. “You may not have lòhrengai, but you’re a survivor.”

  The lòhren tilted his head, and his eyes went vacant as though his words had triggered an inner vision. He then dismissed the remaining lòhrens with instructions to mix among the students and offer comfort and guidance.

  When they were gone, he looked straight to Lonfar.

  “You have the most experience with this sort of thing. How exactly should we go about it?”

  A weight of responsibility settled over Lonfar, but he had guessed the question would be asked and prepared for it. He leaned forward and explained his plan in detail.

  ****

  Lonfar waited nervously with Aratar and Carangar near the portcullis. They had been there for a long time, but when the signal from the tower finally came that the gate was going to be opened, it seemed too soon. All of a sudden his heart raced, and his skin prickled coldly.

  The portcullis rose, and they sprang through the dark opening and onto the brightly lit ground between the fortress and the birch wood. The elùgroth saw them and straightened. He gripped the wych-wood staff in his pale hands and raised it high.

  They sprinted ahead. The lòhrens’ robes flew wildly, but Lonfar’s Raithlin cloak was tight about him. His plan was working so far. As intended, the elùgroth’s attention was focused only on them.

  Lonfar was surprised at the speed of the lòhrens. Old they may be, but he struggled to keep up. He ran as fast as he could, his breath ragged from fear as well as physical exertion.

  He caught a quick glance behind the sorcerer of fog rolling down from the moors and filling the wood. It was no accident. It was called by lòhrengai, and its seeking tendrils spilled out toward the elùgroth.

  The other lòhrens who had volunteered for the attack had exited the back of the fortress and swept around behind the birches. It was their task to summon the fog. The strategy relied on the elùgroth reacting to the frontal attack while they assailed him from the rear. By forcing him to face one group at a time, they hoped to reduce his advantage. Everything depended on timing though, and on the lòhrens getting close enough under cover of the fog before being detected.

  Lonfar felt the plan was without honor, but he had devised it because it was all they had. The elùgroth was too strong for them otherwise, and they had to do whatever they could to protect Lòrenta. What was the good of honor if it cost innocent lives and imperiled Alithoras? And as the elùgroth’s own actions had put him in this position, was not anything that happened to him consequently his own fault? Yet it still rankled, and Lonfar wondered why doing the right thing felt wrong.

  The wych-wood staff was pointed in his direction like a finger of death. A blast of wicked red flame seared the air. He and the lòhrens dived and rolled, avoiding the bolt that scorched the green grass. They came to their feet and ran again while smoke drifted up from the ripped and blackened earth.

  They were closing the gap. Aratar had warned them that this was their moment of greatest risk. They must get close to brin
g lòhrengai to bear, but the elùgroth, being more powerful, would strike sooner.

  Lonfar raked his gaze over the wood but saw no sign of the other lòhrens, and the elùgroth’s deadly attention remained fixed on them. The wych-wood staff came to bear once more. The sorcerer paused momentarily then flung a bolt of elùgai to Lonfar’s right. Too late did Carangar dodge, and a blast of crimson fire against his chest knocked him down. He staggered to his feet but was hammered down again. He screamed as fire ripped through his cloak like a knife and drove into his flesh, which smoked and withered. He went still, and Lonfar and Aratar ran on.

  The tall figure now sensed the danger behind him and spun around as the lòhrens closed on him from the wood. They were dim figures moving between the fog-shrouded tree trunks. Long tendrils of mist curled out ahead of them, and on touching the elùgroth they firmed like rope and tightened around him.

  He struggled against the bindings and forced the staff up. He cast a sheet of red flame in their direction, and they dived and scattered, then came to their feet and flung lòhren-fire back. The cords about him gripped harder, and he was driven to the ground, kneeling on one knee as lòhrengai struck him repeatedly. The wych-wood staff dropped from his hands.

  He bowed his head and remained still for a moment, and then bunched his shoulders and drove himself up on his long legs. Red flame flickered around him. While he struggled with the bindings, the lòhrens behind worked in unison to send a sheet of fire at him. It flashed and fluttered in the air before landing on him like a blanket.

  He turned and twisted. For just an instant Lonfar thought they could win, but with a surge of elùgai that sparked in all directions, he burst the bonds. Cords of fog burnt away in wisps of steam, and the lòhren-fire faltered.

  The elùgroth stood still for a moment. He was tall, dark and angry. His robes, tattered and burnt at the edges, smoldered. Aratar closed on him, and Lonfar was only a few paces behind. The sorcerer raised his hand, and fire streamed from his fingers knocking them sprawling.

  He picked up his staff and spun back to the lòhrens. He sent a succession of shattering bolts at them until the white trunks of the birches were scorched, and smoke roiled upward through their branches. The lòhrens dodged behind cover, but he probed them out with bolts of flame.

  While they fought, Lonfar crept past the unconscious figure of Aratar. He dared not stand and draw attention to himself. The mist around him had turned to vapor and rose with the smoke from the burnt grass. It offered little cover, but with the Raithlin cloak it could just be enough to get him closer.

  The elùgroth sent jagged fire at one of the lòhrens. It knocked his legs from beneath him and pinned him to the ground relentlessly. His robes smoked and burned, and he shouted in agony as he died. The other lòhrens desperately flung fire at the elùgroth, but their strength was fading, and he shrugged their weakened attacks aside. He swept a wall of flame at them, and they reeled back and fell. They crawled for cover, but the red elùgai ate away at their bodies while they screamed.

  Their cries tortured Lonfar. These were the weakest lòhrens, ill-suited to opposing such an enemy, and though they could have turned and fled they were fighting with all they had to try to save Lòrenta. He could do no less, and moved by white-hot anger, he surged to his feet only a dozen paces from the elùgroth.

  The sorcerer sensed him and spun, red fire flickered at the tip of the wych-wood staff. Lonfar had kept his vow and left his sword behind, but he could not make himself face an elùgroth empty handed. He drew one of his Raithlin knives, doubt tugging at him that he had still broken the spirit of his promise, and hurled it with the skill of long years of practice. It wheeled and cut through the smoke and steam-laden air.

  The knife struck the sorcerer in the upper arm instead of the neck. Nevertheless, bright blood spurted from an artery. He reached for a second knife and felt its weight in his hand, but the enemy was too swift. Red fire burst toward him and beat into his chest. It sent him flying to the ground and pinned him. He felt the stab of burning flesh and smelled it in his nostrils. Consciousness flickered and he prepared to die, but as quick as it came the flame ceased, and he felt the sudden release of its pressure.

  He looked up through nauseating pain and streaming tears.

  The elùgroth had thrown down his staff and clamped a hand to his wound. Red fire erupted from his palm, and he loosed a high-pitched scream from his throat. It was more animal than human and was filled with rage and pain.

  Lonfar realized the sorcerer was cauterizing the wound to stop the bleeding that might otherwise kill him. In moments he would be done and would pick up the staff and continue the attack. Lonfar tried to rise but fell back to the ground. Suddenly bright fire burst from behind him. Aratar was up again, and the lòhren-fire hit the elùgroth, but the dark figure merely shrugged it aside as he concentrated on his task.

  The lòhren-fire faltered and went out. Aratar was spent, but Lonfar felt his strong hands on him as the lòhren picked him up and lurched back toward the fortress. It was hard to believe that an old man could have such strength in his bony arms, but lòhrens were always surprising.

  They passed by the broken body of Carangar and then neared the portcullis, which was opened. It was dark inside, and with a loud clang the great gate closed behind and they were safe. Of the six who had made the venture, only they had survived.

  Aratar laid him down and staggered back as lòhrens came to help.

  “I’m sorry,” Lonfar said. “My plan failed.”

  Aratar’s face was grey with fatigue. He rubbed it and shrugged.

  “Do you think so? We were never likely to kill him. But we’ve wounded him, and we’ll see if it makes a difference in the end.”

  ****

  The next day Lonfar stood on the battlements. He was tired and weak. His burns throbbed, and he felt like he was being stabbed each time he moved, but the lòhrens had given him a drink infused with elendhrot that eased the pain. They had also applied honey from the moors to his skin, which soothed and healed. His chest would carry scars for the rest of his life, however long that may be, but at least he was alive.

  Aratar stood beside him. He must have been in just as much pain but showed none of it.

  “It begins,” he said ominously.

  And it was true. Lonfar felt cold as he watched. One after another, elùgroths emerged from the birch wood and slowly gathered about their leader. That dark figure moved gingerly, and Lonfar watched in grim satisfaction. His wounds troubled him, perhaps even badly.

  Lonfar counted them as they came. There were eleven. With their leader, they totaled twelve, and there was power at their command to unnerve an army.

  It was hushed on the battlements. The lòhrens watched silently and gave no indication of their feelings except by their very quietude. Aratar looked on stoically, and Lonfar felt a surge of unexpected affection. This man had risked his own life to save him. He had also done everything he could to protect Lòrenta, and it was not his fault that he was outmatched.

  Pain washed over Lonfar, and he felt despair for the first time in his life. It was crushing. It made him think that all he had ever done had been for nothing and that he might as well have never lived. He regretted using the Raithlin knives even though he knew he was justified in doing so.

  The elùgroths discoursed solemnly for some time. They were alike, black-robed and tall, their wych-wood staffs ominous with the threat of elùgai.

  After a while their discussion broke up. They sat cross-legged and formed a wedge that pointed at the fortress. Their pallid hands rested easily on the dark staffs in their laps, and they soon began to chant. Their words were beyond hearing at first but grew louder and clearer until they soared over the battlements. Lonfar had never heard the language before. It was harsh and guttural, but it swelled with slow and sure power.

  “They’re already connected to the Morleth Stone,” Aratar explained, “but wherever it is, and whatever energy they’re transforming, they’re makin
g the binding deeper before they call on the stone’s powers.”

  Lonfar looked at them with mounting desperation. He searched for some way to fight, but nothing came to mind. To just wait and watch went against all his instincts, but to attack again was folly. He swept his eyes over them once more and noticed something that intrigued him. He made sure of it before he spoke, uncertain of its consequences, but hope fluttered in his heart.

  “Aratar . . .” he said.

  The lòhren turned to him.

  “I counted eleven as they arrived. And their master makes twelve.”

  “Yes,” the lòhren said. “It’s their number of power.”

  “But there are only eleven in the wedge.”

  Aratar’s eyed widened, and he spun back and looked over the battlements. After a moment his hands went white and trembled where they gripped the stonework forcefully.

  “Yes!” he shouted.

  Lonfar was heartened by the lòhren’s excitement. “There,” he said, pointing over the battlements. “The master sits in the shadow of the trees with his back against a fire-blackened trunk. He’s not chanting and isn’t part of the wedge. What does it mean?”

  Aratar gave him a fierce smile. “It means that your plan was successful, and my brothers didn’t give their lives for nothing. The elùgroth leader isn’t linked to the Morleth Stone. His power and skill, the highest of them all, won’t be added to their sorcery.”

  “But what effect will that have?”

  Aratar shrugged. “It’s hard to say. This much is certain though – it’ll take them longer to achieve their purpose.”

  Lonfar took heart at the lòhren’s words. They had defied those who would destroy them and struck a blow of their own. There was yet hope, however little, and he would not despair. It was not the Raithlin way, and sword or no sword, he was a Raithlin and would remain one all the days of his life.