by Robert Ryan
If Aranloth was concerned, he did not show it. “We can’t afford a confrontation with any of our enemies, but there are many entrances into the fortress, and not all of them can be watched. We’ll go through a hidden way at the back and use the cover of night to conceal our presence.”
For a little while longer, they sat together without speaking. The end of their quest was in sight, but all that they had suffered and risked would be in vain if they did not save Lòrenta.
Lanrik thought of what had brought them to this point. It had started with the plume of smoke on Galenthern, and he had known at the time that his life was going to change. He had not known to what extent though. Who could have predicted the things that had happened to him since that morning?
The best of it all was Erlissa. But he was losing her and could see no way to prevent it. He would not betray Lathmai by failing in his promise to find and kill Gwalchmur. Yet Erlissa would condemn him for it.
He needed the sword to accomplish his goals, even if she thought otherwise. He now recognized the truth of her advice that its lòhrengai was changing him, but it was a sacrifice he must make. He turned toward her. She rested her chin in the cup of her long-fingered hands and stirred when he looked. She refused to meet his glance though. She was still angry with him . . . or maybe disappointed. It was a new thought, and it shook him.
He sensed that she still had some feelings for him. Irrespective of her easygoing attitude, he knew that her emotions ran deep. That she had lost both her parents when she was young made it hard for her. She was forced too early in life to learn that love inevitably led to loss, yet he thought that she was strong enough to overcome that.
Aranloth stood up and broke the silence.
“We’ll rest for a few hours. Get what sleep you can – I’ll keep watch.”
The lòhren moved to the edge of the camp. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear, but toward the fortress it was dark. Lanrik felt sorcery at work. It throbbed at his senses like a distant storm. He intended to doze lightly because he was fearful of Ebona’s influence on his dreams, yet he was near exhaustion and drifted into a deep sleep. It only seemed moments though before Aranloth gently shook his shoulder.
“It’s time.”
The lòhren showed no signs of tiredness, even though Lanrik was sure he had not slept. It was another reminder that he was something more than just a kindly old man. He could not match a dozen elùgroths, but he was still a power in the world.
The hills were hushed. The evening was old, and the stars bright as on a winter’s night. Silvery dew lay thick on the grass, and the horses left tracks as they walked toward the fortress. A fox crossed the slope ahead, its fur slick with moisture. It hastened to its destination with less caution than it would usually have used and paused in mid-stride when it saw them. It observed things intently for several seconds but sensed no danger and paid them no further heed as it trotted away purposefully.
They continued on their own journey until the fortress was only a few hundred paces away; a dark shape in the night that seemed little more substantial than a midnight shadow. The air grew cold, and the warm breath of the horses turned to vapor. Even as they drew close, it remained little more than a vague outline. Aranloth was right; the elùgroths had nearly accomplished their task.
The lòhren turned and signed for total quiet before going forward cautiously. The ground angled upward as the rear of the fortress was built on a stony outcrop. Tufts of stunted grass studded the uneven surface, and the rock was pale in the dim light.
The slope steepened, and they dismounted and led the horses by hand.
“Be careful,” Aranloth whispered. “Noise travels far at night.”
Erlissa nodded her understanding, and Lanrik studied the fortress wall higher up on the outcrop. He could not see any entrance but noticed that it appeared more like a weak reflection in murky water than something solid. The closer they got the more he sensed that something was wrong.
The fortress was still over a hundred feet away, but insubstantial or not, it towered above them. Soon they reached a cliff-like face on the outcrop, and Aranloth led them to a cave, its opening wide and obvious.
Lanrik leaned in close to the lòhren and spoke softly. “This is a secret entrance?”
Aranloth appeared amused. “Yes. Why don’t you go first, and see if you can find the way?”
Lanrik hesitated then took the lead. He paused in the cave mouth to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark interior and to listen for any noise. He studied the ground in front of him as well, but there was no sign that anyone was inside.
He led them into the cave. It was not large but would shelter several people and their horses. The floor, of sand and scattered rocks, contained in its center a fire-pit surrounded by large stones. A pile of fine kindling and wood was stacked nearby. Aranloth took some of the kindling and ignited it with his flint. When it came to life he set alight a branch, which he held aloft to illuminate the cave.
They studied the walls about them. The chamber was round, though not man made, and the dome-like roof was darkened by smoke.
Aranloth handed him the improvised torch. “Do you see the way into the fortress?”
Lanrik looked about him intently then walked around the walls and checked them closely. They were all solid and without any crack or crevice that might indicate a secret door.
He returned from his inspection. “I can’t find anything.”
Aranloth gave him the roan’s reigns. “The best way to hide something is to put it in the open.”
He walked to the fire pit and knelt to the side of one of the larger stones that circled it. He placed both hands on it and used force to pull it in the direction of the cave entrance. It did not budge, but there was a loud click. The lòhren stood and used his foot to push once more against the rock, this time in the opposite direction.
The floor of the chamber thrummed, and there was a grinding noise. To Lanrik’s surprise, a large portion of the sand covered ground slid forward smoothly until an opening revealed a wooden ramp. It had a steep downward slope but was wide enough for a horse to use. The flickering light of the torch did not reach the bottom.
Lanrik shook his head and pursed his lips. “I’d never have found it.”
Aranloth shrugged. “It’s not meant to be found. But once used the sand is disturbed and shows the false floor. That’s not a problem coming out because it can be brushed back to look natural again. Going in, as we are, is another matter.”
Aranloth took his horse’s reigns back. “We have to hurry now. There’s still much to do before we enter the fortress.”
He led his horse down the ramp. It did not like the narrow confines or the steep slope, but with coaxing it went forward, and the others, seeing it going that way, followed without trouble.
The lòhren held the branch up when they were all through, and the mechanism for the opening flickered into view. It was a device of oiled iron wheels and a slab of stone. He closed it, and when the outside world vanished from sight, went to the front again and led them on.
The narrow tunnel soon went forward at an upward angle. They followed, the hooves of the horses muffled by sand-covered stone. The passageway did not last long however. After a little while it opened up into a cavern. They could not see much but could tell from the hollow sounds that the area was large.
Aranloth touched his burning branch to several torches on the wall. Soon the chamber was lit with dancing light, but the tunnel remained a dark mouth behind them.
Ahead, a set of stairs was carved into the stone and led to a raised platform. Beyond that was a massive iron gate set in the wall of the fortress. The bars were pale with rime and contrasted sharply with the darkness beyond them. That darkness, Lanrik knew, was the inside of Lòrenta. They were on the brink now.
“I don’t see any sentries,” he said.
Aranloth followed his glance toward the gate. “No,” he replied. “Lòrenta is built as a fortress and has ra
mparts and towers. But that’s symbolic rather than practical. What it guards, what it's a sanctuary for, is protected instead by ùhrengai. Nothing can enter that the lòhrens don’t allow. I’ll mark you each with a special kind of lòhrengai before we go in. Otherwise, you would be repelled.”
“Repelled, or killed?” asked Erlissa, distaste of lòhrengai in her voice.
“A good question,” Aranloth said. “In your cases, repelled. Others, such as an elùgroth, would be killed. But they would retreat when they felt the power stir against them.”
The lòhren was done with explanations. “There’s little time left,” he said briskly. “Lòrenta is deep in the spirit world, and I must prepare the mistletoe before we cross the threshold.”
He retrieved the three berries from his cloak. They were still fresh, unchanged since they were picked, and they glimmered in his hand with a hint of pale light. Lanrik was reminded of the half moon rising over the dark forests of Enorìen.
“To invoke their power,” Aranloth explained, “I have to use complex and tightly controlled lòhrengai. Whatever happens I mustn’t be disturbed. Otherwise, the properties of the berries will be lost, and we won’t be able to enter Lòrenta.”
The lòhren walked up the stairs to the raised platform in front of the gate. Lanrik and Erlissa left him to his work and waited in awkward silence. He wanted to talk but could not find the right words.
He sensed her discomfort and thought the sword was on her mind. She had warned him against it when Aranloth first infused it with lòhrengai. She had warned him again when he used it to fight off Mecklar in the gorge that led up from the Angle. He had rebuffed her, the last person in the word that he wanted to, and had created the distance between them. She had ceased trying to warn him, but he sensed something else of her mood; she had not ceased to care. That was why she was upset.
Aranloth’s voice drifted from the platform. He sat near the rime-coated gate and chanted softly in a foreign language. It might, or might not have been, Halathrin. Lanrik could not hear it properly, but the lòhren’s words flowed sonorously and filled the cavern. There was power in them too, and he felt lòhrengai grow and strengthen as the chanting deepened and became more urgent.
He suddenly stiffened. He had heard something out of place. Something from beyond the light of the torches, back toward the beginning of the tunnel. He strained his ears and listened intently. He no longer heeded Aranloth’s chant or Erlissa’s soft breathing. He concentrated only on the passageway.
He was right. He heard it again, closer now, and he stood up and motioned Erlissa to stay back. He stepped toward the opening of the tunnel and drew the shazrahad sword. Its warmth pulsed through him, and something else too; eagerness.
He soon knew why. What he had long feared, or long hoped for, he was no longer sure which, had occurred. Mecklar and Gwalchmur walked from the dark mouth of the tunnel into the flickering light. They led their mounts, pitifully spent and gaunt creatures with dull coats caked by dirt and sweat. The horses stepped slowly and their heads hung low. Their lackluster eyes looked at the ground, and they showed no interest in their surroundings. They had been cruelly used, and anger rose in Lanrik. In response, the pulse of lòhrengai in his sword quickened.
He observed his countrymen, and they looked back at him. There was no surprise or hurry among any of them, merely a sense of the inevitable coming to pass. Events that had begun on the wide expanse of Galenthern would find fruition in the hemmed in land of the lòhrens, at the very gate of their fabled fortress.
“We’ve caught up with you, at last,” Mecklar said conversationally.
Lanrik looked at him coolly. “The day of reckoning has come.”
The King’s Counsellor let go his horse’s reigns. It stood exactly where it was, a miserable and exhausted creature.
Mecklar had lost weight and been hardened by the long journey, but he was still a large man. Lanrik remembered how fast he could move, as well as the strength and skill of his blows. None of these things would have diminished. If anything, he would be more dangerous. Nor had he lost the heavy-lidded gaze that weighed, judged and planned to minute detail in a single glance
Mecklar slowly drew his sword. “I’ll finish things now – as I should have done on Galenthern.”
Lanrik stepped forward. His eyes flicked to Gwalchmur, but the Raithlin remained still and silent.
Mecklar noted his look. “Gwalchmur will stay out of it. The pleasure of killing you will be mine.”
Lanrik felt a sense of rightness settle over him. “We’ll finish the fight we began at the Spring Games.”
Mecklar cocked his head. “The Spring Games? A strange thing to say. I’d almost forgotten our match, but I’ve not forgotten that it was finished. And I won.” He raised the tip of his sword. “As I will again.”
“You didn’t win. The king merely awarded you the prize.”
Mecklar shrugged and stepped closer. His sword wove slowly through the air, and his eyes burned feverishly. The fight was about to begin, and he did not answer.
Erlissa spoke from behind, and Lanrik heard concern in her voice. “Be careful, Lan.”
The combatants drew close and he saw Mecklar grimace. Was he injured? That would make the fight easier, but then he sensed the presence of Ebona and saw the likeness of her haughty expression creep over his opponent’s face. The witch wanted to kill him and make certain of things herself. Gwalchmur also watched, a sick look on his face.
Lanrik’s sword throbbed, but the lòhrengai subsided when Mecklar groaned and thrust Ebona away. He sensed it would be for the last time. Her influence was growing stronger, but at least this battle would be man against man, steel against cold steel.
Mecklar looked at him viciously. Hatred, frustration and the lust to kill blazed in his eyes. Ebona was not in control, but he had long since succumbed to her ùhrengai. It fed on the darkness within him, and its power magnified it.
He had passed beyond the threshold of sanity.
22. Death is Become Life, and Life Death
Mecklar, nimble on his feet, moved in quickly and attacked with a flurry of swift blows. Confident in his skill and sure of success, he struck with effortless grace and ease.
His strokes were not light though. Lanrik felt their force jar his bones and run down to his feet. He tried to deflect rather than block, but his opponent had an uncanny ability to anticipate his defense and catch him in unfavorable positions.
He felt the first trickle of panic and strove for a sense of calm. The fear that Lathmai might not be avenged prevented him from attaining it.
He retreated, but Mecklar shadowed him seamlessly and continued his attack. Lanrik gritted his teeth. He had not defied an army of elugs and rescued a prisoner from the shazrahad’s tent only to be killed by a single man. It was time to retaliate. He swayed away from a brutal stroke and surged forward. He thrust, struck and sliced at killing points and forced his opponent back.
Mecklar gave ground adroitly. His blade turned and shifted in harmony with his footwork and deflected all blows. He absorbed the attack, and when Lanrik’s momentum slowed, he launched his own blistering offensive.
Lanrik retreated once more, but he felt better now. Mecklar was not holding back. His eyes burned feverishly, and though he attacked with all his skill and strength, none of the blows landed. Lanrik started to relax his muscles and allow the tenseness of his body to flow away. It felt as if there were no past or any future, only the here and now, the fight his entire existence.
His opponent continued to shift smoothly between attack and defense, advance and retreat. He showed no fault or weakness to exploit. His iron-hard muscles, hidden beneath layers of fat, were infused with skill from years of practice. His expertise, strength and bodyweight were unified so that he struck with power, and the harsh clang of metal against metal crashed about the chamber.
The fight ebbed and flowed. Mecklar’s eyes flared with ever-greater fury, and he struck with increasing viciousness. Lanrik
became calmer though, and his body more supple. He was surefooted, and retreated again and again to absorb his opponent’s attacks, but advanced when there was opportunity.
Their contrasting styles were evenly matched, yet no fight conducted with sharp-edged blades could continue for long. The slightest error by one would give a killing chance to the other, and Lanrik made the first.
He slashed at his opponent’s neck, and the shazrahad blade sang through the air only inches away, but he committed himself a little too far and was vulnerable to Mecklar’s counterattack. His blade was high while his enemy’s was low. Mecklar, his eyes wide in triumph, surged forward in a classic thrust. He drove up from his feet, added the power of his waist, and stabbed with the point of the weapon.
Lanrik could not bring his sword to bear or retreat quickly enough. He reacted by instinct and performed a technique his uncle had made him practice for desperate situations. Instead of trying to move back as expected, he twisted sideways at the last moment. The blade scraped along his stomach and burned like a lash of fire, but he avoided the lethal blow.
The King’s Counsellor was surprised and started to withdraw, but Lanrik stepped in and ruthlessly smashed the hilt of the sword into his face. There was a loud crack of bone, and his enemy reeled away. Lanrik followed him and ran him through with the same classic thrust that he had just avoided himself. The blade slid underneath Mecklar’s ribcage, and the point stabbed up toward his heart.
Bloody foam frothed at his mouth. His eyes had been bright with madness but now showed disbelief. They closed as Lanrik withdrew the sword, and he slumped to the ground and coughed wetly. He tried to rise, then went suddenly still, and a dark pool of blood seeped onto the stone floor.