Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

by Robert Ryan

  Mecklar was dead, and all was silent except for the chanting of the lòhren. Lanrik felt a rush of triumph. He had killed his enemy with the shazrahad sword, though not by any advantage of lòhrengai. He could feel power in the blade. It raged from the metal into his body like a wild animal seeking to destroy those who had caged it.

  He stood where he was and trembled, drawing in ragged breaths. He felt something within him grow and expand. His sense of sight sharpened; his hearing became acute; he had greater insight into the world and the intent of the people around him.

  He understood that everything was in a state of flux and that this was a pivotal moment in his life. It would set the direction of his future just as seeing the plume of smoke on Galenthern had led him to Lòrenta.

  He observed with detachment as Ebona struggled to control Gwalchmur and make another attack. The Raithlin had never been as deeply under her influence as Mecklar though, and was divided in his loyalties. He would not succumb, at least not yet.

  The bloodstain slowly expanded about Mecklar’s corpse, and Lanrik perceived how he had been dominated by ùhrengai. Ebona had planted the seed of his destruction in the fertile soil of his lust for power and wealth. He realized that something similar was happening to him but felt powerless to contest it. The lòhrengai was feeding on the darker side of his mind, drawing strength from him, and its roots felt too deep to pluck away. And why would he want to? With the lòhrengai, he would be a power in the world. He did not need Ebona. He saw the path that he could take to become king of Esgallien and set right Murhain’s wrongs.

  He looked back at Erlissa and saw that her eyes were intense with fear. He knew instinctively that it was not for herself, but for him. Doubt clouded his mind, and for just a moment he closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, he saw Lathmai, and she seemed so real that he involuntarily groaned. Her legs were broken, and shards of bone gleamed white through patches of bruised flesh, but she stood upright. Her tattered cloak was soaked with blood.

  Slowly, she raised her arms in supplication. “Must I beg you to keep your promise?”

  He tried to speak, but his throat was dry as ash.

  She shambled forward, and the bones in her leg grated against each other. The wound in her side opened and glistened with fresh blood.

  “Why haven’t you killed him yet?”

  She stopped and swayed before steadying herself. One eye gazed at him, clear and pleading; the other was a ruined socket.

  He tried to look elsewhere but could not. Her features sharpened; the burnt and blistered skin of her scalp, where her hair had burned away, flushed purple.

  She raised a fist. “Traitor! Look at me. Look at me! Do you see what I endured? Will you betray me?”

  Tears sprang to his eyes and ran down his cheeks. The moment of final choice had come, and the future would follow as it must.

  He remembered Lathmai as she lay dying on the Tor. Once more, he heard her ask for revenge, and he perceived the dark source of pain and suffering that was its wellspring. If she had lived she might have conquered it, but she never had that chance. He sensed something similar in Mecklar, who had the time to change but succumbed instead.

  His promise to her had been wrong. It was better to break it than let the darkness within overwhelm his life. He turned toward Gwalchmur and cast the shazrahad sword to the ground. Lathmai’s image faded. As though from a great distance, he heard Aranloth’s chanting reach a crescendo.

  He was about to speak when Lathmai appeared again. This time she was beautiful and looked just as she had at the Spring Games.

  He gazed at her through stinging eyes, and she smiled sadly. “Thank you,” she said. “I wouldn’t have asked you to make such a promise had I known its cost.”

  Her smile brightened. “I couldn’t take my words back. But you’ve given me your last gift – you did it for me.”

  He shook his head and found his voice. “Not the last. The last is that I’ll never forget you.”

  Her eyes gleamed and she vanished.

  He looked at Gwalchmur. The Raithlin had, at least for the moment, suppressed Ebona and his expression was one of surprise. The visions of Lathmai must have troubled him, and the last thing he would have expected was that his enemy would face him without a weapon. Lanrik acted swiftly to take advantage of the moment.

  “Your betrayal of the Raithlin was shameful,” he said. “Yet all who live make mistakes. Yours was worse than most – but I forgive you.”

  He looked at his enemy with steady eyes. “There’s been enough killing. Will you leave us free to try and accomplish our task?”

  Gwalchmur stared at him. A long time he remained motionless, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. Lanrik realized that the lòhren had ceased chanting.

  Like a man who had just woken Gwalchmur blinked repeatedly, and his hand relaxed.

  “Much has happened that I don’t understand,” he said. “But I too am tired of killing. I’ll leave you in peace, though I fear that Ebona will usurp my mind.”

  Lanrik heard dread in the other man’s voice. The power of the witch was strong, just as the lure of the sword had been.

  “You’ve rebuffed her,” he said, “and her influence over you will diminish as you walk away. Her power is like a flame – it needs kindling to start. If you leave with hope and goodwill in your heart, she’ll have no further hold on you.”

  Aranloth spoke from behind. “Already her power is lessened,” he said. “Look inside yourself, and you will know.”

  Gwalchmur nodded slowly. “You’re right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But after what I’ve done, how can I dare to hope?”

  Lanrik looked at him with pity. He was a tortured man, and his deeds would haunt him all the days of his life. And yet, his senses still acute, Lanrik had a sudden feeling that Gwalchmur’s regrets would drive him to great accomplishments. He would play a pivotal role in the future of Alithoras.

  “You have rare skills,” he said. “While you can never return to Esgallien, they could be used to benefit people all over the land. Perhaps, in helping others, you’ll help yourself.”

  Gwalchmur bowed his head. “You don’t seek to punish me.” A moment later, he looked up, his expression fierce and determined. “But I’ll punish myself. I pledge my life to the service of Alithoras, even though it costs me dearly.”

  He retrieved Mecklar’s sword and scabbard. Removing his own he strapped the new one on, and then, carefully, he stepped forward and offered Lanrik the hilt of his old one. “I’m unworthy,” he said. “You would wear it for the greater Renown of the Raithlin.”

  Gwalchmur gathered the reigns of Mecklar’s horse and his own, then led them from the chamber without looking back.

  The sword felt heavy in Lanrik’s hand after the shazrahad blade. He withdrew it part way from the sheath and revealed the motif of the trotting fox looking back over its shoulder. It was identical to the one he had lost in Esgallien Ford.

  He had a Raithlin sword again, and it felt good. But he realized that while he still treasured their teachings he no longer defined himself by being part of them. The world was wider and deeper, more perilous and infinitely more mysterious than any single worldview encompassed.

  He heard footsteps behind him and turned around. It was Erlissa. Without hesitation, she took him in her arms and hugged him tightly. He felt the barrier between them drop away, and when she released him, Aranloth approached.

  “That was well done,” the lòhren said.

  He glanced at the shazrahad blade on the ground. “You needn’t fear it anymore. You know what’s inside us all. If you allow the lòhrengai to draw only on the good, you’ll achieve much.”

  Lanrik picked up the sword, and it felt weightier than he remembered. He had two now, and did not know which to use, but that was a problem for another day. There were more pressing matters.

  He looked at the lòhren. “Was it really Lathmai?”

  Aranloth sighed. “I c
annot be sure.” He swept a hand all around them. “Several forces are at work in this chamber. The power of the mistletoe berries has been invoked, and the Morleth Stone has brought Lòrenta to the brink. There’s the lòhrengai of the sword, not to mention the ùhrengai of Ebona. Also, there were two images of Lathmai. They needn’t have had the same source. We’re caught between worlds, and the laws of nature are distorted, even reversed. The normal and spirit spheres are conjoined, and it’s as though night and day existed at the same time. Death is become life, and life death.”

  “I hope it was her . . . she seemed happy at the end.”

  Aranloth gazed at him with compassion but did not answer.

  “What do we do now?” asked Erlissa.

  Aranloth gripped his staff tightly and looked determined. “What we came for. We must use the mistletoe and pass into Lòrenta.”

  He opened his hand, and the three berries lay on his palm. “Take one and eat it,” he instructed.

  Lanrik noticed that they had changed. They gleamed brilliantly and had swelled. His was heavy in his hand when he picked it up, and when he placed it on his tongue it was cold. He bit down, and its juices filled his mouth. He could not describe if it was sweet or bitter, but it tasted like nothing he had ever eaten before. He felt its power, the ùhrengai that it contained, creep through his body. It was cold and slow to act whereas the lòhrengai of the sword was hot and fast.

  Erlissa ate hers slowly. The lòhren ate last, but he consumed the berry quickly and waited for the others to finish.

  “We must leave the horses,” he said.

  Lanrik was loath to do so, and Erlissa seemed upset. “Must we?”

  “We have no choice,” the lòhren said. “They cannot enter the spirit world with us.”

  He went over to his roan and ran a hand along its neck. “We‘ll return for them soon. They’ll be safe until then.”

  He turned away from the horse. “Come!” he said. “It’s time.”

  He went to each of them in turn and placed a hand on their forehead. He muttered a brief phrase, and lòhrengai warmed his palm.

  “We can enter Lòrenta now.”

  He took a torch from the wall and walked up the stairs to the rime-coated gate. Three times he tapped the metal with the end of his staff, and three times lòhrengai flickered. On the third, the gate creaked and opened. Ice shattered and fell from its bars like snow, and a momentary blast of cold air struck them. When they had passed through Aranloth swung the gate, and it closed with a loud clang.

  Lanrik felt an immediate change. They had been on the threshold in the previous chamber, but now they were inside Lòrenta, within the spirit world. The air was still and cool. Everything about him seemed tinged with grey and void of color and life.

  He wondered if they would be able to save the fortress. Most of all he wanted to know what Aranloth had hidden from them on the journey.

  Erlissa’s hand was in his as they walked forward. They would soon find out.

  23. Erlissa’s Choice

  They walked as ghosts through the halls of Lòrenta. Aranloth’s torch was the only spark of life in the shadow-cluttered passages. Dust lay undisturbed in the long corridors, and closed doors, hinged with bands of rusted iron, flanked their sides. Outside, there were bright walls and flag-flying towers, but deep inside the buttress of rock that formed the base of the fortress, it felt like a tomb.

  Lòrenta dominated the history of Alithoras, and Lanrik felt strange walking through it. Lòhrens journeyed far and long, their exploits the stock-in-trade of bards across many lands, but this was where they all started from.

  The bare stone was grey, and he grew tired of the changeless walls and floor. The very air seemed dreary, all color and life washed away by sorcery. The fortress would remain that way, trapped in a nowhere world, until they broke the power of the Morleth Stone.

  The drudgery was only relieved by ornate stairwells that led to higher levels. Stone rails spiraled upward, carved with a decorative finish, but the steps showed the wear of passing feet: smooth hollows in their middle. How many years had that taken? He could not guess, but Lòrenta was old, even ancient.

  He glanced at Erlissa. She had been silent and withdrawn for some time.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She frowned and searched for an answer. “Something troubles me . . . I don’t know what.”

  He touched her elbow reassuringly, and they turned another corner. Her instincts had proven correct since Galenthern, and he would not doubt them now. If she was worried, there was a reason for it.

  They climbed yet another stairwell and at last reached the aboveground chambers. The passages widened and glass windows, framed by peaked arches of carved stone, looked to the outside world. Little was visible though except a grey dawn, dull and muted.

  Mosaics decorated the floors, and the doors on either side were now open. Some rooms were bare, but many contained apparatus that he had never seen before and for which he could not even guess a purpose.

  One room however, larger than most, contained things he understood. It was an armory. Near the entrance were swords carefully mounted on individual stands, and behind them was an array of others collected on racks. There were rapiers, scimitars, long and broad swords: he knew all their various types, but the artisanship was different from anything in Esgallien. Some were finely worked pieces of art, others plain and brutal killing weapons. It looked like they had come from many lands, possibly even different eras.

  Behind the swords were more weapons: hammers, clubs, long-handled axes, halberds and spears. There were darts, slings, recurve and long bows, javelins, hauberks, helms and all manner of war accoutrement. There was even a battering ram, a massive construction of oak and rusted iron. The timber was blackened by fire and oil, the iron warped and dented. It had seen use in war, and a quick glance at the other artefacts showed many were damaged too. The room was not just an armory; it was a remnant of the history of Alithoras. A shiver ran through him. What battles had these weapons been used in? What long dead heroes once held them in their living hands?

  Aranloth strode by without slowing, and soon they came to another room. This one contained musical instruments. There was a wide variety of pipes, harps, cymbals, zithers and gongs. There were also elug war drums and against the far wall the man-high carnyx horns of Esgallien. At least Lanrik thought so; it would not surprise him if they came from other Camar tribes or even from before Conhain had led his people into Esgallien.

  “Why do the lòhrens collect all these things?”

  Aranloth barely slowed his stride. “To preserve history. Much is lost – it always is from age to age, but a glimpse is kept alive here. And it’s studied too. How could lòhrens teach if they didn’t know the land’s past?”

  They turned a corner into a great hallway. A series of vast chambers ran off from it, each containing innumerable shelves packed with books and scrolls. Aranloth halted and swept his arm in a wide arc.

  “The Halls of Lore,” he said. There was a hint of pride in his voice.

  Lanrik was amazed. The books seemed numberless, and he got an inkling of how much knowledge the lòhrens collected and their role in Alithoras. Small wonder the enemy wanted them destroyed.

  They walked on but paused when they came to the doorway of yet another massive room. It too was part of the library, its walls cased with bookshelves and desks, though its center was clear. Children played in the open space and did not notice the weary figures grouped at the dark entrance. Many laughed loud and free, showing no fear for the fate of the fortress, but worry marked the somber faces of the eldest.

  After several moments Aranloth strode away. Renewed determination stiffened his back, and he led them into a great courtyard. Morning had come, but the day remained grey. The lawn felt soft and lush but looked dull to the eye. Neat and well-tended flowerbeds were everywhere, but they too were drained of color, and the leaves of the trees were lackluster. Lanrik glanced up at the sky, and it was heavy w
ith scudding cloud.

  In the middle of the courtyard was a fountain, and Aranloth walked swiftly past. Lanrik paused and studied it carefully though. It was built of white granite, and the centerpiece was a statue of a lòhren. It seemed just as old as the rest of Lòrenta, yet the likeness to Aranloth was striking. It even caught the expression of compassion that so often filled his eyes. Could there be truth to the legends? Had he lived through the centuries? It seemed impossible, but the world was stranger than Lanrik had ever imagined, and he was no longer so quick to dismiss things.

  It was not the only change. His instincts were now heightened by lòhrengai, and he sensed that the fountain was the heart of the fortress. It welled with tranquility, though it also had something of the feel of Ebona or Carnona. And just as the Guardian had searched his thoughts in the hills of Enorìen, his mind was even now being assessed by ùhrengai. He got an impression of the true defense of Lòrenta, but there was no time to consider it.

  Aranloth hurried him on with a quick gesture. “We’re nearly there. The elùgroths must be at the front gate, and the lòhrens on the battlements above.”

  He led them to the far side of the courtyard and back inside the fortress. Contrary to his words, they walked through many corridors and climbed a lot of staircases before they finally reached the ramparts, and Lanrik wondered if he had been purposefully distracted.

  They reached the battlements, and a small group of lòhrens turned around. They were dressed in flowing robes and leaned on tall staffs. Their faces, grey with worry, lit up like children whose father had come home when they saw Aranloth. They seemed to revere him, and his presence invigorated them.

  They bowed and shook his hand. Some called him Careth Tar, which Lanrik understood to mean “Great Father”. It was a term of respect as well as the title of the head of their order, the fabled leader of the Lòhrenin.

  Lanrik realized that his uncle Conrik was there too. It was the first time he had seen him in years, but he had not changed except for the absence of his Raithlin sword. It was strange to see him without it.