Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

by Robert Ryan

  Conrik made his way through the lòhrens and embraced him warmly. When he was done, he stood back and looked him over slowly. “You’ve grown, Lan.”

  “It’s been a long time, Uncle Con.”

  “True enough. How did you get mixed up in this business?”

  Lanrik shrugged. “I’ve had a bit of trouble – it’s a long story though.”

  Aranloth was watching them, and Conrik glanced in his direction. “The lòhren has a habit of showing up when there’s trouble. But he usually knows how to fix it.”

  Lanrik noticed that his uncle wore bandages and realized that he moved gingerly.

  “It looks like you’ve had your own problems,” he said. “Where’s your sword?”

  Conrik hesitated. He glanced at Aranloth again, and then looked Lanrik in the eye.

  “I no longer carry it. I've killed too often, and I’m always tempted to fight when I can feel the hilt in my hand. I’ve got a new name and job these days. I’m Lonfar . . . the librarian.”

  Lanrik understood. Violence now repulsed his uncle, and he nodded slowly.

  “It’s strange to see you without a blade, but I don’t blame you.”

  Lonfar stared at him, at a loss for words at such easy acceptance when he had obviously expected a different reaction. Aranloth merely smiled.

  “The journey has changed your nephew,” he said.

  The lòhren shifted his gaze to Erlissa, as though assessing how she might also have changed, and Lanrik wondered what he hoped to see.

  Aranloth was diverted again by the other lòhrens, and he took his scrutinizing gaze off her.

  “How did you get inside Lòrenta?”

  The speaker was a bony wisp of a man, old and wiry, but if he was anything like Aranloth he was much less frail than he looked.

  “Sorcery has removed Lòrenta from the ordinary world, Aratar. Yet there are powers more ancient than lòhrengai and elùgai.”

  The lòhrens looked highly interested, and Lanrik realized they could discuss such matters all day long. His uncle typically got straight to the point though.

  “I don’t give a damn how you got here,” he said. “I want to know if you can help.”

  Aranloth must have been used to his bluntness, for he showed no offence at all.

  “That remains to be seen,” he said. “Our first task must be to destroy the Morleth Stone.”

  The lòhrens looked confused. “But how?” asked Aratar. “We don’t even know where it is.”

  Aranloth turned to Erlissa. “I’ve brought a Seeker,” he said softly.

  Aratar looked hard at her for a moment. “That’s a rare talent.” He nodded slowly. “Yes, I begin to see how it could be done. But—”

  “There’s little time left,” Aranloth interrupted him. “We have to find the stone quickly.”

  Lanrik noticed the two lòhrens exchange a glance. There was something more to finding the stone than had been spoken aloud, but Aranloth was already guiding Erlissa to the edge of the battlements.

  They all looked over the crenellations. The elùgroths sat in a wedge, and their malice thrust toward the fortress. Dark clouds seethed in the airs above, and the birch wood bent to an unnatural wind. It stripped leaves from the trees and swirled them wildly about the sorcerers, but they remained as still as carved statues, their concentration unwavering.

  Lanrik felt the cold blast envelop the fortress and sensed elùgai in the air. Erlissa shivered, and he guessed why. Somewhere among the sorcerous brethren was the elùgroth who had captured her, and she would be reliving that memory.

  Aranloth stepped to the very brink. He stood to his full height, the staff crooked through the inside of his right elbow, and lifted his arms skyward. He addressed the elùgroth leader, his voice couched in a ceremonious mode suitable to enemies who had opposed each other for centuries, and aided by some art of lòhrengai, his words rolled loud and clear from the ramparts right down to the wood.

  “Elù-Randùr!” he said, allowing disdain to drip off the name like the dregs of a drink from an overturned cup.

  “Hear me, thou creature of the shadow! Hear me, thou craven who hidest from the light of the sun! Hear me, and cease the spell-making of thy servants!”

  Aranloth waited, and a hush fell over the world. Those on the battlements watched him in amazement, fearful of the reaction his insult would provoke.

  A stir passed through the elùgroths in the wedge, and they cast their gaze to the ground. Their master was challenged, and the potential for death and destruction charged the air.

  The elùgroth leader emerged from the shadows of the wood, and a slow reply came. It welled up as though from deep beneath the earth and rumbled over the wedge to Lòrenta’s battlements. Like the cold wind it buffeted them.

  “I hear thee, old man. I hear thee, and thine hollow words. Dost thou challenge me? Thou hast not the strength! Mine is the power, and it will prevail over all that is and all that shall be. Thou hast naught but trickeries, for thou dost not embrace the Master.”

  Aranloth, immutable, answered in a calm and certain voice. “Thy power is not thine own. I sense he that upholdeth thee, he that is thy master, and he for whom thou hast entered thralldom. Thou art but a tool.”

  The voice of the lòhren rang with authority, and the silver circlet on his brow gleamed in the dim light.

  “I know thee, Elù-Randùr, lòhren that was. I know thy past, and surely, even as we speak, I see thy future. Get thee gone! Leavest while thou may, or thou and thy servants shalt be overthrown. Trickster thou callest me, but my words are true. Have I not the sight?”

  The elùgroth stepped forward, and the wych-wood staff in his grip shivered with suppressed power. His answer, cold and final, resounded as a pronouncement of doom in the chill air.

  “I will think of thee, old man,” he said, “when thou art imprisoned in thine own fortress and I lead an army over the spent bodies of those who would defend the cities of the north.”

  Aranloth lowered his arms and abruptly turned away from the Elùgroth. The discussion had ended as swiftly as it began.

  He looked to Erlissa. “The time has come.”

  Lanrik watched closely as Erlissa nodded and closed her eyes. He could almost see her opening her senses, searching out the sorcery that emanated from the wedge below and tracing it to the faraway Morleth Stone. She toyed absently with the gold bracelet about her wrist while the cold wind tugged at her hair. The lòhrens were silent and motionless, waiting for the outcome. Conrik observed the enemy below with a stony mask of detachment.

  Erlissa shuddered, and her eyes flicked open.

  “I have it!”

  She turned to Aranloth. “You can destroy it now.”

  Aranloth leaned on his staff and looked at her with pity.

  “I cannot.”

  Her eyes narrowed and bored into him. “What?”

  “The lòhrengai that found the stone is yours. I cannot use it.”

  “Then why bring me here?”

  Aranloth held her gaze and searched for the right words. Lanrik realized that Erlissa was the only one who could break the stone. She would not have come if she had known though. To destroy the stone was to kill the elùgroths, and that went against everything she believed in.

  Erlissa shouted. “I won’t do it!”

  “I cannot make you break the stone,” Aranloth said. “You must choose to do so, or opt to walk away. I brought you so that you could see Lòrenta’s need.”

  “I can’t do it!”

  “Then how will Lòrenta be saved?”

  Erlissa trembled all over. “I won’t do it, even if I have to stay and suffer the same fate as the fortress.”

  Aranloth shook his head. “You needn’t do that. You’ve eaten a mistletoe berry and can leave. If you choose not to break the stone I‘ll have someone guide you back to your horse.”

  Erlissa studied him for a moment. “And then?”

  Aranloth took a firm grip on his staff. “Then I’ll attac
k the elùgroths by myself.”

  Lanrik did not think he could succeed. There were too many of them, but he would not have to make the attempt alone. He too could leave the fortress. And the lòhrengai in the shazrahad sword would give him a weapon. That way there may be at least some chance of defeating them.

  Elù-Randùr glared up at them from far below and spoke again.

  “I perceive what thou hast done, old man. Thou wouldst turn the Seeker into a lòhren, but if she accomplishes thy design, she will instead be an elùgroth.”

  The sorcerer slowly lifted his wych-wood staff and pointed it straight at her.

  “I told thee on Galenthern that thou wouldst join our order. I welcome thee, sister.”

  The elùgroth moved back to the edge of the wood, and Erlissa reeled away. Her eyes were bright with tears, and Lanrik put an arm about her shoulder.

  “I wish they’d killed me in the shazrahad tent! Why did you save me?”

  He cast his mind back to that time. “Because the need of the one can outweigh the good of the many.”

  She closed her eyes, and her breath shuddered through her chest. When she opened them again she was more composed.

  “I trust you, Lan. What should I do?”

  His heart broke for her, and he realized that she might destroy the stone and kill the elùgroths if he asked her to. But he could not do it. He knew her beliefs and understood them. They were reasonable in their own right, but the sacrifice of her parents had made them sacred. They gave meaning and purpose to her life. Should she betray them the emotional damage might be intolerable. It would be better for him and Aranloth to fight the elùgroths, though he would not tell her this. It would only push her toward breaking the stone.

  He took her hands in his. “The old me, the one you first met in the dark of the shazrahad tent, would be sure of the answer. Now, I won’t pretend to know what you should do. I’ll tell you this, though. Follow your heart and do what you think is right. One thing is certain. I’ll support you – whatever you choose.”

  Erlissa stared at him. She took deep and slow breaths. “What will happen if I don’t break the stone?”

  “Aranloth, the other lòhrens, and the children could be lost.”

  “And if I do?”

  “You’ll go against your beliefs and kill. The elùgroths, though killers themselves, are people that might yet be redeemed.”

  Erlissa bowed her head. All along Lanrik had expected that the end of their quest would be a simple physical act, the breaking of the stone, but it had turned out to be more complex than he could have guessed. It hinged on a choice. Some would call it a moral choice, others spiritual. He knew that in her case it was an impossible one.

  Erlissa straightened. “I was right to trust you, Lan. You’ve told me the truth. Both of them.”

  She looked away over the battlements and ordered her thoughts. The wind stilled, the elùgroths watched from afar, and the lòhrens gazed on her in silence.

  She squeezed his hands firmly and let go. “You said the need of the one can outweigh the good of the many. But the reverse is just as true.”

  She turned to Aranloth. “I should hate you, but you did what was necessary to help Alithoras, and I think it’s hurt you as much as me.”

  Her glance went back to Lanrik. “All along you’ve used violence to protect me, and I accepted it. Just as all over the land there are those who fight so that others may enjoy peace. Who living in Esgallien could sleep at night except for the vigilance of the Raithlin and the readiness of our army? Yet those who value peace must be prepared to fight for it . . . if the fight comes to them.”

  Her face was white as snow, and her eyes red-rimmed.

  “I’ll break the stone,” she said, “but I’ve only sensed things before and never done anything with lòhrengai. I don’t know how.”

  Aranloth looked at her solemnly. “You must imagine it,” he said simply. “Wherever the mind goes the lòhrengai follows. Sense the stone and shatter it in your thought. The lòhrengai will do the rest.”

  She gazed far out over the battlements. Lanrik knew she was not seeing the wood or even the faraway fells but concentrating on some inner vision. Suddenly her hands clenched into fists and she sagged.

  He caught her before she fell. Wind rose up like an angry snake that hissed and spat venom. It howled around Lòrenta and gripped the birch wood, bending trunks toward the ground and thrashing branches. The wedge of elùgroths moaned. They staggered to their feet, but then screamed and toppled like hewn trees. The morning sun flashed through jagged rents in the cloud, and fresh air washed over the ramparts.

  The wind stilled. Nothing moved now except Elù-Randùr. He picked his way carefully through his dead comrades, and his voice was cold as death when he spoke.

  “Thou art become an elùgroth, sister. Do not forget it. And thou, old man, art not the only one with the sight. I know Esgallien shall fall. I have seen Cardoroth run red with blood and Kûn Dennath burn to firebrands and ashes. Lòrenta will surely follow.”

  Aranloth gave no answer, but his face was stern and his posture stiff with defiance. Elù-Randùr turned away and walked slowly into the woods.

  The lòhren glanced at Erlissa. There was great compassion in his eyes, but it gave way to surprise. She was made of sterner stuff than even he had guessed, and she stood straight and tall, unmoved by the elùgroth’s taunt.

  “I’m not one of them. And never shall be,” she said. “I’ve now killed, as have they, but I took no joy in it. That separates us.”

  Aranloth nodded, and Lanrik held her hand tightly. Her grip was firm and strong as she rested her head lightly on his shoulder.

  He was exhausted but felt at peace for the first time in a long while. It would not last though. Even as he relaxed he sensed change in the air. He knew that his future was different than it had ever been before. Erlissa’s was too, but for the moment he would enjoy their feeling of closeness. There was something special about her. She could endure the worst that fate offered, and neither the changing fortunes of life nor an elùgroth could break her.

  Epilogue

  High summer swept northward over Lòrenta and the balmy days held a mood of celebration and relief. The sky was clear, the sun hot, and the air that drifted over waterfalls, crags and deep tarns was like wine. Lanrik’s long days of ease and contentment were interrupted though. Aranloth brought him to the Halls of Lore and retrieved a leather-bound tome. He sat at a table and looked soberly over the top of the unopened book.

  “Do you remember the inscriptions on the shazrahad sword?”

  Lanrik doubted this conversation would bring good news. “It was made for the Hakalakadan, some kind of over-king in Azan prophecy, which they hope will one day rule the conquered north.”

  “Indeed,” the lòhren said. “But there were two other inscriptions that I couldn’t read.”

  Lanrik glanced at the book. “I take it you can translate them now?”

  “Yes, but I no longer need to,” the lòhren said. “In studying Azan languages I learned more about the Hakalakadan and the sword. I already know what they say.”

  Lanrik had no idea what Aranloth was about to reveal, but it would be important. Not for nothing had the shazrahad pursued him across Galenthern and finally cursed him.

  The lòhren did not even look at the book. “Assurah, the smith who crafted the sword, was an elùgroth, and he imbued it with elùgai. The second inscription confirms this. He foresaw among the many possible futures one that most appealed to him, and the sorcery reaches out to it, pulling it back to the blade. It’s a physical embodiment of the prophecy, an attempt to bridge the gap between reality and possibility, and to make them one.”

  Lanrik frowned. “So the elùgai acts like some kind of lodestone, drawing events toward it that will lead to the future Assurah wanted?”

  “That’s it. Like a snowball that starts small but gains size and momentum as it rolls down a slope.”

  “Will it actually work?
”

  “A good question.” Aranloth leaned back and folded his arms. “It’s an ingenious idea. I can’t say more at the moment.”

  “I see why the shazrahad wanted it so much.”

  The lòhren flashed him a smile. “He’d have done anything to keep it in his family. He still might too, so guard it. Always.”

  Lanrik nodded. “What of the third inscription?”

  “It’s a curse that if ever a king of the north should hold the blade his realm will be ruined.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Not really.” Aranloth shrugged. “But Assurah was powerful, and his elùgai remains in the sword. It has a purpose and intent of its own. If a king of the north was to hold the blade – it just might trigger the sorcery to work in some way against him.”

  “Perhaps it should be destroyed then,” suggested Lanrik.

  “Maybe,” Aranloth said. “But it’s a complex situation, especially now that lòhrengai infuses it. And there might even be ways to turn the blade to our advantage. I need to think on it more. Much more.”

  “Then it looks like I’ll be staying here for a while.”

  “Yes.” A glimmer of a smile came to the lòhren’s eyes. “But you needn’t be idle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Aranloth leaned forward. “You have skills that could be used.”

  Lanrik was not sure what he meant. “Only those of the Raithlin . . . and they don’t even exist anymore.”

  “Not in Esgallien. But during our journey, I saw firsthand how useful they are. I will re-establish what Murhain foolishly disbanded. Only this time they’ll be based in Lòrenta and benefit all of Alithoras instead of a single city.” The lòhren looked at him intently. “What do you say?”

  Lanrik was dumfounded. “That’s the last thing I expected.” He paused to consider things. “It’s a good idea, though. But you won’t find it easy to persuade the Lindrath to come here – everything he loves is in Esgallien.”

  Aranloth raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t thinking of him. I want you to be the Lindrath – to recruit, train and lead the new Raithlin.”