King's Last Hope: The Complete Durlindrath Trilogy

by Robert Ryan

  “Stay safe until I come back,” he said.

  “And you also,” Gilhain answered. “We’ll await your return, for if you’re successful it’ll tip the advantage back to us. I don’t think Cardoroth will remain besieged if the enemy suffers such a defeat. But if you’re not successful, there are other choices than death, whatever the Durlin creed says. A man can only do so much. Fate shoulders the rest. If you can, live well off the diamond, and, maybe, you can reclaim your rightful place among the Duthenor.”

  “It’s better,” Brand said, “to serve a great king than to lead a small people. I’ll return.”

  Aranloth shook his hand. “Don’t forget that a small people can become a great one. But fate will be what it will be,” he said. “Good luck, and may the sun ever rise on your face and set at your back.”

  They spoke no more. Brand moved down the shadowed passage, leaving behind two that he loved and a city that had become home.

  The passageway swiftly narrowed. It became dark, wet and dirty. At times he had to crawl, worming his way forward, but at length he felt the whisper of fresher air and the sounds of nightlife. The rough floor now turned at an upward slope, and he climbed slowly; not because of the rough passageway, but because he did not know with certainty what lay at the end of the path. And that was near.

  Crawling on his belly he neared the exit. It was only a crack in the rock; whether natural, or man-made and given the appearance of something natural, he could not tell.

  He listened and looked from within the last foot of the tunnel, but it was too dark to see much, and he could not hear anything out of place. He crept further forward, and his head now stuck out. He could see a little better and discovered that he was somewhere amid piled and tumbled rocks on what seemed to be a steep hill.

  With drawn sword he climbed out, but there seemed no cause for alarm. Yet his life among the Duthenor, where he had been hunted for many years by his enemies, and his trials in Cardoroth, had taught him caution.

  He saw ahead of him that the slope rose to cliffs, but there was a path, barely perceptible, that led up to the top of the hill by a less steep route. This he took, and then looked out on the night-darkened lands below.

  Cardoroth was there, the great city itself alight with a glow from tens of thousands of windows. It was still, but before it was great movement. On the flat lands near the west wall he saw the shadowy mass of the enemy, lit by their cooking fires, seething and roiling with movement for the evening meal was being taken after the long fighting of the day.

  But even for this time of day there seemed too much movement, as though they were in disarray or some strange event had occurred in their camp. This was confirmed when he heard the wild blast of a horn. It was no call to end hostilities for the day or to signal the movement of troops to sentry positions: it was an alarm. But for what?

  It was a question that disturbed him, and he did not like the feel of things. Something was wrong.

  But what? He studied the activity below as best as the darkness allowed. There was certainly a movement of troops, though it appeared disorderly. It was possible the enemy was sending out some sort of patrol. If so, it was a large one, and it was coming in his direction.

  Could they possibly know that he was here? He could see no way that they would, although Aranloth had said they would anticipate the move. Yet they could not know in what direction the attempt to escape the city would be made. Coincidence, or knowledgeable action? He could not decide, but the possibility that they knew of his movements could not be ruled out. There were traitors in the city, and they may well have a means of communicating with the enemy. He could have been seen. Guesses might have been made.

  None of it mattered. Brand decided not to wait to find out what was going on. He had not liked the thought of the westward exit earlier, but now it pleased him, for the hill was in range of the pinewoods that surrounded Lake Alithorin. He knew those dreary woods, and though he did not like them they offered a great place to find concealment or lose any pursuit, so long as those who followed were not too numerous.

  He moved back down the slope and toward the tree line. It was no accident that the exit was here. It was placed for the very purposes that he had used it for: to spy on the enemy and then to disappear. And yet he could not travel fast for he had no horse and his pack was laden with food.

  The ground levelled. Rocks gave way to grassy earth, but the trees thickened around him swiftly, and soon he was lost in another world. The pine forest surrounding Lake Alithorin had a sinister reputation, and he knew better than most why. He paused as he entered its deep shadows, but from behind him the horn sounded again and he had no choice. He stepped forward, but he did so quietly and with his eyes wide open.

  8. The Enemy is Everywhere

  Brand looked up through the deepening tree canopy. He could no longer see the sky, and it was very dark. So dark that his pace was become slow, and that worried him. But should there be any kind of pursuit, the same problems that he was having would also hinder those who followed.

  He moved ahead. The forest was quiet. The gray trunks of the pines rose like silent statues all about him. The fallen needles were soft beneath his boots, but there were many broken and rotting branches that he had to be careful of, and outthrust roots that turned and twisted in the dark as though to trip him. He ducked beneath a long trailer of moss that hung like a beard from a massive branch, and there he paused in mid-stride.

  A sound drifted to him. Perhaps from close by, perhaps from far away; it was hard to tell amid all the trees. But wherever it came from, it was a wolf’s howl, long and torturous, and it prickled the hair on the back of his neck.

  When the long howl ceased the forest was left deadly quiet. He heard nothing save for his own breathing and the gentle trudge of his boots along the dim trail, if trail it even was. He could not see properly, yet he knew that he was headed deeper into the forest. Not a place that he wished to go, and yet if he persisted and passed through the timber the path would eventually lead to Lake Alithorin.

  If the forest was an uncanny place, steeped in ancient tales and drenched with brooding menace, then the lake was its opposite. It was a place of beauty. Its pale shores were soft and sandy, surrounding a great basin of silver water alive with flashing fish, gently lapping waves and a sense of peace at odds with the dark forest around it. That was where he was headed, for it was safer there and he could turn south on its verge and follow it for many miles on the beginning of his quest.

  But the forest was where he was at the moment, and he kept his mind on it instead of wandering too far ahead. There were noises now. The wolf was silent, but many small animals scurried in the deep shadows and near-noiseless wings beat over his head, passing shadows in the deeper shadows of the night.

  And then he heard a different type of noise. It came from a distance, and it was not some small animal. It was the crashing through the woods of a great number of things, and he guessed what they were: elugs. He had little doubt of it, but then the horn sounded again, closer this time, and what uncertainty there was died even as its last urgent echoes were swallowed by the dark forest.

  There was nothing to do but keep going, and this he did, but he moved at a swifter pace. Yet it was dangerous to move too fast in the dark and without due caution for what lay ahead. Fire and blood! This was not turning out as he expected. Or at least it was falling apart more quickly than he guessed.

  Aranloth had warned him the enemy would be watching for such a move as he now made. But how could they possibly react so quickly? The more he thought of it the surer he was that some traitor had stumbled onto their plan, or at least a part of it, and the elùgroths did the rest.

  It was beyond him how a person could betray their own city, and all the people in it. Yet where there was temptation of wealth, or power, or inducement by fear, all things were possible.

  He decided to stop thinking about it. His best chance to get through the next few hours was to forget about ever
ything behind him and move forward with a clear mind.

  He was not skilled at tracking, or the hiding of his own trail. He was not skilled at hiding and finding concealment. He knew only what any hunter knew, or any herdsman of cattle and sheep, about trails, cover and hiding scent. But that knowledge would hardly serve against a host of enemies. What he did have in his favor were long legs and a willingness to endure the physical hardship of a desperate march. With luck, and the wild ways of the wood to help him, it might be enough.

  It grew even darker, but there was no fog yet, and that was what he most hoped for. But fogs generally only rose from Lake Alithorin in the late hours of the night, and there were many miles he yet had to tread before he would benefit from that.

  For many reasons his best course of action would be to head, as directly as the twisting trails through the trees allowed, to the shore of the lake. The closer he got, the thicker the fog would be, when, and if, it came. If necessary, shallow water would hide both scent and trail.

  As a last resort he could also swim, something that he doubted the elugs could do with any proficiency, if at all. They came from desert lands, or at least the arid south of Alithoras. But that was truly a last resort, for the lake was massive, and strong as he was he would not endure long wearing mail and helm, nor survive any great length of time in its cold waters.

  The night lengthened. The hours passed in sweat and toil and the taking of several false trails. Yet if he, who knew these woods was having difficulty, it would be worse for the elugs. Yet the noise of pursuit in the distance did not abate, though it drew no closer. But that noise was probably coming from the greater mass of those who followed. Ahead of the main group would be the fleeter footed, the stronger and the more eager for blood. It was a disturbing thought.

  It was impossible to tell amid the trees and dark how close he was to the shore, but he knew now that he must be getting near. The ground often sloped a little downward, the trees grew thicker, the earth seemed lighter under foot as though there was sand in it. But there was no fog, nor yet even the first signs of one.

  Suddenly, he burst through into the open. A white strand shimmered beneath the starlight of an open sky. Beyond the bright shore lay Lake Alithorin. It was, as ever, magnificent. But its beauty was not what attracted him now. He wanted water, for though he had a waterbag in his pack he had not yet drunk. That must last him through times when water was harder to find.

  He moved to the shore carefully. There was no sign of anything about, but he was in the open now and it unsettled him. But nothing moved while he went forward, and reaching the water he knelt down and scooped up a double handful to drink. He studied his surrounds after a sip with the intensity of a shy deer, but everything seemed normal and he drank again.

  He had nearly had his fill when he heard the elug horn blow again. It was closer this time, and then other horns answered it. They too were just as close, and they were not far from each other. The elugs did not seem to be throwing out a wide line and scouring the forest for him; rather they were on his direct trail, yet he had heard no dogs barking. How else could they track him other than by scent? Unless … unless by sorcery.

  The thought sent a chill through his body. But again, having come to the realization that such a thing was a possibility, he must not worry about it. Worry, anger and fear were his enemies as much as the elugs. He must concentrate only on himself and his next move.

  It was time to turn south. If he stayed on the shore he could move much faster. There was more light, and there were no obstacles to swift walking or even running. Yet he would leave a trail that even a blind man could follow. Alternatively, he could ease back into the verge of trees and travel parallel to the lake. What was more important? Speed or concealment?

  He chose speed. It seemed to him that it was useless to hide his trail. The enemy was already following him. His best chance now lay in outpacing them. He set off at a jog along the shore.

  The sand was moist and firm beneath his boots. He moved at a good speed, and yet one that he could maintain for hours. He was less used to running than he once was, but the duties of Durlindrath kept him strong and fit.

  Each day he trained with some of his men. They fought hand to hand, or used knives or spears or halberds. They fought with long swords and short, with staffs and daggers, with two-handed swords and one handed. Sometimes they trained with two swords, sometimes a sword and shield. They practiced archery, and they practiced defending against attack by arrow, spear or hurled dagger. They practiced everything.

  None of this was new to him. He learned such things in his homeland. He had needed to, for he was hunted there by his enemies just as the king was a target now. But if he ever returned to the Duthenor, things would be different. He was older, more experienced. He was ready to claim back the life that was stolen from him.

  The thought spurred him to jog a little faster. But at that moment he heard more noise in the forest. It was close, very close, and he stopped thinking about ever returning to his homeland and wondered instead if he would ever see another sunrise.

  There was a greater clamor, and a sudden shout, but whether he had been seen or not he did not know. There seemed only one thing left to do: he must enter the water. He was a good swimmer, and that did not frighten him in itself, but he could not discard his sword or his chain mail. He would be weighed down and unable to swim, yet that did not mean that he could not find concealment somewhere in the shallows. Perhaps the search would sweep him by. If so, it would have to do so swiftly, for the water was fed by mountains and it was cold. Maybe dangerously cold for more than an hour.

  He prepared to go in. His feet turned in that direction, but he had only taken a few strides when three elugs broke from the tree line ahead of him. They had bows, though no arrows were fitted to the strings. For a moment they did not see him, and then one gave a shout and the others looked. Their faces broke into hideous grins and they cried out in some harsh tongue. Answers came from all around and then there were horns. They blew and wailed and brayed, filling the forest with a ferocious din. The enemy was all around him.

  A moment he hesitated. But the water was no longer an option. The three elugs were already drawing arrows from their quivers. He could not hide in the water, and being visible he would be easy prey for arrow shot. He must head back into the trees where their bows were useless and they had to fight him sword to sword. That, he might survive, if there were not too many of them.

  He darted to the left and into the dark shadows of the trees. As he did so he heard more horns. These were so close that the sound of them hurt his ears and there was a great crashing in the timber nearby.

  The enemy was everywhere. He drew his sword. The though struck him that this would be the end. He had failed the king. He had failed Cardoroth. Not that there had ever been much chance that this quest would succeed. They had all known that. But no one, least of all him, had expected it to fail so soon.

  He slowed and took some deep breaths. All about him needles rustled, branches moved and the sound of tramping boots filled the shadows. He would be found at any moment, yet whoever did so would regret it. He would take them with him into the great dark. But he knew in his heart that even if he cut a swathe through the enemy, leaving a hill of elug corpses, still more would come. The forest seemed alive with them, and that spelled his death, whether sooner or later.

  9. Dust on the Wind

  Gilhain surveyed the night.

  His view from the tower, looking westward toward Lake Alithorin, was clear. Yet his eyes, though they gazed in that direction and saw whatever could be discerned amid the darkness and shadow, were not really seeing what they looked upon. Or rather, his mind was elsewhere.

  In his youth, the land was fair and free. Now, it was surrounded by war. Everything he did, every thought he had, every choice he made was touched by that reality. And he did not like it. No matter that men said he was good at it. No matter that they called him a great strategist and that he
preserved the city from destruction. No matter that these things might even be true. He still did not like it.

  He would rather the lordships of old where his forefathers had ruled in peace, and their skills were used to improve trade between lands, broker alliances and build the wealth of the nation. And Cardoroth was wealthy.

  His forefathers had been masters of their skills, each and every bit as much as he was a master of war. But without their actions, he would have no money to provide the soldiers with the best training available. He could not pay them, nor supply them with excellent weapons and armor. Without financial prosperity, his ancestors could not have raised the Cardurleth that protected the city now.

  Wealth was the foundation of the city, the basis of the happiness of the people. They did not starve in winter. Their fairs and tournaments were resplendent, their clothes and food and entertainment among the best that he had seen in Alithoras. And he had travelled to many realms in his youth before responsibility weighed him down. He knew it was not so in some cities. He knew that Cardoroth was lucky, though that luck was built on good management. Yet the people, living sheltered lives, did not fully realize how close they were to total destruction. If the enemy prevailed, little would remain of them, or the things they loved.

  The name of Cardoroth would endure in memory. The language of the people would still be spoken. Cardoroth, in some way, would survive in the wild lands among far-flung homesteaders and hunters. But those who were not killed in the city would still be cut off from civilization, would soon live a desperate life. They would starve in droughts. Cold would wither the young and frail with sickness and death. Banditry would rise. Knowledge would dwindle, and those folk would regress into the scattered tribes they had once been before the Camar came east, before they learned from the immortal Halathrin. Their past would be black and burned. Their future dim. For they would be hunted too. The enemy would not stop at razing Cardoroth. Its armies would turn to other cities, and would not cease warfare until all Alithoras fell before them. And scattered bands of marauders would linger in each land they conquered and destroyed. The enemy would not leave them to grow again.