by Robert Ryan
He knew what it was, but his mind refused to accept what his eyes saw. It rose higher, reaching up and out of the void and into the air of Cardoroth.
“What is it?” he whispered to the lòhren. “How have they created such a sorcerous beast?”
Aranloth answered through gritted teeth. “This is not made of sorcery. Rather, it is called forth by the dark power of Shurilgar’s staff. It is a beast, a real beast, but drawn from the otherworld, summoned from some dark pit of horror. It is a serpent, but one such as has never hunted any dim-lit forest of Alithoras.”
Gilhain shook his head. “No. It can’t be. No serpent ever grew so big.”
“Not on this earth,” Aranloth answered.
Up the serpent rose, swaying back and forth, yet ever its eyes, slitted pits darker even than the hollow from which it emerged, fixed on the Cardurleth – or those standing upon it.
“How shall we fight it?” whispered Gilhain.
“Nay,” the lòhren said. “Men must fight men, and lòhrens must oppose dark sorcery. This task falls to my kind. It is for this that we came.”
He stepped close to the edge of the battlement, a figure robed in white and clothed in determination, but a small and frail thing compared to what it faced.
Aranloth raised his arms, and all along the wall a dozen other lòhrens, apparently waiting for some such signal, lifted high their staffs.
The serpent rose higher still, and its shadow fell over the Cardurleth. It looked down upon the lòhrens and soldiers. Slime dripped from its pale belly. The scales that formed its skin were large and smooth, shimmering luminously from beneath but gleaming darkly along its top. Near its midsection was a massive bulge; the remains of what it had last eaten.
The chanting of the elugs reached a new height of frenetic madness. The drums beat wildly. But the spell of the elùgroths soared above all else, and yet gathered all in and drew it into its own power, shaping it to its own dark will.
On the battlement, all was still and no sound was made. Men flinched when the shadow of the serpent touched them, but they made no cry of fear. Though terror menaced them, they held their ground; the longer the siege endured, the greater their defiance grew.
Gilhain gave a signal. Perhaps this attack was beyond mortal strength, but that did not mean the soldiers could not attempt to fight anyway. No one should just meekly await their fate.
A carnyx horn sounded at the king’s gesture, and its deep-throated voice sent a command to every captain along the wall. And they in turn gave their own commands.
Within moments the air was dense with arrows – the red-flighted arrows for which Cardoroth was famous. They whistled as they flew, blazing through the air like a spray of blood. But when they struck the massive serpent they shattered or glanced away. Some few stuck, but they did not penetrate the thick scales into the softer flesh beneath. The creature ignored the attack, swaying ever higher.
The next volley of arrows flew. These were better aimed, seeking the two places that were likely more vulnerable: where the great angular head joined the body, and the eyes.
Arrows stuck thickly in the skin at its neck, but they had no effect there. Those that struck the eyes seemed to trouble it, and it rose higher with a jerk, but then two great inner-lids, thick and leathery, came across from the sides. These offered protection, but seemingly no hindrance to its sight.
A ripple of movement ran through those on the battlement. Gilhain looked, but he did not at first see the cause, though he noticed a change. The men stepped back, but not in retreat.
It was only when the lòhrens took a pace forward that he realized the time for another type of attack had come. They would soon see if lòhrengai proved more effective than steel-headed shafts.
In unison the lòhrens raised their staffs. Aranloth reached forth with his hands. Lòhren-fire flared. A light, brilliant and flashing, sprang into being, dazzling and shimmering with its varied colors: silver, white, green, blue and many hues beside.
The lòhrengai struck the serpent, and the air all about it wavered with heat. Those who watched turned their heads away from the stabbing brightness. A moment later there was a crack as of thunder; it rolled and boomed, drowning out the drums of the enemy and their chanting. For long moments the noise throbbed, sending shivers through the rampart and deep into the earth. Light and thunder roiled over Cardoroth, and then slowly receded.
Gilhain lifted his gaze, but the serpent was still there.
“How is it possible?” he muttered.
Unaffected, the creature swayed higher. The arrows that had prickled its skin were now burnt away, and their ashes drifted like black snow through the air. The slime on its belly steamed, but the monstrous thing was unharmed, oblivious to the mighty power unleashed upon it.
Gilhain struggled to think of something to do, but he, the supposed strategist, the war-leader with a thousand tricks, was powerless and void of ideas. Truly, Aranloth was right. The serpent was from another world, for powers that would destroy a thing born of this earth were as nothing to it.
Aranloth looked ancient and weary, but he spoke with unexpected determination in the face of what had just happened.
“Long has been my battle against the Shadow,” he said. “Mayhap it is ended, and Cardoroth with it. And yet know this, O king, the lòhrens will fight, no matter that they lose.”
Gilhain knew it. He felt it in his bones. He looked around and sensed the same in the soldiers all along the wall. They would fight. Every one of them would carry their blades until the end. But if lòhrengai had not harmed the creature summoned to break them, nor swift-flighted arrows shot from strong bows, then swords would not either, no matter how defiant.
“The great dark is coming,” he answered slowly. “Yet now I feel better about sending Brand on his quest. He at least has a hope of life, and it may be a long time before the same darkness overshadows him.”
4. A Haunted Man
Brand grappled with the thought of the power that was in him. He wanted no part of it, and vowed at some point during the night not to ever use it again. Lòhrengai was for lòhrens, and he was a warrior. Besides, he mistrusted it for good reason. Magic changed the wielder. It used them even as they used it. For a lòhren less so than an elùgroth, because they invoked the art only at need, but that was beside the point. He wanted to stay just as he was.
Aranloth knew. He knew the dangers better than any, and he had known that hidden away somewhere inside Brand that power lurked. At least he guessed it. But Brand did not really blame him for saying nothing. Just as he himself knew that Kareste faced a great choice, and that such choices must be discovered and faced by the person, in their own time. Pressure from outside only got in the way.
Dawn came after a long night. Brand’s choices were made, though he supposed they would yet be tested. But he thought no more of magic or problems or the dark corners of a man’s soul. Instead, he reveled in the new day.
The sun shone bright and clear. The sky was a glorious blue, and the grass was green beneath the hooves of the horses as they got underway. Afar, he heard the gurgle and rush of the river, and closer to hand the calls of many types of birds that he had never heard before. But he could not see them, for they came from within the many small woods that dotted the landscape.
The horses travelled quickly. It was good country in which to ride, the earth being soft and the way clear of obstacles. All should be well, Brand thought, and yet Kareste was withdrawn and thoughtful.
He considered her as they rode. At first, he guessed her state of mind was because of Shurilgar’s staff. After some while though, he realized that was not the case. He began to feel something himself, something which she had sensed earlier than he: a mood of unease that lay over the land despite the beautiful day. It was not strong. It was, in fact, barely there. But he had learned to trust his instincts, and now that they sensed this thing there was no doubt in his mind.
He caught her glance and they slowed the horses to a wa
lk.
“What is it?” he asked.
“You sense it also? I thought it was just me.”
“No,” he answered. “There’s something … not right. At first I didn’t notice because the weather is so fine and this is a fair land. But there’s something else going on.”
Kareste gazed behind them. “Khamdar?”
“It could be,” Brand said, following her gaze. “But there’s no sign of any pursuit.”
“Whatever it is, it’s unsettling,” Kareste said. She turned her gaze back to the front with an air of determination, and they continued on.
Now that their misgivings were in the open, their unease grew. It was like a shadow over the whole land, though they rode in bright sunlight.
They did not push the horses too hard. It was a long way to Lòrenta, and it was wise to keep them in good health and with a reserve of speed should it be needed. To tire them out now was to leave nothing available if they were pressed hard by a pursuit later.
Every moment that passed seemed like an eternity to Brand, but he pushed such thinking aside. To rush now might be a mistake, and he knew that although they did not hasten unduly, they were still making excellent time. Cardoroth could not endure forever, but he trusted in the king and the brave hearts of the city’s people to hold out until the last. And by then, well, by then his own troubles would be sorted, one way or the other.
To their left was another wood. It was small, perhaps only a patch of five to ten acres, but it seemed green and lush as did everything in this land. He realized as they neared that no birdcalls came from it. But it was not silent.
Drifting through the sunlit air was music: high, wild, and laden with grief. It was a flute, that much Brand knew, but he had never heard such a tune before, and goosebumps stood out on his skin.
They came to a halt. “Who lives in these lands?” he asked.
Kareste frowned. “None that I know of. But Alithoras is large, and many people from the south are on the move. Maybe some have come here to escape trouble.”
“If so, they’ll be disappointed.”
She looked at him, her eyes giving away nothing of her thoughts, but there was a catch in her voice.
“When people are desperate, even disappointment can be an improvement on their situation.”
Brand did not answer. Kareste had suffered in her life, even more than he, so he took her at her word. He did not know what it would be like to lose his family as young as she had, and to be taken to some strange place among just as strange a people. At least he had stayed in his own land, moving from family to family, hiding spot to hiding spot, but always among his own kind who protected and taught him while the usurper of his father’s chieftainship hunted for him.
Brand sighed. The past was a part of him, and he could not shake it any more than Kareste could distance herself from her own. But now he must force himself to think of only the present.
“Could it be a trap?”
Kareste shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. It’s not something that Khamdar seems likely to do, but there are other perils in the world beside elùgroths.”
Brand made up his mind. “I would meet the person who could create such music.”
“Curiosity is a dangerous thing,” she said. “You like the music, but you may not like the maker. And it may be a trap, for all that I know.”
“That’s true, but it may also be a chance to hear news. We’re wandering in a foreign land, and information helps. There could be elug armies on the move for all that we know.”
She shrugged. “Very well. But be ready – for anything.”
“Being ready is easy. It’s making good choices that’s hard.”
She raised an eyebrow at him as though considering his words in a range of contexts, but did not speak.
They moved ahead. The wood was a little bigger than Brand had thought, but it was still small. Not so small that it could not hide an army of elugs if it came to that, but he did not really believe that to be the case. Khamdar must still be behind them somewhere, if he was even alive at all. And any enemy from the south was likely to be gathered around Cardoroth or one of the other cities along the coast of Alithoras. There was nothing for them here in the wild lands.
When the two riders entered the woods the light turned yellow-green. There were mostly oak trees about them, and the shade soon grew thicker. But it was a young wood, not so dense and dark as what Brand was used to.
They moved quietly, and with caution. But for all that they did not make any noise, the music died almost as soon as they rode beneath the leaf canopy, and it did not start again.
There was a path of sorts, though it veered at strange angles that no animal would make. But Brand was little skilled at tracking, and he was not sure of this. But however the path was made, he followed it, for it led to the center of the wood, and that was where the music had come from. So much he realized before it ceased. But whether the maker would still be there when they arrived was another matter.
A breeze whispered in the high leaves of the oaks, but it was still and peaceful amid the dark trunks and spreading boughs. The smell of the earth, deep and rich, was strong in the air and Brand liked it. It reminded him of the scent of new-ploughed soil, and not for the first time he missed his childhood home where once he had lived and toiled honestly, helping to raise livestock and crops for those who hid and protected him.
His past, his broken childhood, seemed a long time ago now. And yet it was not. But much had happened since then, and he had been forced to grow in strength and wisdom more quickly than he should have. Now, instead of crops, he harvested only death. Many were the enemies that he had left behind him. Sometimes, he wished for a simpler life. But then he would never have met Gilhain or Aranloth … or Kareste.
It was a mistake to allow his mind to continue wandering, and he focused his attention once more on the present. They neared the center of the wood. There was smoke in the air, the sweet-sharp odor that was a camper’s friend. But not all campsites were friendly.
Brand brought his horse to a stop and looked around. He immediately saw the faint flicker of firelight from a glade a little ahead. The trees closed around it; the path passed to its side, but within the circle of trunks was a clearing: green-grassed and shining in the sun.
“Be careful,” Kareste whispered.
He nodded, and urged his mount forward. The trunks were close, but not so close that a horse could not pass between them. On the inside, the light was brighter and the blue sky gleamed above.
It was a beautiful little glade, quiet and peaceful. The fire burned merrily in the middle, and to its side over a bed of black-red coals was a spitted hare, nearly roasted through. Behind that a magnificent black mare stood. She remained still, but occasionally an ear twitched or her tail lashed to dislodge flies. Against an ancient tree stump, thick but near-rotted by age, leaned a flute of black walnut, trimmed in gold. But of the flute’s owner, the mare’s rider and the fire’s maker, there was no sign.
“Whoever it is has good taste in horses,” Brand said.
There was a noise to the left of the glade and a man stepped from behind a tree trunk.
“There are few things in life better than a fast horse and sweet music,” he said.
The man was tall and grim. He was also armed. He held a sword, finely crafted, in his hand, and he looked to Brand’s trained eye like he knew how to use it, but he made no threatening move.
Brand thought quickly. He did not blame the stranger for drawing his blade in such a situation, but he did not draw his own. Instead, he ignored the naked steel. That would send a signal that he did not wish to fight, but also that he was not scared.
“To that,” he answered, “I can only agree. But I would add this to it – a trusted sword ready to one hand, and a tankard of beer in the other.”
The other man laughed. It was a deep and rich sound, but he did not lower his sword.
“You’re a man after my own heart,”
he said.
Kareste sniffed loudly. “Enough of this. If I hear either of you say that the only other thing you need is a beautiful girl by your side, there’s going to be trouble.”
“My dear,” the man said in his rich voice, “a beautiful girl is always trouble.”
Kareste tossed her hair and glared at him. The man pretended not to notice and gazed back, a slightly impudent smile on his face.
Brand liked him. But then he felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. He did not know where it came from, and he did not like it.
The man looked from one of them to the other. With a nonchalant shrug, he lowered his sword.
“You’re not one of my enemies,” he said.
“Nor are you one of ours, I think,” Brand answered calmly.
The man sheathed his blade. “But there’s trouble nonetheless, and for once it’s not of a kind that beautiful women bring.” He ignored Kareste completely as he spoke, and she bit her lip, forcing herself not to react to his teasing.
He gazed at them a little longer. “But this you already know.”
Brand nodded slowly, unsure of what to say, and thinking it best to say as little as possible.
“There are enemies behind us. Dangerous enemies. But we don’t know for sure if they’re still on our trail.”
“I see,” the man said. “Well, you seem able to look after yourselves; that much is obvious. So too is the fact that you tell me nothing that I couldn’t already guess by your attitude. But that is no matter.”
He turned to Kareste and gave a well-practiced bow. “My name is Bragga Mor.”
Kareste sniffed again as a sign of irritation, though whether to the man as a person, or to his shrewd guesses, Brand did not know.
He gave the stranger their true names – there was no reason not to. In the pause that followed, he asked a question.
“Where are you from?” He had thought it a simple question, but Bragga Mor seemed suddenly to lose a little of his poise.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m nothing but a vagabond wanderer now, and far I’ve travelled, and many things I’ve seen.”