by Robert Ryan
And yet there was no real way to refuse the call. The land outweighed all else. But why him? He did not believe in fate, did not believe that the future was set in stone. Let the land call another who could better answer! Yet who was that?
Brand’s mind began to reel. He had no answers, was not even sure if he was asking the right questions. Perhaps he should run. If he were fast, if he fled far away, perhaps he could outrun them. And that thought became suddenly strong, for as he considered what would happen if he did that, he perceived with greater clarity the great shadow of the tasks that lay ahead of him. And even the hint of them was daunting. It was a mighty destiny, but not what his heart wanted. He steeled himself with an iron will: first, he must see things through with the staff.
Kareste, as always, sensed his mood. More importantly, she perceived his doubts, and was as direct as always.
“We don’t need them to destroy the staff,” she said. “If we must, we can do it while they talk.”
Brand studied her for a moment. “Haven’t you had a change of heart.”
“Don’t make light of it. I know now better than everyone the power in this thing.” She gripped the staff tightly. “And the temptation. It would lead anyone into evil, into the very heart of darkness. It must be destroyed, whether the Halathrin will it or no. Aranloth should have seen to it when he had the chance long ago. And I’ll do it now, while I still have the will to do so.”
“Maybe so,” he answered. “But I don’t think either of us have the power to burn it. Lòhrengai will not obliterate elùgai, and to try to do it that way is only going to bring the power within it into opposition. It couldn’t be done quickly either, and then you’d have some very upset Halathrin to deal with.” He paused, looking over at them thoughtfully. “The deed needs their cooperation, if we can get it. They see the thing as something different from what we do. And if we can get their cooperation, it will need much timber and a great fire. As I said, I wouldn’t care to invoke lòhrengai to destroy it. That is to open yourself up to the staff itself, for such power can go both ways, and who knows how the power within it would react?”
She tilted her head. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you really think it’s possible?”
“I don’t know. You’re more learned by far than I in such matters. But I think in truth that few ever walked the land who understood the powers of one of the great masters such as Shurilgar. Besides all of that, the Halathrin deserve better.”
“Maybe so,” she said. “But people rarely get what they deserve.”
He did not answer that, and she shrugged. “Anyway, it was a thought. We’ll do it your way, but I hope you can read these people better than I can. I have no idea what they’ll do from one moment to the next.”
Brand gave his own shrug. “Me neither, but as I always seem to have to do, I’ll trust to my luck. I think they’ll agree.”
Kareste raise an eyebrow. “You have more than your fair share of luck. But we’ll see. One day it’ll run out. I just hope it isn’t today.”
She stopped talking, and he knew why. The Halathrin were returning.
“But it might be,” she whispered a moment later under her breath.
3. Old as the Bones of the Earth
The Halathrin approached. Their visage was stern, and their eyes glinted with steady determination. It was the unwavering glance of immortals who endured through time, and the force of their will was honed by the long years so that their mind, once decided on some course, was not easily swayed.
There was a shimmer about them. It was stronger than before, for now that they seemed to have some purpose the power that was in them was focused. Just what they could do, and how strong they were in body and mind, Brand could not tell. But their powers were greater than that of human kind.
He felt tempted to draw his sword. This might yet become a fight, though he was still not sure if he could do that. He was sick of killing, but he began to feel that deep down inside him the urge to fight for Cardoroth, and for those who had placed their trust in him, was still there.
He waited, stony faced. He could not read them, but he was confident that they could not read him either.
Harlinlanloth came to stand before him. She was tall and proud. A light burned in her eyes, and though he could not read her, he knew this at least: her spirit was as proud as her manner, and though she was a gentle soul, there was also a fire in her that once woken would flare and burn and consume. As an enemy, she would be implacable. As a friend, loyal to death.
His heart pounded loudly, for he sensed in her a kindred spirit. But he betrayed no outward sign of his emotion.
Harlinlanloth stood still and looked at him intently. “Know this,” she said with quiet force. “This decision is not easy for us. The wood of the staff comes from a sacred grove of elms in our forest realm. That alone makes it more precious than you can understand. But the trees grew on a mound, the burial place of our great king who led us to these shores during our exodus, for the Halathrin do not entomb their dead in stone as is the custom among men. It was from one of those sacred trees that Shurilgar stole the timber for his staff.”
She paused. All was quiet about them. The hills were gray ghosts and the tarn silent as death.
“Yet we are not unaware that afterward the staff was possessed of an evil power. Yet still it remains a token of the living tree and the rest of the grove that Shurilgar razed by fire and elùgai. The staff alone, though broken in two, is all that remains of our memorial. For still no grass grows nor any flower or tree on the flame-blackened mound. You could never understand what a sad sight that is to us.”
“Lady,” he answered softly, “I understand death and tragedy.”
She did not look away. “But you don’t understand the bearing of it through years uncounted.” She paused thoughtfully and then continued, a hesitant tone in her voice. “Though one day you will.” She took a deep breath and went on with greater certainty. “So much of our story you may already know. Aranloth knows it, and it is clear that he set you on the path of this quest. But what you don’t know is this.”
The Halathrin girl swept her arm out imperiously behind her to indicate the other Halathrin.
“We are twenty,” she said. “We are always twenty, for once there were twenty trees. We are the Drinhalath, the preservers of what was lost, the memory keepers and the guardians of the little that remains. Our lives are pledged to guard it. And in truth, we have no power or authority to agree or disagree with what you want. That is a decision for our king and his counselors. And yet,” she said slowly, “a decision must be made, and made now else it will come too late for your people. And maybe ours also, for out in the world it may be that we cannot preserve our charge. So it proved in our own realm. We could not protect it there. And under our laws, the decision falls to me.”
Brand felt for her. There was a hint of doubt in her eyes, of the anguish that she hid. For it was an impossible choice that she must make. And he knew what that was like.
“I lead the Drinhalath,” she said. “The decision rests with me. Know this!”
Her voice changed, and he sensed that a sudden decision lay behind it.
“Our ways are not your ways, and there are consequences for any choice I make. But though we’re different, the last remnant of sacred wood is as precious to us as your people are to you. We love what we love, and for us the memory of a loved one does not fade. For we who are immortal live longer and deeper in the past than those who live more briefly.”
Kareste stirred and might have spoken, but Harlinlanloth went on.
“I don’t mean to say that you love less, only that experience with your kind has taught us our differences. We live in the past as much as the present, and our thought encompasses both at the same time.”
She paused a moment, and then shifted her gaze back to Brand.
“Know this, also. The Halathrin have long guessed where Aranloth secured the second half of the staff. That place is far away f
rom here. You could have destroyed it there, but rather you came here to free us, at risk to yourselves and with the risk of delay to your people. We’re in your debt, and we take such matters seriously.”
Harlinlanloth bowed again, and so now did every Halathrin behind her. This, Brand noticed, was a deeper bow, as graceful as their every other movement, but somehow more formal this time. There was something behind Harlinlanloth’s words that he could not quite grasp.
She straightened and spoke again. “We are in your debt, and as you made sacrifices for us, we will make them for you. The staff will burn.”
There were tears in her eyes as she spoke, and a catch in her voice that tore at his heart.
“Lady,” Brand said, “I would that it were not so.”
“It is what it is,” she answered, “And sometimes wishing is in vain. Yet still do we appreciate your thoughts. And though the staff must be destroyed, we would do so with dignity and in memory of he whom it commemorates.”
Brand nodded. “How shall it be done?”
“There are funerary rites that are important to us. We would perform them.”
Brand did not answer, but bowed in accession.
The next little while was solemn. In silence they each collected what dry timber they could. This they stacked into a large bier. After some time, it stood waist high and stretched out in a square with each side twice the length of a man. When it burned, Brand knew, it would burn with great intensity. And that was well, for though it was made of wood, he did not think Shurilgar’s staff would catch fire easily.
Harlinlanloth approached Kareste. Gently, she reached out for the staff. Kareste gave it to her, and though her face betrayed no sign of struggle, Brand sensed that it took much force of will to pass it over.
Harlinlanloth laid the talisman gently on top of the bier, and then the Halathrin stood around it. Brand and Kareste stood back a little way, and watched in silence.
Harlinlanloth led the Halathrin in some sort of chant. Brand could not pick up the words at first, for it seemed to him that while it was the Halathrin tongue, there were many words and phrases that he had not heard before and he could not guess their meaning. Yet one phrase he understood: Eleth nar duril. This the Halathrin repeated frequently – lie in peace.
Kareste whispered to him, for evidently she understood more than he, or had learned of this rite from the lòhrens.
“They invoke the blessings of the sun and moon, of the sky and grass, of the forest and field. They seek oneness with all that was and all that will be, and they speak to the spirit of the departed, asking him to lie in peace, to be one with the universe as they will after him. They ask him to wait in tranquility until they are joined again, and the broken is mended, and the lost is found.”
Brand was not sure what to make of it. But he saw the expression on the faces of the Halathrin, and whatever he thought did not matter. They believed, and it was a moment of great emotion for them. No matter that Halath, king of the Halathrin, had died thousands of years ago. It seemed to him that they felt his death as keenly now as they must have on that very first day. Immortality, perhaps, was not so great as people made out.
The chanting continued without cessation, yet one of the Halathrin peeled away at some sign that Brand did not see. The warrior walked in stately fashion, stepping in time to the sonorous chanting. Soon, he plucked a handful of willow leaves that hung over the tarn. He returned, stepping in the same manner, and as he came to the bier he scattered the leaves over its top.
Before the warrior finished, another of the Halathrin peeled away. He also marched in the same fashion, yet his pace was slower, and the chanting became even more deliberate and deeper.
This warrior stooped and gathered soil from the edge of the tarn in his hands. It was dark and loamy, enriched be years of uncounted leaf falls.
The man returned. With graceful movements he spread the soil over the bier. And even as he did so, Harlinlanloth was already moving. Hers was a grace beyond even the others. She moved at a pace so stately, so elegant, that she barely seemed to move at all, and Brand could not take his gaze off her. There were tears on her cheeks, but her eyes shone with determination, and her voice did not falter.
The Halathrin girl reached the tarn. She ignored leaf and soil. Instead, she bent, scooped the dark water into her cupped hands, and stood again all in one fluid motion.
She returned to the others. Not one drop of water was spilled, and then with a sudden movement she cast the water over the bier. It glistened on the staff. The Halathrin chanting rose to a higher pitch, and it gathered pace. The ceremony, symbolizing many things beyond Brand’s comprehension, was obviously drawing near its end.
The chanting was now high and remote. He understood little of it, but there was a beauty in its sound that transfixed him. He realized that the words and the rite were old; old even to the immortals. That was why he could not understand it, even though he spoke their tongue. It was a part of their heritage so ancient that it no doubt preceded their coming to Alithoras. It was old as the bones of the earth beneath their feet, and it meant something to these people that he could never understand. It was ancient even to them, bringing to life a language that they spoke eons ago in a land beyond the shores of Alithoras.
Unexpectedly, there was a slight falter in the chant. Brand looked to Kareste, and he saw that she was uneasy. And she did not look at the Halathrin, but out into the woods. Whatever had disturbed the immortals had disturbed her, and then he remembered the words of Durletha just before she died: I will have the staff now, even if I must kill you, for others come for it…
4. The Fire of the Sun
Gilhain stood atop the battlement. The noon heat beat down, and the sky was bright. He grinned to himself. He knew that he should not, not amidst such terrible waste of life, yet he did.
Shorty had been his champion and had defeated Hvargil. He had also escaped the sorcerers. This was a set of events to bring chagrin to the enemy, and what displeased them was good for Cardoroth – and his sense of humor.
He stood a moment longer, enjoying the feeling. There was satisfaction in being able to do so, but soon he must turn his mind toward facing the next threat, whatever it would be. Certainly, there would be more attacks, more elugs coming against the wall, but what else?
Aranloth was beside him, and he spoke into the silence. It seemed to Gilhain that the lòhren uncannily read his thoughts.
“Who knows what the enemy will do now?” he said. “They’ve been rebuffed, but not beaten. They’ll come against you again, but they won’t do so in the same way twice.”
Lornach and Taingern were there also. They looked at each other, but only Taingern spoke.
“We’ll be ready,” he said.
They were simple words, but Gilhain felt the force of will that lay behind them. It was in the way the two men stood also, for they were warriors and they were riding high on confidence. They looked like they could proceed through the gate and take on the enemy just by themselves.
Gilhain understood the feeling, but he knew it would not last. He put an arm around each of their shoulders and stood between them. Together, they looked out over the battlement.
Aranloth stood a little apart, but he leaned against a merlon and looked out also. But though the lòhren’s eyes gazed in that direction, Gilhain knew that he was not contemplating the enemy, but rather Brand. Where was he? What was he doing? Gilhain knew those same questions very well; he had asked them often enough himself.
There was no attack as yet, and it seemed that there was no sign of one building, either. Gilhain dropped his arms from the shoulders of the two Durlin and sighed.
“This is a good time for me to walk along the battlement and give some heart to the men, if I can.”
“You always do,” Lornach said. “More than you know.”
They strolled along the battlement. They went slowly, for it was an oppressively hot day. The other Durlin, those who remained alive, joined them. And
even Aranloth trailed along, a frown on his face and apparently deep in thought.
They came to an archer restringing his bow. “How goes it, friend?” Gilhain asked.
The man gave a slight smile. “Well, your Majesty. The light is good, and I have plenty of arrows.”
Gilhain clapped him on the back. “Well spoken. If only you had an arrow for every enemy in the host and the time to shoot them all.”
“Have them line up for me,” the archer said with a straight face, “and I’ll oblige you, Sire.”
Gilhain gave him a wink. “Watch them closely,” he answered. “And I’ll see what I can do.”
They moved on. Gilhain spoke to anyone and everyone as he walked the Cardurleth. Most of the soldiers merely listened though, for these were quiet and grim men. It was usually only the extroverts who spoke to him, and that was fine by him. These were the people who made jokes and lightened the mood. The others need not join in to benefit from that. Morale was like a fire: it was either sparking to life or dying. Only rarely did it burn steadily. And Gilhain knew it was his job to keep it burning, to keep it burning against the dark.
On they went, and Gilhain had spoken to a great many before he turned around and started to head back toward the rampart above the gate: his normal spot from which to direct the defense. He stopped and talked just as frequently as he had on the way out, and there was much grim banter. He took extra time for those who manned the Cardurleth despite a wound, yet who had chosen to remain with their regiment on the wall.
Gilhain had met all types of soldiers: the steely eyed, the mentally scared who joked to hide it, those who cared neither for life nor death but rather sought oblivion after some personal tragedy. He had met them all, talked to them all and understood them all. For he was at times all those things himself.