King's Last Hope: The Complete Durlindrath Trilogy

by Robert Ryan

  In just a few moments water flowed in great rivulets across the stone floor. Massive drops smashed into Gilhain and the Durlin, wetting their clothes clean through. And the sendings hissed and smoked and writhed. The water was anathema to them, and their bright blades dimmed and then vanished, dissolved into the sorcerous air from which they had been summoned.

  The sendings writhed and collapsed. In moments there was nothing left of them but a drift of steam and the faint echo of a faraway cry of pain. The elùgroths who sent them suffered for their demise, and a moan ran through the enemy camp.

  Arell returned with the soldiers, but their buckets were no longer needed. They put them down where they stood. Water ran from their hair and dripped from their faces. But with a final rumble the sky lightened and the rain ceased. It did not peter out; it just stopped.

  Gilhain looked farther along the battlement and saw, not really that far away, that it was still dry. Aranloth had called the rain, and it had fallen only where he had wanted it to.

  They all stood there in silence, dripping wet, and the hot noon-day sun beat suddenly down upon them again.

  Gilhain’s gaze turned to the two dead Durlin, yet before he could even think of what to do or say Arell was already moving. There were others, and though not dead they were wounded, and she moved to help them. How she did it, how she stayed on her feet, he did not know, for she seemed just as wounded as they. There was blood on her in several places, and darkened rents on the cloth of her clothes where the swords of the enemy had cut her, yet she seemed to pay no heed to her own problems.

  Gilhain tried to catch his breath. He was too old for this, and he felt his heart flutter strangely in his chest. At the same time, he felt lightheaded. Only Arell knew of these symptoms, for he had experienced them before, and she had given him a tonic to counter them. She had also said they would get worse over time, and he believed her.

  He did not think his courage would ever give out, but his body would; she had warned him in her direct but caring manner of that, and he knew the time was not that far away. Closer, unless he could leave stress and toil behind for the twilight years of his life.

  He thought as he rested. The relentless swords of the enemy would wear them all down in the end. He must do something, something different and unexpected to break the pattern that was destroying them. Only by doing the unpredictable, the completely unforeseeable, did he have a chance to upset the rhythm of the enemy. For no matter the setbacks they had, they always regrouped and attacked again. But the question was, the question that had haunted him for most of the siege, was what?

  7. All the Days of Your Life

  Brand leapt through the failing wall of flame. Beyond it was Khamdar, and the fire on the bier that had begun to rage.

  The elùgroth was massive. He had become a giant, become more than any man could hope to fight. Yet Brand called forth the magic that was in him. A blue-white nimbus surrounded him, and it protected him from the flame.

  But Khamdar was another matter. The sorcerer was a threat beyond Brand’s capacity to deal with. And yet, even as he thought that, he caught the lie within it. Khamdar had increased his size, swollen into immensity. But it was illusion only, a deceit intended to cause fear and hopelessness.

  And the thought that he was unable to fight him had been seeded by the sorcerer himself. Brand did not let that thought take root in his mind. He gritted his teeth, told himself that he was right, and even as he did so Khamdar shrank. He was become a man again, yet still one of the most dangerous men to ever walk the earth.

  Khamdar must have sensed this change in Brand, for he hastened toward Shurilgar’s staff. With a leap he was upon the bier and reaching into the flames for the talisman.

  Brand was right behind him. Sorcerer or no, he could not stab him in the back. Perhaps Khamdar knew that, and so risked this moment of vulnerability. Instead, Brand dropped Aranloth’s staff and reached out with his own hand, gripping the back cloak of his enemy, and the bony shoulder that lay beneath it.

  A moment thus they struggled. And then Brand’s hand reached around and clutched the elùgroth’s throat. His grip was strong, trained since his youth in weaponry, and an iron will guided it.

  The elùgroth turned, for he had no choice. And with a heave Brand pulled him away from the bier and sent him sprawling to the ground.

  Brand swung around to face his opponent, putting himself between the elùgroth and his goal. The fire on the bier swelled and crackled behind him. The elùgroth rose from the dirt like a swaying snake, a creature that would not be pinned down in one place, a creature that no one could predict where it would go and what it would do next.

  And like a snake the elùgroth prepared to strike. His face was contorted by inhuman rage, and wicked flame burned at the fingertips of his left hand, but just at that moment three Halathrin propelled themselves into him. They knocked him flying and went down with him in a mess of flame and tangled limbs.

  Brand looked for Kareste. She was nearby. Three hounds were growling at her, their tufted fur risen in hackles, saliva dripping from their fangs. She held them at bay, lòhren-fire stuttering from her fingers. But the fire was dying and the hounds getting ready to leap.

  Brand did not hesitate. He threw his sword at them. The Halathrin blade spun and wheeled in the air, silver light burning at its edge. It smashed into the beasts with a spray of fire, but he was no longer even looking at them. He had turned, leapt back, and grabbed Aranloth’s staff from the ground.

  There, for a moment, he hesitated. The elùgroth had thrown off the Halathrin and was ready to leap into the flames of the bier again to retrieve Shurilgar’s staff. But at the same moment Brand saw one of the hounds, the great ruff of fur around its neck burning with a wreath of flame, crouch to leap at Kareste.

  He did not know what to do, and had no time in which to make an impossible decision. But even as he hesitated there was a strange sound. It was a thrum, or a scream, or a mighty screech. It was like no sound that he had ever heard, and he felt it vibrate as much through his bones as he heard it with his ears.

  From the bier rose a plume of black smoke, thick and turgid. Thunder cracked in the sky and the earth rumbled as though the very hills of Lòrenta had come alive and begun to march. A gale rose, slapping into Brand’s face and bending the plume of smoke. Sparks flew in the wind: red, green and wickedly hot.

  Above them, the dark plume bent further, reaching down toward them, and its shadow was cold with evil. Closer it came, and then a gust of wind howled and dispersed it.

  “No!” screamed Khamdar. It seemed as though there was agony in his voice. The elùgroth reached out toward the bier, his fingers opening and closing, but the staff was gone, and the bier roared with flame so hot that he stumbled back from it.

  The hounds howled. The elugs moaned. Khamdar fell to his knees. Almost, Brand felt sorry for him, for he did not like to see anyone or anything suffer.

  “It is done,” Kareste muttered. “For good or for ill.”

  Harlinlanloth spoke quietly, solemnly. “Thus passes the last symbol of Halath, he who died for his people. Now, only memory exists, but memory shall endure even through the long ages yet to come.”

  Brand looked around. The few hounds and elugs that were left alive scattered. Khamdar had lost control of them, but the elùgroth remained. Slowly, he stood.

  Brand took a step toward him. But he was not alone. Kareste shuffled on weary legs near him, and the Halathrin gathered close.

  Khamdar eyed them all. He made no move or threat. His wych-wood staff was gripped but loosely in his hand. And then he stretched forth his free arm, long and clothed in a ragged black sleeve, and spoke.

  “You shall pay for this, Brand of the Duthenor. Listen and hear, for my words are truth.”

  The elùgroth’s voice was cold and remote, and a strange expression had come over his face. Brand had seen something similar before on Aranloth, but only when the lòhren spoke with foresight.

  “Ever
ything you touch,” Khamdar said, “will wither before you. Everything that you reach for, shall fall from your grip. All that you want will disappear. You shall not know joy, nor friendship, nor love.”

  Brand stood still, frozen in place. This was not foresight, it was a curse, and the elùgroth continued with relentless calm.

  “Your luck will always run out. Ill-fortune will follow you. That which you do not want will come for you, that which you seek shall remain hidden. The great shadow of death will walk by your side all the days of your life, dogging your every step. You will never be free of it, and you will know that not even death, least of all death, will allow you to escape your woe. And yet you will die, for I will kill you. I will destroy you in fire and smoke, even as you destroyed the staff. And I shall tread over your ashes, driving them into the barren earth.”

  A great quiet settled over everything. It seemed that even the hills of Lòrenta listened to the curse, for there was power in the elùgroth’s voice to command the very stone that lay at their roots. And the dark tarn looked up at them all, motionless as an unblinking eye to bear witness.

  Brand was shocked, shocked and surprised as he had never been before. For he had expected a fight, expected anything from the elùgroth, but he had not anticipated this.

  Yet he would not cower. In response, he gave a nonchalant shrug.

  “That’s been my life already. Perhaps it’s the life of all who live.” Then he stood taller, and a hardness came into his eyes. “Your words mean nothing to me. But this sword,” and he raised his Halathrin blade before him, “is something that I well trust. It’s in my grip, and it will not fall. Nor will it disappear. Nor will it turn to ash and smoke. And soon you shall feel the truth of my words.”

  Brand stepped forward toward his enemy.

  8. The World Shall Tremble

  Gilhain felt the loss of the two Durlin who had died. Death had claimed many lately, but he had known those two, known them well, for he spent most of his time with those who guarded him, more so than even with his family. He sighed. Would there ever be an end to the dying?

  The bodies of the two men rested now in the Durlin chapterhouse; two young men, hand-picked by Brand, loyal to death. And though they would be honored, though their families would be well looked after in times to come if Cardoroth somehow managed to survive, they were still dead. There would be no wives for them. No children and grandchildren. It was not just the men who had died, but their futures with them.

  All over the city it was the same. Nearly every house was in mourning, for they had been touched by death. War was a waste; it was an unthinkable waste. And how many had been killed that otherwise would have become great poets, or sculptors, or healers or merchants? They were all gone, would all never be, and the ghosts of the future haunted Gilhain as much as the dread of the present.

  He felt the sorrow of the Durlin who were around him. It filled the air and even the irrepressible Lornach was subdued. All their faces were grim, and they would be grimmer tonight when the funerals were held.

  The evening was no time for a funeral, but there was no choice in things these days. The days were for the living to fight for their lives. The night was for funerals and dark dreams.

  Gilhain straightened. He must not allow himself to become depressed. The whole city was watching him, and if he faltered they would follow; and the city would fall. He was sick of being attacked, of the enemy reaching out with the specific purpose of claiming his own life. He was sick of it, sick of it all, but he must play his part until the end.

  Noon approached. The enemy massed again below, and it was clear that another attack was imminent. The men on the wall waited stoically. Everything they did lately was stoic, but they had little choice in that.

  The soldiers stood quietly; the elug war drums thrummed away in their disconcerting beat. Gilhain was sick of them too, but he must bear things just the same as his men.

  The dark ranks of the elugs chosen to attack marched to the front of the main host. They were a seething mass of enemies, fueled with a will to destroy and the sharp swords to bring their aim to fruition. Malice emanated from them, a darkness borne not just of hatred and the desire to kill and destroy, but also of foul sorcery whose depth was unplumbed and that knew no limit.

  At that moment, with the defenders waiting in silent dread and the enemy poised to unleash the horror of war, there was a gust of wind. It touched the enemy first, moving among its ranks and troubling them, bringing their drums to a standstill. And then, with a light caress of the Cardurleth it lifted up banners and pennons, touched the faces of the men, and passed over into the city beyond.

  Aranloth straightened. His eyes widened, and his hands formed white-knuckled fists.

  “What is it?” Gilhain asked, whispering into the silence. “What new deviltry do you detect?”

  The lòhren began to tremble. His eyes glittered, but as he seemed about to answer there was a crack of thunder.

  A great boom rippled across the empty sky like the peal of a bell so vast that all the world would not contain its ringing. It seemed at once to reverberate through the battlement and to also come from the farthest ends of the earth.

  At Gilhain’s side Aurellin muttered. “There are no clouds.”

  Taingern and Lornach stepped closer to him, and Gilhain felt a shiver run up his spine.

  They all looked around. The wind grew and hammered at them, beating at the white surcoats of the Durlin who surrounded the king.

  Thunder boomed again. The wall trembled. Screams rose from the enemy camp, from its center where the tent of the elùgroths was pitched. The war drums started to beat again, wild and erratic, and then they died away into expectant silence once more. The elugs preparing to charge the Cardurleth milled around uncertainly.

  The Durlin drew their weapons, but Aranloth glanced at them and spoke.

  “Put them away!” he commanded. “Watch and see, and think of Brand, for just now, no matter the empty leagues that separate us all, he is thinking of us.”

  There was a third crack of thunder, louder even than the others. The very earth seemed to shudder. The enemy host fell to their knees and lifted their voices up to the heavens in a great moan.

  The world seemed to stand still. And then a great plume of smoke, thick and black, filled with sparks and roiling power, rose above the enemy host. Like a vast tower, mighty as a mountain, it leaned toward the city as though to overshadow all Cardoroth, and then it was torn away in shreds and tatters by the gusty wind.

  The enemy moaned and wailed. The darkness dispersed and the bright sun gleamed in the sky. As though a great burden had somehow been lifted from his heart Gilhain looked around in wonder.

  All about him men were smiling and breaking into laughter. They felt it too, whatever it was, though they understood it no more than he.

  Aranloth stood tall. It was one of the few times that Gilhain had seen him smile, a smile free of care that seemed to make him look almost like a young man again. Tears ran down his clear-skinned cheeks, and Gilhain realized that the true Aranloth stood before him. Not Aranloth the lòhren, bearing a great burden and masking his thoughts from the world, but just Aranloth.

  And yet he was still a lòhren. His white robes glimmered, and the power that was in him, always present but usually hidden, shone forth. That force was unveiled, and it wreathed him from head to toe.

  Aranloth moved. Slowly, he raised high his arms. And then he spoke. His voice was resonant, and by the power that was in him his words carried over all the battlement, and Gilhain guessed even over all the city.

  “Behold! Brand of the Duthenor, Brand the Durlindrath, Brand who left this city on a quest, fulfills it! At great risk, battling perils and temptations you cannot guess, he has struck a mighty blow at the enemy. He has destroyed a source of their power, a staff that aided them, that enhanced their strength and gave the elùgroths might. No more! So, remember Brand in your hearts, for he has just now saved your life. If he returns,
honor him with great honor!”

  There was a sudden silence, and then a ringing from the city. Bells tolled. Soldiers cheered. City folk threw their hats in the air and danced and laughed. Even the Durlin, eyes still alert for any threat, spared tight smiles for each other.

  Gilhain felt his wife’s hand in his own, and suddenly everything seemed right with the world. But that feeling could not last forever.

  Within the hour, out of the disorganized mess of the enemy camp, strode three dark figures. They were tall, black clad, and angry.

  They came before the Cardurleth. And when they spoke, the power that was within them carried their voices, for all three spoke as one, to everyone on the wall.

  “This is not over, old man. Still we have the blades to bury you. Still we have the relentless swords of a numberless host to cut you down. We will not stop. We will prevail. That is as certain as day follows night, and then the night comes again. We will reduce this city to blood-stained rubble, and the world shall tremble at its fate.”

  As one the elùgroths ceased to speak. As one they turned and walked back toward their host.

  Gilhain watched them go in silence, but Aurellin broke it.

  “There was truth in those words.”

  Aranloth shrugged. The Durlin looked to their king.

  Gilhain gazed out at the enemy. And then he also broke his silence.

  “And there is truth in what I say now. We will prevail, for we have been given a chance beyond hope. Now, we shall turn defense into attack. Now, the hunted will become the hunters.” He pointed out toward the dark host below. “The enemy shall learn to fear us. Too long we have stayed behind the great wall of Cardoroth. Now, Brand has given us an opportunity, and I will take it.”

  They all looked at him for a moment, different expressions on their faces. Most, he thought, were wondering if he were mad, if the pressure had finally unsettled his mind. He merely smiled at them, for a plan had come to him, a strategy that while of enormous risk could bring enormous benefits.