by Robert Ryan
“Wait,” interrupted Aranloth.
The lòhren ran a hand through his hair and looked hard at the youth.
“There are rumors about the swamp. I’ve never been in there myself. Are they true?”
Caldring shrugged. “You mean the monster?”
“Yes, the monster.”
“I’ve never seen it. My uncle saw it twice though. That was a long time ago. He said it mostly kept to itself, and I guess it’s probably dead by now. At least, I don’t think anybody has come across it since then.”
Aranloth did not look convinced, and Lanrik shook his head. Was nothing they did ever easy?
11. Sacrifice
Erlissa was scared.
She was afraid that she would never wake from her sleep, worried that Lanrik and Aranloth had imperiled themselves on her behalf, and fearful that Ebona was an enemy beyond her power. Yet she felt a calling too.
Somehow, this was her destiny. She felt deep inside her that the quest was inextricably linked to her future as a lòhren. She could see no good end for any of it, and yet she could see no good end if she did nothing, either.
“I’ll do it,” she told Carnona.
Her body felt strong, and her command of lòhrengai was growing. She would give herself up to the chances of fate, as she always did. In a world where luck ruled everything, fortune favored the bold. Sometimes.
Carnona gazed at her implacably. If the Guardian felt gratitude, she did not show it. Probably, she had no expectations and just accepted things as they came. The two of them were, in their own way, kindred spirits.
The Guardian did incline her head in a slight acknowledgement, however.
“You will be my emissary. I am strong in this land, but weak outside of it. Also, Ebona would sense my approach. Yet you might surprise her, and the elùgroth with her. But it will not be easy.” Carnona paused, as though assessing the truth of her own statement, and then continued. “Your lòhrengai is no match for them, but it would be fitting for you to carry a token of this land, and its power, with you. We shall see if it offers one.”
Erlissa wondered what that meant, but she had no time to ask.
“Come,” Carnona commanded.
The Guardian turned and strode away. Erlissa followed, hurrying to keep up, but she was always a few paces behind.
Carnona moved among the trees like a fleeting deer. She found trails where none were visible, leaped gracefully over fallen logs and strode ahead when the ground was level.
The forest was dark and dim, and to Erlissa, the Guardian was often little more than a gliding shadow ahead, but she managed to follow. Where they headed, she did not know, but over a period of hours she sensed a change in the land. They were climbing higher.
The slope grew steeper and the trees thinned. From time to time glimpses of the great forest that spread out beneath them came into view. It was a land of hills and valleys, dry ridges and nighted hollows. Most of all, it was a land of trees. But as they reached a flat plateau, the ever-present forest gave way to a grassy top. Yet the crest was not completely bare.
A lone tree, gnarled and ancient, grew at the summit. It was slightly taller than Erlissa. Its leaves were ragged, swept by spring winds that drove along the hilltops but left the valleys untouched. The bark was dry and fissured. It grew in little more than rock, the ground about it cracked by the ice and blasting sun of a thousand seasons. Yet still, it was a thing of power.
Erlissa studied it, and the Guardian waited in silence. It was, perhaps, a walnut tree. Here and there, hanging from its ragged twigs, were green husks that encased growing nuts. The tree seemed as old as the hills themselves, and though battered by the passing ages, it thrummed with vitality.
“What is it?” Erlissa asked.
“It is a tree,” Carnona replied. “No more, and certainly no less. It is one of the oldest in my realm. And this is a land full of old things. Long it has stood here, and many times have I visited it. It is one with the earth, or the earth one with it. It is all the same thing.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Carnona glanced at her curiously. “You need not do anything.”
“Then why are we here?”
“You are here to see the tree. After that, what will be, will be.”
Erlissa did not understand, but she sensed this was a situation where it would do little good to ask questions. The Guardian had already told her everything she was going to, or everything that she could.
Erlissa realized that she must follow her instincts instead. She closed her eyes.
Deep below her, she sensed the ùhrengai of the land. It coursed up through the tree as well. It had looked old, and she felt that it was just as enduring as the rock of which the hill was made.
She walked over to the tree. A passing cloud dimmed the sun as she placed her hand against its trunk and tried to sense more about it. It quivered like a thin sapling at her touch, and she sensed burgeoning life all about her. All at once she was the wind passing over the crest of the hill, the cold fog that settled deep in shady hollows, the play of dappled light over the leaves of countless trees. She sensed the running water of creeks, the dry soil of ridges and the slow grinding of rock against rock deep under the piled weight of the earth.
And then she sensed Ebona.
Far away and faint, she discerned the witch’s power. It strived against Carnona’s, and it pressed against the land of Enorìen ceaselessly. It was a tainted force, and she felt something unnatural about it, but even as she tried to understand what caused that, the sun broke out from behind the cloud, the wind flurried, and once again she stood at the crest of the hill, before the ancient tree, her palm pressed hard against its trunk.
The tree stirred. She felt sap flow beneath the bark. It’s leaves shivered, and something moved beneath her touch.
She did not take her hand away. The trunk slowly swelled. Bark spit. The rent exposed dark timber. Sap, thick like old honey and full of the life of the land, ran down from the sides of the wound.
The trunk groaned, and the split ran along its length from where Erlissa’s feet shuffled nervously to where her eyes gazed upon it. Her hand was now inside the wound, in the trunk of the tree itself, and she felt something. The timber was smooth and slippery. Instinctively, she grasped it with her hand and pulled. From the living tree she drew forth a staff. The wood, dark with a rippled grain, was warm, and it felt right in her hand. The tree had given it to her. Enorìen had given it.
The ancient walnut sagged. Bark flaked off and fell to the ground. The leaves withered and blew away in the breeze, falling like tears. The branches drooped, and the tree stilled. It became a stark pillar against the sky.
Erlissa turned to the Guardian, and the staff throbbed in her hand when she spoke.
“Now I understand. The land chooses a lòhren’s staff. It’s a gift, and in return we give our service to Alithoras.”
Carnona nodded curtly. “It is different for each lòhren, and I understand why Aranloth did not tell you. It would only cause you to seek for what you could never find, only be given.”
“Did you know this would happen?”
Carnona shrugged. “I knew it might. I did not know that it would. The land makes its own choice. And I serve, even as you. But I hoped.”
Erlissa looked at the staff. It was growing duller to her eye, and unexpectedly the dark wood reminded her of the wych-wood staffs that elùgroths carried. And yet it did not feel like them. It was resonant of life, of the land, and especially of sacrifice. The land had given of itself. The staff represented everything that elùgroths were not, and everything that she must strive to uphold. Deep in her heart she understood, and accepted, that it was now her responsibility to ensure the sacrifice was not wasted.
She turned again to Carnona. “What must I do? What is the source of Ebona’s power, and how shall I try to break it?”
Carnona indicated a patch of grass. “Sit,” she commanded.
Erlissa settled d
own and cradled the staff in her lap. The Guardian squatted next to her, but when she spoke she kept her gaze fixed on the view over the tree-clad hills.
“When Ebona left her birthing lands, she forfeited much of her heritage. In its stead, she drew on the power of mankind: men, and women, worshipped her. They sacrificed others in rituals to sate her. She grew to greater power and wider influence. At one in the same time she was a creature of the old word and a part of the new.”
The Guardian paused, as though in thought, and Erlissa wondered if she herself had been tempted to follow her sister’s path.
“You know this already, but what you don’t know is that death rips the veil between this world and the otherworld. The two become joined, and in that moment there is power. Ebona drinks this in just as a thirsty man drinks water. To her, death becomes life.”
The sun beat down on the hilltop and sweat beaded Carnona’s nut-brown skin. She absently wiped it from her face and continued.
“The men of Esgallien fall ever deeper under her sway. They have begun to sacrifice to her, and her power increases. The king allows it; though in truth, he has little choice. Others control his realm. But they are resisted and a quiet battle rages.”
Carnona glanced at her to emphases the importance of her next words.
“So, in trying to save Enorìen, you will also help save your own land.”
Erlissa understood, but she did not interrupt.
“Ebona has found a place that helps her,” the Guardian said. “The valley of Caladhrist is an old, old place. Men have died there. Many men, over a long period. It is a place where the veil between the worlds is already thin. She uses this. A cave in the valley-side is now her home. Caladhrist is partway between Esgallien and Camarelon, and she would make it the center of a vast realm of power.”
Carnona grew silent, seemingly lost in thought.
“How does the elùgroth help her?” Erlissa asked.
“He is a meddler, that one. For a long time he has stirred up trouble in Alithoras.” The Guardian turned to Erlissa. “And he hates Aranloth. Hates him with a burning passion. Those two are bitter enemies. One day, one of them shall prevail, but the time of their confrontation is not yet.”
The Guardian turned the discussion back to the matter at hand.
“The elùgroth found something for Ebona. Something that she lost long ago, when men first began to worship her. How he found it, I do not know. It was hidden in the old lands, far to the west of the Halathrin. But he gave it to her. It is a cauldron, small, but carved with scenes from the far past. You will know it when you see it. He adds his power to it, and she adds hers, and the blood of their sacrifices mingles in its basin. This is the source of her current strength. Break the cauldron and you will break her assault on this land.”
“And how can I break it?”
Carnona gazed at her for a moment. “I wish I knew.”
“What do you mean? You’re not telling me that you’re sending me on this quest without even know what I’m supposed to do?”
Carnona shook her head slowly. “I do not know what you’re supposed to do. But I trust to fate, and to the land. And I trust you. You were born for this task, and you can do it. The how, I have not discovered, though I expect you will learn something about your staff. I think it will be the key, but I could be wrong.”
Erlissa stared at the Guardian, and Carnona stared back, unabashed and unapologetic. It was infuriating. And yet it made sense, in its own way. Carnona had told her nothing new. She had felt she was destined for this quest, though she did not know why. She also thought the staff was vital. It was more than her passing the threshold into becoming a lòhren. It had a significance beyond that. Nor did she even consider herself a lòhren. Her training had been far too short, her powers not yet properly understood or developed. Yet she had used power of a kind for a long time, although that was not going to be enough for her to contend with Ebona, and possibly, an elùgroth.
On the face of things, she had no chance at all of succeeding in this quest. Yet her feet had been placed upon her current path for a reason. What would be, would be.
She shrugged, and for the first time saw Carnona smile. It was fierce and bright, there one second and gone the next.
“We have a long way to go. This is near the heart of my realm, and we must reach the western borders soon. Time runs swiftly. You will feel strong now, but soon you will begin to weaken. When that happens, do not be afraid. But do not forget either that you must achieve your quest before you fade completely. Or all is lost.”
“How long will it take?”
Carnona raised her muscled arm and pointed out over the hills. Erlissa followed the Guardian’s movement, and her gaze passed out over the sunlit ridges, over the sleepy hollows of Enorìen, and into the haze that blurred the horizon in the distance.
“You must travel swiftly. Caladhrist is not close, and though you know the way, it will take you five days. Do not linger on the journey, for you have only enough time to reach there. No more.”
Erlissa sighed. “Then I had better get started.”
Carnona glanced back at her. “There is one other thing.”
“What’s that?” Erlissa did not like the new note that had crept into the Guardian’s voice.
“You know that you are but a shadow of yourself. You will not need food, nor even water. That will speed your travel.”
“But?”
“But even as your shadow-self has come here to Enorìen, your coming has opened a veil between the worlds, just as does death. I sealed the gap as swiftly as I could, but even so, some creatures broke through. They roam Alithoras now. I cannot say where, but they will sense you. They wish to be part of this world, and they are evil. They will try to kill you.”
“Why?”
“Because if they can do so before you fade and return to your true self, the veil will be forever weakened. If you returned, they would be drawn back with you and the rent healed as though it had never existed.”
Erlissa felt a fresh tremor of fear run through her body.
“So let’s get this straight. I’ll be hunted before I reach Ebona, and even if I get there I’ll have to find a way to destroy the cauldron that even you don’t know.”
Carnona did not flinch. “I told you that it would not be easy.”
12. Dark Counsels
Musraka let go of the silver mediation. Its chain bit into the skin of his neck, and the disk remained warm against his chest. He did not like using it. He distrusted magic, and he doubted Ebona, who had given it to him, and its matching twin that he in turn had given to Arliss. But regardless of his misgivings, the gifts had proven useful, as had the witch’s counsel.
It was Nurhaq who spoke first. “Well, what did she say?”
Musraka did not like him. The man was scrawny, yet whatever he lacked in stature he made up for in courage and cunning. He was usually silent, and always hard to read. That made him dangerous though, and Musraka sometimes wondered if that cunning would ever be turned against him.
“Our quarry continues to travel south. They still head for the Angle, but they have left the river. The lòhren learned of a trap ahead.”
“Whose trap?”
“Men from Esgallien.”
Nurhaq spat. “The king still wants the sword. And Ebona is not our friend. I think she helps them just as much as us. What does she care who wins the blade in the end, so long as it works against the North.”
There was a rumbling of agreement from the other men.
“That is true, and yet she still does help us. We must play our own part though. The sword is mine, and I shall have it back.”
One of the other men spoke. “We’re a long way from home, Shazrahad. How can we compete with the king’s men? They outnumber us, and they know this land. It seems to me that they’ll kill Lanrik and the lòhren before we catch up to them.”
Musraka slowed his breathing and lidded his eyes. There it was again – the faint stirrin
g of rebellion. It had grown over the weeks; it was almost in the open now, and he would have to do something, once and for all, to stop it. These men were his to command. Their opinions counted for nothing, and he would remind them of it.
“What do you suggest, Rhamon? Should we return home? Should we just give up?”
Rhamon looked uneasy. He was fat, and his greasy skin paled. He must have realized that he had crossed a line, but he also knew that some of the others supported him. That would buoy his confidence.
“No one likes giving up. But the sword will work the prophesy, whether it is in your hands or possessed by the king of Esgallien. Nothing has gone right for us since that accursed Raithlin stole into our camp and took it from your tent.”
Musraka smiled. It was not how he usually reacted to insults, but he could wait. It was a fact that Lanrik had taken the sword from his tent, but for Rhamon to remind him of it was an insult. But the moment of truth was coming, and the fat man before him, growing ever more confident, was oblivious to it.
“So, do you think we should return home?”
Rhamon stood up. He had lost weight over the last few months, but his stomach still bulged underneath his thick beard.
“Of course. None of us has been warm for a long time. It’s bitterly cold here. And dangerous. We’re out of place and sooner or later we’ll be discovered – even living in the wild.”
Musraka stood up slowly. He made his expression appear as one of thoughtfulness. He stepped closer, bridging the gap between himself and Rhamon. When he was close, he acted.
Swiftly he drew the elug scimitar that he had used since Lanrik had stolen his own sword. It was a mark of his shame, but he had vowed to use it until his own blade rested in its sheath by his side.
Rhamon staggered back. The big man tried to draw his own weapon, but he was too late. The scimitar struck him on the neck. Bright blood spurted, and he fell to his knees.
Musraka swung again. This was more humiliation. His former blade was sharp. It cut silken thread floating in the air, but the scimitar was as blunt as a peasant’s table knife.