Lore of the Letharn

by Robert Ryan

  He hacked at Rhamon’s neck. Again and again, until the head toppled from the fat body.

  He looked at his men over the corpse. They had scrambled back. He lifted his sword, blood dripping from its notched edge.

  “We will not turn back. The shazrahad sword is mine, and I have a plan to retrieve it. I know where Lanrik and the lòhren go. I believe they will elude the men from Esgallien, and I will be waiting for them when they reach the Angle. Or when they return from it. And know this: if anyone else here has an opinion, they will find the same fate as Rhamon. I command here, and you will obey. Or die.”

  The men around him were silent. They could think of no answer, or dared not answer, which was all the same to him. He looked at each of them in turn, staring into their eyes until they looked away. Only Nurhaq held his gaze. It was infuriating, and worse, for he could not read the little man’s expression. He saw no anger, no shock, no fear, no disrespect. He saw nothing, and that was what worried him.

  Musraka kicked Rhamon’s body and rolled it over onto its stomach. He used the man’s clothes to clean the blood from his blade before he re-sheathed it. When he looked back, Nurhaq still watched him.

  The shazrahad made a decision. The little man would soon die. He would be next to serve as an example to the men of who was in charge, and that orders must be obeyed without question. He glanced once more into the little man’s eyes and reminded himself to be careful. Nurhaq would not easily be caught by surprise, and for all his scrawny frame, he would not die easily either.

  “Let’s go,” Musraka commanded.

  They walked over to their boats and pushed out into the river. Without another word they were on their way. There was still some chance of catching the Raithlin before he made it much further. But if he got passed the trap set for him by the men from Esgallien, it would be time to come up with another plan.

  He might have to split his forces, for Lanrik had a knack of avoiding pursuit. It might be better to wait for him in a place that he was likely to go. That meant either the Angle or Lòrenta. Or both.

  One thing was certain: sooner or later he would kill him and reclaim the sword of his forefathers from the man’s dead hand.

  Brinhain was displeased. It irked him that he must lie on cold and wet stones. His bones ached, his muscles were sore, and he was bored. He hated the river; he hated the wild, and most of all he hated the deprivations entailed in being away from his tenement home in the heart of Esgallien city.

  The Carist Nien gurgled past on either side of the little island where he lay. He hated that noise too. And he hated having to watch ahead, being unable to move freely while he and his men waited for a boat to come down river.

  More than anything, he hated dealing with Ebona. If he could, he would have delegated the task to one of the other Royal Guards. But he could not. He dared not, for no matter how much he feared her, he knew also that he must please her. If the king was dangerous, the witch was triply so. He had no desire to end up as one of her sacrifices.

  Even as he thought of her, the fear of her presence grew on him. He suddenly sensed her all about him, and he shivered.

  The current of the river swirled and eddied. Bubbles rose to the surface. The water foamed and churned, first one way, and then the other.

  Suddenly, a figure of water staggered up from the river, swathed by white froth and riverweed. Brinhain felt the fear of Ebona strike like a dagger into his heart. She swayed, nearly toppled, and then surged fully upright, high above him. Water dripped onto his face. The men nearby cowered and backed away. He would have done the same, but her eyes held him. Her watery mouth spoke and words gurgled out.

  “Lanrik has learned of us,” she hissed. Water ran from the frothy ends of her hair as she spoke.

  “You did not kill all the villagers. One escaped and gave warning of your ambush.”

  Brinhain trembled. “No, My Lady. We killed the all. I promise.”

  “Fool! I don’t need your promises. I need you to carry out instructions. If I tell you that a boy escaped, a boy escaped!”

  Ebona towered over him, and he felt cold beneath her shadow.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, My Lady. I understand.”

  “Very well. You may yet have a chance to redeem yourself, for I know where they are headed.”

  Ebona looked down at him. He felt the chill stare of her gaze and knew that death was near. And yet he also knew that if he served her well there would be no limit to the rewards he could claim.

  “Where shall I take the men, My Lady?”

  “Your quarry is headed for the swamp.”

  Brinhain thought about it. “We have no way to find them in there. The swamp is vast, and even if there is a way through it, we don’t know it. We’ll have to pick up their trail wherever they leave it.”

  Ebona stepped up from the river and onto the island. Water filled the deep tread marks that she left in the pebbled bank.

  “But if I asked you to, you would go into the swamp, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, My Lady.” Brinhain answered without hesitation.

  Ebona studied him carefully. “So quick to agree. Too quick, I think. It makes me wonder if you really thought about it, or if you just chose to tell me what you believe I want to hear.”

  “My Lady—”

  Ebona interrupted. “It does not matter. You will obey me, or you will die. It’s that simple.” Her voice became softer. “But I’m not a harsh taskmaster. Serving me has its benefits, as you have discovered, captain, and as you will continue to discover. And as it happens, you need not enter the swamp.”

  She leaned over him and spoke quietly. “They have no horses, so they will travel slowly. And yet they are in need of haste. I know where they will travel through the swamp, and I will tell you where to wait for them to exit.”

  She straightened. “Take the men and head southward. Skirt the swamp and when you have reached the right spot I’ll give you a sign.”

  She looked at him coolly. “Do not disappoint me, captain.”

  Brinhain shook his head. “I’ll be waiting for them. When they come out of the swamp, I’ll kill them and take the sword.”

  Ebona smiled at him, but it only served to make him feel icy cold all over.

  Without warning the water that formed her figure dissolved. It fell to the ground with a heavy slap, and then slid back into the river.

  Ebona was gone, but the fear of her remained, and Brinhain doubted he would ever be free of it.

  He turned to his second in command. “Gather the men. We ride, and we ride now. We have somewhere else to be, and someone yet to kill.”

  13. The Watcher in the Dark

  It was a dark trail, a slippery trail, a trail over corrugated logs set into stinking mud. The swamp was alive all around them, full of unseen life and unidentifiable noises. Nameless creatures lurked and called from the shroud of dimness that blanketed the world. It was not like the wetlands of Galenthern, for it was filled with strange trees and a sense of watchfulness unfamiliar to Lanrik.

  He was glad to have a guide, and no matter that Caldring was a youth, he led them with confidence and assurance. He trudged ahead, surefooted on the damp logs, his gaze seeming to take in everything from the path at his feet, to the scum-topped pools of water and the deep pits of mud, to the tops of the lichen-crusted trees.

  Lanrik followed close behind, and after him came Aranloth. Arliss, as always, guarded the rear. They moved swiftly and silently, and had already journeyed far into the swamp.

  Caldring came to a halt, and Lanrik saw why.

  “We might as well rest for a while,” the youth said.

  Lanrik pointed ahead to where the log-trail ceased abruptly.

  “Is this as far as it goes? Or are there other log tracks that we can use further along?”

  Caldring slapped at a mosquito on his arm.

  “This is it. My village only ever built one trail. Over the years it was extended, but they never g
ot further than this. From now on, it gets dangerous. The heart of the swamp is ahead. And though I know the way, the path is still hard to find. We’ll have to go slowly. Be sure to step only where I do.”

  They sat down on the logs to rest. Damp as they were, it was the driest bit of land they would find for some time, and Lanrik knew it.

  “It’s time to ask some hard questions,” Aranloth said.

  Caldring looked at the lòhren curiously, but Lanrik knew exactly what he was talking about. He explained the situation to the youth.

  “They keep on finding us. Both Musraka’s men, and now the king’s men.”

  Aranloth’s sharp gaze bored into Arliss. “The question is how?”

  Lanrik looked away into the swamp. “I don’t know, Aranloth. But I trust Arliss. Otherwise, I would never have brought her.”

  “Trust is sometimes misplaced.”

  Arliss stood up. “I’m right here, you know. Don’t talk about me as though I’m not.”

  “Do you have an explanation for how they keep finding us?”

  Arliss stared at the lòhren. “No, I don’t. But if you want me to leave, I’ll go right now.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Lanrik said. “I need you.”

  He turned back to Aranloth. “It must be Ebona.”

  Aranloth shrugged, but did not answer.

  “I know you don’t think so,” Lanrik said. “But she’s found us before with her witchery.”

  “I underestimated her then. Now, I don’t. I use lòhrengai to mask our presence as we cross the land. But she has not even tried to find us. If she had, I would have felt the touch of her mind as she sought us out.”

  Aranloth laid down his oaken staff beside him.

  “I’m not suggesting that Ebona isn’t involved. I don’t doubt for a moment that she’s helping all our enemies. And it means nothing to her which one of them finds and tries to kill us. She just wants to see us dead.”

  “We’re at an impasse, then,” Lanrik said. “I trust your skills, and if you say that she hasn’t found us herself, then I believe you. But I trust Arliss too. With my life. There must be an explanation that we haven’t yet considered.”

  Aranloth shrugged once more. “Perhaps. Time will tell. But for now, we’d better rest. There’s a long way to go, and it’ll all be on foot, so the sooner we do that, the sooner we can be on our way again.”

  There was no further conversation, and Lanrik was grateful for it. Aranloth had made up his mind, but he was not one to foist his views on others. The lòhren had said what he had said, and now it was just a matter of waiting to see who was right. Lanrik knew one thing for certain though: something was wrong. Their enemies were finding them too easily, but he knew in his heart that Arliss was no traitor. But if she was, his support of her might make her think twice. He knew little of her background, but her life had been hard and she valued loyalty. She would find it difficult to betray someone who supported her.

  There was little rest to be had in the uneasy swamp. Flies and mosquitoes were a constant source of irritation, as was the sense of something that watched them. It was a common feeling in the wild, and Lanrik was used to it, but here, in this swamp, he felt it more strongly than he ever had before.

  Caldring led them on again when they were done resting. They went slowly, following carefully in his footsteps, and being sure to test their footing before they put their weight down.

  For two days he led them. The swamp grew darker as they proceeded, until it was in a perpetual state of evening. The smells grew worse, as did the flies and mosquitoes. They never saw them, but Caldring told them that there were vast bodies of water nearby. Certainly, the deafening calls of ducks and other water birds, and the whoosh and drum of their unseen wing-beats as massive flocks flew high above, proved it.

  Caldring assured them that they were nearing the edge, but the feeling of being watched only grew stronger. The trail they now followed looked like many people had been here over the years, and that they had beaten a wide path. Their pace increased, but only slightly.

  The trail dipped down briefly and became mud slicked. They were about to begin the upward climb when Lanrik stopped suddenly. He was a tracker, used to keeping an eye out for any sign, but even Caldring saw the marks ahead of them.

  The youth produced a knife and Lanrik drew his sword. He heard the hiss of a blade from its sheath a moment later as Arliss drew her own weapon, but he knew her attention would now be solely on their backtrail. She trusted him to warn of danger from the front, and he trusted her to guard against any surprises from the rear.

  He bent over and peered at the tracks for a long time. They were like none that he had ever seen before.

  The deep imprints looked like those of a barefooted man, only they were massive. Sometimes, tracks in mud swelled, the weight of the person or beast pushing the soft material outward, but he did not think that was the case here, for the stride length was also large. He did a quick calculation and decided that whoever left those tracks was at least eight feet tall, probably more.

  Caldring shuffled nervously beside him.

  “The monster is alive,” he whispered.

  Lanrik moved ahead, taking the lead. He did not sheath his sword, nor did he speak to the others. The tracks, and his drawn blade, were the only warning they needed.

  Frogs croaked and insects chirped. Strange noises rose from stagnant pools and water-lizards plopped into unseen ponds as the travelers went forward.

  The others stayed close behind Lanrik. They made no noise, and he heard nothing out of place, but something disturbed him. He came to a stop.

  For a long time he stood there, perfectly still, unsure of what worried him. Then he realized what it was: something smelled out of place. It was a sharp and acrid odor, almost a reek, and it was growing stronger.

  The smell came from somewhere ahead. The dim trail led that way, overshadowed by a thick tree-canopy that formed a tunnel. There was nowhere else to go except forward or back. Backward was not an option, and so he took a tentative step ahead.

  One pace was all he made. The swamp now seemed silent all around them and on the dim trail a form appeared. It was a great creature that strode on two legs. Fur, or matted hair, tumbled all over its long limbs and the reek grew stronger.

  A massive head atop the creature’s thick neck turned from side to side, studying its surroundings as it walked. Long arms swung at each stride. There was power enough in those arms to tear a man apart, and Lanrik took a firm grip on his sword.

  The creature spotted them. It came to a standstill, the massive body suddenly motionless, the great eyes in its head peering at them. There was no fear there, but there was intelligence and wariness.

  Lanrik’s heart raced and he heard a gasp from behind him. The creature watched them for a long while, undecided as to what to do, then as swiftly as it appeared it turned and walked back up the trail. Its strides were long and fast, and in a matter of seconds it was gone. All that was left was its scent on the air, until that too faded away into the usual stench of the swamp.

  It was Aranloth who broke the silence. His voice held a strange note to it.

  “A carethgar,” he whispered. “Few of them are left in the world.”

  “Are they dangerous?” Lanrik asked.

  “If roused, I guess,” Aranloth answered. “But mostly they avoid people, as this one just did.”

  “That fits,” Caldring said. “It hasn’t been seen for many years, but it’s remained here all this time, avoiding us.”

  “And just as well,” Arliss said. “I’ve heard rumors of such a beast, though I took them for nothing more than legend.”

  Aranloth did not look at her. He kept his gaze focused ahead.

  “We lòhrens have a saying.” His voice grew soft and he began to chant.

  Many thing lie

  Beneath the sky

  Beyond the ken

  Of mortal men

  He said no more, and no one answered
him.

  They waited several minutes, being sure to give the creature a chance to get well ahead of them, before they started again.

  Lanrik led them forward but the carethgar was gone: disappeared into the deeps of the swamp that was its home.

  As they progressed, the ground firmed and the smell of the swamp receded. The trees changed, and it became more like a normal wood.

  “We’re nearly there,” Caldring said.

  Lanrik stayed in the lead. The path was clear, but it was his job to sense any danger that might lie ahead.

  Somewhere to the left the Carist Nien ran its course, but it was miles away. Once they left this swamp there would be nothing between them and the Angle but league after league of hard walking.

  The trees thinned and the light of late afternoon shot through the increasing gaps in the foliage. Lanrik moved ever more carefully, wary of coming out into the open as always.

  They reached a point where the path widened and had obviously been trod frequently over the years. Lanrik did not like it.

  “It’s time to leave the path,” he said to Caldring. “It’s too predictable for my liking.”

  Caldring nodded in understanding and took the lead again. He went into the trees, still being careful of where he stepped, although the ground was now for the most part dry. He took them several hundred paces into the woods, and then led them parallel to the path.

  It was slower going. Shadows grew thick about them, but they reached the end of the woods and a verge of green grass that stretched away in the gray light of evening.

  Lanrik studied what lay ahead. It was something to their left that caught his eye though. He did not know what it was a first, but then he saw it again. It was the swish of a tail. Soon, he made out the shape of a horse concealed on the edge of the trees where the path they had earlier followed emerged from the trees.

  Lanrik let out a slow breath. Now that he was looking that way he saw more and more horses. There were at least a dozen, tethered in the eaves of the wood. And where there were horses, there were men. In this case, they would be the Royal Guards of Esgallien.