by Robert Ryan
It was curious that they did not make a better attempt to hide themselves, but he guessed that they felt sure of themselves, outnumbering those they pursued.
He eased himself back down the trail until he could stand and walk once more. He wanted water, but there was still some left in the flasks, at least enough to last for the rest of the night.
He returned to the camp, careful to leave little sign of his trail, though experience had taught him that the Azan, at least these ones, were no better at tracking than they were at hiding.
He got back and gave the near-empty water flasks to the others.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said. “But for every problem there’s a solution.”
Arliss gazed at him, and her face suddenly broke into a grin, the first he had seen her give in what seemed a long time.
“I know that look,” she said. “Keep your eyes open Caldring – you’re about to see the Raithlin skills at work again.”
22. Wet Feet and Cool Heads
The travelers waited through the day. There was no way around the Azan, at least not while the sun rode high. At night, it was a different matter. Yet it was not Lanrik’s plan to try and slip past them.
Evening groped over the land, sending dark shadows ahead that gathered in deep pools beneath the trees. A pink blush once more painted the sky. High clouds, thin and stretched, trailed from west to east. True darkness, when it came, fell swiftly and stars sparked to sudden life.
Halathgar gleamed and twinkled. Lanrik knew the constellation better than most, for few men had lived as he, sleeping so often under the open sky with the dome of the heavens his ceiling and the earth his bed.
When the time came, he pulled his Raithlin cloak tightly about him and led the others from the rocky hollow.
He was not sad to leave the place. The harakgar were creatures he would not forget, nor did he doubt that they would haunt his sleep for the rest of his life. But he had escaped them, and the death that Erlissa had foreseen, because of Aranloth and Caldring.
The youngest member of their party now helped the oldest. Aranloth, his arm around Caldring’s shoulders, trudged along at a slow pace. They stopped frequently to rest, but Lanrik did not mind. He was just glad that the lòhren had woken during the course of the day, though it disturbed him to see how weak he remained.
They had plenty of time to reach their destination, for he hoped to find the Azan camp late at night while they slept.
The ancient path over the ridge was a pale line in the starlight. They followed it, the hill too steep for Aranloth, who at times stood still, leaning on his staff and catching his wheezy breath while Caldring supported him.
At length they came to the crest. Lanrik signed for the others to sit down and rest, but for Arliss to come forward.
Together they used the Raithlin crawl to get right to the top, and then they lay motionless on their bellies, listening for any sound out of place. It was far too dark, and the camp of the enemy too distant, to see anything.
A long time they waited, but they heard nothing. So far, so good, Lanrik thought.
There was no guarantee that the Azan had remained at the same camp, but he took a guess that they would. There was water there, and concealment, even if they did not use it to best effect.
After a while he led the group forward. They passed over the crest, moving even more slowly now and sure to walk quietly, for sound travelled far at night, although the muted roar of the falls covered all but loud noises.
To the left lay a tract of rutted ground, thick with a confusion of shattered stones and ankle deep hollows. Lanrik thought that once a building had stood there, perhaps something constructed by the Letharn. If so, it was not one of their important structures, for it had not lasted through the long years as had the others.
As soon as possible, he moved off the ancient road. The disturbed ground soon gave way to a gentle slope that led toward the river, and this is where he wanted to go.
The grass was lush, and though they treaded softly their passing made some noise. But as they neared the river, trees grew more thickly, the grass thinned, and sand and loose soil thrown up into drifts by floods softened their footfalls.
The gurgle and plop of the river as it ran to the falls was a gentle and calming sound. It too would help mask their presence, yet as they approached Lanrik felt the flush of nerves and the churning fear in his stomach that always accompanied a dangerous task. He was more familiar with it than he wanted to be, but he had learned to accept the reactions of his body, and in accepting them, to diminish their influence.
Once again he must steal horses. It seemed as though that was all he ever did: take the horses of the enemy and evade pursuit. This time, however, he had a different plan. He hoped it would prove safer than the last.
They reached the river and sat down beneath the canopy of an old willow. Its ancient trunk, fissured and flaking, was pale in the darkness. The enemy camp was several hundred paces upstream, but Lanrik was in no hurry. They rested quietly, waiting for the night to grow old.
Far away an owl hooted and a fox yelped. The river noises filled the night and the chirp of crickets and frogs rose and fell in some rhythm known only to them.
Aranloth rested, his back against the tree, his staff held loosely in one hand. Lanrik nodded to him, and the lòhren nodded back. He was awake, and he would wait for their return.
“Time to go,” Lanrik said to the others.
They began to put in place the plan he had devised during the day. First, they took off their packs and left them near the lòhren, and then moved to the edge of the river.
“It’s time for wet feet and cool heads,” he said.
Lanrik took the first steps into the water. It was cold, and they could not stay in it too long, so now they would have to work not only more quickly but also with greater silence.
They waded out some twenty feet until the water pushed hard at them. Leaning forward into the current, so that little of their body could be seen, they began to walk upstream.
It was hard work against the strong flow, and their trousers and tunics clung to them uncomfortably, but it was safer than approaching the enemy by dry land. The Azan would have a guard, or more than one. Lanrik doubted that they expected trouble from the river, though. They would be watching the road, ready to spring their ambush.
He kept a close eye on the riverbank as they pushed forward. He could not be sure exactly where the camp was, but yesterday he had marked a clump of trees, thick and tall, and he thought he saw its outline coming up now.
With his left hand he signaled the others. With his right, he drew his sword, and Arliss did the same. Caldring only had a knife, but their weapons were drawn as a precaution rather than in anticipation of a fight. If it came to combat, his plan had failed.
They moved close, and then Lanrik paused. A long time they stood in the river, the chill water rushing past them, the stars glittering coldly above. At length, he saw what he had waited for. A horse moved, and he noticed the dim outline of its flicking tail and twitching ears. He had located the camp; now it was time to start the second part of his plan.
He gestured to the others, and they moved toward the bank. Caldring came last, for he had no real training in the Raithlin skills, but he was a good hunter, and he had some talent for moving quietly.
Lanrik reached the shore first. He studied the bank carefully, seeking out the quietest and most sheltered route as best as the dark allowed.
He moved up onto dry ground, stepping along a drift of sand that would dull the noise of their steps more than the rocks and gravel that formed much of the bank. When they were all clear of the water, he stood still and waited again.
His eyes were well adjusted to the night, but he could see little. The shadows at the base of the trees were thick, but he made out the shapes of more horses to the right. He could only see a few. The others, probably just better hidden, would be close by.
Now was a time to make a guess,
and he hoped it proved right. The horses were to the right, and the breeze was coming from the left, as it had done since they escaped the tombs. Most likely the Azan had established their camp to the left too, for that way the smell of horse manure and urine would be taken away from them; a factor at any time, but increasingly important the longer the Azan stayed in the one place.
Lanrik made his decision and signaled to the others. It was time to get on with things.
He set the example, moving with soundless steps, first feeling the ground with the toe of his boot to determine if anything lay there that might make a noise. Only when satisfied did he place the rest of his foot down and transfer his weight to it.
There was movement among the dimly seen horses, and he froze, but it turned out to be another one that stepped into view. He eased his way forward again. Of Arliss, he heard nothing. She was a gifted student and had learned his lessons well. Caldring made more noise, but it was nothing against the background sounds of the river, and Lanrik was pleased with him.
A clearing came into view. It was the heart of the copse, and the long dark line of a fallen tree ran across its length. Above, where the tree had once grown tall, was open sky.
Beneath the shadow of the remaining trees Lanrik made out the shapes of sleeping men. At least he thought they were sleeping; he would not assume it as a fact. They did not move, and the night was now old, but that did not prove the point.
He got down onto his hands and knees and began to inch forward on his belly. It was the Raithlin crawl, a tactic that scouts all over Alithoras must use, but it was one that Caldring was not versed in.
This was the greatest moment of danger, for not only were they close to the Azan, but Caldring was now at risk of making more noise than before. Yet to stay on their feet was to increase the chance of being seen, even in the dim light.
Lanrik led the way, finding a route beneath the trees that kept them in the deepest shadow. Once more he worried, for although it would be harder for the Azan to see them that way, there was conversely more chance of noise from fallen debris.
Just as he thought that, there was a rustle of dry leaves from behind him. He froze. The sound stopped straightaway, and he waited. One of the Azan rolled over in his blanket, but he did not get up. It might have had nothing to do with the noise. Perhaps the man had just turned in his sleep. Yet Lanrik was grateful to be in the deep shadows. The sleeper was visible in the open, but the three intruders, motionless and low, would not be.
He waited a long time before he moved again. There was no hurry, for his plan was not to steal four horses, but all of them. If they achieved that, there could not be a pursuit, and that was his main priority. Too many times the Azan had tracked them down. Now, he intended to ensure that even if they knew where their quarry was, or where they were going to, they would not be able to do anything about it.
One thing concerned him though: he had caught no glimpse of the shazrahad yesterday. Nor could he see more than five Azan now. It was possible that another ambush was set up further along the ancient road, but doubtful. It would be better tactics for the Azan to keep together and force a fight where their numbers must win.
Alternatively, the shazrahad was hedging his bets. He might have sent this group to intercept them as they left the Angle, but he could not know for sure which side of the river they would emerge on until it was too late. Even Lanrik did not know exactly where they were as they travelled through the tombs. That being the case, Musraka might have divided his forces. The one place that he knew they would eventually return to was Lòrenta.
Lanrik thought about it. It made sense, but if so, it was a problem for another day.
They neared the horses. The clearing could not be seen anymore, and he stood up slowly so as not to disturb the animals. He counted them. There were six, and yet he had seen five men in the camp. That made sense, for there would be a watch. But where would that man station himself?
Lanrik took a step closer to the horses, and he sensed Arliss and Caldring behind him, now also on their feet. He made no move to touch the animals yet. He wanted to ensure that they saw him first, knew that there were people about them, and had a chance to grow used to them. Sometimes little more than a strange smell could disturb a horse, and he wanted to make sure they did nothing to alert the Azan.
The animals cocked their ears and snorted once or twice, but they showed no sign of agitation. Slowly, Lanrik walked among them. He ran his hand along their flanks, patted their high withers and ran his hand over their rumps.
Arliss and Caldring moved among them too. They were all careful to keep at least one horse between them and the sleeping Azan, for if their enemies happened to wake there was less chance of being seen, and if attacked, there was cover.
Yet the Azan did not wake. Nor was there any sign of the sentry. Lanrik thought of taking saddles, but he dismissed the idea quickly. They were now used to riding bareback, and while it was true that they could not ride quite as fast that way, it was no great problem. More harm would come from being discovered, and the chances of that increased every moment they lingered.
He began to untie the ropes that secured the horses, and the others, seeing what he was doing, did the same. Soon, the mounts were ready. They each held the reins for two animals, and steadily began to walk them from the camp.
Lanrik felt a fresh shiver of fear. The movement of horses would be visible, and they were making some noise. Leaves rustled, hooves clicked and the odd twig snapped.
He was ready at any time to give a yell for them to mount and ride, yet he saw no sign of the enemy. It was better to slip away unseen if they could manage it, for riding at night was dangerous, especially with horses that were unused to new riders.
He angled back toward the river, away from where he believed the sentry was stationed. The gurgle and plop of the water grew strong in his ears and he let out a sigh.
They had done it. His choice this time had proved right, for although taking the others was a risk, especially the untrained Caldring, they had managed to steal all the horses. That would make a big difference.
They should have a free run from here back to Lòrenta, and although he was sure that Musraka was not here, he knew that they would meet once more. Near the fortress of the lòhrens would be as good a place as any. And so long as Aranloth could take the herenfrak to Erlissa, it would be time to settle things with the shazrahad, once and for all.
They were now out of the trees and onto grass. Above, there was a faint graying of the starry sky.
“Let’s ride,” Lanrik whispered.
The other two smiled, the release of tension on their pale faces obvious, and they mounted.
At first, it was awkward. Although they had only nudged the horses into a quiet walk, leading the remaining three by hand was difficult. They were not so well trained as the horses of the Royal Guard. Yet Lanrik was pleased. They were still fine animals, and though they had been given little in the way of grain, they seemed at first glance strong and healthy.
The gait of the horses was smooth and they appeared fit and eager for work. And work was what they would get, for it was a long way back to Erlissa. The additional mounts would help. By rotating them, all the horses would be better rested and travel faster.
“I feel sorry for the sentry,” Lanrik said.
Caldring gave him a puzzled look.
“Why’s that?”
“Because the others will blame him when they find that their horses are gone. They might even mete out some sort of punishment.”
“Then he should have done a better job.”
Lanrik shrugged. “Just as well for us that he didn’t. Still, it’s no easy task being a sentry, and people like to find someone to blame when things go wrong. Really, their leader was at fault – he should have arranged for two sentries, but some leaders have a way of reprimanding others for their own mistakes.”
Arliss rolled her eyes, and the whites gleamed in the dim light.
“How could he know that you’ve got a fondness for stealing alar horses?”
Lanrik grinned, but did not answer.
They soon reached the old willow where they had left the lòhren. He was still there, his back resting against the weathered trunk and his staff held loosely in his hand. At first he looked asleep, but a closer glance assured Lanrik that regardless of how tired he looked, Aranloth’s eyes were alert and watching them closely.
“You didn’t have any problems?”
“None,” Lanrik answered.
He studied the lòhren some more.
“We’ll camp here for a few more hours and rest. You look like you could use it.”
Aranloth looked at him kindly.
“That would be nice, but you and I know it’s best to take advantage of the tail end of the night. It won’t be dark for much longer.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
The lòhren grunted and stood.
“My strength is returning, even if slowly. I can’t do much, but I can manage to ride.”
The travelers gathered their equipment. The sky was going gray in the east when they rode off.
They headed for the ancient road, and then crossed it, moving somewhat to its far side. Beyond was a long belt of trees, and Lanrik chose not to get too close. He did not believe there was a second group of Azan, but there was no point in being foolhardy. The trees provided a good place for an ambush, and Lanrik was not prepared to take that chance. Better to accept the known risk of the Azan camp to their left.
When they neared it, he gave a signal and they broke into a gallop. The thud of hooves was loud, and in moments they saw a dim figure run at them. It cried out, a strident yell in the Azan tongue, and other cries quickly answered from the dark behind it. But in moments the dim figure was lost to sight and the cries went silent.
Now, thought Lanrik, they were on the last leg of their trip. Nothing stood between them and Lòrenta, although Musraka would if he could.