by Robert Ryan
“The sooner it’s over, and tomorrow’s consultation with Brinhain, the better.”
They said goodnight, and Erlissa closed the door. Lanrik listened as she prepared for bed. When the noise stopped, and he knew she would need nothing else, he sat down, leaned his back against the door and closed his eyes.
But he did not sleep. There was truth in the comment that bodyguards were not supposed to use pillows. The hard floor made anything but dozing impossible, and that suited him tonight. He did not like Brinhain, his guards, or for that matter anybody else staying at the inn. He trusted them even less, and he intended to be prepared for anything.
The night wore on. He dozed fitfully, rarely sleeping for more than a few minutes at a time. And yet it was restful anyway. He did not need much sleep, and a few minutes here and there were sufficient to see him well enough rested for the next morning.
As the night drifted by he thought of what he had learned so far. It was still all rumor, but at least he and Erlissa had seen things with their own eyes. They would learn more tomorrow, hopefully from Bragga Mor, but also just by moving through the city.
No matter how bad the influence of the Witch-queen, people must still leave their homes for work and food. The markets would attract people, and that was a place to observe them and see how things stood. It was also a good place to see what the Royal Guard were doing. Were they concentrated on places like this, places where outsiders often stopped on their way to the city? Or were they spread out among Esgallien’s population? That alone would serve to indicate who Ebona feared most. And knowing that was a guide to how she might best be opposed.
The noise had long ceased from the common room below, and what few patrons that had stayed, as well as the guards, were now in their beds. As the night wore on, Lanrik felt less inclined to sleep. He had rested well, and now he simply sat against the door and dozed. His hands, beneath the warm blanket, rested loosely on the cold timber of Erlissa’s staff.
The hours slipped by in half wakefulness, and away in the city he heard the intermittent barking of dogs, and eventually the crowing of a rooster. The night wore on until dawn was near, that hour when sleep was often deepest. But Lanrik remained alert, and it was then that his instincts jerked his eyes open.
He did not know what had roused him. He sat there, unmoving but wide-awake, and his heart thrummed in his chest as though he was running a one-mile race.
Nothing happened. The light from the moon filtered through the narrow window at the end of the hallway and filled the passage with a river of pale light. And then he heard a creak followed by a faint rasp. At the end of the hall, where the stairs descended into the common room, shadows thickened. After a few moments they took the shape of three menacing figures: men who paused on the landing; men who watched, waited and checked to see if he was awake.
He was more than awake. His heart thudded even faster now, and a cold sweat beaded his skin; but he made no move. He wanted to see what the men would do. Perhaps they would be scared off if he stood. Or perhaps not. They might attack anyway, trying to rob him and Erlissa, and then make a quick escape. And if he let them know that he saw them, he would lose the advantage of surprise. And he needed that, for if there was a fight it would be three against one.
The rooster crowed again, long and shrill, and at that moment the men began to steal toward him. He knew them now, dim shapes though they were: the three surly men from the common room who had leered at Erlissa, and he feared they had more on their minds than robbery.
He gripped the cold wood of Erlissa’s staff. His sword would have been better, but the staff was ready to hand, and it was a dangerous weapon in its own right. It gave an advantage of reach, which would be welcome, for though these men had not worn swords they certainly carried knives.
They swept as slow shadows down the hall and approached. He caught the glint of steel on drawn blades, saw even the grim cast of their faces, and knew that they had come for murder.
Anger boiled in his blood, and his chest beat no longer to the thrum of fear, but to a rage that burned fiercer than any fire.
He flung the blanket at the nearest man and leaped to his feet. The staff speared through the shadowy air, its dark walnut nearly invisible, and its tip drove like a dagger thrust into the groin of the second nearest man. There was a cry of pain, loud and sharp, and the assailant reeled away in agony.
The third man jumped in, knife flashing. Lanrik felt a whoosh of air near his face as he dodged to the side. The blade missed him, but the man’s arm bunted into his neck. Lanrik charged, shouldering his attacker and sending him crashing into the opposite wall. As the man bounced off it, Lanrik smashed the staff’s tip into his head and knocked him out.
The other two men rounded on him. They had not seen a staff wielded like this before, and it confused them. They were used to both ends being used equally, not the one tip like a spear point. Few knew the technique, for it was something that Lanrik’s uncle had taught him, and even the Raithlin had only seen it rarely.
His attackers were wary of him, and paused for a moment, but the momentum of their ill will carried them on. They charged together. Lanrik drove the staff point into the first man’s chest. There was a crack, perhaps of bone, and he collapsed.
Lanrik ducked under the other man’s slash, and now, too close to use the staff properly, he brought his elbow up into the man’s groin. The dark figure reeled back, and Lanrik followed him, the tip of the staff poking, stabbing and driving into flesh and bone. The man screamed and fell.
Lanrik stood back. The three men lay on the floor, one unconscious, the other two badly injured. They would not escape the inn.
All around him he became aware of noise. Doors slammed shut, others opened and wide-eyed faces poked out.
Suddenly, the serving maid was there. She was a slim shadow in a white nightgown, pale as the moonlight, but he recognized her.
“What happened?” she asked, staring at the men on the floor.
“They attacked me.” He pointed with the staff at Erlissa’s door, which opened at that moment. “But I don’t think robbery was all that they had in mind.”
The girl looked from Erlissa’s face to the men. There was no pity in her expression.
“They seemed a bad bunch from the moment they came in,” she said, “but the captain is going to have words with you anyway. There’s a lot of talk at the moment about banning weapons, and the last time there was a fight he confiscated the man’s sword.”
Lanrik and Erlissa exchanged glances. Neither of them was prepared to accept that.
“Why is the captain even here?” Lanrik asked.
“He’s looking for Raithlin,” the girl said. “Apparently, they used to come here sometimes, but it must have been before I started.”
Lanrik thought quickly. This was no place to be. He and Erlissa must leave the inn, and they must leave it now.
At that moment, boots clattered on the stairs. Heavy boots, and many of them.
It could only be the guards. Lanrik thanked the girl quickly, went into the room with Erlissa, and shut the door.
Behind them, in the hall, the boots sounded loud and he tried desperately to think of something to do. There were too many men to fight. That was a sure way to get captured or killed. He looked around the room frantically, but he could see no alternative.
3. The Beating Heart
Lanrik put his back to the door and thought. It was locked, but the simple bolt would not withstand any force.
He heard the shuffle of boots and some muted questions on the other side. The injured men would hold the attention of the guards for mere moments, and then they would want to talk to him.
His gaze swept the room, but he saw no way out except the window. He dismissed that immediately as they were on the second story.
Urgent knocking rang against the door.
“Open up!”
It was Brinhain, and Lanrik knew their time was nearly up.
Erlissa straigh
tened, and then called out in a voice with the perfect blend of obedience and vexation at the circumstances.
“Just a moment, Captain! I’m getting dressed.”
She was already dressed. All she had done since Lanrik entered the room was swiftly pull on her boots, but her deception would buy them a few more moments. And Lanrik was beginning to get an idea.
He strode to the window, careful not to make noise and give Brinhain the impression that something was going on.
He found the window fastened shut. The latch was stiff, but he jiggled it until it loosened and pushed it open with a creak.
He looked down. It was still dark, but in the predawn gray he could make out enough. It was a long drop; too long to be sure of jumping safely. The last thing either of them could afford was an injury. They could not hope to escape if they could not run, nor could they fight properly if they were already hurt. Not that there was any chance of overcoming so many guards.
And yet he saw something that gave him hope. There was a knee-high mound below the window. A strong smell of manure and straw rose up to him. It ought not to be there, for the stables should have been cleaned every day and the muck carted out to enrich nearby fields, but the neglect that he saw inside the inn obviously extended to the outside.
Beyond the mound was the long and low building that served as the stables. He had been in them before, and there were always horses there. If that was the case now he could not be sure, for the inn was much less busy than it should be. Yet if there were few travelers, there were at least many guards, and there was a fair chance that they had ridden here from their barracks near the palace. He hoped so.
The banging on the door commenced again.
“Open up!” the captain shouted.
“Nearly ready,” Erlissa replied.
Lanrik raced to the bed. He picked up the mattress, including all the bedclothes, and carried it to the window. It was light, being nothing more than a coarsely woven sack filled with straw. But it was thick and might just work with the mound of manure to cushion their fall, for he was certain now that they must jump.
He struggled to get it out the window, but when he did, he lined it up and let it drop on the mound of rotted manure.
“Quickly,” he said to Erlissa.
She climbed up with his help until she squatted precariously on the windowsill.
“Hold on tight,” he said. “Hang down by your arms first, so that your feet are as low as they can go before you let go.”
She did as he said. He was glad that she was stronger than her lithe frame looked, for she held herself easily until she was positioned just right, and then with a gasp she dropped.
He watched her fall. It was a long way down, but she managed to land on her feet before slipping off the mattress and tumbling to the side.
For a moment he was worried, but she stood quickly and looked up at him.
He tossed down the staff, and she caught it deftly. Dogs began to bark, and the rooster crowed once more. It seemed louder now that the window was open, but was drowned out by a furious banging on the door. It was no longer just knocking, but an attempt to break it down.
Lanrik clambered up onto the sill. Both his feet were on it, and he had turned around so that he could hang down by his arms as Erlissa had, when the door crashed inward and timber from the splintered doorjamb flew into the room.
Brinhain stood framed in the doorway. He held his sword high. His face, just visible in the dim light, appeared twisted by emotion.
Lanrik had the sudden feeling that the captain was angry, not only because Erlissa had delayed his entry, but because he had conspired with the three robbers out of spite at what had happened during the afternoon, and that plan had failed. It made sense, for the robbers were too bold, and their chances of escape too slim with so many guards staying at the inn – unless they knew beforehand that any chase would be slow to start.
For a moment he stared straight into Brinhain’s eyes. Hatred flashed in both directions. And, suddenly, there was something else too. Brinhain’s expression altered. There was now recognition and understanding. He realized why Lanrik and Erlissa were trying to flee instead of seek help from the guards, as would have been normal. For a moment longer their gaze held, and then Lanrik dropped.
The ground sped up to meet him. Just like Erlissa, he landed on his feet, but then he slid and toppled sideways. Rolling, he stood up again and grabbed the mattress. Swiftly, he cast it aside so that the guards could not use it. Not that they needed to, for it would only take them moments to race down the stairs come around the yard to the back of the inn.
“Run!” he said. As always, Erlissa wasted no time asking questions. She knew he had a plan, and trusted him.
He raced to the stables and flung open the door. There were many stalls inside, one after another along a narrow corridor at their front. They made for the two closest stalls, opened them, and led the horses out. They were quiet animals, which was just as well. Lanrik knew his luck was good tonight, but it could not last much longer.
They were fine horses, and obviously belonged to the Royal Guard, for they were of a quality that ordinary citizens rarely rode except the nobility or those who raced in the Haranast.
They did not wait, but mounted them straight away. Lanrik led, easing his into a canter through the stable doorway. They were just in time. The guards were in the yard. He guided his mount around to face them, kicked it forward and charged them with a wild yell.
The guards scattered, leaping and diving, though one tried to grab his leg and pull him off. Lanrik looped his arms around the horse’s neck and kicked out hard.
He got through, leaving the guards behind him, and glanced back to see that Erlissa was following close in his wake.
Once again they were riding barebacked, using nothing but headstalls and reins, but this would not be a long race. Either they lost any pursuit quickly, or they would likely be caught.
They came to the front of the inn. To their right was the bridge, and a path into the wild where his skill as a Raithlin would serve him well. To their left, the road led into the city, which he guessed the guards knew better than he did.
He did not hesitate. He kicked his horse into a gallop and Erlissa followed close behind. The hooves of the horses thudded loud along the empty road, and the cool dawn air rushed past.
It was still and peaceful all around them, but they raced with frantic purpose along the road. And they headed toward the city, for Lanrik was not willing to abandon his quest. With luck, they would have a momentary lead, for likely the guards, not used to riding bareback, would saddle their horses before they began their pursuit.
The road followed a long and gentle rise toward Gold Gate, the northern entry into Esgallien. To their left, the sun crested the horizon; a fiery ball that shot yellow-gold rays over the city. Towers glinted, stained-glass windows sparked to life and tiled roofs glowed with warm light. But the road remained gray beneath them as they bent low over the necks of their straining horses.
He could see the gate clearly now. It remained closed, but the soldiers who guarded it should open it at any moment. To either side ran the wall that encircled Esgallien.
Lanrik did not know if the gate would be open when they reached it. But if not, he had a plan. He always had a plan, although his inspiration had run to a low ebb in Erlissa’s room with Brinhain hammering at the door. He did not like the feeling, and he hoped not to experience it again.
The wall loomed close. It was an ancient though solid structure, built of plastered brick. It rose thirty feet high and ten deep. It was less impressive than the one that surrounded Cardoroth, and the comparison brought home to him how fragile was the safety of the city that he loved.
The gate was still closed. He could see the soldiers who manned it milling around. Nearby, tall towers guarded either side of the entrance. Fifty-foot images of Conhain were carved in high relief on each one.
Esgallien’s first king was clad in war raime
nt, helm and chain mail carefully depicted. In his hand he held a naked sword, ready to strike, the tip of each blade touching above the middle of the gate. It was a warning to enemy armies that breaching the walls would not be easy.
Sunlight lit the king’s carved gaze, but his mighty feet were still in shadow. Conhain! Thought Lanrik. Dead a thousand years, yet still the beating heart of Esgallien society. In the nation of people that once he ruled, there must yet be those with the boldness to resist Ebona. She had conquered them by stealth rather than sword, but their courage would kindle one day, and then woe to her and Murhain.
They neared the gate. The soldiers opened it, but too late Lanrik and Erlissa slowed down. Their galloping was suspicious, and the men stood at the entry to the tunnel and barred their way.
Lanrik glanced back. Guards were on the road behind them. They had saddled their horses; a mistake they would regret, if only he and Erlissa could get inside the city.
He thought about trying to charge through, but in the narrow confines of the tunnel, where there was nowhere to go but forward, they would be at risk of sword strokes. He would not take that chance with Erlissa. Not unless talking his way through failed.
They pulled the horses up before the men.
One of the soldiers stepped forward. He was young, but Lanrik did not think he looked stupid. Even worse, he did not look gullible.
The man’s hand was on the hilt of his sword.
“What’s the hurry?”
“Why else would we hurry?” Lanrik said. “We’re in need of haste.” He glanced at Erlissa. “Tamril is a healer, and she’s needed urgently in the city.”
The soldier gazed at her carefully. All the while Lanrik knew their pursuers were galloping up the road behind them, but he resisted the urge to look. That would only serve to highlight his fear.
“You’re in so much of a hurry that you’re riding bareback?”
“Yes. It is that urgent.” Lanrik thought quickly. He needed something more here, and he needed it fast.