Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3)

by Robert Ryan

  “Erlissa?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s no scar on the back of his thumb.”

  “Did he have one?”

  “Yes. Very faint, but it was there.”

  Erlissa peered closely. “I don’t see one. How do you even know it was there?”

  “Because I gave it to him. He was showing me some knife-fighting techniques. I got carried away, and drew blood. He wasn’t happy with me that day … but the scar was permanent.”

  Erlissa straightened. “But if it’s not him, what would be the point of hanging a body here? And we know that he was captured. Bragga Mor confirmed it. Why hold him prisoner, but try to trick people into thinking he was dead?”

  Lanrik looked away from the corpse and straight at her.

  “What if he escaped before she had a chance to kill him? That was one of the rumors. Bragga Mor said that, too.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is it possible?”

  Lanrik was about to answer, but then he smelled something out of place.

  “Smoke!” he said.

  Erlissa sniffed the air. “I smell it. There’s something wrong here, Lan. Very wrong.”

  She tilted her head, and frowned in concentration.

  “I sense something else, too. There’s more than smoke. I feel sorcery.”

  They looked about them. They saw nothing. And then the acrid odor grew suddenly stronger. A movement of light flickered in the doorway of one of the shops.

  “Is the building on fire?” he asked.

  Erlissa’s eyes narrowed.

  “No!” she yelled. “Something inside is burning. And it’s moving!”

  One moment Lanrik hesitated when he should have run. One moment only, but in those few seconds many things happened.

  Royal Guards sprinted toward them from several shops. Brinhain was among them. And with him was a creature of nightmare. A man who burned. A man whose eyes flickered with light and brimmed with need.

  The creature lurched toward them. Guards came from left and right. Lanrik turned, looking back through the colonnade to Conhain Court. Guards filled it as well.

  “We’re surrounded!” he said.

  8. Defiance

  Erlissa spun around. “My staff!”

  Lanrik passed it to her, and deftly drew his sword. They were not without defenses, and yet their enemies were many. They could not hold them off for long.

  He prepared for a last stand; one that they must ensure killed them, for death was better than being taken alive to the Witch-queen.

  Erlissa surprised him by stepping forward. A moment she stood, poised and still, as their enemies rushed toward them. And then with a sudden flick of the tip of her staff, a blue flame sprang upward from the cobles. It burned coldly in an arc, reaching to the fence on either side.

  The fire flickered, growing taller, turning and twisting in a way that drew the eye. Lanrik ignored it. His gaze was on the enemy. He watched them through the blue haze as they gathered on its far side.

  The lòhrengai would not last long; that much he understood instantly. He cast his gaze around again, trying to find a way out. The only place where there were no guards was behind them, and that was because the gate and fence formed an impassable barrier.

  In desperation, he turned to the gate and shook it. It barely moved. The guards had made sure it was locked. But his seeking eyes glimpsed something of use.

  The corpse hung there, but it swayed with the force of his shaking. A great loop of chain, coming down from where it was wrapped over the high crossbar of the gate, swung into view from behind the body. He pulled it through the bars to his own side.

  “Erlissa!” he yelled.

  She was by his side in a moment.

  “Climb!”

  She did not hesitate. Handing him her staff, she grasped the chain in her hands and braced her feet against one of the thick bars. She climbed, reaching the top quickly.

  She looked uncomfortable as she negotiated the spikes, but used the chain to cover as many as she could. Spots of blood blossomed on her clothes. Fabric was torn. She gasped with effort or pain, and then she was over the top and able to drop to the ground on the other side.

  Lanrik took a quick look behind him. The blue flames were already dying, and the guards had moved closer. They left space for the charred-man, though. Lanrik caught another glimpse of his eyes. Human eyes, filled with torment and a frantic need to catch his prey.

  He sheathed his sword and climbed the gate. The heavy chain smashed into iron bars and rattled as he hastened. The corpse swayed grotesquely, and then he landed lightly on the other side.

  He did not feel any damage from the iron spikes until he caught a glimpse of blood on his arms and legs. After that, his injuries throbbed. But they were only superficial and would not slow him.

  For a quick moment he thought about where to go. They were inside the palace grounds now, and there were sure to be guards. But at least they would not already be chasing them as the others were.

  They raced off. He veered a little toward the right, across the cobbles and then onto lawn. They made quick time, but swift as they were, their lead was short. Guards had jumped the dying lòhrengai and used the chain as he had. Even the charred-man now lurched toward them. He ran strangely, tilting from side to side, twisting and turning as he moved. And yet for all that, he kept pace with the guards.

  “The trees!” Erlissa called.

  It was a good idea. They changed direction slightly, and headed toward a grove of oaks. They were ancient things, and it was dark beneath them. Here, they veered again and followed a gravel-lined path. They saw nobody now, and yet the pursuit must still be close. Even so, without seeing where their quarry went, the guards might split up to take different routes through the grove, or go around it altogether.

  After a hundred paces or so they were out of the grove and onto grass again. Now, they were near the palace. It rose before them, grand and elegant. There were people here, courtiers of some sort, and palace servants. They watched as he and Erlissa raced past them, but made no move to interfere.

  He heard a call from the grove and looked back. A group of guards burst from it, yelling to attract the attention of the others. The charred-man was among them, and if he could somehow track them by sorcery, or if they were just unlucky, Lanrik did not know.

  They sped down the right-hand side of the palace. There was a cobbled path here, and their boots slammed loudly against its hard surface. A horn screeched from somewhere inside, blown as an alert of some kind to warn of intruders.

  There were sure to be more guards on the chase now. And then he saw something that chilled his blood. Whether looking because of the blowing horn, or because she sensed the presence of her own sorcery in the form of the charred-man nearing, Ebona was there.

  The witch leaned over a high balcony, her hard gaze on them, and hatred evident in her stiff posture. And yet she must be too far away to attempt any attack of her own. She watched them race past, her body taut beneath her plain white dress, and in moments they passed from view and came to the back of the palace.

  They crossed another court. It was small, and decorative statues filled it. He had never been here before. It seemed like a miniature version of Conhain Court. They raced among the statues. Other horns blew now, and then a company of guards trotted from a doorway on the ground floor of the palace.

  “More of them!” he said.

  Erlissa did not answer him. She was panting for breath, as was he. He knew this could not go on much longer. They needed to hide, for they could not outrun such a chase for long – not with new guards, fresh to the pursuit, taking it up.

  They sped right over the top of some flowerbeds. A gardener, hoe in hand, watched them race by. He made no move to stop them, though he saw the guards following. He dropped the hoe and disappeared into a nearby grove of trees.

  Ahead was the opposite side of the palace fence. They reached it, and then raced along its length. There should be a gate
somewhere near, though it too would be guarded. They soon saw what they were looking for, and the guards that they expected. There were only two of them though, even if they were alert. One watched out toward the city, the other looked in, scrutinizing the palace grounds. He said something to his companion, who turned. They unsheathed their swords and waited.

  Lanrik did not slow. In a quick motion he drew one knife, and then another. He hurled them at the guards.

  His aim was a little off, for running and throwing was difficult, but it forced the men to duck, and then he was among them, kicking and punching. A sword clattered to the ground. There was a thump as Erlissa struck one of the guards in the head with her staff. In a moment, they were through.

  They ran from the palace grounds into the city, but several of the pursuing guards were close behind. Panic spread in the people-filled streets. Screams cut the air when the charred-man lumbered through the gate.

  Darting left and right down a series of wide streets they tried to lose their pursuers. But they were a clear target, easily seen, and the crowd was not so thick as to get in the way of the guards.

  “There!” shouted Lanrik.

  He turned into the first narrow street that he could find. It was not an alley, but perhaps if they followed it they would find a shop with a back door or some other means of escape.

  It was a place that he knew fairly well, having been here many times, and then he remembered that somewhere to the right was a narrow lane between two grand buildings. He found it and turned, but heard pursuers close behind.

  He headed into the lane, and it was as he remembered. But a dozen people cluttered it, and a cart blocked the way forward. It was a manure wagon, wide and low to the ground. It barely fit in the alley, and to pass by on either side was impossible. The only way was over it.

  The horse that pulled it was no longer yoked. Someone had led it a little way forward while people worked on the cart. It seemed that a wheel was damaged, but it was impossible to access from the side.

  Lanrik did not care. There was only one way out, and that was over the top. Everyone looked at the two of them as they dashed forward, and then beyond them. Lanrik heard noises behind him, and turned to look. The guards had caught up.

  “Go!” he yelled to Erlissa.

  He drew his sword and faced the enemy. They raced at him. He cut and thrust, deflected and sliced, and in a mist of blood three guards lay dead. His sword dripped red, and the crowd behind him was shocked to complete silence.

  He looked ahead. More guards rounded the corner into the lane. Brinhain was among them.

  “Kill them!” the captain screamed, and the guards padded forward carefully, blades held high.

  Erlissa was suddenly by his side. “We’re in this together, Lanrik. And when the charred-man comes, you’ll need me.”

  He wanted to argue, but did not. Nothing would change her mind. He thought of calling for help from the people on the far side of the cart, asking them to take her away, but he knew she would resist.

  He flicked the blood from his sword and held the tip at eye-level. He would meet the guards with death, and perhaps give Erlissa another opportunity to escape, when she saw that it was necessary. But something unexpected happened.

  He heard murmuring behind him. It was faint at first, and then grew loud. He caught the word Raithlin several times, before it was shouted. The crowd had seen the etching on his blade.

  The guards came on. Surprisingly, the crowd edged forward, rather than away, and there was hope in their faces.

  They wanted him to win. But he could not. Not against so many. He was about to beg Erlissa to go, and then the charred-man appeared. It lurched ahead of the guards, who now held back.

  Erlissa took a step forward. “Go!” she said. This is a creature beyond you.”

  He shook his head and repeated her own words. “We’re in this together.”

  The creature lurched down the street at them. Its feverish eyes flickered with anticipation, but then it came to a stop. Its whole body shuddered, and like a dog shaking water from its coat, it flung fire at them.

  Bright flame sizzled through the air. Erlissa raised her staff, and a wall of blue light, cold like ice, formed a shield in front of them. The fire of the charred-man struck it. Sparks flew and hissed like a swarm of wasps.

  With a puff of blue smoke the two opposing flames disappeared. Erlissa did not hesitate. She leveled her staff and lòhren-fire shot from its tip. It smashed into the charred-man and sent him sprawling.

  Lanrik’s heart thumped. Erlissa was growing as a lòhren, and though her power was slight compared to Aranloth, clearly she was a force to be reckoned with. And yet, as quick as hope was born, it died.

  The charred-man stood. It shrugged, and blue flame cascaded from its body to the cobbles. The cracks between the stone bricks steamed as moisture was drawn from beneath them.

  Their attacker stepped forward, unharmed, perhaps even looking stronger, and Lanrik realized that lòhren-fire held no power over it.

  Most of the crowd had now fled, but some brave souls continued to watch. Panicked cries rose from among them, and yet one man, bearded and tall called out in a deep voice.

  “Tip the cart!” he said, and those left followed his instructions.

  Erlissa seemed at a loss. She kept her staff leveled and gazed at the creature intently, while it in turn inched forward cautiously. Neither seemed willing to give ground.

  Lanrik glanced back at the cart. The crowd had tipped it forward, and manure piled out onto the lane. Most of the wagon now rested atop its former load, but one side leaned against a brick wall.

  He saw his chance, and understood what the bearded man had done. There was now a gap, small, but enough to allow a quick escape.

  He grabbed Erlissa by the arm. “Run!” he said.

  He pushed her through the gap, and then scrambled through himself.

  What was left of the crowd dispersed, realizing that the fight would now come to them. Even the bearded man disappeared, running swiftly around a corner.

  Once on the other side of the cart they turned. The charred-man ran toward them, scores of guards now hanging back behind it. Erlissa raised her staff. Fire burst from its tip, and she sent it flying into the cart. The timber planks that formed its tray caught alight. Straw and manure smoldered. In moments, the cart blazed with flame, no longer the blue of her lòhrengai, but natural tones.

  A wave of heat sent them staggering back, and the air shimmered.

  “That should slow them,” Lanrik said. He turned to run, but Erlissa hesitated. He turned back again.

  “It’ll slow the men,” she said. “But not it!”

  Through the billowing flames he saw what she meant. The charred-man had begun to move through the gap between the cart and the brick wall. It moved with its usual lurching gait, seemingly unaffected by the flames.

  Without a further word they turned and fled. In moments, they heard the uneven tread of their pursuer pound the cobbles behind them.

  9. Separation

  They sped through streets. The people nearby shot them curious looks; but their intrigued expressions soon turned to ones of fear when the charred-man lumbered into view. And for all his monstrous lurching and twitching, he ran at a fast and steady pace.

  “Doesn’t it tire?” Lanrik gasped.

  Erlissa glanced over her shoulder. “Ebona’s witchery sustains it.”

  Lanrik thought about that as they ran. It was clear that Erlissa’s lòhrengai was not of a type that could readily defeat this thing. The Witch-queen had brought it into being with an understanding of the knowledge and talents possessed by its prey. Erlissa, on the other hand, knew nothing of it, and she was forced to try to find a way to defeat it even as she fled for her life. It was a disadvantage that she might not have the time to overcome.

  He glanced back. The creature had gained on them, and he came to a decision.

  “Erlissa!” he called out. “We can’t out run it. And we
can’t get far enough ahead to hide.”

  She looked at him with wide eyes. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air, but she gave no reply.

  “We have to separate,” he said.

  “No!” she answered. “I’ll think of something.”

  “We don’t have enough time. It’ll wear us down in a few more minutes.” He gulped more air before he spoke again. “It’s the only way. At least one of us will survive. Otherwise, it’ll catch us both together.”

  “No! I won’t!” Erlissa said.

  “We’re dead if we don’t. And our hopes for Esgallien with us.”

  She shook her head, but looked back at the charred-man again. The expression on her face showed that she saw what he had. It was gaining on them.

  “We must!” he called out. He saw her anguish and doubt.

  They ran a little further, and he gave her the time she needed to recognize the necessity of his plan.

  “At the next intersection,” she replied. “I’ll go left. You go right.”

  She understood, even if she hated the idea. His lungs burned like they were on fire, and he felt his legs begin to go wobbly from strain. But he was determined to go on. The race was not yet over, and he intended the finish line to be one of his own making.

  “If we can, we’ll meet again near the stables in the Haranast,” he offered.

  They both knew this was unlikely. He saw by her expression that she felt one of them was likely to die. And she was right. It only firmed his resolve for what he had already planned.

  They neared the intersection. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her eyes. They brimmed with worry and thoughts that could never be put into words. A swift moment of understanding passed between them. All that they were, all that they might never get the chance to become, was laid bare.

  The moment passed, and then they were at the intersection. An instant longer they looked, and then they separated. She sped to the left, and he to the right. But he slowed and looked behind him.