by Robert Ryan
The creature was closing rapidly. Lanrik came to a stop and drew his sword. He waited until the charred-man veered in his direction, and then, now sure that it would pursue him, he sheathed it and ran again. One of them had to live. It would be her.
Fear breathed new life into his legs. The creature was very close now, and he sensed it straining behind him. It made no noise as it ran though. All that he heard was the heavy slapping of its smoldering boots over cobbles.
Screams rose all about him. He ignored them, and a sense of accomplishment settled deep inside him. Every second that he delayed this thing, every footstep that it must spend following him, was a greater chance that Erlissa might live. And Esgallien needed her more than him. She knew the goings on in the city, just the same as he did. Most of all, she knew of the Lindrath’s escape and survival. If they found him, he was the key that Aranloth might use to rouse the people against the Witch-queen, and between them all, and the other lòhrens, they could challenge Ebona’s hold over the city.
There was little that he could contribute to that, and he knew it. But that did not mean he intended to just lay down and die. He would soon find out if the charred-man was as immune to cold steel as he was to fire.
He ran on. The thing was behind him, but his burst of speed had given him a little lead again. They reached the Hainer Lon once more. There was even less chance of escaping it here. He veered away as soon as he could, and raced down a side street at random. One destination was as good as another, so long as it gave Erlissa more time.
He was nearly ready to turn and confront his pursuer, for he wanted to conserve enough strength to ensure he put up a good fight. He had no illusions though that he would necessarily be able to bring his sword to bear. The charred-man might simply fling fire at him as it had done earlier. If that happened, he had no defense.
Something occurred to him then. A steel blade was a good weapon against most things, though he feared it might not serve him now. But the idea of cold steel brought to mind water. What if he could find a fountain? Would it offer him protection of any kind? It was possible, even if unlikely.
He tried to think, but there was no water nearby. Esgallien’s many parks contained a large number of fountains and ponds, but the closest one was too far away. The charred-man would catch up with him before he reached it.
He ran only a few paces more before he cursed himself for a fool. There was water nearby. He just had not thought of it.
When he came to the next corner he turned, ran a little down that street, and then doubled back toward the Hainer Lon. The creature doggedly kept on his trail, and fury burned once more in his heart. He did not like being hunted. It was on his mind to turn and fight, and damn the consequences, and yet there was one last chance for him, one last thing to try before it came to that.
He drew near the Hainer Lon again. He knew this part of the city well, and ran quickly beneath a portico to his left. People screamed and fled, as they had done all along, and just as always, the charred-man ignored them in its single-minded pursuit.
But it was time to mix things up and to see what effect, if any, a change of environment had on it.
Lanrik ran up a few stairs and into the doorway of a building. Here, there were few people inside, but those who were quickly scattered.
He raced across the marble floor, and the creature followed his trail like a hunting dog on the scent. Dashing onto a stairwell, he ran down it. It soon became quite dim, and for once he opened a gap between him and the creature. Its lurching gate was ill suited to stairs, and that was something Lanrik noted; it might come in handy. But for now, he had another plan.
He flung open some wooden doors and went into a kind of basement. He knew this building particularly well, but it was possible that things had changed since he was last here.
This was a building used by Esgallien’s tax collectors. And as with many government structures, the Raithlin had access to them. They used them in their training, for there were times that a suitable situation in the wild could not be found, or was too far away to be of practical use. If they wanted to practice certain skills, they had to make do with what was around them.
He saw what he wanted. There was a narrow grill on the far wall. It was an old thing of rusted iron, a thing that he had seen many times before. It led into a tunnel beneath the Hainer Lon. But it was no ordinary tunnel. It was an aqueduct that fed water to the entire city. The Raithlin used it as though it was a cave, and practiced a whole set of skills there that they could not elsewhere.
The aqueduct started high in the wild hills just to the west of Esgallien. Somewhere up there in ancient times a spring had been diverted from its normal course. Clean water ran through an underground channel of tightly-fitted bricks, winding ever-downward to the city.
It finally reached River Gate, and continuing its underground path it passed along the full length of the Hainer Lon, before emptying into Esgallien Creek. The whole city drew water from it.
Many wells were in government buildings, which were also places of access for the workmen who checked for leaks and contamination. And those places of access were also once used by the Raithlin. He looked at one now, unless it had been closed since the disbanding of the Raithlin. He reached it, and pulled hard on the iron grid. Nothing happened.
A cold echo sounded in the confines of the basement, and he knew that the charred-man had arrived.
10. A Wilderness of Dark
The grid did not budge. Sudden panic drove Lanrik to pull with all his strength. Still, nothing happened.
He saw the problem immediately. The ends of the grid’s bars were now fixed behind a layer of bricks, whereas before they had merely butted up against the sides of the recess. Access to the aqueduct was closed off. And yet all that the workmen had done was remove the material that was already there, set the grid deeper into the alcove, and then re-mortar the bricks in place.
Behind him, the charred-man approached. Lanrik drew his sword, but he did not turn to face the creature. He made one last attempt to open the way forward.
Swiftly, he used his blade to provide leverage by wedging it through the bars and using the bricks as a pivot. He heaved again. This time, mortar popped like a fistful of thrown sand, and bricks clattered to the floor. He took hold of the grid in one hand and flung it at the charred-man.
The creature, for all that it could run without cessation, was not nimble. The grid struck it and sent it sprawling, but it clambered to its feet a moment later, seemingly unharmed.
Lanrik did not wait. He sheathed the sword and dived head first through the narrow opening. Instantly, it was dark, but not so dark that it stopped him from seeing.
He rolled to his feet and ran. He knew where he was going, and the small amount of light that filtered down through the opening behind him was enough to make him sure of his bearings. Within a few paces he noticed a lantern on the floor, filled with oil. It was used by the workmen who frequented this place. There was a tinderbox too. He swept them up as he passed, but there was no time to make light.
It grew darker. Behind him, he heard the shuffling gait of the charred-man. Ahead of him, was an ancient stairwell. He moved down it carefully.
At the bottom he turned right. In a moment the passage narrowed, but it soon dropped down at a steep slope into the aqueduct. Water gurgled past. It was a reassuring sound, as though the wilderness had come to the confined space. But it was also quite dark here, and he paused long enough to light the lantern. It would enable the charred-man to follow him, but on the other hand he needed to see where he was going. Light from grills like the one he had come through was too infrequent to rely on, and an accident down here would ensure his death.
The lantern flickered to life, and he closed the shutter so that only a glimmer of light escaped. The aqueduct was tall enough to enable him to walk upright. At this point, it was perhaps ten feet wide, but he knew that varied along its length and he hesitated as to which direction to take.
&nb
sp; A breath later, he moved to the right. He had no definite plan, but right or left did not matter. What was important was that he got going.
The water was cold. He tried to keep to the edge of the tunnel, for the floor was of tight-fitting bricks that sloped gently inward to keep the flow in the center of the channel. Yet the depth varied depending upon the rainfall in the hills and the usage of the city. Now, it ran knee high and filled the entire bottom of the passage. Just as well that there had not been recent heavy rain, or he would be wading forward in water above his waist.
The hollow splashing of his pursuer soon sounded loud behind him. He had not expected to lose the charred-man, although he had considered the chance that the creature, a thing of fire as it was, would not follow him into the water. That hope had died, and yet it did seem as though it was slower than above ground. It might have been the water, or the difficulty of keeping footing down here, or both. At any rate, the difference was only slight. It pursued him in the same dogged fashion, and Lanrik wondered if he would be killed here, alone in the dark, his body never to be discovered until workmen came to find and remove the source of contamination from the water. It was a dark thought. He shrugged it off and stepped ahead at a faster pace.
The charred-mam stayed with him. They were both quiet, except for the occasional splash of water. Drifting from afar were the sounds of the city: remote, dim and muffled reminders of another world. Above was the Hainer Lon, and for all the fear in the city, compared to this, it was still a place heady with life.
He wondered if he had only succeeded in trapping himself down here with his enemy, and yet it was apparent that though the water did not deter it, it had slowed it just enough that he could catch his breath and allow some of the leaden tiredness to drain from his legs.
Perhaps he was even unlucky that it had not rained in the hills lately. If it had, the deeper water might have slowed the creature even more. Could it even swim? That was a thought. It seemed ungainly, for all its endurance, and so the question was worth asking.
He strode ahead, doubtful that he could run any more even if circumstances allowed. He was tired, tired as he had seldom been before, but a plan was taking shape in the back of his mind.
Far ahead the Hainer Lon ran past a park. It was a large sprawl of tens of acres gardens, trees and lawns. There were stone benches around little courtyards, shops that sold food and drink, and areas set aside for athletic contests. An offshoot from the aqueduct provided the necessary water to establish plants and keep growing things green and lush. If he could reach that place, where a massive underground cistern stored water for the gardeners, perhaps he could put some of his thoughts to the test.
He had to leave the main branch of the aqueduct somewhere anyway. If he went too far, he would be trapped, for a massive grid closed it off beneath River Gate. Just as nothing came into the city that was not wanted above ground, so it was beneath the surface.
No one knew if Esgallien’s enemies had discovered the aqueduct, though it was likely and must be assumed to be the case. In a time of war, deep wells in the city provided a separate water supply on the chance that it was poisoned.
If he somehow managed to get that far, he would either be trapped at the grid, or, finding his way up to the towers above River Gate, run headlong into soldiers. Neither were acceptable options.
The minutes passed. Water squished inside his boots, cold and clammy. His pursuer was relentless as always, a silent thing that did not speak, did not call out in challenge, did not taunt him for running as a normal man might. It just pursued him, without thought or will of its own, in some abhorrent fulfillment of Ebona’s witchery.
Once, though, it had been a man, and Ebona had done something to it, something over and above the obvious sorcery. It must chase him. That much he understood intuitively. It had no choice, and would never relent, unless he somehow killed it and released it from torment.
He could not hate it. He only wished to find a way to save himself, and, if possible, to undo the wrong that Ebona had perpetrated.
The park was close now. It was hard to tell where he was underground, but he remembered this place, saw more stairwells leading up into other government buildings, and recognized exactly where he was. Soon, the passage leading into the cistern would branch off. He must not miss it. It was a narrow channel at first, easy to pass by unwittingly in the dark, but he could not afford that.
He slowed a little. It should be near, but so too was the charred-man. It no doubt gained a little on him now as he slowed to search for the turnoff, but he could not help that.
With trembling fingers he opened the lantern shutter a little more, shining light on the brick wall. It was surprisingly dry here, although white patches of minerals scudded the walls where running water had flowed at higher levels over the centuries.
At length, he spotted what he wanted, and something else, besides. Since the last time he was here, someone had scraped rough letters on the brickwork. It was hurried writing, but clear enough to read. And, after all, he knew the words well.
Our duty is to serve and protect
Our honor is to fight but not hate
Our love is for all that is good in the world
The Raithlin creed. Strange to find it here, and yet perhaps his comrades had sought refuge in the aqueduct when the Witch-queen persecuted them, even as he did now. If so, she had found them here, that much was certain. But it must have served them for a time, and that gave him hope.
He turned right into the narrow channel and reflected on the creed’s values. Who did he now serve? What was his honor? These things had altered recently, as steadfastly as he had always believed in them. Once, he had thought that they would last a lifetime. That reminded him of Conhain. Nothing lasts forever.
He went ahead, but soon heard the splashing of the creature behind him. It had found the turn and followed him, as he expected it would. The flow of water was lesser here, for it was only a side channel, and yet the reservoir ahead was large – if he could reach it. But the charred-man had changed pace. It gained on him, or he had slowed down too much. Either way, a fluttering fear ran through him once more and he hurried ahead in the darkness.
It was a nightmarish chase, alone and unaided, with nothing more than the thought that Raithlin had once used these tunnels to keep him company. And yet they had not given up, and nor would he.
At length, he saw light ahead: there were many grills and wells where gardeners dropped buckets into the cistern to collect water.
He came to a sudden stop. Just before him, he saw the reservoir. It was an underground lake, its bottom no doubt lined by mud, its surface still, and perhaps ten to twenty feet of clear water between the two.
With a flick of his fingers he shuttered the lantern and cast it behind him in the dark. The shuffling splash of the creature paused a moment, and then continued. It was even closer than he thought.
He stood on the edge of a little waterfall. The water dropped off the ledge and down onto the cistern below. It was a long drop, but Lanrik did not hesitate. He plunged, feet first, and sent up a hope for good luck to whoever looked after fools and Raithlins. Or both.
He smashed into the cold water and went right under. Water pressed at his ears and his eyes and his mouth, and then he bobbed up again, gasping for fresh air. He struck out for the middle of the reservoir.
Swimming was hard going in all his clothes and with his waterlogged boots, but the Raithlin trained for such circumstances, and he persevered. His broad-brimmed hat was gone though, lost in the dark and soon to sink to the bottom and oblivion.
He reached the center of the reservoir. Bright light shone in his eyes from an opening straight above, but that did not dazzled him so much that he could not see his pursuer.
The charred-man stood just where he had a few moments ago. It twitched and shrugged on the precipice, looking down at him. Lanrik could even see its eyes, dark things that flickered with fiery need, and he wondered if even this last ef
fort to throw it off the chase would work.
11. The Old Lady
Erlissa sprinted ahead.
She expected to hear the lurching tread of the charred-man at any moment. That it would pursue her, rather than Lanrik, she had no doubt. Otherwise, she would have stayed with him.
It was a creature of witchery, brought into existence for one reason: to kill them. And yet her possession of lòhrengai singled her out. Ebona hated lòhrens. More than that, after their confrontation in Caladhrist, she was herself a target of that same personal malice that the witch honed against Aranloth.
And yet the screams around her faded.
She swung her gaze wildly from side to side, nearly stumbling. The people nearby showed no sign of fear. They merely looked at her in annoyance, as though wondering what was wrong with her. Nor did she hear any sound of pursuit.
She risked a look over her shoulder and saw nothing. Nothing that mattered, anyway. She came to a sudden stop and stood there, bent over and panting in the street while people stepped past and gave her furtive looks. Their expressions said that she was an idiot.
Lanrik was gone. The creature was gone. She felt empty inside, and Aranloth’s advice came back to her. Stay together. If he ever learned what she had just done, he would surely think her an idiot, too.
Closing her eyes, she suppressed the sobbing that threatened to overtake her. It would not make anyone feel better but herself. She steeled her mind, opened her eyes and began to retrace her steps. It was no good running. Lanrik and the creature were gone, and she could not find them unless she heard screams from the crowd. But there was none of that.
She wandered the streets a while longer, desperate to find Lanrik, but to no avail. She saw one of the Royal Guards, and throwing caution to the wind in a fit of anger, ignored him. But soon there were more, and she knew the search for Lanrik, and the creature that must surely kill him, was over.