Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3)

by Robert Ryan

  Far below was the track. Sand covered all of its one hundred and fifty paces. Competitors would ride its length, taking multiple and dangerous turns around carved posts at each end.

  One post served as a starting point, and the other as a finish line. He headed toward the finish, where the stables were also located, and wondered if Erlissa was already there.

  He could not see her, for it was still too far away, and the largest portion of the crowd was milling about there. The finish line was the most popular place to watch from.

  A horn blew three long notes. A race was soon to begin, and his gaze wandered to the stable entrances at the base of the hill.

  Somewhere below ground were not just stables, but also rooms for the riders, the trainers and all of the Haranast staff. It was strange to think of all those spaces and people below ground, but he had heard that there was a maze of tunnels down there, hidden from the spectators.

  Some wooden gates swung open at one of the entrances. He continued to angle his way toward the finish line, watching as a half dozen horses trotted out. There was an enthusiastic cheer from the crowd.

  Some of the riders urged their mounts into a light gallop to warm up their muscles; others waved to the crowd and merely walked their horses up to the starting post. Perhaps there was sufficient space below ground to actually run the horses without needing to come out onto the track.

  The horses were all fine animals. They were sleek, well muscled and kept at the peak of health and fitness. At least, that’s what the trainers always told anyone who ever asked about them. The owners sometimes had a different point of view.

  He wondered for the first time how his own horse, the alar stallion that he had taken from the shazrahad, would fare in these races. That it had endurance beyond Esgallien’s horses, he did not doubt. It could keep on galloping long after anything here had lost its wind. But could it match them for speed?

  The riders drew their horses level with the starting post, and the crowd grew excited. He was still some way from the finish line. But he was much lower in the stadium now, and row after row of stone benches rose above him on the terraced hill. The arched exits seemed far away.

  Some said there were also exits from the underground rooms, used by the riders and Haranast staff. He had never seen them. It was always a problem for people to get in and out of here, the arches being so few and the crowds so large. That was probably why so many races were run each day of the week and right from morning until midafternoon. It spread things out instead of concentrating them at peak times.

  Some of the crowd’s excitement washed off on him as he watched the beginning of the race. The horses sped along, sand spraying behind them, brave riders bent low over their backs. It was a dangerous sport, and many was the people’s favorite whose career had ended in a fall. Sadly, the same sometimes applied to horses. But the races were safer than they were in Esgallien’s past. In the early days of settlement, riders often fought with wooden swords as they raced. That had not occurred for many hundreds of years, although under the Witch-queen, anything, no matter how cruel, might be reintroduced. Especially if it provided entertainment and shifted the attention of the people away from what really mattered.

  The lead rider reached the finish post, but the race was far from over. He turned, and sand churned up from flying hooves to thicken the air. A second later, the others followed in a large pack after him. They galloped back the other way, for the race still had several laps to go.

  He was close to the finish post now. He took his gaze from the track and looked for Erlissa. He did not see her. But there were many people here. Some were robed, and some cloaked, and many of the spectators were women. But he saw no sign of the girl he most wanted to see.

  He moved as close to the finish post as he could, and stood with the others nearby to watch the rest of the race.

  The contest was coming to its last lap. The lead rider had gained a few more lengths on the rest. He still bent low, but now his whip was out and he urged the horse on. Sweat coated its flanks. Its nostrils flared to take in more air. The riders behind shouted and brought down their whips rapidly.

  From out of the midst of the pack a white-socked sorrel emerged. It outpaced the others and gained ground on the leader. The crowd roared.

  This rider did not use his whip so much. He was a very slight man, the smallest there, perhaps no more than a boy. But Lanrik recognized the skill shown by his easy balance and the way his weight and motions were one with the great horse beneath him.

  The sorrel surged ahead of the pack and drew near to the lead horse. In a few more strides, they were neck and neck. The other rider whipped furiously, but his mount was tiring and had nothing left to give. The sorrel stayed with it a moment longer, and then with a final burst of speed, strained ahead to win by nearly a length.

  The crowd roared. Men yelled and women clapped. Lanrik stood where he was. He looked for Erlissa, subdued in the midst of all the excitement.

  He sat down when the clamor subsided, and the majority of people had also taken their seats. He was less visible this way, but he did not want to stand out from the crowd. Anyway, if Erlissa came here, she would see him. He felt suddenly sick. What if she did not come? What if he never saw her again?

  There was usually a good while between races. It gave the spectators time to talk and drink. He did neither, but watched idly as boys came out onto the track with large rakes and levelled the churned up sand.

  The horses stayed at one end of the arena, walking and moving to cool down. There they remained for some while until the riders got down and handlers took the reins.

  A few minutes later the stable doors opened again and the horses were led underground. There must be lights there too, many of them, otherwise the horses would balk. It must in fact be huge down there, open and well lit. Lanrik realized that no matter how well he knew Esgallien, there was always more to learn. The city was a fabulous place, ancient and mysterious even to its inhabitants.

  It was also a place of fear, at least nowadays. And that was abruptly brought home to him. The crowd went suddenly quiet. He did not know why at first, but after looking around for a few moments he saw that a dozen Royal Guards had entered the Haranast. They were far away, but the cringe of the people near them gave them away as much as their uniforms.

  Lanrik watched them carefully. That they were looking for someone was obvious. They moved along the aisles, checking faces as they went. They could not go through each aisle though, and they might or might not come to his. It was a roll of the dice. And if he tried to leave now, it would only attract the attention that he was desperate to avoid.

  He remained where he was, and watched and waited. The guards stuck together. Although they could cover more ground by splitting up, they worked as a group, staying in close proximity to each other at all times.

  It signaled to him that they were scared of the crowd, or, he supposed, scared of him, for he was the one that they were most likely looking for.

  A grim smile came to his lips. If they were scared of him, it was because he had taught them to be so. But even so, there were too many of them to fight. And he could not count on any help from the crowd. Although he could not discount it either. They had helped yesterday.

  The people of Esgallien might be cowed, but the spark of defiance was not gone. He did not want to inflame it. Not here, not now. The guards had swords and unarmed people would die. He did not want that.

  The guards came closer. He no longer watched, but kept his eyes on the track. They were near enough now that they might recognize him. He sat in a casual posture, one leg crossed over the other. It helped hide the sword sheathed at his side.

  The crowd grew still about him. And deadly silent. They knew this was a moment of potential danger, if not the reason why. Rumor of a Raithlin on the loose would have spread since yesterday.

  He waited, using the crowd’s reaction to judge where the guards were. They had come very close.

 
; A shadow fell upon him. The first guard neared. The man looked down at him, and Lanrik suppressed the urge to run. Instead, he looked up, allowing a slightly annoyed expression to show on his face. He had no choice but to look. Although it made him easier to recognize, not to do so was unnatural in the circumstances and would indicate that he wanted to hide. There was always the chance that the guard had never seen him in person and that his grasp of a verbal description would not be enough.

  The guard paused. He looked to go on, but then he hesitated and shifted his gaze back.

  For a few moments he stared hard, and then in sudden recognition staggered back to get out of Lanrik’s way. The man drew his sword. Fear was on his face, but in a moment it hardened as his comrades rushed to stand beside him.

  The game was over. All of the guards were near. Lanrik drew his own sword.

  He held the blade high, and it glinted in the light. Once more he heard whispers as its famous etching glinted and shimmered in the sun.

  Raithlin. The crowd murmured it, the word passing from lip to ear and then to lip again. They backed away from him, but they did not run.

  All of a sudden, he felt like he was in a sword tournament. A crowd watched. And he had an opposition. Only there were many of them and but one of him. He stepped forward anyway.

  At the same time, an old lady trudged past Lanrik and approached the group. She held a walking staff in her tremulous hands. Her skin was leathered by hard work and blotched with age.

  “Go back, lady,” Lanrik said. “This is no place for you. Move away to safety.”

  The old lady tilted her head and looked at him.

  “What a well-mannered boy you are,” she said wheezily. “A pity that these Royal Guards aren’t more like you.”

  She turned to them and poked at the nearest with her staff.

  “Stand aside!” she ordered. “I’m too old to go around. And anyway, why should I?”

  “I don’t care what you do, old lady,” the guard said. “Stay or go. Live or die. It’s all the same to us. But we’re taking this man to the queen, and she won’t care anymore than we do if you get killed during the process.”

  The old lady trembled and coughed. Her hands looked like ancient parchment, and yet their grip upon the staff was firm. Lanrik looked more closely at the timber. It was walnut. It was covered in dust. Mud caked either end. But he suddenly knew it.

  He stood perfectly still. The whole world seemed to pause. And then he spoke.

  “The Witch-queen may not care if this lady dies. But I do. I care very much.”

  He raised his sword and stepped forward.

  “Drop your weapon!” One of the guards said. “Come with us peacefully!”

  “Or die,” another added.

  Lanrik laughed. He felt something inside him break free, something that he always held on a tight leash.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll kill you all before I go to the Witch-queen.”

  He stepped forward another pace. His every movement suggested defiance. They read it in his eyes. And yet he made no move, nor did blade touch blade before the battle began.

  The old lady, or Erlissa, for he now knew who she was, brought down the end of her staff against the stone paving. Caked mud sprayed everywhere. A great boom thundered through the Haranast. Blue flame turned and twisted, running across the stone before leaping high into the air.

  The guards cursed and reeled back. The crowd screamed and fled. All was confusion, and people were everywhere, running and stumbling.

  Lanrik, with Erlissa right next to him, jumped down to the next row of seats. Together they moved down several more rows. People fled from them toward the guards. People fled from the guards toward them. In the mass of movement, they ran along a suddenly empty aisle and toward the arched exits. But escape was far away, and the guards close, even if they were momentarily hidden by the turmoil.

  14. Wrath of the Witch-queen

  Lanrik and Erlissa raced ahead. The path between seats was wide, and they moved swiftly, catching up to those who had fled before them.

  Abruptly, a wall of people blocked their path. And yet there was a wall behind them too, pressing forward. The guards were somewhere within it, though Lanrik could not see them

  Progress was now very slow. Higher up, at the crest of the hill, many people streamed out to safety beneath the arches. And yet where Lanrik was now, the crowd only shuffled, one desperate step at a time.

  Those who had seen them earlier were elsewhere now, swept away in the wild surge of the crowd. No one recognized Lanrik or Erlissa, or knew that they had been at the center of the disturbance, nor that he was a Raithlin and she a lòhren. They were just two more people struggling to flee. The crowd seethed. It pushed and shoved, sped up and slowed down. But they stayed together.

  “Over that way,” Lanrik said.

  He took Erlissa’s hand, and they changed direction slightly. They could not get ahead any faster, but they were able to drift sideways, a little at a time. He wanted to ensure that the guards did not find them. They would have seen the direction that he and Erlissa had originally taken, and that was where they would follow.

  Lanrik heard a lot of yelling and curses, but no screams. It seemed as though the guards were not using their swords to force their way through. That choice was probably a matter of self-preservation more than anything else. In such a crowded space, where people had nowhere to go to escape, necessity would compel them to fight back. And though they were mostly unarmed, and it would be muscle against steel, the mass of their numbers would prevail in the end. And the guards knew it.

  He kept a tight hold of Erlissa’s hand. He did not think he would ever let go of it again. It felt so good to be with her once more. And suddenly, hope filled him. The Lindrath was still alive. They would find him, and surely none knew better than he how things stood in the city, and what the queen’s weaknesses were, and which of her enemies were willing to fight. They would escape with him and meet with Aranloth as arranged. After that, the end of the Witch-queen’s reign would come swiftly. Of that, he was sure.

  A gap opened in the crowd before them as a line of people further ahead surged through the exits. They moved into it.

  “I still don’t see any guards,” Erlissa said.

  “They’re there somewhere,” he answered. “We’ve been lucky so far.”

  The crowd started to move even more quickly. The arches were close now, and people were streaming through them. They started to run again.

  In moments, they stood beneath the shadow of one of the great archways themselves, near to the stele that commemorated the building of the Haranast.

  “Where to?” Erlissa asked.

  Lanrik looked down the Hainer Lon to the right. A troop of guards was coming up that way against the rush of the crowd. He looked to the left, and saw the same. The Royal Guard were converging here to see what had caused the disturbance. He felt trapped yet again, for though there were many people here, the chances of slipping through unnoticed, with so many watchful eyes about, was slim.

  He glanced at Erlissa. “We might have to run for it. Either way, it’ll probably turn into a fight.” He squeezed her hand. “Be careful.”

  A moment she looked at him, as though undecided about something, and then her face set hard with determination.

  “There’s another way,” she said.

  He watched silently as she took off her wig, cast it aside, and removed the outer layer of her clothes. They were raggedy and filled with some kind of stuffing that made her look bigger. Underneath, what she wore amazed him.

  It was as though the Witch-queen herself stood before him. Erlissa, tall and athletic, always of a likeness to Ebona in build, now wore the same white dress, cinched by a red belt. Her hair, dyed blonde by Aranloth before they entered the city, completed the effect.

  She now looked so similar to their enemy that his heart fluttered in his chest. The disguise was uncannily accurate, and it scared him. It might also scare other
s, which was a two-sided situation. She might fool the guards, but at the same time it was a way to get killed, for the crowd, who surely hated their newest ruler, might turn on her.

  But she showed no hesitation.

  “Take this,” she ordered, handing him her staff. “Stay behind me.”

  He did not argue. It was as though she had adopted not only the likeness of the Witch-queen, but her commanding presence also. She strode ahead, straight toward the group of guards coming from the right.

  When they were close, she raised a long arm and pointed at them.

  “Fools!” she said. Her eyes flashed, and her voice dripped venom. She lowered her hand, but as she did so red drops of flame dribbled from the fingertips. She shuddered, as though battling some inner desire to wreak havoc and unleash her temper upon the world.

  The crowd screamed and ran. But the guards, held by duty, faced her, though their expressions showed fear. Lanrik did not blame them.

  “Fools!” she repeated. “This is a diversion. Our enemies seek to free the prisoners at the palace.”

  One of the men stepped forward. He did not look at her, but kept his gaze to the ground as he spoke.

  “But aren’t all the prisoners dead?” he queried.

  Erlissa tilted her head, and her blonde hair swung in front of her eyes. She ran her hand through it, placing it behind her ear, and stared at the man until he eventually looked up.

  “Do you know all my secrets?” she asked in a soft voice.

  “The man dropped his head again, and his shoulders trembled. “No, My Lady.”

  “No. You do not. There are yet prisoners alive. The most important of them all. And while you tremble before me like a cowering dog, they might even now be escaping.”

  Erlissa paused. Sparks kindled in her eyes, and a dark shadow fell from her tall figure. She lifted her arm again. Red fire flared to life on her palm, like a ball of light that writhed and twisted, straining to break away into a stream that would burn all in its path.

  “Hasten!” she commanded. “Go to the palace. There are Raithlin there. Kill them. Kill them all – or die yourselves!”