Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3)

by Robert Ryan

“Now, you can walk away from here, disappear into the city and wait and prepare for the help that is coming. Or stand against me, the last Raithlin, about to rescue the last Lindrath, at the tomb of Conhain. For truthfully, he does lie here. Will you give your alliance to the Witch-queen, or to Conhain’s memory?”

  The stars twinkled above. A cold breeze blew. The captain stirred and groaned on the stone floor. The soldiers looked at each other, and then turned to Lanrik.

  16. Not Death, or the Oblivion of the Ages…

  Lanrik waited. Erlissa stood next to him. At their back was the entrance to a tomb. Before them were the men who would decide what happened next.

  And those men looked uneasy. He was asking much of them, for their lives were at risk. Then again, they were a randomly chosen group of solders. The captain would not even know their names.

  “I choose Conhain,” said one of the men.

  There were murmurs of agreement. Another man spoke loudly.

  “A pox on the Witch-queen’s face!”

  A ripple of laughter flowed through the group. Lanrik let out a long breath. He knew these type of men. He knew soldiers. They might be rough at times, but their hearts were in the right place. And every child growing up in Esgallien played at being Conhain. He was revered. Still, it was a gamble such as he had never taken before.

  “The Lindrath needs me,” Lanrik said. “And Esgallien needs you. We must part here, but I won’t forget what you’ve done. Not ever.”

  “And we won’t forget the Raithlin,” said one of the men. “They helped many in the city, and the Witch-queen made them suffer for it.” He paused. “I have a feeling you’re going to make her pay for that.”

  “Her time is coming,” Lanrik answered.

  He bent down to the captain and took his sword. For a moment he looked at the men, and they looked at him. There was a strange feeling between them. A sense of camaraderie among strangers.

  He removed his empty sheath and buckled on the new blade, and then took Erlissa’s hand. They turned to the opening of the tomb.

  A set of stairs ran down at a steep angle into darkness. They followed them, taking each step carefully, and a sense of awe thickened the air. Conhain was near, and though even his bones might now be dust, he was still Conhain: the man who had given his life for his people; the king who forged victory from despair.

  Erlissa slowed. A faint light sprang from the end of her staff.

  “You judged the soldiers well,” she said. “In truth, I thought they would be too scared to let us go.”

  “They were scared,” Lanrik answered. “But you and I have both been there before. It doesn’t mean not doing the right thing.”

  “But if they didn’t?”

  He shrugged. “Then like we discussed earlier, we would have been forced into hiding with the Lindrath, or into fighting our way free.”

  “But you never thought, not for a second, that we would actually have to do that?”

  “I know these kind of men. I’m one of them. They have no will to serve the Witch-queen, and perhaps even less to answer to some captain, promoted above his ability because he will serve her. That would not go down well with them. And to see him humbled, a man of arrogance and borrowed power, and to be reminded of Conhain at the same time, the pinnacle of humility and sacrifice – well, I don’t think I left them much choice.”

  Erlissa raised her eyebrows, but did not answer.

  “So you didn’t believe the plan would work?”

  She grinned at him. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then why did you go along with it?”

  “Because you believed in it. That was enough for me.”

  She took the lead and walked ahead, the faint light of her staff wavering in the darkness.

  Lanrik followed her, amazed at what she had just said.

  The stairs ceased. They had reached a near-bare chamber. The walls bore carvings, strange shapes that moved and writhed in the wavering light. Lanrik felt a sense of dread. This was altogether too much like the tombs of the Letharn. But there were no harakgar here to guard it. And yet, Erlissa had said that something guarded it. He felt it, too. A force that probed his mind, tested his innermost thoughts. It reminded him of the ùhrengai at the fountain in Lòrenta.

  She paused, and the light of her staff stilled, glowing faint but steady.

  “I can sense Aranloth’s touch all around us. His power is so refined, so skilled, that even after all these years it sings his name.” She hesitated. “But there are other forces too. Some that I don’t understand.”

  She moved to the nearest wall and studied a carving. It was Conhain again, but this time not as a youth. He held high the Red Cloth of Victory. Erlissa peered at the writing above him. It was in a strange and archaic script, but they both knew what it said. She whispered the words.

  Nothing lasts forever. Not men, or chiefs … nor even cities.

  “Fitting words for a tomb,” he said. “But why is the room empty?”

  Erlissa frowned. “I think this is a decoy. Great forces protect the tomb, and yet Aranloth seldom takes chances. An intruder, reaching this far, might conclude that someone had already looted the place. They might not look for a second chamber, but there is one.”

  They searched around, studying the carvings and floor for any hint of a hidden door. Erlissa stopped for a long time in one place, and Lanrik went over to join her.

  “More script,” she said. “This time in Halathrin.”

  He peered at it, but his understanding of the immortal’s tongue was not as good as hers, and she read it out.

  Eleth nar duril.

  She did not translate it. She did not need to. They both remembered the phrase from when Aranloth last spoke it near Lake Alithorin, when they found the ancient Halathrin slain by Shurilgar’s sorcery. It was a phrase from their funerary rites.

  “Lie in peace,” he murmured.

  “Fitting once again, for a tomb,” Erlissa said. “But why is it written in Halathrin and not our own speech?”

  “I suppose,” Lanrik answered, “that it makes sense. Conhain was a great friend of the Halathrin.”

  He thought about it further. “The image below the writing fits in as well, almost as though it’s emphasizing the point.”

  Erlissa traced the carving, an image of Conhain reclining as though asleep, with her fingertips.

  “Yes, it fits in too well, but you wouldn’t see the connection unless you could read Halathrin script.”

  She traced the outline again, but this time faint blue light flickered beneath her fingertips. When she finished, a sudden white light sprang from the carving in response, and a silvery image of Conhain hung in the very air.

  Erlissa spoke again, her voice clear and loud.

  Eleth nar duril.

  The stone of the chamber about them thrummed. A great slab shuddered to their right. It pulsed with light, and then by some force of lòhrengai it twisted at an angle and slid back, leaving an opening.

  “A tomb within a tomb,” Erlissa said.

  She moved to go forward, but Lanrik rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “The Lindrath should be somewhere in there. I’ll go first.”

  He moved ahead, standing for a while near the opening until his eyes adjusted. It was deep and dark inside the next room. Erlissa’s light did not go far inside.

  Lanrik drew the sword that he had taken from the captain. He did not like it. The balance was wrong, and the hilt felt awkward in his hand.

  “Lindrath!” he called. “It’s Lanrik. I’m coming in.”

  A voice answered from the dark. “Come slowly. And if you’re pretending to be Lanrik, don’t come at all – not unless you want a sword buried in your belly.”

  Lanrik laughed. He knew the Lindrath’s voice, even if it sounded hollow and weary. Hope surged in him. But now was not a time for unnecessary risk. He stepped ahead slowly, the sword blade lowered, but not sheathed.

  He moved cautiously, being sure that each p
ace made a noise so that the Lindrath would know that he was not trying to sneak in.

  When he stepped through the doorway the light from Erlissa’s staff flared brighter, and the whole room came into view. It was smaller than the previous one, but it was not empty.

  All manner of things lay heaped on the floor or stood against the walls. He cast his gaze around in wonder. Coins and jewels glittered in the light. The dulled and dust-covered blades of swords and spear-points still showed keen edges. Some were no doubt precious heirlooms, things of ceremony and pomp. But others, broken, shattered or bloody, had once been held by hands in battle. There also he saw carnyx horns, the man-high instruments of bronze that winded an unearthly moan. They had lain silent through the long centuries.

  He knew that he looked upon the remnants of that first of battles. It was as though time had taken him back to the founding of Esgallien. He knew Conhain’s name, but what heroes had held these things, fought and died alongside their king, that the memory of a nation had forgotten?

  These swords, these shields, these spears – rusted, pitted things of tarnished steel and worm-eaten wood, were in their own way a memorial. His heart raced, and he gave thanks to the unknown warriors. Conhain had not saved his people single-handedly.

  He looked to the walls. Carvings decorated them. He saw scenes of battle. He saw Ebona. He saw too, in a far corner, many Raithlin. Their cloaks and hoods were unmistakable. So also their short swords, the trotting fox emblem etched into the blades. But something below them drew his eye. There lay the long decayed skeletons of four massive dogs.

  Lanrik shuddered. These were the very hounds that had killed Conhain. He looked upon matters of legend, things of a past so ancient that it would be old even to Aranloth. And it was fitting that the bones lay beneath the Raithlin. For it was the Raithlin who had hunted the dogs and killed them after Conhain’s death.

  He gazed around, trying to ignore the wonder of it all. Two things he did not see, and that worried him. One was the Lindrath. The second was Conhain, or at least his sarcophagus.

  He stopped and raised his sword. At that moment he heard a noise, and a figure sprang from the floor near his feet. Where before he had seen only dust and rags, now the Lindrath rose, his Raithlin cloak swirling, his Raithlin sword weaving in the air.

  The two men looked at each other. A moment they stood frozen in place, a moment they appeared ready to strike, neither trusting in the possibility of the other. And then slowly, the Lindrath lowered the point of his blade.

  “Is it really you?”

  Lanrik sheathed his sword.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  The Lindrath dropped his weapon. It clattered loudly on the stone. He stepped forward and hugged Lanrik, and Lanrik hugged him back.

  For a while they did not move, but eventually the Lindrath stood away.

  “I didn’t think to ever see a living soul again. It’s been too long.”

  Lanrik looked at him. “Why didn’t you try to escape? You might have done it, at night.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I thought about it. I even scouted the park a few times in the beginning. I could’ve slipped through, all right. But why should I? I was safe here. I had food. And when I saw the effort they were making to ensure that I didn’t, I thought that I had no better way of vexing Ebona. There must be thousands of soldiers out there. But I suppose, when I ran out of food, I would’ve tried it.”

  “Do you know that the city thinks you’re dead? Ebona had a body hung from the palace gate and claimed it was you.”

  The Lindrath looked subdued. “Another murder at the Witch-queen’s hands. I tell you, hundreds, maybe even thousands, have died. And her power grows with each death. It’s as it was in the old stories. She must be stopped.”

  Erlissa stepped forward. “We will stop her.”

  The Lindrath eyed her. “You’ve come a long way since last we met,” he said. “A very long way indeed.”

  He turned back to Lanrik. “And so have you. I hear tell of a new order of Raithlin. I’m glad to see the old skills being taught. There are few left now who know them. Only me in Esgallien, and a few survivors fled to Galenthern.”

  “Help is at hand,” Lanrik said. “Aranloth is on the move, and the lòhrens with him. He won’t allow Ebona to hold sway for long, and nether will we.”

  They would have said more, but at that moment a deep noise boomed. It sounded like an iron-shod staff striking the stone floor of the tomb. Thrice it echoed all about them, and they looked around confused.

  “Where did that come from?” Lanrik asked.

  “I don’t know,” the Lindrath answered.

  Erlissa straightened. Her face was pale, and she gripped her staff tightly.

  “I do,” There was a strange light in her eyes, part amazement, part fear. She raised the staff and pointed with it to the wall opposite the entrance.

  “It came from in there.”

  The Lindrath went white. “It cannot be.”

  “It was,” she said. “I heard it. And we both know there is yet a third room.”

  Lanrik glanced from one to the other. “What third room?”

  The Lindrath, his face drawn and haggard from his ordeal, spoke in a low voice.

  “This is a tomb, Lanrik. But no body rests here.” He waved an arm around. “These were some of Conhain’s possessions, and those of his friends. But there is, as Erlissa says, a third room. Each Raithlindrath learns that from their predecessor. Each time the leadership changes, there’s a secret ceremony here, in this very place, in front of the door to that other room. But none has ever open it.” He looked at Erlissa. “That’s a secret kept among the Lindraths for a thousand years. No one else knew it.”

  Erlissa returned his gaze. “No one else knew it, save the lòhrens. For it was Aranloth who gave the first Lindrath the permission and knowledge to enter here.”

  Thrice more the boom sounded. A hollow noise from the tomb of the dead. When it stilled, the quiet was so deep that it felt like a weight upon them.

  “Whatever causes it, we must discover,” Erlissa said. She walked over to the far wall.

  The others followed her. “You would dare to open it?” the Lindrath asked.

  “Yes. For the noise means something. We must find out what.”

  “I don’t like it,” Lanrik said. “It’s not our place to go in there.”

  “And yet we must,” Erlissa said. “I feel it in my bones.”

  Lanrik did not argue with her. She sounded more like Aranloth every day, but he trusted her instincts.

  “Then we have to hurry,” he said. “We don’t know what’s happening outside, and we still have to escape. If the captain has woken, he might already be on his way to summon help.”

  “Or not,” Erlissa said. “For to admit that we deceived him is likely to assure his death. And he knows it. But it will not take long to open the door. Though what will happen after that … I cannot say.”

  After a moment, she raised her staff and struck the wall with its tip. The sound echoed dully through the chamber. Thrice she struck, copying the noise that had drawn their attention. At the third stroke, a tongue of blue lòhrengai flickered from the walnut staff.

  The lòhren-fire fared to life, and whatever enchantment hid the entry was revealed by its light, for now a blue flame, entwined with white, showed the edges of a door. A moment the lights flared, hurting their eyes in the dark, and then they sputtered out.

  A door stood there, but not of stone. It was of ancient oak. On its other side rested the king, and whatever made the noise.

  Erlissa hesitated only a moment, and then she opened it.

  They looked into the third room: the tomb of Conhain that no man had seen in a thousand years. Lanrik’s hair prickled.

  There was no one there. No trapped Raithlin in hiding. No one off the street seeking refuge. No wild animal that had found a way in. No possible cause for the noise that they had heard.

  But there were other thin
gs.

  His gaze swept the room. There was little dust, merely a fine layer that filmed the surface of everything equally. The room was small. The skeleton of a massive horse lay on one side. On the other were books. Their pages seemed intact, and no doubt they were written in the Halathrin tongue, for Conhain was a scholar of that people.

  On the back wall, fixed into the stone, protruded a spear. It was long. Its ash-wood shaft was polished by hands that had not held it, that had not lived, since Esgallien was a camp of vagabond wanderers. A shiver ran up his spine. Attached to the spear, hanging down in the still air, was the one symbol that every single person in Esgallien would recognize: the Red Cloth of Victory. Only this was not a symbol. It was the thing itself.

  The cloth, once white, was steeped in the life-blood of Conhain. The stained and ragged material, somehow preserved in the dry air of the tomb, had been used to staunch the king’s wounds and keep him alive a little longer. That same cloth, he later removed and swung down to signal the charge that defeated Esgallien’s enemies. Lanrik felt tears blur his sight. Conhain had given so much for his people, sacrificed his happiness, even his life, for their benefit.

  But even the cloth was insignificant compared to the one other thing in the room. A stone bier, four feet high and of polished marble, dominated its center. And there, laid out like the king he was, rested Conhain. He was a tall man, neither young nor old, for by the art of Aranloth, that lore of the Letharn which he had mastered, the form of the dead man was preserved. And the king’s face, serene and kindly, was untouched by death or time.

  The room was burdened by a weight of history. The very air, filled with fragrances that he well remembered from those other faraway tombs, those spices and resins and oils that preserved and freshened, smelled sweet.

  He gazed at the king, and reverence overcame him. He knelt and bowed his head. Partly in near-worship of a legend, partly in awe of a man. He was not surprised to sense the Lindrath to his left, and Erlissa to his right, do the same.

  He did not know why. Perhaps fate put the words in his mouth. Perhaps chance only. Perhaps forces ran through him that no man understood or named. But he voiced the Raithlin creed.