Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3) (14 page)

Dew wetted the grass, and they left a
trail on the lawn that a drunk tracker, wearing a blindfold, could follow. He
did not mind. Tonight was not a night for hiding. That was no more his plan
than fighting.

They moved toward the center of the park
without speaking. Conhain’s tomb was in the monument constructed there. It did
not look like a tomb. Nor did it even look like there was any sort of entry to
the inside of it. Rather, it looked to be just what everybody thought it was: a
monument to the founding of Esgallien. Yet, evidently, it was more than it
seemed.

The stars shone palely from above, their
brightness diffused by the lights of the city. All was quiet. Nothing stirred.
Even here, there was a sense of brooding. He felt prickles on the back of his
neck as he sometimes did in the wilderness when there was no one else for
hundreds of miles, and yet he had the sense of being watched. He dismissed it.
Now was not a time for nerves.

They did not go near the wells that he had
used to escape the charred-man, but they passed by the area. They went deeper
into the park, where there were several patches of forest, though they did not
enter them. Moving between different groves, they came to a gentle slope. They
could not see their destination yet, the dark was too deep and the starlight
too pale, but at the slope’s crest was the monument.

They were now far enough away from the
rest of the city that there barely seemed any noise. They were alone here – he
and Erlissa, the one Royal Guard and the twenty soldiers. He looked back at the
captain, and saw his unease. And uneasy he should be. He had not quite counted
on this. Twenty men had seemed excessive at the Hainer Lon. Not so much now. If
it had been possible, he would have brought his own kind, twenty Royal Guards.
That made Lanrik grin. The Royal Guards were busy searching the city for
him
,
and consequently spread very thinly through the lines around the park. It was
upon that fact that his plan hinged.

The captain stared back hard at him, and
he looked away. He was not ready to set things in motion yet. Let the captain
grow more nervous, and let the soldiers see what lay ahead.

“There it is,” Erlissa said.

She was right. The monument had come into
view. He had seen it many times, but it looked different now. He realized what
else it looked like, and it was another confirmation of the information that
Erlissa had given him. It was a structure dominated by triangles, that strange
architecture favored by the Letharn. He had seen it in their tombs and the
building that gave entry to them. Only Aranloth would know, or favor, that
style; so it
was
constructed under his direction. That was the final
proof, and he had no doubt that inside the first and greatest king of Esgallien
lay buried.

They approached the monument. Just before
it was a stone-lined pond, filled with water. A man-high statue rose from its
center. It was Conhain, though it was a younger version than what was often
seen. Here, he wore no sword and rode no warhorse, but he looked about him, a
long-dead sense of wonder on his boyish face. Something about it reminded
Lanrik of Aranloth’s statue in Lòrenta.

Unlike the building that the lòhren had
used to enter the tombs of the Letharn, this one was not enclosed by walls.
Instead, tall pillars held up the massive roof, and the stone floor beneath was
open to wind and light, but not rain.

They were close enough now to see the
carvings, for the triangular gables and the tall pillars were decorated with
images of the great battle that marked the founding of the city. Conhain was
there, and his warhorse. And the Red Cloth of Victory. So too Ebona, and her
dogs, and the elug army that the first Esgalliens had fought. And there were
Raithlin too.

Lanrik’s steps echoed hollowly on the
stone floor when he crossed it. The soldiers seemed curious, looking about them
at the carved pillars and colored mosaics beneath their feet. Their wide eyes
took in a scene that they must have observed many times before, but they viewed
things now in the new light that the king, the great king at the heart of
everything Esgallien stood for, was buried here.

The captain appeared less impressed. “Are
you sure this is the place?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I see no tomb here. I see no doors or
entryways to anything.”

Erlissa answered him. “It wouldn’t have
stayed undiscovered if it showed those things openly. But there
is
a
door.”

She walked to the very center of the
floor. Here was a monument within a monument. A square structure stood there,
built of stone and intricately carved. It rose ten feet high, and was ten feet
wide and long. Yet its top was angled to a point on each side, a top that
formed four triangles.

Lanrik smiled. Once again, this was
confirmation that they were in the right place. It would have looked right at
home anywhere among the old constructions of the Letharn.

Erlissa examined the square structure. The
captain, in turn, studied Erlissa. Lanrik knew the time had come to distract
him.

“So,” he said. “Has Ebona been good to
you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you been promoted under her?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Well, I suppose that’s a yes. You don’t
really seem old enough for your rank, though. Or experienced enough, for that
matter. But you do seem – how shall I put it,
vile
enough.”

Some of the soldiers sniggered, and the
captain was about to reply, but at just that moment light flashed behind them
and a deep tremor thrummed in the stone beneath them.

They all turned to look at Erlissa. She
had opened a door into the square block, and inside, a stairwell led down into
the dark.

“Hold on!” the captain said to Lanrik.
“What’s she doing? I thought
you
were the one who knew how to open it?”

Lanrik smiled. “Things are sometimes not
as they seem, Captain. For instance, I’m unarmed and at your mercy. But I can
still—”

Without warning Lanrik struck. It was a
blow so unexpected, so swift and forceful, that his fist against the man’s
skull sounded like a whip crack in the park.

The captain, taken by surprise, toppled to
the ground. Lanrik had thought it would have taken several punches, but he had
the feeling that the captain had never been struck before. He lay on the floor,
still and unconscious. When he woke, he would have a headache and a throbbing
chin.

Lanrik stepped back a few paces to where
Erlissa stood at the entrance of the tomb. The soldiers seemed in shock, not
having ever expected this. Some, however, had drawn their swords.

Now was the great gamble, and the crux of
Lanrik’s plan. He looked at them.

“Well, men. I’m a Raithlin. Did you really
think that I would serve the Witch-queen?”

The soldiers did not answer, but he saw on
some faces signs of relief, and that encouraged him. The Raithlin were held in
high honor, and he had not disappointed them.

“The Witch-queen rules for now,” he said.
“But other forces are at work. The lòhrens have not abandoned Esgallien to her.
Nor the Raithlin. In time, she will be overthrown.”

“It doesn’t seem likely,” said one of the
men.

“Doesn’t it? Then why is she scared?” Lanrik
asked. “Why else would she have so many guard against the escape of the
Lindrath?”

He paused. He did not wish to start a
debate with them. Instead, he must speak from the heart, and tell them truths.

“The moment of choice for all Esgallien is
soon to come,” he continued. “The moment where we must take sides. We must
fight for our home. Or we must fight for the Witch-queen. For you, that moment
of choice is now.”

He looked around at them. Doubt and
confusion filled their faces. And the fear that Ebona had instilled in them.

“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. 

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
pace 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.