Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3) (16 page)

“We must go,” Erlissa whispered. “Time
runs swiftly. The Witch-queen will have felt the power that seethes here. She
will hasten to investigate, and we must be gone.”

Lanrik looked at the king. Tears rolled
down his cheeks. He did not move.

Lanrik felt Erlissa tug at his arm, but it
was only when the Lindrath pushed him that he began to move.

He stumbled into the antechamber, and then
a few moments later into the next room. He did not see how Erlissa closed the
doors behind them, but he heard them come too and saw a flash of light each
time.

They reached the stairs that ascended into
the park.

“Was it a dream?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Erlissa answered. “But
dream or no, the sword is real.”

Lanrik put a hand to its hilt. It felt
reassuring to his touch.

“We can sort all that out later,” the
Lindrath said. “For now, keep behind me, and walk quietly.”

The Lindrath moved up the stairs. Erlissa
followed, and Lanrik trailed behind. They did not know who, if anyone, might be
up in the park, and that helped clear his mind. It was time to be a Raithlin
again.

They made no noise, and when they reached
the entrance, the Lindrath paused. From deep in the shadows he watched and
waited. Evidently, he neither saw nor sensed anything out of place, for after a
while he stepped forward onto the stone floor of the monument.

It was dark. The lights of the city
glimmered in the distance. Of the captain and soldiers, there was no sign. What
the man would do, Lanrik could not guess. As a captain in the Royal Guard, he
answered to Ebona, and yet no man would want to tell her of such a failure. He
might try to disappear into the city, just as the soldiers.

The park lay below them, fields and groves
of shadow where enemies might lurk, but he saw nothing that worried him.

Erlissa sealed the tomb, triggering the
lòhrengai that moved and concealed the door. After a momentary flash of light,
and a deep thrumming in the stone beneath their feet, they walked to the edge
of the monument. The verge of the grassed slope, and the statue in the
stone-lined pond, were just ahead.

“Where to?” the Lindrath asked.

“The tor,” Lanrik replied. “That’s where
we’re meeting Aranloth, and where we’ll figure out how to overthrow the
Witch-queen.”

The Lindrath hesitated. “I had not thought
to leave the city … but if you want me, I’ll come as well.”

“Oh, we want you,” Erlissa said. “You know
more of Esgallien and how things stand in it than we could have discovered in
months. With you, our quest is more than successful.”

Lanrik nodded. “But getting to the tor
might not be easy. I had hoped to escape the park and the ring of sentries
without a fight, but if you think the Witch-queen is coming, we’ll have no time
for subterfuge.”

“She’s coming,” Erlissa said with
certainty.

“Then we’d better go straight to the
Hainer Lon, near where we entered, for that’s the quickest route out of the
city.”

It was silent as they stepped onto the
grass, but the quiet did not last. Even as they began to move, out from a grove
of trees rode several men.

“Royal Guards!” the Lindrath said.

But that was not all. Something shambled beside
the riders. It flickered with fire amid the dark, and the grass withered and
smoked beneath its steps. The charred-man had come also.

“Behind me!” shouted Erlissa.

Both Lanrik and the Lindrath ignored her.
They might not command magic to fight the charred-man, but they would not allow
Erlissa to take the full brunt of its assault. They spread out to either side,
swords drawn.

Lanrik felt the thrill of battle course
through his body, and Conhain’s blade was bright in the shadowy air.

The riders hung back. There were five of
them, and Lanrik though one of them was Brinhain. It would be no surprise. But
he focused his attention on the charred-man.

The creature twitched and shuddered. It
seemed feverish, as though unable to contain some great emotion. Perhaps it
knew that its moment had come, that it could now fulfil the purpose Ebona had
burdened it with. For surely its prey could not flee. Not on foot, with riders
who could surround them in the open park, and herd them back toward it.

The charred-man headed for Erlissa. She
stood her ground, unmoving despite the threat, seemingly content to wait and
allow it to attack.

It lurched forward. Smoke curled up from
the shriveled grass. An acrid scent burned in the air. The thing slowed, came
to a standstill, and observed her. What thoughts crossed its mind, Lanrik did
not know. For what it waited, he could not guess. But it did not pause long.
One moment it stood still, and then the next it shuddered. Flame seethed around
it, and it punched forward with a blistered fist.

A bolt of yellow-red flame sizzled through
the air. It streaked to Erlissa. At the last moment, she raised her staff and
blue light formed a shield before her. The bolt struck it. Fire writhed and
twisted over the blue surface, and then fell down to the ground like water from
the side of a building.

Erlissa made no further move. What her
strategy was, Lanrik could not tell. But he was done waiting. Both he and the
Lindrath, whether by the same instincts or similar training, moved toward it.
They each drew knives and flung them as they approached.

The blades struck the creature. It
staggered back a pace, and then straightened. With some care, it plucked the
knives from its flesh; one from its throat, the other its belly. It held them
before it. Its hands burned with fire, and steel began to smolder. The knives
glowed red, and then turned white-hot.

The charred-man flung the first blade back
at the Lindrath. White fire streaked through the air. The Lindrath dived and
rolled, the blade hurtling into the ground near him and sparking into a
thousand fragments.

The creature turned on him, and Lanrik
waited until it flung his own knife back, and then he dived. It was a close
thing. He felt fiery heat as it passed through the air near him, and then he
was running at his attacker, Conhain’s sword in his hand. From the corner of
his eye he saw that the Lindrath did the same.

They never reached it. From behind the
charred-man water tossed to and fro in the pond that held Conhain’s statue. It
coursed upward, infused with the blue light of Erlissa’s lòhrengai. But though
her power twisted through it, it was not lòhren-fire. The water swirled, became
a spray, and then turned into roiling flurries of snow.

A blue-white cloud rolled over the
charred-man. The creature lurched toward Erlissa. It shuddered, just as it had
before. Fire curled outward from its body, but it did not escape the swirling
blanket of snow. The flames stuttered out.

The charred-man fell to its knees. It
opened its mouth to scream. No sound came, but the blue-white snow drove into
its gaping maw. It convulsed. Steam rose from it, fogging the charged air.

For a moment, the gruesome sight remained
unchanged. And then the snow was gone. The creature convulsed, let out a moan
of great pain, the first noise that Lanrik had heard it utter, and then fire
shot up harmlessly into the night sky and a putrid stench filled the air. The
charred-man died and became what it always had been: the ruined body of a man,
blackened and blistered.

Lanrik did not hesitate. He ran straight
for Brinhain. The captain appeared shocked, but then kicked his horse into a
gallop and charged. 

The horse gathered speed, and Lanrik dived
and rolled. Deadly hooves flew near him. Dirt and grass sprayed in his face. He
twisted clear and came to his feet, just in time to see the Lindrath, older man
though he was, leap across the horse’s withers and tackle Brinhain.

They both fell heavily to the ground. The
other guards galloped toward them, but a spray of lòhren-fire from Erlissa’s staff
sent them scrambling back.

The Lindrath rose, sword in hand. Brinhain
did the same. But blade never touched blade.

“Wait!” cried Lanrik. “Stand back!”

The two men looked at him, and he
approached. He turned to the captain.

“Enough is enough. The witch-queen is
evil, and she has only brought bloodshed to Esgallien. Will you not reconsider?
Why fight for her?”

Brinhain did not hesitate. “Because she is
power. Pure power. And because she’ll defeat you.”

“No, she won’t. Her power was broken once
before. You know the legends. We’ll break it again.”

“I’ve picked my side. I’ve picked the side
that’ll win. I’m pledged to her, and she rewards me. Surrender now, and perhaps
she’ll show you mercy.”

“You won’t reject her?”

“No. Never. At least,” said Brinhain with
a cold smile, “not so long as she’s winning.”

“Then you’re a fool.” He turned to the
Lindrath. “This is personal. He struck Erlissa at the Bridge Inn. If there has
to be a fight, it’ll be me and him.”

“So be it,” said Brinhain. “I know your
reputation, but I think it’s overrated. I saw the way you backed down after I
hit her.”

Lanrik did not answer. Prudence had
governed his actions at the inn, not fear.

He stepped forward. Conhain’s sword
glittered in the air. Brinhain wove his own blade in easy loops before him.

Lanrik knew he must win this battle
quickly. There were soldiers all around the park. The Witch-queen was coming,
and already they had been delayed too long. And yet he did not know how good
Brinhain was. He was not one of the newly recruited Royal Guards, that much was
clear. And a quick glance at his men showed that they were not worried. They
appeared in good spirits, and seemed assured of the outcome. Perhaps they had
never seen their captain defeated. If so, there was a first time for everything.

Lanrik lunged forward. He struck with
speed and power, but it was only a feint. No sooner did he appear to commit to
the blow, than he stepped to the side and away.

Brinhain’s blade did not waver, and the
man barely moved. It was a sign of skill. Of great skill, for he had either
read Lanrik’s intention, or discerned it during the lunge. Either way, he was
good.

A moment later, Brinhain attacked. He
drove forward, steel flying through the air in a blistering series of lightning
strokes. His men cheered. Erlissa gasped, and the Lindrath remained silent.

Lanrik retreated. He moved back, but never
in a straight or predictable line. Conhain’s sword moved easily in his hand,
parrying and deflecting. The attack could not continue long, for no one could
move with such speed and power without exhausting themselves quickly.

After a few moments Brinhain ceased.

Lanrik looked at him calmly. “Is that all
you’ve got?”

Brinhain went red. Rage contorted his
face. He struck again, driving forward in uncontrolled anger.

Once more, Lanrik retreated. He made no
move that he did not have to, rather, he preserved his strength and breathed
deep of the nighttime air.

After a little while, he noticed that
Brinhain’s own breathing was ragged. He gulped in air, and his sword strokes
slowed. At that point. Lanrik launched his own series of attacks.

Conhain’s sword sang through the air. The
ring of steel on steel peeled out into the park like jumbled bells, and his
blade flashed as he drove forward.

Now, Brinhain retreated. He showed no limp
from the gout that he suffered, for either the condition had improved or fear
made him forget pain. He stepped back, but then tried to turn defense into
attack by deflecting and lunging forward.

The point of his sword flicked across
Lanrik’s chest, but there was no force in the blow. The stroke was at the limit
of Brinhain’s reach, and his momentum was not fully committed. Lanrik, on the
other hand, drove forward. With a smooth stroke he broke through the other’s
defenses. His blade hurtled at Brinhain’s neck. One moment it cut through the
air, and the next he tilted his wrist so that the flat of it cracked into bone.

Brinhain reeled. He dropped his sword, and
then he collapsed to the ground and lay still. He was not dead, though death he
had deserved.

A moment Lanrik stood above his fallen
enemy, wondering if he was wrong to spare him, but a moment only. The thunder
of hooves over turf made him spin and face the other guards in a fighting
crouch.

He need not have. Before they reached him,
Erlissa flung up a wall of flame ahead of the horses, and the animals reared in
sudden fright.

Three of the riders fell. Lanrik leaped
over the flame and pulled the fourth from his saddled, throwing him to the
ground.

“Run!” he yelled at the guards. “Or wither
in flame!”

Erlissa could never make good on such a
threat, but the men did not hesitate. They scrambled to their feet and dashed
away. Only one lingered, looking as though he might fight, but as his comrades
raced off, that thought left his mind.

The flame died. Lanrik quietened a horse,
and took its bridle. The Lindrath was there also, his calm presence quieting
another horse, and then Erlissa gathered in the reins of Brinhain’s.