Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3) (6 page)

Lanrik held Erlissa’s hand. The crowd was
wild and pressing in all around them. They could not afford to become separated
from each other.

He worked his way as best he could among
the bumping and jostling people toward Bragga Mor. It might be their only
chance to ever speak with him.

The panic of the crowd had not lessened.
Several times people fell and screamed. And yet, things had not quite tipped
into madness. He saw no one trampled, but many helping hands reach out to
assist the fallen to their feet. Yet in the push and shove of things he made
little headway, and Bragga Mor’s many-colored cloak disappeared from view near
the exit.

They soon passed between the granite
columns themselves. There were people everywhere, but at least there was
increasingly room to move. Many people ran, though most just hastened away with
a look of shock on their faces and their heads bowed.

“There!” Erlissa said again. She had seen
Bragga Mor once more. They ran themselves. It did not look suspicious now in
the panic all around them, and they caught up swiftly to the bard, for he did
not run. He strode ahead, as though he had a definite destination in mind, and
not as though he was fearful.

Lanrik studied him for a moment. It was
rumored that the man was a great swordsman, though he carried no blade now. At
least, none that was visible. Yet a short sword might well be concealed beneath
the cloak.

After a moment, Lanrik levelled with him.

“Bragga Mor. I need to speak with you.”

The bard glanced at him, but did not slow
his stride.

“Get home, boy. Get home while you can,
and stay there.”

Lanrik held his gaze. “I am home.
This
,”
he swung his arm in a wide arc, “is my home. And I would protect it.”

That got the bard’s attention. He stopped
still and looked hard at him for a moment. His glance flickered to Erlissa, and
he gave her a slight bow, before looking back at Lanrik.

“Listen, boy. The streets aren’t safe
today. They may never be safe again. Get home, and take your lady friend with
you. For the last few months Esgallien has been full of heroes like you. Most
of them are now lying dead in dark pits. Don’t become one of them.”

Bragga Mor gave them both a stern look and
strode ahead again.

Lanrik hesitated. This was not going as he
would like, and he had to make a fast decision if he was to retrieve the
situation. There was risk to what he must now do, and yet it had to be done. He
thought he was a good judge of character, but if he was wrong, he might just as
well knock on the Witch-queen’s own door and hand himself in.

“I’m a friend of the Lindrath,” he said
quietly.

Bragga Mor stopped as though his legs had
turned to stone. For a moment, he did not turn around. He stood there, looking
like one of the statues in Conhain Court, while he made decisions of his own.

Lanrik waited, and said no more.

After a moment, the bard turned. “Listen,
boy. I don’t have time for this. And you should know better, young though you
are. What you just said could get us both killed. And for what? Anybody could
say that he was a friend to the Lindrath.”

What the bard said was true. Bragga Mor
stared at him. His freckled face was still red. His gingery beard bristled, and
his curly hair looked like fire. He was an angry man, and in a moment he would
turn and walk away.

“I’m not a boy,” Lanrik said. “And though
anyone could claim to be a friend of the Lindrath, not everybody carries a
token to prove it.”

Bragga Mor’s eyes fixed on him like an
eagle watching its prey. But Lanrik waited. He glanced to the side while a
group of people hurried past them.

When there was no one near enough to see,
he placed a hand on the hilt of his sword and drew the blade a few inches from
its sheath.

Bragga Mor watched him. For a moment his
face was blank, and then Lanrik saw recognition in his eyes as he noticed the
trotting fox motif etched into the blade. The bard’s eyes widened.

Lanrik slammed back the blade. “I’m not a
boy. I’m exactly who I say I am, and I need to talk to you.”

The face of Bragga Mor was blank again. He
was unreadable. He showed no anger, or fear, or frustration. Nor was there any
indication of loyalty or surprise. The bard was adept at hiding his thoughts,
and if it was on his mind to betray them in order to gain favor with the
Witch-queen, Lanrik could not tell. But he knew this: the Lindrath had called
the man a friend.

“We can’t talk here,” Bragga Mor said
finally. 

The bard walked ahead once more, striding
out with his long legs, and they walked with him. But he did not take them far.
Nor did he speak again while they remained on the Hainer Lon, and there was a
chance of being overheard.

After a few minutes, he turned abruptly
and walked beneath an elaborate portico. It was dark under the shade of the
tiled roof, and a wide shop entrance, flanked by marble statues opened before
them.

Lanrik could not see inside, but a young
woman stood at the entrance, and she smiled at the bard.

“Your usual seat, Sir?”

“No. I’ll need a table for three today.”

The girl curtsied and led them through the
doorway.

Lanrik was distrustful. He did not know
Bragga Mor, still less this place, and there was likely only one exit if it was
a trap. Still, he took a deep breath and followed the bard.

Erlissa took his hand and squeezed it. It
was her way of saying that she understood the risk they were taking, and that
she agreed with his judgment.

They entered a dark room. Thick rugs lay
on the floor, and scented candles burned in ornate holders. There were only a
few people here, but they all had the look of wealth about them. Lanrik felt
out of place in his ordinary clothes, and he removed his hat.

The girl led them to a booth at the back
of the room. It was quiet, with no tables nearby, and they would be able to
speak in privacy.

“Tea,” the bard said to the girl. “And for
my guests also.”

She curtsied and walked away.

Lanrik guided Erlissa to one of the
cushioned seats, and then sat himself. He made sure that he faced the entrance.

Bragga more noticed and smiled for the
first time.

“You haven’t decided to trust me yet?”

“No. But I need information, and I think
you have it. If this is a trap, I can see the entrance. More importantly, I’m
close to you.”

Bragga Mor took no offense at the implied
threat.

“Yes, that’s fair enough. But think on
this. You’re just as likely to be a trap for me as the other way around.”

The girl returned, and they did not speak
for a moment. She deftly served them three mugs of hot tea, a concoction that
Lanrik had never drunk before, but one that the aristocracy favored. He tasted
it. It was not unlike herbal drinks that he had sometimes made in the wild on
cold nights, except that it was sweetened with honey.

Before the girl left she gave Bragga Mor a
white cloth and a bowl of water. Lanrik wondered what it was for. He understood
when the bard wetted the cloth and started to dab at droplets of blood that
stained his shirt. He must have been close to the killing in the Merenloth.

Bragga Mor noticed his glance. “I told the
philosopher not to speak. He should’ve listened.”

For the first time, Lanrik caught a
glimpse of the man behind the public mask. He was furious, and for just cause.
The killing of the philosopher was a shocking deed, but it would be more so to
one who knew him, as Bragga Mor likely did. 

“We don’t have much time,” the bard said. “I’ll
not stay here long, and after that I doubt we’ll see each other again. So ask
what you want, and I’ll give what answers I can.”

Lanrik got straight to the point. “Do you
know what happened to the Raithlin?”

Bragga Mor sighed. “The king never liked
your lot. It seems that the Witch-queen likes you even less, though. Anyway,
some of them spoke against her when Murhain invited her into the city. That was
a mistake. She wasted no time in having them killed. And soon after others,
even those who hadn’t spoken, were taken from their homes. They disappeared,
and haven’t been seen since. Not that you have to be a Raithlin for that to
happen. Many others have disappeared too.”

He looked around him casually, making sure
that no one was near, before he continued.

“The Raithlin went into hiding after that,
but they still spoke out. They spread dissent through the city, and it must
have lit a fire under Ebona. She didn’t like it at all. But somehow, slowly and
surely, she rooted them out from their hiding places. They were taken, and no
doubt killed. For a while, barely a week went by without a house being torched
or some rumor surfacing of another fight. And fights there were, for none of
them went willingly.”

Bragga Mor did not drink his tea. His eyes
were downcast, and he spoke softly, fluently and with a rich voice that drew a
vivid picture for them.

“I saw one of the killings myself,” he
said. “It was near the palace. I knew him. His name was Gilhain, and he leaped
out of the crowd to try to kill the Witch-queen. Knives flew from his hands as
he ran, but they had no effect. They struck her, but bounced away as though
they had been thrown into a brick wall. He drew his sword then, but before he
reached her she flung fire at him from outstretched arms. Otherworldly it was.
I’ve never seen the like. It burned and sizzled through the air and knocked him
down.”

Bragga Mor paused. Lanrik and Erlissa
exchanged a glance. He read in her eyes that she recognized the Raithlin’s
name. Gilhain had welcomed them back from Galenthern when they crossed the ford
to bring word of the elug army approaching Esgallien. It seemed a long time ago
now.

The bard took a sip of tea. His hands
trembled slightly, but his voice was steady.

“Gilhain somehow got back on his feet. He
was burning all over, but he ran at her. The steel of his blade flared white
hot. She flung flame at him once more. He tottered, but only fell when Royal
Guards filled him with arrows. He died cursing her name, and I shall never
forget it, for I saw bravery then that a thousand lays of the old days never
showed me.”

He took another sip of tea, and Erlissa
put a hand over Lanrik’s on the table.

“The Raithlin disappeared from Esgallien
after that, however many was left by that stage. Perhaps half of them.”

“Where did they go?” Lanrik asked.

“No one knows. Not for sure. But the word
is that they went to Galenthern. They can live there, and the Witch-queen
cannot hunt them. Or if she can, it would take her a long time.”

Lanrik had a feeling that this was true.
The plains were vast, and the swamps impenetrable. It would take decades to
track them down there, and it would not be worth the effort. Even an army would
struggle to do the job.

He had one more question. He struggled to
ask it, for he feared the answer. But Bragga Mor surprised him with one of his
own.

“Any Raithlin in the city would know as
much as what I just told you. Or more. So you haven’t been here.”

The bard looked at him hard. “You’re
Lanrik, aren’t you?” He shifted his gaze. “And you, my dear, must be Erlissa.”

There was little point in lying. “Yes,”
Lanrik said.

Bragga Mor nodded slowly. “I saw you fight
in the sword tournament of the Spring Games, but that was quite a while ago,
and I couldn’t be sure it was you. You and Mecklar were in the final. For what
it’s worth, I think you should’ve won.”

Lanrik shrugged. “Maybe. But as you say,
that was a while ago. All that really matters is that I won the next
time – when it counted most.”

Bragga Mor gave him an appraising look.

“Small wonder that no one has seen Mecklar
for a long time. You know, he used to drink in this very shop. I said hello to
him many a time. I never drank with him, though.”

Lanrik gathered his courage and forced
himself to ask one more question.

“What happened to the Lindrath?”

Bragga Mor let out a long breath and
slowly shook his head. When he spoke, his words were like the voice of doom.

“Of him, I know more than the other
Raithlin. He did not escape the city.”

“Is he dead?” Lanrik asked.

Bragga Mor looked away. But before he did,
there was pity in his eyes.

The hair on the back of Brinhain’s neck
prickled.

He would
not
show fear in front of
his men. They were scared too, but that was of no consequence. All that
mattered was that they thought he, as their leader, was unperturbed. It did not
matter if it was a lie.

He stood straight and tall. The great door
to Esgallien’s throne room opened. The massive oak panel, heavy enough that
five men could not lift it, swung easily on its gold-plated hinges at the touch
of one of the soldiers stationed there. They were Royal Guards, as he would
expect in the palace. It worried him that he did not recognize them, though.

The door came to a stop. He walked past
the guards slowly, eying each of them for a moment, but they showed not even
the barest flicker of respect or acknowledgement of his rank. He was a captain,
and they were glorified butlers with swords. It was one more thing to worry
about. If he failed Ebona, there were others to take his place – a
seemingly unending string of them.

He promised himself that he would not fail
her.

His boots, and those of several of his
most trusted men, echoed hollowly in the vast chamber as they crossed the
polished timber floor. He took one look at Ebona, and wished that he had
brought his whole company. Yet he wondered if even an army would protect him
should she want him dead.

The queen sat on her throne. Her gaze,
cold and remote, drove into him like a spear. She showed no obvious anger,
though a faint flush of red colored her face. He sensed that she restrained
herself, and his heart skipped a beat.

King Murhain sat on a throne next to her.
He had no wife, for he and Ebona were not married. In truth, she had no right
or claim to rule, and yet she invoked a sense of authority that he did not. A
fool he looked, staring vacant eyed at the woman who had seduced him, waiting
for her to speak in order that he might know how to proceed.

Brinhain bowed. When he looked up, he
caught his breath. Ebona was standing. She wore no royal robes, or crown, nor
any jewels. She was clad in a simple linen dress, white and clean, cinched by a
red belt. And yet she looked regal. Her figure was slim and tall. Nobility
shone from her face. Her cheekbones were high, and the gaze of her wide-set
eyes was clear and bright. The long tumble of her blonde hair surpassed any
crown.

Brinhain understood how the king had
fallen. He felt himself yearn for her favor, but she looked at him with a hard
gaze.

“We have received your messages,” Ebona
said. She glanced at the king, and he smiled at her. “And they disappoint us.”

She stepped closer. He noticed for the
first time that her feet were bare, and yet she seemed to tower above him.

“Strange, that when tidings are good you
come yourself, but only send messengers to report bad news, unless summoned.
Perhaps you’re scared of me?”

Brinhain knew that nothing but the truth
would do.

“Yes, My Queen. I’m scared of you.”

Ebona pursed her lips.” Then you are not a
complete
fool.”  

She stepped closer. Her feet made no noise
on the timber floor.

“And yet, you have still failed me. Not
only did you allow a Raithlin to escape your grasp, but the one above all
others that I want most. Not to mention the wretched
witch-girl
that
accompanies him.”

Brinhain did not like the tone that had crept
into her voice. He knew that she hated Lanrik and Erlissa, but until that
moment he had underestimated how much. Abhorrence throbbed in her every word.

“I’m sorry, My Queen.”

Ebona placed a hand on his shoulder, and
he felt goose bumps rise all over his skin.

“Are you? Or do you mean that you
will
be?”

Brinhain’s heart thudded. “I won’t fail
you again, My Queen. Even as we speak, hundreds of men search the city. I won’t
stop until I bring your enemies to you.”

Ebona shook her head slowly. “You are quick
to move onto other matters. But we are yet to establish what your punishment
will be.”

Sweat beaded his face. His sensed his men
shuffle back. He wanted to do the same, but dared not.

“What punishment could be worse than
failing you, My Queen? Except not being able to redeem myself.”

“What punishment, indeed?” she said.

She stepped close and draped an arm around
him. Lightly, like a wisp of air, she moved behind him. He felt her hot breath
on his neck. But when she spoke, it was to Murhain.

“O King!” she said. “Ruler of men. Head of
the mighty nation of Esgallien. Come! Tell me what you think. Speak to me from
the wellspring of your wisdom. What punishment is fitting for the captain’s
failure?”

Murhain frowned, as though deep in
thought. His gaze wavered between Ebona and the floor.

“He failed you, My Queen.”

“Yes,” said Ebona. There was a hint of
impatience in her voice. “But his punishment?”

Brinhain did not think the king was
capable of deciding what he wanted for breakfast, let alone anything else. Was
Ebona poisoning him? There were drugs that took a man’s mind before they stole
his life.

Murhain focused on the floor as though he
could read the secrets to life there.

“Kill him,” he said at length.

Brinhain felt Ebona behind him. One of her
arms was draped over his shoulder. Her hand, with its strange toe-like thumb,
rested on his chest. She must feel the beating of his heart, sense the panic
rising through his body.

“Well,” she said. “Death you have earned.
And a slow one, too.” She paused. Her fingers tapped his chest to the rhythm of
his heartbeat. “You know, don’t you, that I could make you die, and rouse you,
only to make you die again? It’s a game I could play all night.”

Brinhain tried to speak. His voice
faltered in his throat.

“What was that, dear? Did you say you want
to play that game?”

“No! My Queen.” He gasped the words out.
He felt ashamed to be unmanned in front of his men. Worse, to show weakness to
her. His glance fell on the king, and a thought occurred to him. Better to die
a man, than live as a fool.

“I failed you, Ebona. It was a mistake.
Kill me if you choose, but do not think you have a more loyal servant. Or a
more capable one.”

He felt her stiffen behind him. Her hand
on his chest froze in place. His heart raced wildly, but he no longer cared.

She laughed. It was the light sound of a
carefree young girl, though she was anything but.

“Oh! That was well done. Perhaps you have
some virtues after all.”

He remained silent. The king seemed to
have lost interest in proceedings. His gaze roved aimlessly over the room’s
exquisite murals, tapestries and statuettes, before wandering back to Ebona.
There they rested a while, as though finding peace in his adulation of her.

“We shall spare him now, shall we not, O
King?”

“Yes,” Murhain answered. “Spare him. He is
a true and valiant servant.”

Ebona moved once more. She uncoiled
herself from him. One moment he felt her behind him, and the next she stood in
front. Her eyes gazed into his, blue-green wells that sparked with thoughts and
emotions that he could not fathom, but wanted to know. He understood how easy
it would be to fall under her sway. He blinked, and pressed the tip of his boot
into the floor. The pain from his gout-afflicted toe flared to life.

She grinned at him suddenly. “Perhaps you
can serve me yet. At least, for a little while longer.”

Her bright eyes shifted to the guards that
he had brought.

“Which one of your men has served you
best?”

Brinhain did not hesitate. “Caracas, My
Queen.”

“Come forward, Caracas,” she ordered.

Slow footsteps sounded behind him. It was
the reluctant tread a man who wanted to go nowhere fast. Brinhain did not blame
him, but things had taken a new turn. There would be no punishment now.

Caracas drew level. 

The queen looked him over. “You know,
Caracas, that I have powers?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“And I have used them. Yes, I have tried
to locate Lanrik and Erlissa, but something wards them from my sight.”

Brinhain saw her eyes change. There was
suppressed anger there. She did not like to be stymied. It infuriated her,
though she kept a tight control of herself.

“That means,” she continued, “that I must
find them another way. The lòhren Aranloth protects them. He thinks he is
smart, but I am smarter. I, who walked this world long ages before he was born.
I, to whom all people will one day bow. Even the lòhren, before I kill him. And
I have a plan. These fools think they can come to my city, and do as they
please. Well, let them! I know what they want. First and foremost, Lanrik will
seek news of his brother Raithlin. More than that, he will try to discover what
happened to the Lindrath. They say he loves him like a father. Well, we shall
put that to the test. The whole city knows where I left him. Lanrik will soon
learn, and it is there that we shall catch him.”

“I’ll set a watch and arrest him,”
Brinhain promised.

“You said that last time, when he
travelled down the Carist Nien toward the Angle.” She looked at him hard, and
he shivered. “I’ll not make the mistake of relying on you again. This time,
I’ll give you help.”

She turned to Caracas. “Step closer.”

Caracas obeyed, yet Brinhain sensed his
reluctance. So too did Ebona.

“Come, there is nothing to be afraid of.
This will be to your benefit. You’ll see, and thank me in the end. After all,
what man does not wish to be stronger, faster and a better fighter? What man
would turn away from the chance to be near invincible? I shall give you powers
to overcome Lanrik, and the witch-girl with him. Would you like that?”

“Yes, My Queen,” Caracas answered slowly.

“Good. I see that your desire to serve me
burns white-hot. And so I shall permit you to do so.”

She stepped lightly toward him. Brinhain
had a bad feeling, and yet whatever was going to be done would not affect him.
He watched, transfixed by curiosity, part-jealous of the sorcerous gift Ebona
would bestow on the man, but part-expecting that it would come at a price.

Ebona’s feet glided soundlessly over the
timber flooring. Distantly, he heard the king hum to himself, but he paid
Murhain no heed. King he might be, but in Esgallien’s court, the Witch-queen
alone dispensed reward or punishment.

She came to a halt. Her head tilted a
little as she considered Caracas. One moment she stood like that, poised and
still, and the next her arm shot forth as though released from a bow. Her hand
did not pierce flesh, but it gripped and squeezed. Her fingers, like iron
pincers, caught and crushed his throat.

Caracas was strong, but it seemed that he
was no match for the queen. He struggled, trying to break free. He dropped
down, twisted to the side and reeled back. But whatever he did, he only managed
to move a little. His face reddened, and desperation etched his features. He
started to strike at her arms, but she shrugged the blows off. He tried to hit
her face, but she shook him as a child shakes a doll, and he flailed uselessly.

His death came swiftly. One moment he was
thrashing wildly, but soon after his movements were feeble. When he slumped in
her grip, she let him collapse to the floor.

Caracas’s body was limp. He looked up from
bulging eyes, but there was no flicker of life within them. The skin of his
neck was red, but where Ebona’s iron-like grip had fixed to it, white marks
outlined her fingers and thumb.

Brinhain gulped. He looked at the
Witch-queen, and gulped again.

Ebona circled the corpse. Her feet moved
lightly, as though she danced, and fire sprang from the floor wherever she
stepped. There was no smoke.

Through the twisting flames, Brinhain saw
the timber beneath. The wood remained undamaged. This was sorcery of a kind
that he had not seen before, and he tried to gulp again but his mouth was dry.
He made a gurgling sound. Ebona ignored him.

The flames leapt higher. She moved away
from them and stood next to him. He felt the heat of the fire, or of her body;
he could no longer tell which was which. She lifted her hands above her head,
and the flames rose higher at her command. The light was blinding, and yet the
warmth in the throne room lessened. It swiftly grew cold.

Brinhain looked around. The king sat idly,
whispering to himself and oblivious to the powers that Ebona unleashed, and yet
in the corners of the room there were shadows. There should not be, for the
light of Ebona’s flame was bright. But shadows there were, and they danced
closer.

Brinhain did not move. The witch stood
still beside him, and whatever was happening in the room, he knew the safest
place was next to her.