Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3) (7 page)

The shadows flowed. They leaped and
capered to their own rhythm. They neared the bright flames, merged with them,
and writhed now as one, twirling, twitching and climbing into the smokeless
air.

A moment they flared with blinding light,
and then they subsided. Or, he thought, they moved inward. They flickered over
the corpse, touching it, caressing it, smothering it.

The right hand of Caracas began to jerk.
His left followed soon after. And then his whole body shuddered. The corpse
came to its knees, and then swayed to its feet. It was a thing of dead flesh,
and yet it twitched with the flame of life.

Caracas raised his arms. Fire leaped to
his face, and then ran all over his body. His mouth opened. He screamed, but
there was no sound, only a stream of shadow-fire.

The sorcerous flame burned skin, peeled
patches away to expose red flesh. Eyebrows withered and the hair on his head
ignited like a torch. His clothes, half burned away, half melted onto his body,
smoked and crackled.

Caracas, or that which was Caracas,
writhed in agony, but slowly the fire subsided. It did not go out, rather it
seeped inside him. His eyed flickered with it. Smoke curled from his wide-fared
nostrils. He stood almost still now. His face was recognizable, but he stared
blankly ahead.

The fire disappeared, but his charred body
still twitched as though it danced inside him. His hands flicked without
cessation. His shoulders shrugged and jerked with a life of their own.

Brinhain retched. He tasted bile in the
back of his mouth. When the nausea passed, he looked up to see Ebona watching
him.

“Go,” she said. “Caracas will obey you,
but once he finds Lanrik and the girl, nothing will control him. He must kill
them, pass the flame onto them, or he will never be rid of it, himself.”

She turned and walked toward her throne.
“Go,” she said over her shoulder, “and do not return until it’s with the
tidings that I most wish to hear. And if you don’t bring them, then you will
suffer. Go!”

Brinhain bowed to Ebona’s back. He turned
swiftly and strode away. His men did not look at him. He smelled their fear,
even above his own. The corpse of Caracas twitched and lurched behind him.

He left the throne room and breathed the
air beyond as though it was the sweetest thing in the world. The pain in his
big toe slowed him, but not much. He was filled with determination. He would
not fail Ebona again.
He would not
. Lanrik and Erlissa were as good as
dead, and if Ebona was right, he knew just where to wait for them.

Bragga Mor spoke, and Lanrik listened
carefully.

“They captured the Lindrath,” the bard
said simply. “The details aren’t important. All that matters is that he didn’t
leave the city with the Raithlin – he chose to stay and help the
forces opposing the Witch-queen. What was left of them, anyway.”

“Then there’s still resistance to her?”
Lanrik asked. He was trying to give himself time to brace for the worse news that
would follow.

“Well, in truth, the whole city opposes
her, but the people have learned not to voice their opinions. And especially
not to act on them. It’s certain death. All rebellion has ceased. What I meant
is that he tried to keep it alive, even after it died.”

Lanrik was not so sure about that. The
people might accept their situation now, but that did not mean they had given
up hope of changing it. They were like any conquered people in history: when
the time came, they would rise up against their oppressor.

Bragga Mor continued. “There were rumors,
of course. The city is always full of rumors. I heard from several sources,
usually reliable ones, that he escaped. Unfortunately, it was wishful thinking.
Or lies.”

“He’s a prisoner then?”

The bard shook his head. He looked grim.
“No. Two days ago, the Witch-queen killed him.”

They were simple words, and Lanrik had
prepared himself to hear them, yet they still shook him. He had trouble
thinking clearly. For a moment, memories flooded his mind. He had spent so much
time with the Lindrath. They were good times, too. Training, walking across
Galenthern, practicing sword skills, but most of all just talking. Lanrik
absorbed his words, always eager to hear any stories, and there were plenty of
them. He modelled himself on the older man’s behavior, for he was not just the
leader of the Raithlin, but a kind and generous man, swift to help a new
recruit, slow to rebuke them. He was everything that Lanrik ever wanted to be.
It was hard to believe that he would never hear his voice, or see his sudden
smile again.

“Are you sure?” he said to the bard after
a while. “Maybe that’s just another rumor.”

Bragga Mor looked at him through tired
eyes. “The Witch-queen herself verified it.” He hesitated, and then went on.
“She wanted the city to know that he was dead. She made it known that he was
tortured, and that she had learned from him the names of those who opposed her
before he was executed. As proof of her words, she chained his body to the
palace gate. It would be a lesson, she proclaimed, of what it means to disobey
her.”

It was a callous deed, and Lanrik grew
angry at the savagery of it.

“Has no one taken the body down?”

“The queen forbade it. There are Royal
Guards nearby, and she promised that anybody who tried to remove him would die
a similar death. He must hang there, she decreed, until nothing is left but
bones and the memory of what happens to those who oppose her.”

Lanrik rested his head in his hands, and
Erlissa put an arm around him. The bard fell silent and watched, for there was
nothing more to say.

It was the worst possible news to Lanrik,
even if he was expecting it. He tried to block his feelings. They would do
neither he nor the Lindrath any good now. Instead, he concentrated on what must
be done to help the city. He had to learn more about Ebona, and the Royal
Guards. For instance, why did she feel the need to make such an obvious example
of the Lindrath? Was it because some still opposed her? If so, it would be his
job to find them. Who were they? Where were they? And likewise, how many Royal
Guards were there, and would they all fight for her?

His mind raced with ideas, but grief could
not be denied, and it washed over him in ever-bigger waves. He could not hold
it at bay. He lowered his head to the table and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“That’s an end to it,” Bragga Mor said
gently to Erlissa. “The Lindrath was a good friend to me, and I don’t doubt
that one day we’ll be free of the Witch-queen, but that time is long away.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Erlissa answered.
“There are those who oppose her, the lòhrens among them.”

Bragga Mor grunted. “They’ve offered no
help so far.”

“Have they not? Why do you think
we’re
here?”

The bard was silent for a moment as he
considered that.

“Well, perhaps hope is higher than I
thought. But it’ll take more than a Raithlin and a young girl to save the
city.”

“True, and yet it’s a start. Also, this
girl has faced Ebona before. And survived. Keep in mind as well that she was
beaten in Conhain’s time. She learned fear then, and we’ll teach it to her
again.”

Bragga Mor looked her over. At length, he
grinned.

“Well, you’re tougher than you look. Maybe
you’re right. I
hope
that you are. But this much I know – the
people are beaten and subdued now. It’ll take something special to rouse them.
Conhain was one of a kind.”

Lanrik roused himself. “You’re right,” he
said. He wiped tears from his face. “And there’ll never be another like him.
But his deeds are part of each of us. We remember his courage, his loyalty, and
most of all, we remember his self-sacrifice. And when the time comes, Ebona
will find that there are thousands of Conhains in this city, because there’s a
little of him in all of us.”

Bragga Mor sat back. “Well, I wish you
luck. I wish us all luck. There’s truth to what you say. But that time, if and
when it comes, isn’t today. Today, a philosopher died, and no one helped him.
Least of all me. Panic runs through the streets. Today is a day to keep your
head down and to stay out of trouble. Tomorrow… we shall see.”

The bard stood. He shook both their hands.

“Good luck,” he said. “I don’t know what
you plan to do, and it’s best that way. Who knows? One day I might sing lays
about you.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps elegies.”

He turned and left.

When he was gone, Lanrik glanced at Erlissa.
“So, that was Bragga Mor. I’ve always wanted to meet him. A pity that he only
had bad news.”

“I get the feeling that good news is rare
in the city these days. But we have to carry on. So, what’s next?”

Lanrik looked at her steadily. He had
already made up his mind.

“We have to see the body. Is it really the
Lindrath, or is it just another rumor?”

Erlissa met his gaze without surprise. “I
thought that’s what you’d say. I really don’t think it’s a rumor, though.
Bragga Mor was certain.”

“So he was, and I believe him, but we have
to check before we can move ahead with anything else. Besides, we need to see
the palace too. I want find out how well guarded it is.”

They went to leave the shop. The waitress
bowed to them, and Lanrik tried to pay, but she refused.

“It’s already on Bragga Mor’s account,”
she explained.

They left, and stepped back onto the
Hainer Lon. It was crowded, and there were still signs of unrest, but the panic
after the killing had lessened.

They moved quickly down the street. Noon
had come and gone, but the city remained busy. It was a good time to go to the
palace, for the crowds would offer them concealment. After verifying the
Lindrath’s death, they would then have to find a place to spend the night, and
to work out what to do next.

They retraced their steps, passing the
Merenloth again. Royal Guards stood at its entrance, and Lanrik and Erlissa
walked on the other side of the street in order to keep the crowd between them
and any watchful eyes.

The guards did not pay them any interest. They
seemed intent only on ensuring that nobody went inside. Lanrik wondered if the
queen would close it permanently. That would serve little real purpose, but it
would reinforce that she was in control, and that she did not tolerate dissent.

They moved ahead, passing through an area
that they had not seen this morning. Earlier, they had skirted the central part
of the city. Now, they headed right into it.

There were dangers in what they were
doing, but truly nowhere was safe for them. And they
must
confirm that
the Lindrath was dead. Alive, he could be pivotal in trying to defeat Ebona,
serving as a rally point for the people. He was famed. And loved. Not least,
Lanrik thought, by himself.

The street felt somehow unfamiliar to him,
even though he had been this way countless times. Esgallien was his home, but
there was little joy here now. The people he loved were dead, and nothing was
left of happiness but memories.

He wondered, when all of this was over one
day, if he could ever face living here again. He put the thought aside. It was
something to consider in the future, if he had one. For the present, he was the
new Lindrath, and even if his Raithlin served all of Alithoras, Esgallien was
still a part of it.

They entered the inner district. Erlissa
walked quietly beside him. Her presence was a comfort, and no words were
needed. She knew what he was going through, and she was there for him.

They trod footpaths tiled with colored
mosaics. All about them were signs of wealth. The buildings rose high, and their
bricks were faced with marble. Many had peaked and decorative roofs, or even
towers, and bright flags fluttered from high poles signaling the names of
famous people or the houses of the nobility.

On their right, they passed the Haranast.
It was still open, and people crowded it. A dull roar washed into the street. A
race was going on, and somewhere far out of sight, down on the bottom of the
sand-covered arena, horses were galloping. People cheered them on. He pictured
it easily, for he had been a member of that crowd many times himself. Would
they be cheering if they knew what had happened earlier in the Merenloth?

The Merenloth was a different kind of
place, though. It was built for singing, speaking and debates. The Haranast was
somewhere that people had fun, and drank. He doubted the Witch-queen would
close it, as she seemed to have done with the Merenloth. That would only give
the population free time to think on all the wrongs that she had perpetuated,
and perhaps to act on their grievances. She would rather distract them.

Soon they came to the Karlenthern. It was
quiet today. He remembered it as the place where Lathmai had won the archery
tournament in the Spring Games. That was a good memory, but he could not think
of it without picturing how she had died. Truly, Esgallien was full of
memories, and the good and the bad had all become one.

“We’re getting close,” Erlissa said.

It was true. The palace was nearby,
situated on the edge of Conhain Court. The closer he got, the less he wanted to
continue. He did not wish to see the Lindrath. Not dead, anyway. It would be
another memory to haunt him. He had seen too many dead people
already – those he loved, and those that circumstance had forced him
to kill. He did not want to see more, but he knew he must.

There would be Royal Guards ahead. This
was near their barracks, for their primary purpose was to protect the kings and
queens of Esgallien and the palace. It would be dangerous soon, and he wished
that he could get rid of Erlissa’s staff. But he could not, and in truth, many
people in Esgallien carried one. Bodyguards were common, and the staff was a
weapon of choice for many who could not afford swords.

“Conhain Court,” he said to Erlissa. “Are
you ready?”

She looked ahead. “Let’s get this over
with.”

They moved ahead. The Hainer Lon merged
into the great square. It would start again on the other side, but here, in the
heart of the city, there was no road, only a mass of people.

There was something about the court that
always inspired Lanrik. It was huge, colonnaded on all sides, and scattered
throughout it were bronze statues of Esgallien’s kings and queens: some mounted
for hunting or war. Some with their crowns and royal regalia. Some that were
serious. Some that beamed cheerfully. But all of them were part of the deep
history of the city. None more so than Conhain. He sat astride his great
warhorse, suffering and determination etched by the sculptor into his every
feature. In one hand, he held high the famous Red Cloth of Victory.

Through gaps in the crowd Lanrik saw into
the center of the square and glimpsed the large platform situated there. It was
a place of ceremony, but also where he had fought Mecklar in the sword
tournament of the Spring Games. Yet another memory that bubbled to the surface.
At least, there was not going to be a fight today. Guards or no guards, it
should be easy enough to see the Lindrath’s body, to pay some last respects,
and to get out of there. Tomorrow was another day, and that would be soon
enough to work out what to do next.

They moved through the crowds. The court
seemed as busy as ever, and though everything appeared as it normally did: the
markets, the seething mass of pedestrians, the noise and carrying on, he did
notice that there were more armed people than usual. He should have realized
this earlier. It was common enough for someone to carry a sword, and many
carried staffs, but it seemed now that every second person bore a weapon. And
they were watchful, too.