Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3) (8 page)

“It seems so normal,” Erlissa said. “And
yet, there’s a look to the people. They’re scared. I get the feeling that they
could break into a panic at any moment, and for little reason.”

What she said was true. These people would
feel safer here than elsewhere, because there was protection in numbers, and
yet even here they did not feel secure. It showed in all the weapons, their
furtive glances, and the distance they kept from one another. Most of all, it
showed in the lack of playing children. Normally, the court would be full of
them, but he saw only adults now.

Erlissa nudged him and pointed. “I wonder
what she would think of all this?”

They had come to Rhodmai’s statue. Here,
she was crowned and wore all her royal regalia, and yet she had the same cheery
face as shown on the paintings in the Bridge Inn.

“It wouldn’t have happened in her time,”
he said.

Erlissa nodded. “No. Lòhrens were welcome.
And kind old lady that she was, she would have made sure that Ebona never
entered the city, never gained a following, and never had a chance to influence
anything, let alone rule. Murhain has a lot to answer for.”

So he did, but Lanrik suddenly wondered if
even the king now feared for his life. Had he realized his mistake? Could he
perhaps even be counted an ally in defeating Ebona? He did not think so, but it
was something to consider.

He remembered Aranloth’s prophecy that the
king would come to a bad end. Well, that was likely enough. Certainly, when the
queen was defeated, he would be in trouble. The people would no longer tolerate
him after what he had allowed to happen.

But Murhain did not have any heirs. Who
would be crowned in his place? All that was left of the royal family were
distant relatives. None of them really had a stronger claim than the others,
and none were particularly competent. The true blood of Conhain’s line had
grown thin, and none now living matched their ancestor. But a strong leader
would be needed when Ebona was gone, for the realm was always at risk from its
enemies in the south. An elug army, led by a new shazrahad, could come at any
time.

They moved across the square. At its end,
on the right hand side, was a separate colonnade that led to the front of the
palace. They neared it now, and he walked ever more slowly.

“Careful,” he said. “From here on there
could be guards.”

They walked down the colonnade. There were
less people here. Ahead, the palace rose up, a stately building, surrounded by
its own court, grassed areas and gardens. But all that was fenced off. Metal
pickets, black, sharp-spiked and tall, surrounded it.

At the end of the colonnade stood a
massive wrought-iron gate. He saw no guards, which was strange. Normally, there
were two here. But the gate was closed, as was usual, for it served only as a
ceremonial entry into the palace grounds during times of pomp and celebration.
A smaller gate, far to the right, was the usual entry for day-to-day use. 

They approached, and he saw the body. As
Bragga Mor had said, it was chained to the gate. There were only a few people
here, and they hurried past without looking.

They walked ahead. Lanrik’s heart began to
thud. He did not want to do this, for he already had memories of Lathmai that
he could not erase, though the images of her burnt and broken body haunted his
sleep less often than they used to. If he saw the tortured body of the Lindrath,
it would stay with him just as long.

Erlissa held his hand, and they proceeded.
There was no one near them now. He smelled a hint of decay. Soon, a stench
would cloy the air and reach even into Conhain Court. His gaze traced rivulets
of blood along several of the gate-bars, now caked dry. A black pool,
semi-congealed and swarming with flies, marred the cobbles.

He made himself look up. The Lindrath hung
there, chained roughly by his neck to the top of the gate. His arms and body
drooped motionless. The Raithlin cloak, worn with pride throughout his life,
was become a tattered and dirty rag, rent in a dozen places by knife or sword,
soiled by dirt, blood and vomit.

A slow rage welled up inside Lanrik. It
rose, like a living thing, and it swirled with feelings of hatred, retribution
and a yearning to destroy those who had done this. He pushed it down, for he
sensed his self-control slipping, and that would not serve the Lindrath, or
Esgallien. But he would not forget.

“He fought them,” Erlissa said unexpectedly.
“See the wounds to his arms and legs? They’re not torture marks. They were
caused by fending off attacks. And see his knuckles? They’re red. He landed
several blows at least, before they took him.”

It was something. The Lindrath would have
defied them as long as possible. But no man could endure the pain that he must
have without breaking. His eyes were gone, plucked from their sockets. His face
bashed. Black bruises blossomed over most of his skin like a creeping disease.
And fire, or red-hot bars, had seared him. The skin of his face, peeled and
blackened, still oozed blood from sickly blisters.

Lanrik closed his eyes. It did not help.
Instead of the Lindrath, he saw Lathmai. She too had suffered the unendurable.
He felt the rage inside him rise again.

“Is that his seal?” Erlissa asked.

Lanrik did not answer. He looked at the
Lindrath’s ring. He had seen it often enough. It was a band of gold, embossed
with the Raithlin motif of a trotting fox looking back over its shoulder. They
had left him that, and no thief had dared steal it. Strange that it remained,
though. He supposed Ebona would want people to see it, to know that it was the
Lindrath. And yet, the body had been here for two days. There were no guards,
at least at the moment. Some desperate thief would have removed it by now,
unless Ebona kept a closer watch than was apparent. He felt suddenly uneasy,
and looked around.

There was no one near except for
passersby, moving through with their eyes down. And yet, there were shops not
that far away. Guards could be stationed inside them, and he would not see
them.

“Are you satisfied that it’s the
Lindrath?” Erlissa asked.

“It looks like him. The hair is right, and
his build. And it
is
his seal, too. But his face is so badly beaten. It
has to be him, and yet…”

“And yet?”

“Something isn’t right.”

Erlissa did not answer. She let him
continue to think, and his gaze scrutinized the corpse. It made him feel sick.
The face was unrecognizable, so he concentrated on other parts of the body. The
hands seemed right. They were long fingered and tanned from the sun. The arms
were lean but well muscled from years of sword craft. His gaze strayed to the
ring again. It was the final confirmation that it was the Lindrath, the best
that he would ever have, but something disturbed him. Badly.

“Erlissa?”

“Yes?”

“There’s no scar on the back of his
thumb.”

“Did he have one?”

“Yes. Very faint, but it was there.”

Erlissa peered closely. “I don’t see one.
How do you even know it was there?”

“Because I gave it to him. He was showing
me some knife-fighting techniques. I got carried away, and drew blood. He
wasn’t happy with me that day … but the scar was permanent.”

Erlissa straightened. “But if it’s not
him, what would be the point of hanging a body here? And we know that he was
captured. Bragga Mor confirmed it. Why hold him prisoner, but try to trick
people into thinking he was dead?”

Lanrik looked away from the corpse and
straight at her.

“What if he escaped before she had a
chance to kill him? That was one of the rumors. Bragga Mor said that, too.”

Her eyes widened. “Is it possible?”

Lanrik was about to answer, but then he
smelled something out of place.

“Smoke!” he said. 

Erlissa sniffed the air. “I smell it.
There’s something wrong here, Lan. Very wrong.”

She tilted her head, and frowned in
concentration.

“I sense something else, too. There’s more
than smoke. I feel sorcery.”

They looked about them. They saw nothing.
And then the acrid odor grew suddenly stronger. A movement of light flickered
in the doorway of one of the shops.

“Is the building on fire?” he asked.

Erlissa’s eyes narrowed.

“No!” she yelled. “Something inside is
burning. And it’s moving!”

One moment Lanrik hesitated when he should
have run. One moment only, but in those few seconds many things happened.

Royal Guards sprinted toward them from
several shops. Brinhain was among them. And with him was a creature of
nightmare. A man who burned. A man whose eyes flickered with light and brimmed
with need.

The creature lurched toward them. Guards
came from left and right. Lanrik turned, looking back through the colonnade to
Conhain Court. Guards filled it as well.

“We’re surrounded!” he said.

Erlissa spun around. “My staff!” 

Lanrik passed it to her, and deftly drew
his sword. They were not without defenses, and yet their enemies were many.
They could not hold them off for long.

He prepared for a last stand; one that
they must ensure killed them, for death was better than being taken alive to
the Witch-queen.

Erlissa surprised him by stepping forward.
A moment she stood, poised and still, as their enemies rushed toward them. And
then with a sudden flick of the tip of her staff, a blue flame sprang upward
from the cobles. It burned coldly in an arc, reaching to the fence on either
side.

The fire flickered, growing taller,
turning and twisting in a way that drew the eye. Lanrik ignored it. His gaze
was on the enemy. He watched them through the blue haze as they gathered on its
far side.

The lòhrengai would not last long; that
much he understood instantly. He cast his gaze around again, trying to find a
way out. The only place where there were no guards was behind them, and that
was because the gate and fence formed an impassable barrier.

In desperation, he turned to the gate and
shook it. It barely moved. The guards had made sure it was locked. But his
seeking eyes glimpsed something of use.

The corpse hung there, but it swayed with
the force of his shaking. A great loop of chain, coming down from where it was
wrapped over the high crossbar of the gate, swung into view from behind the
body. He pulled it through the bars to his own side.

“Erlissa!” he yelled.

She was by his side in a moment.

“Climb!”

She did not hesitate. Handing him her
staff, she grasped the chain in her hands and braced her feet against one of
the thick bars. She climbed, reaching the top quickly.

She looked uncomfortable as she negotiated
the spikes, but used the chain to cover as many as she could. Spots of blood
blossomed on her clothes. Fabric was torn. She gasped with effort or pain, and
then she was over the top and able to drop to the ground on the other side.

Lanrik took a quick look behind him. The
blue flames were already dying, and the guards had moved closer. They left
space for the charred-man, though. Lanrik caught another glimpse of his eyes.
Human eyes, filled with torment and a frantic need to catch his prey. 

He sheathed his sword and climbed the
gate. The heavy chain smashed into iron bars and rattled as he hastened. The
corpse swayed grotesquely, and then he landed lightly on the other side.

He did not feel any damage from the iron
spikes until he caught a glimpse of blood on his arms and legs. After that, his
injuries throbbed. But they were only superficial and would not slow him.

For a quick moment he thought about where
to go. They were inside the palace grounds now, and there were sure to be
guards. But at least they would not already be chasing them as the others were.

They raced off. He veered a little toward
the right, across the cobbles and then onto lawn. They made quick time, but
swift as they were, their lead was short. Guards had jumped the dying lòhrengai
and used the chain as he had. Even the charred-man now lurched toward them. He
ran strangely, tilting from side to side, twisting and turning as he moved. And
yet for all that, he kept pace with the guards.

“The trees!” Erlissa called.

It was a good idea. They changed direction
slightly, and headed toward a grove of oaks. They were ancient things, and it
was dark beneath them. Here, they veered again and followed a gravel-lined
path. They saw nobody now, and yet the pursuit must still be close. Even so,
without seeing where their quarry went, the guards might split up to take
different routes through the grove, or go around it altogether.

After a hundred paces or so they were out
of the grove and onto grass again. Now, they were near the palace. It rose
before them, grand and elegant. There were people here, courtiers of some sort,
and palace servants. They watched as he and Erlissa raced past them, but made no
move to interfere.

He heard a call from the grove and looked
back. A group of guards burst from it, yelling to attract the attention of the
others. The charred-man was among them, and if he could somehow track them by
sorcery, or if they were just unlucky, Lanrik did not know.

They sped down the right-hand side of the
palace. There was a cobbled path here, and their boots slammed loudly against
its hard surface. A horn screeched from somewhere inside, blown as an alert of
some kind to warn of intruders.

There were sure to be more guards on the
chase now. And then he saw something that chilled his blood. Whether looking
because of the blowing horn, or because she sensed the presence of her own
sorcery in the form of the charred-man nearing, Ebona was there.

The witch leaned over a high balcony, her
hard gaze on them, and hatred evident in her stiff posture. And yet she must be
too far away to attempt any attack of her own. She watched them race past, her
body taut beneath her plain white dress, and in moments they passed from view
and came to the back of the palace.

They crossed another court. It was small,
and decorative statues filled it. He had never been here before. It seemed like
a miniature version of Conhain Court. They raced among the statues. Other horns
blew now, and then a company of guards trotted from a doorway on the ground
floor of the palace.

“More of them!” he said.

Erlissa did not answer him. She was
panting for breath, as was he. He knew this could not go on much longer. They
needed to hide, for they could not outrun such a chase for long – not
with new guards, fresh to the pursuit, taking it up.

They sped right over the top of some
flowerbeds. A gardener, hoe in hand, watched them race by. He made no move to
stop them, though he saw the guards following. He dropped the hoe and
disappeared into a nearby grove of trees.

Ahead was the opposite side of the palace
fence. They reached it, and then raced along its length. There should be a gate
somewhere near, though it too would be guarded. They soon saw what they were
looking for, and the guards that they expected. There were only two of them
though, even if they were alert. One watched out toward the city, the other
looked in, scrutinizing the palace grounds. He said something to his companion,
who turned. They unsheathed their swords and waited.

Lanrik did not slow. In a quick motion he
drew one knife, and then another. He hurled them at the guards.

His aim was a little off, for running and
throwing was difficult, but it forced the men to duck, and then he was among
them, kicking and punching. A sword clattered to the ground. There was a thump
as Erlissa struck one of the guards in the head with her staff. In a moment,
they were through.

They ran from the palace grounds into the
city, but several of the pursuing guards were close behind. Panic spread in the
people-filled streets. Screams cut the air when the charred-man lumbered
through the gate.

Darting left and right down a series of
wide streets they tried to lose their pursuers. But they were a clear target,
easily seen, and the crowd was not so thick as to get in the way of the guards.

“There!” shouted Lanrik.

He turned into the first narrow street
that he could find. It was not an alley, but perhaps if they followed it they
would find a shop with a back door or some other means of escape.

It was a place that he knew fairly well,
having been here many times, and then he remembered that somewhere to the right
was a narrow lane between two grand buildings. He found it and turned, but
heard pursuers close behind.

He headed into the lane, and it was as he
remembered. But a dozen people cluttered it, and a cart blocked the way
forward. It was a manure wagon, wide and low to the ground. It barely fit in
the alley, and to pass by on either side was impossible. The only way was over
it.

The horse that pulled it was no longer
yoked. Someone had led it a little way forward while people worked on the cart.
It seemed that a wheel was damaged, but it was impossible to access from the
side.

Lanrik did not care. There was only one
way out, and that was over the top. Everyone looked at the two of them as they
dashed forward, and then beyond them. Lanrik heard noises behind him, and
turned to look. The guards had caught up.

“Go!” he yelled to Erlissa.

He drew his sword and faced the enemy.
They raced at him. He cut and thrust, deflected and sliced, and in a mist of
blood three guards lay dead. His sword dripped red, and the crowd behind him
was shocked to complete silence.

He looked ahead. More guards rounded the
corner into the lane. Brinhain was among them.

“Kill them!” the captain screamed, and the
guards padded forward carefully, blades held high.

Erlissa was suddenly by his side. “We’re
in this together, Lanrik. And when the charred-man comes, you’ll need me.”

He wanted to argue, but did not. Nothing
would change her mind. He thought of calling for help from the people on the
far side of the cart, asking them to take her away, but he knew she would
resist.

He flicked the blood from his sword and
held the tip at eye-level. He would meet the guards with death, and perhaps
give Erlissa another opportunity to escape, when she saw that it was necessary.
But something unexpected happened.

He heard murmuring behind him. It was
faint at first, and then grew loud. He caught the word
Raithlin
several
times, before it was shouted. The crowd had seen the etching on his blade.

The guards came on. Surprisingly, the
crowd edged forward, rather than away, and there was hope in their faces.

They wanted him to win. But he could not.
Not against so many. He was about to beg Erlissa to go, and then the
charred-man appeared. It lurched ahead of the guards, who now held back.

Erlissa took a step forward. “Go!” she
said. This is a creature beyond you.”

He shook his head and repeated her own
words. “We’re in this together.”

The creature lurched down the street at
them. Its feverish eyes flickered with anticipation, but then it came to a
stop. Its whole body shuddered, and like a dog shaking water from its coat, it
flung fire at them.

Bright flame sizzled through the air.
Erlissa raised her staff, and a wall of blue light, cold like ice, formed a
shield in front of them. The fire of the charred-man struck it. Sparks flew and
hissed like a swarm of wasps.

With a puff of blue smoke the two opposing
flames disappeared. Erlissa did not hesitate. She leveled her staff and
lòhren-fire shot from its tip. It smashed into the charred-man and sent him
sprawling.

Lanrik’s heart thumped. Erlissa was
growing as a lòhren, and though her power was slight compared to Aranloth,
clearly she was a force to be reckoned with. And yet, as quick as hope was
born, it died.

The charred-man stood. It shrugged, and
blue flame cascaded from its body to the cobbles. The cracks between the stone
bricks steamed as moisture was drawn from beneath them.

Their attacker stepped forward, unharmed,
perhaps even looking stronger, and Lanrik realized that lòhren-fire held no
power over it.

Most of the crowd had now fled, but some
brave souls continued to watch. Panicked cries rose from among them, and yet
one man, bearded and tall called out in a deep voice.

“Tip the cart!” he said, and those left
followed his instructions.

Erlissa seemed at a loss. She kept her
staff leveled and gazed at the creature intently, while it in turn inched
forward cautiously. Neither seemed willing to give ground.

Lanrik glanced back at the cart. The crowd
had tipped it forward, and manure piled out onto the lane. Most of the wagon
now rested atop its former load, but one side leaned against a brick wall.

He saw his chance, and understood what the
bearded man had done. There was now a gap, small, but enough to allow a quick
escape.

He grabbed Erlissa by the arm. “Run!” he
said.

He pushed her through the gap, and then
scrambled through himself.

What was left of the crowd dispersed,
realizing that the fight would now come to them. Even the bearded man
disappeared, running swiftly around a corner.

Once on the other side of the cart they
turned. The charred-man ran toward them, scores of guards now hanging back
behind it. Erlissa raised her staff. Fire burst from its tip, and she sent it
flying into the cart. The timber planks that formed its tray caught alight.
Straw and manure smoldered. In moments, the cart blazed with flame, no longer
the blue of her lòhrengai, but natural tones.

A wave of heat sent them staggering back,
and the air shimmered.

“That should slow them,” Lanrik said. He
turned to run, but Erlissa hesitated. He turned back again.

“It’ll slow the men,” she said. “But not
it!”