Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2) (4 page)

“What have you seen?” he asked. “What passes in Alithoras?”

“Many things,” Bragga Mor replied tiredly. “The enemy is now
in the northlands. There are raging bands about, but, at least as I hear it,
most are concentrated around Cardoroth. A vast army besieges that city.” He
gave Brand a questioning look, and Brand nodded without speaking. Bragga Mor
seemed to need little else by way of confirmation. He was clever, and had
already guessed
where Brand
had
come
from,
and no doubt many more things besides.

The stranger continued. “There’s rumor of dark deeds in the
west. The eastern realms are nervous, knowing that trial of war may soon come
to them, though as yet I have not heard that anywhere is attacked save
Cardoroth. At least, that was the last I heard, but my news is old, for the
wild lands call me now, and the works of men that do not
last
only
haunt
me. I avoid them.”

Brand felt again that some darkness lay behind this man, and
he was making his own guesses. But a sharp hiss from Kareste distracted him.

“Something comes!” she said.

Brand drew his sword and remained quiet, but into the
silence Bragga Mor spoke.

“Of course,” he said, turning to Kareste, “as you knew it must.”
He faced Brand again. “The very air sings with unease, and the beautiful girl
knows why.”

The two men looked at Kareste; one with apparent knowledge,
and
the other in surprise.

Kareste merely shrugged. “I did not know – I only
guessed.”

“But now you know that your guess is right,” Bragga Mor
said.

“They usually are,” she answered. “But more to the point,
how do
you
know?”

“Oh, I’ve seen a thing or two. Yes I have. More than I would
like. Things to burn a man’s vision and haunt his dreams. I know power when I
see it – lòhrengai,
elùgai
and
even ùhrengai, the force that forms and substances the
world
and from which both light and shadow spring.”

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” Brand asked.

Kareste
nudged
her
mount
toward hi
m. “Shurilgar’s staff is a
powerful thing. It calls. It calls to the Shadow, and the Shadow hears. I don’t
just mean the enemies that have hunted us,
nor
just Khamdar, if he still
lives
. I
mean the dark things that dwell in Alithoras – the evil that lives in
deep valleys, or lurks in the marshes, or haunts the forests
and
roams the lonely hills. The evil that
hides
;
in
short
,
all
the shadowy creatures that have hated people since
people first learned to kindle fire and keep the dark at bay.”

“What does all that
mean
?” Brand asked.

“It means,” replied Bragga Mor, “that you’re in trouble. As
the girl says, something comes. I have seen it. Or rather, I have seen
her
.
A witch she is. I spotted her walking the starlit grasslands last night. To be
sure, she is not one of the great ones, but she is still mighty powerful. And,”
he pointed at the broken half of Shurilgar’s staff, “she would have
more – more of what
that
can give to her.”

Kareste did not seem disturbed. “How do you know that she
isn’t one of the great ones?”

“I’ve seen one of them,” he said. His voice trailed away and
his gaze became distant.

Brand had heard enough. “It’s time to go,” he said, “And
quickly.”

Bragga Mor looked at him sharply. The past obviously
troubled him, but he could give his attention to the present swiftly enough if
he chose to.

“No. You cannot flee her. You must stay and fight, if it comes
to that. Better to face her now than at some point in the future when you may
be less able.”

Brand thought quickly. There was something to what Bragga
Mor said. Who knew what the future held? And if the witch joined forces with
Khamdar, then the situation would become much worse.

“Will you fight with us?” Brand asked. He knew nothing of
this stranger, and the man had no reason to help. But there was something about
him…

“Or,” Kareste cut in, “Will you fight with the witch?”

Brand had not thought of that as a possibility, but
immediately on her words he wondered if his own instincts were wrong.

Bragga Mor looked at her and smiled. “That, we shall see.”

Brand cocked his head and listened. A change had come over
the wood. He could not quite name what it was, but it seemed as though even the
leaves at the tops of the trees were hushed, and the trunks were still like an
army of wary men that silently watched an approaching messenger, unafraid of
him, but fearing the import of his tidings.

The witch came. One moment she was not there, though her
presence filled the wood, and then she was among them, seeming to coalesce from
the shadows at the fringe of the clearing into flesh and blood that stepped upon
the grass.

Brand was ready. He maneuvered his mount to face her, but he
did not put his back to Bragga Mor.

She that had come was light-footed, for her steps quickly
took her to the middle of the glade, but she moved without haste or sign of
threat. And it was a strange thing to see how she elegantly walked, for judging
by her appearance, it seemed to Brand that she should have hobbled.

The witch was old. Her skin hung on her in wrinkled folds
that swung as she moved. Her hair, a mess of long gray strands and wisps of
white, fell over her narrow shoulders and down her hunched back. Her nose, long
and hooked, jutted forward like a bird’s beak. Above it, glaring like a hawk’s,
her eyes held each of their own in turn. There was no sign of frailty there,
despite her decrepit body and her ancient, ugly face.

She raised an arm. The tattered remnants of robes fell back,
revealing more withered skin. A crooked finger, dirty-nailed and swollen at the
joints, pointed at Kareste.

“I know what it is that you carry,” she said.

Her voice confused Brand. It was smooth and clear and
beautiful: the voice of a woman in the flower of her youth.

Though the voice surprised him, he perceived instinctively
that her power resided in it. It was a voice to command, to persuade, to
inspire trust. Most of all, it was a voice that could carry and enhance spells.
And spells he would be wary of, for she had come to take Shurilgar’s staff, and
she would not be idle in pursuing that goal.

Her words to Kareste were not loud, but they seemed to fill
the clearing and to echo strangely up and down the shadowy aisles of tree
trunks.

Kareste quivered with emotion. “Stay back, hag. Or die.”

Brand looked on silently. Bragga Mor did not move.
Surprisingly, the witch showed no anger. She gazed at Kareste calmly, her
hawk-like eyes gleaming with humor.

“By that,” she replied, “you mean ‘don’t try to take the
staff, or I’ll fight to the death to keep it.’ Has it already got such a strong
hold on you?”

Kareste stiffened, but the witch went on speaking. “You are
young in your power. I am old. Old as the hills and wily as the ancient beasts
that roam them, seldom seen by man. I have many names. Hag is one. Slithrest,
Netherwall and Angrod are others. Those names were old before even the
Halathrin strode ashore to this land.”

The witch straightened, and a hard edge of threat came into
her voice. “But they named me Durletha – enduring as stone. And that
should be a warning to you, for I have seen frost break mountains into plains
and flat plains themselves raised into high mountains. I have seen the great
sea, black and terrible beyond the reach of your thought, climb the shore and
sweep all before it. I will be here when it comes again. I have seen the bright
Halathrin, proud and stern and aloof. I watched unmoved as they came, and I
looked on uncaring as they dwindled. I saw the Letharn rise before them, whose
lands you are passing through, whose lands you would still be passing
through
though
you rode for weeks, and I saw them fall. And before them
were the Kirsch, whom men have forgotten. So, foolish girl, will you contend
with me?”

It was Brand who answered. “She is not alone.”

Durletha turned her fierce eyes
upon
him. “Ah. You speak at last. You are younger than she, but
perhaps wiser.” The witch frowned for a moment, assessing him. “Yes, I see it
now. There is no give in you. You will fight for her. But will you
die
for
her?”

“No one needs to die today,” he said.

She paused, continuing to look at him intently. “But death
follows you, does it not?”
she
said
after
a
moment
. “Everywhere you go.
Even in
Red
Cardoroth, that will fall in blood and flame. And who protects you? You think
you protect the king, but the king is protecting you, else you would be dying
with him even as we speak.”

Brand showed nothing of what he felt at those words.
Durletha seemed to know far too much about what was happening. That she had
some measure of Sight was evident, but that did not meaning she was not lying.

Her gaze did not leave him, but her haggard face broke into
a grin and she clapped her hands.

“Yes, you’re wiser than your companion. She shall surely fall
at the end, but you, you might yet stand tall. Yes, even without me you
could
command armies, wear a crown
and conquer wide realms. But with
me
at your side, we could rule all
of
Alithoras. The petty lòhrens and
the shadow in the south would fight each other for the crumbs under our table.
Yes, it could be so.”

Brand raised his eyebrows but did not speak. He had heard
this kind of thing before from those with the Sight, but not from one so old
and decrepit – 
not
from
one
who
would make him her paramour.

“And you are
polite
, too. But I have
more pleasing forms than this!”

The forest remained still, but birds now sang in the dappled
sunlight. A sweet breeze blew, carrying the scent of earth, leaf and flower,
and some exotic perfume that he could not name.

“I am not of the Light,” she
said
softly
. “But neither am I of the
Shadow.”

“Are you not?”

“No. But I can be anything
between
them!”

The sun now seemed dazzling bright in the clearing. Bright
beams shot amid the trees and Brand raised a hand to shield his eyes.

As quick as the stabbing light came it disappeared. When it
was gone, the witch stood just where she had been, but she was transformed.

Durletha was now young, and it seemed to Brand that it was
no spell but her true form. Her hair was long, flowing in golden locks that
shimmered like burnished metal. Her skin was
smooth
and unblemished, seeming to glow with health and beauty. Nor
did she stand bent and hump-backed, but tall and proud. She gazed at him with a
cool look, a look of utter confidence, but yet from the same hawk-like eyes as before.

And with a shimmer she changed again. This time she appeared
as Kareste, but it was a Kareste that he had never seen before. In form, the
likeness was identical, but there was a sweet smile on her lips, and a grace in
the way she stood that spoke of gentleness and care, not of a strong sword arm
and a sharp tongue. This time also her eyes had changed: they were green-gold,
and they laughed at him with a carefree joy.

“I can be anything you want,” the witch said. “Anything.”
And her voice was Kareste’s, but it contained a promise of intimacy that he had
never heard
in
it
before.

“I can be anything you want, and the world will be ruled by
your sword, and by your will.”

Brand hesitated, and then he grinned back at her boyishly.
She had made a mistake. She spoke of realms and armies and swords. She spoke of
war and conquest and rule, but she made no mention of the staff he bore or of
the power that was in him, and that told him what she most feared and least
wished him to consider.

He gripped Aranloth’s staff tightly. It was warm to his
hand. He felt the residue of lòhrengai within it. That force called to him, and
he felt it all around him also.

The forces that formed and substanced the world were
everywhere, and he was becoming more sensitive to them. He knew now that he
could summon them, transform them, use them. That ability was in him, but in
bringing those forces into himself they would change him even as he
changed
them.

And each time he used such power he would become more adept.
He would sense the call more strongly. Each step he took down that road was a
step that he could never retrace. Once followed, there was no turning back from
the
path
ahead. And in following it, it would alter him
forever, and perhaps not for the best.

Dare he try to use such power one last time? And what of his
vow? Could he so easily break it, even if need drove him? They were hard
questions, and he had no answers. But at the same time he sensed that the
choice was before him. The witch had made it so, and she had no fear of his
sword. That much was clear.

There was little time left. That Durletha would try to claim
the staff was obvious. It was equally obvious that she must not have it. To
that end, he would fight. But how?

She did not fear his sword. To what extent she feared
lòhrengai, he could not tell. But she was far more skilled in such things than
he. If he used it, she would defeat him easily. And yet there was Kareste also.
She would fight, and between the two of them they might
defeat
her. But if he joined Kareste in that, he would become what he did not wish,
what he least trusted.

Still he stood, undecided, and the brief moments flitted by.
Soon the witch would realize that her attempt to persuade him had failed, and
then she would attack.

But he was caught in a dilemma that he could not solve. And
a new thought struck him as a blow, and disabled him.

Why should he not embrace his new-found power?