Defiant Swords (Durlindrath #2) (6 page)

Aranloth stood still. His hands were raised, and only the
sleeves of his robe moved, fluttering in the northerly breeze. Gilhain felt the
same air on his face.

For a moment, the stench of the serpent was gone. The air
was sweet once more, sweeping down from the north, from the mountains that
Gilhain had never seen nor now ever would. He even fancied that he smelled the
scent of pinewoods and snow – crisp and fresh.

He heard
a grinding noise and more
stone popped to dust under the enormous pressure exerted by the
serpent
’
s
tightening coils. The odor
of stone overpowered whatever else Gilhain smelled, for it was driven into his
face by the north wind which gusted stronger, moment by moment.

With the wind came cold. Either that, or the shadow of death
that fell over the wall blotted out all warmth and drained the air of life.

The wind now blew with genuine force, whistling through the
crenels and moaning along the sides of the merlons. All the while, the lòhrens
stood unmoving.

Gilhain felt something on his cheek. At first, he thought it
was crumbled stone from the battlement, and then he knew
that
it was sleet.

The wind suddenly died. Yet it remained cold, strangely cold
given how hot it was before. So cold that Gilhain noticed with amazement that
white frost began to
settle
in patches
over the stonework of the
Cardurleth.

He looked about him. The soldiers were shivering, and a
great shudder ran through his
own
body.
He looked at the blade of his sword. It glittered with ice.

Gilhain
whipped
his
head
around in astonishment. Even the serpent was coated by a
layer of rime: the slime that dripped from its belly
was
now turned to a
dirty
white crust.

And the serpent did nothing to shake off its icy coat. It
lay, twisted and sluggish, over the Cardurleth. The coils no longer tightened.
The dust of crumbled stone no longer filled the air.

Nothing moved in the icy stillness, not until a sudden sign
from Lornach to a few of the Durlin. They leaped across the rampart
and
closed
the short distance between themselves and the serpent in the
flicker of an eye. They hacked with their swords, but these were still useless.
Then Lornach seized a long spear from a nearby soldier, and Taingern joined
him.

Together the two men positioned the spear beneath the
creature’s pale belly. And then they drove it
upward
with
slow
precision. The air from their lungs billowed out in a
silvery mist about them, and the spear, driven
with
their
combined
strength, guided by four hands, penetrated the thick
skin.

The serpent moved with a spasm. Cold or no, sluggish or not,
it felt pain for the first time and lifted its body away from it.

A great coil rose. The belly shone pale beneath. Blood
dripped from the spear wound, turning to dark ice as it spattered the stone.

The two men did not relent. They followed the creature,
continuing to
push
the spear
upward by clambering atop the merlons.

With another great heave the coil lifted high above them.
The spear was
taken
beyond their reach, and
they
tumbled
from the merlons back onto the rampart. The coil rose higher, the spear
sticking from it, and then with a twist and thrash the loop of the serpent’s
body dropped once more.

More merlons burst. Men were crushed. The two Durlin
scrabbled away from the rubble, and the serpent shuddered, raising up the coil
with a
jerk
more
sudden
than
the
first
,
for
its
efforts
had
only
driven
the
spear
deep; t
he
full six foot length of it
now
pierced
the creature.

It
thrashed.
Coils rose and fell all along the Cardurleth. For a moment it hung there,
roiling in pain, but then the extremity of its anguish drove it to twist too
far. With a final undulation of its whole
body
, it lost
its grip on the battlement and fell.

Down the massive creature plummeted. It thrashed as it went,
and when it landed it sent a tremor through the earth and the
battlement
shook. There in the dust
it
writhed. A long time it
would take to die, but Gilhain had no doubt that it would. Somehow, Cardoroth
was saved.

On unsteady legs the king walked over and looked down. The
creature
churned
violently
in
its
death
pangs. Blood streamed from its wound. He looked along
the battlement. The men were in shock, but quickly they began to clean the
rampart of bodies and broken stone. The lòhrens
all
along
the
Cardurleth
leaned
on their
staffs
.

He
turned
toward Aranloth,
but
did not see him at first. Then,
some way from the
broken
edge
of the rampart, he spotted him, collapsed to the ground. 

He raced over. From afar he heard
the
groaning
of
the enemy horde, and also the
pain-filled
screech of elùgroths. When he came to Aranloth
the old man’s eyes flickered
open
,
and
the lòhren spoke, his voice soft but grim.

“Thus do they pay for their sorcery,” he said. “They linked
themselves to the serpent to bring it here and keep it in this world. And as it
dies, so too do the weakest among them.”

Aranloth spoke no more. His eyes blinked strangely, and then
closed. Gilhain looked at him, dread creeping though his veins even though he
had thought that after the serpent nothing could scare him again. But dread was
worse than fear – dread spoke of human tragedy and loss that was
irrevocable, but yet to come.

The king bent down and felt for a pulse. He could not find
one, but he had little skill with such matters. The Durlin had more.

He looked up to call one over, but Taingern was already
striding toward
him
. The Durlin kneeled. With deft
movements he felt at
Aranloth’s
wrist
and neck.

Gilhain
knew that he
should have seen this coming. The lòhrens had no prop as did
the elùgroths. For them, there was no artifact such as Shurilgar’s staff. What
they did, they did by the power that was in them, and by the strength of their
will and the courage of their hearts. And Aranloth, oldest and greatest among
them, he who had given most for the longest, had perhaps finally given too
much.

Gilhain felt suddenly cold.

“Well?” he asked.

Taingern did not look at him, did not remove his intent gaze
from the lòhren.

“I don’t know. I thought I felt a pulse, but then it was
gone. Sometimes, it’s hard to find.”

Gilhain did not quite believe that. The Durlin had some
skill in healing. It was necessary, for they might have to help someone before
a
proper
healer could arrive.
There were times when battlefield medicine, the treatments given to a wounded
man while the blood spurted from him,
later
made the difference between life and death.
At
other
times
, if not done correctly, the
man was dead before help
arrived
at
all.

Gilhain bit his lip. Yet, he saw that Taingern had not
stopped feeling for a pulse, and that surely must be a good thing.

The king remained where he was. He took the lòhren’s hand,
the hand of his old friend. But beyond friendship there was this
also – the fate of
the
city
was bound to him. Without
Aranloth to lead
them
, the other lòhrens were no match
for the elùgroths. What hope for Cardoroth without him?

The sad music of Bragga Mor trailed away.

“Who
are
you?” Kareste asked.

“I’m a bard,” he replied, “A
wanderer. A
man without a home.”

Brand felt sorry for him. He guessed his origin, and if he was
right, there was reason for the man’s sadness. He sensed also that he had no
wish to talk about it.

“Where will you go now?” he asked. “You’ve made an enemy of
the witch.”

“She
would
not
be
the first. Yet, in this case, I’m in no danger. It’s the
staff she wants, and if the stories I know about it are true, I can see why.
She will follow you and not me. Though I would not care to cross paths with her
in the future.” The man sighed. “I’ll continue to wander, going wherever my
horse takes me.”

They did not spend long with Bragga Mor. He invited them to
eat with him, and they did, enjoying the roasted hare. In return, they gave him
some small supply of dried fruit and nuts. Their own provisions were getting
low, and Brand knew that soon he must begin to hunt or forage. That would not
be easy, and worse, it would take time. And time was something they had little
of.

“Know this,” Bragga Mor said when they parted. “The Shadow
is rising, but ever men contend with it. Even as it is here, so too is it in
other places. It never conquers unopposed.”

With those words he mounted his steed and rode slowly away.
Brand did not think they would meet again, which was a pity: he liked him. Yet
the ways of fate and fortune were mysterious,
and
he
sensed
,
for
no
reason
that
he
could
see
at
all
, but with confident certainty
nonetheless, that Bragga Mor had a vital part to play in the future of
Alithoras
.

“What chance brought him to us?” Kareste asked.

“Who knows, but it was a good chance, if chance it was.”

They mounted and rode out of the wood. There was no sign of
Durletha, but she would be about somewhere. She would attack them again, Brand
knew. Or, more disturbingly, she would set a trap for them. He must be on his
guard.

They kept the river close by on their right as they
travelled. Day by day it kept them company, for its constant gurgle and splash
was like a familiar companion. But they did not approach it too closely. Its
banks were lined by trees, and Brand preferred to stay in the open where no
ambush could be set.

The weather was
good
; the grass was
green and the sky a brilliant blue. Each day was such a day as made Brand glad
to be alive, for Alithoras was a beautiful land and he could never see too much
of it.

Where they travelled now was much like his homeland, only
here it was empty of
people
, and the lack of ploughed
fields and livestock seemed peculiar. But there was no lack of wildlife, and
some of it was strange to him. But he heard often the familiar sounds of
nudaluk
birds, and hares and foxes were everywhere. He saw no deer though, but feed was
plentiful at the moment. In winter, they would be drawn closer to the better
pastures on the river flats.

They stopped to camp one evening as dusk fell. It crept over
the land, and it brought peace with it, as it always did. This was Brand’s
favorite time of day, and there were few things better than working hard
through the daylight hours, and then laying down tools of an evening to enjoy
the peace and quiet and to contemplate the day’s achievements. But that was a
farmer’s life, not a warrior’s, and he saw no way that he would ever obtain
those simple pleasures that he longed for again.

They set up their camp with practiced efficiency, each
performing tasks by established routine, and then they sat down and talked.

Brand enjoyed these fireside
conversations
with her. During the day they were always in haste and their
minds were on finding a safe path forward. Also, she only seemed to truly come
alive in the evening. She was not a morning person as was he, and she seemed to
respond to starlight and night better than sun and blue skies.

Smoke curled lazily upward, soon lost in the dark heavens.
The burning timber shimmered with warmth. Coals formed, red-hot gledes that
glimmered like precious jewels. There was a
pop
, and
then
a
spray of
sparks
, and he realized,
quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly, that he was smitten by her. No sparkle of
any jewel was as precious to him as a fleeting glance from her eyes.

The realization took his breath away. He could imagine the
rest of his life with her. It was not hard to do so. But with a sinking feeling
he understood also that she had no such desire. She was caught up in her own
troubles at the moment, always deep in thought and of divided mind. She felt
for the Halathrin entrapped by sorcery, and a part of her wanted to fight to
free them. But another part was lured by the power in Shurilgar’s staff.
And
how
much of the
former
was a dissimilitude
of the latter, either her own or of the power in the staff?

He did not know which part of her was the strongest. And
there was a darkness in her past, too. She had never openly said as much, but
she sought power not just for the sake of it, not just to protect herself, but
to take revenge on elugs. Elugs had killed her family and destroyed the life
she once knew. And Shurilgar’s staff offered a means to wreak
dreadful
havoc upon them. She had no time for him, and she might yet
fall to the Shadow. If that happened she would be lost to him forever, and he
felt suddenly cold to the marrow of his bones. But he must give her the freedom
to choose, for without
temptation
there
was
no
certainty
of
choice.
Only
the
first
made
the
second
real.

The smoke
curled
into
the
starry
night,
otherworldly and elusive. All his hopes rode on the whims of a fate that he
could not see, just as invisible currents of air took the smoke.

He hoped the king could forgive him, if he was even still
alive. But life was one risk after another, one choice piled on top of endless decisions,
and if he risked Cardoroth he did so for good reason. Khamdar was right:
Kareste had it in her to be great. If she turned to the
Light
,
she could give Alithoras hope. At least, he wished so, just as he hoped that
those he respected most in the world would see things the way he saw them. But
he was no longer sure if his judgement was sound. Emotion clouded it.

He looked at Kareste and found that she was looking at him.

“Are we doing the right thing?” he asked. “Have I the right
to jeopardize a whole city?”

Kareste
seemed
taken
aback
by
the
question
.
“I don’t know,” she said at length. “Who is to say what’s right or wrong? But I
know this much at least – I’m most wary of anyone who
does
have all the answers.”

Brand suddenly grinned. “You’re dead right there.”

The fire popped and cracked. Kareste looked at him, one side
of her face lit
up
by
the
flames,
the other in shadow.

“Why so philosophical?” she asked.

“Aren’t I always?” he replied.

She raised an eyebrow. “Actually, most men claim to be, at
least when they’re talking to girls, but few are. You’re one of the few.”

He gave a little bow from where he sat, but did not answer.

“So,” she said. “While you’re in this mood, what’s the
meaning of life?”

It
was
his
turn
to be
taken
aback. “You might be
better
off asking Aranloth that.
He’s lived more of it than I have.”

“True. Maybe I
will
ask him one day, but
just
now
I’m asking you.”

He looked into the fire. It was dying down to embers. It
would not last, and suddenly it occurred to him that nothing ever did. His time
with Kareste would come to an end one day, just as this conversation would. The
only difference was the time it took. But time was a strange thing. The past
was hazy, the future clouded. The only time that counted was the here and now.
It was
a
somewhat
depressing thought, and then he thought that even depression
and joy were transient.

He smiled sadly. “I don’t know the meaning of life. I’m not
sure that there
is
one – unless we choose one for ourselves.”

“And what have you chosen?”

“
To
give
rather
than
to
take
. To
enjoy a
cold
drink
after
a
hard
day
’s
work.
To
follow it with a fine meal,
preferably cooked with food I’ve grown myself.
And
to
see
the
flashing
smile
of
a
girl
I
like
. Most of
all
,
to be kind. There’s not enough kindness in the world.”

She looked at him a long time. “Many would call that
simplistic.”

“I’m a simple man.”

She grinned at
him
suddenly. “Then
you’ve fooled me.”

“What do
you
think?” he asked. “What’s the meaning of
life?”

She looked away. “I don’t know, but I’ll think on what
you’ve said.”