Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (12 page)

Frescoes adorned the encircling walls in which
private alcoves were built and furnished with tables and chairs. Some, but not
many, were occupied. The large space beneath the dome contained aisles of
shelves stacked thickly with books.

“This way,” Aranloth said. His boots echoed loudly
between the stone floor and high ceiling while he led them to the back of the
room and to the last shelf, which held scrolls rather than books. They were ordered
according to the reign of Esgallien’s kings, and he read the dates and titles
carefully as he progressed.

He stopped suddenly. “This is the one I remember.”
He chose a scroll rolled in a ribbon of crimson cloth that had once been bright
but was now faded.

The lòhren led them to a table in the nearest
alcove. Light entered from a small window covered by translucent alabaster, but
he lit a lamp as well. He gently undid the ribbon and slowly unrolled the
scroll on the table. The script was small and tightly written, the once red ink
brown with age, the parchment brittle and the language archaic.

Aranloth looked it over. “It’s headed
Battle of
the Tor,
” he said. “This is a copy of the original, which was written in
the seventh year of King Danhain’s reign, the fifty-seventh since the founding
of the city. The first part summarizes events of that year.”

He skimmed through it, telling them the important
parts. “Elugs had gathered in large numbers and tested the ford. They were
repeatedly repelled. The Raithlin were withdrawn from Galenthern and additional
regiments of the army sent to stiffen the defense. The testing continued
through spring and into summer.”

Aranloth skipped over much description and began
again. “Danhain determined to end the harassment and enforce his authority on
the region. He intended to show that the newly founded city was secure by
inflicting a heavy defeat on the enemy. He led twelve thousand onto the plains
against an estimated army of ten thousand.”

Aranloth read silently for a while, and then spoke
again. “Danhain wanted to force a battle, but the elugs retreated. Eventually
he drew them into combat south of a landmark the Raithlin called the Tor. To
the west lay a swamp and on the east flank a forested area.”

Lanrik guessed this was very close, perhaps even the
same spot, where he penetrated the elug army in his own time.

Aranloth went on. “Danhain considered subsequent
events noteworthy enough to personally record his actions. What follows is a
transcript in his own words.”

I,
Danhain, grandsonne of Conhain, sonne of Condred, Kyng of Esgallyen, write
these words in the seven and fiftieth year after the Founding.

This
summer marauding elugs harried the realme; bolde herdsmen and hunters who had
made Galenthern home returned, and the people were afeared of a breaching of
the ford.

I
levied an army to punish the foe and teache them awe of Esgallyen.
Many dayes we marched across
Galenthern, receiving word from the Raithlin, that olde and illustrious order,
about the movements of the enemie that ever retreated. On the sixth afternoon
tidings came that they were nearer than their wont, and by marching during the
night we reached them at dawn.

The
enemie showed chagrin but did not decamp. Neither host had an advantage of
terrain. Esgallyen had superiority of numbers, yet were weary. Thusly balanced,
we faced each other.

I
attacked.  Elugs, with much beating of drums and stamping of iron-shod boots,
advanced to meet us. The clash commenced with great cacophony; men's voices
were raised in battle cry, and foule was the cursing of the foe. Dust rose in
the air; the sky grew dimme; the enemie faltered and fell back.

As
it is in lyf so also it is in warr: timing is all. Orders I gave, and men
followed to prevent the enemie regrouping. A route ensued and they were
destroyed. The remnant fled, yet one rider, proud and fearless, returned. He
drew no weapon, and the soldiers suffered his approach. It was the shazrahad,
coifed in crimson, and I thought a challenge would ensue. He dismounted, and
though I was ready for him, he madeth no strike; neither did he showeth
discomfort, alone amid our multitude. He sat himselfe down, at ease in the
cross-legged fashion of southern men, and gestured me to join him.

“It
was a good battle.”

“So
it was,” said I.

“Thou
hast wonne peace for a time.”

“That
was our purpose,” said I, “but for peace or battle we are prepared.”

He
smiled grimly. “Peace is not fated, and yet it will prevaileth for a while.
Know, however, that we shall return. Though sesouns wax and wane, though yeares
passe, though those of thy line yet unbirthed sire kings themselves.”

He
wore a great sword and drew it slowly. It shimmered as do the Halathrin blades;
a red jewel throbbed on its pommel, and strange script glittered on its blade.

“This
is an embodiment of prophecye. It was made for whosoever of my people becomes
Hakalakadan: sovereign of nations, king upon kings, ruler of the olde lands of
our fathers and the new realmes of the conquered North.”

He
trembled in a great passion before lowering his head. “I know now that I am not
the Hakalakadan; I am but one of many who will hold the sword for a time.
Others will bear it until the prophecye is fulfilled.”

Hearing
his words I took counsel of myself. Both man and blade alike were now in mine
authority, and I bethought to break the prophecye. Yet even for the protection
of Esgallyen it would be an ill deed to so treat a man who came free-willed to
my presence.

I
bowed and let him go, but he had read my thoughts and smiled fiercely.

“The
prophecye says also that if ever a kyng of the North should hold the blade the
dayes of his lyf will runeth short, and the ruination of his realme shall
swiftly follow.”

He
sprang upon his horse and could have run me down but laughed and rode until
Galenthern swallowed him.

Hear
now all and one, people of Esgallyen and kyngs yet to be; the sword will
return, though different hand wield it. Beware!

Aranloth stopped speaking, lost in thought, then
stirred. “So that’s it. The word Hakalakadan is a title and not a name. Do you
realize as well that while the Azan don’t have the sword they’ll believe it
impossible to conquer the north?”

Lanrik nodded. “I understand, but is it really the
same sword.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Aranloth said. “Yet still
I would know what the other scripts say. There’s more to this yet.”

 Lanrik’s hand dropped to the hilt of the blade.
“It’s hard to believe this is the same sword that Danhain saw all those years
ago.”

“The very same,” Aranloth said. “The Azan will
suffer a lack of confidence and drive now, but they will also do anything to
regain the sword.”

“What can they do from beyond the river?” asked
Lanrik.

“Nothing,” Aranloth said. “Not themselves anyway,
but there are other powers in the world. Anyway, that’s all the time we can spare
the matter until we come to Lòrenta and decipher the remaining scripts.”

Aranloth rolled and retied the scroll, returning it
to the shelf.

“Guard the blade well – especially from Murhain,” he
said. “Some prophecies are nonsense and some come true. I fear to put this one
to the test.”

They left the building, untied their horses and rode
off. Lanrik saw a half dozen of the Royal Guard loitering nearby. He thought
they should have been with the king but paid them no further heed.

Lanrik looked back one last time at the city. It had
been his home, the home of his parents who were buried there, the home of his
ancestors, some of whom had died in battle while defending it. There were other
cities, other places, even other homes: but there would never be another
Esgallien.

The Raithlin and Esgallien were all he knew; yet the
first had been taken from him, and he was leaving the second in the knowledge
that he might never return.

The future was hidden. He had little idea what would
happen on their quest, and even less of what may occur after that, but at least
he was enjoying the company. That he liked Erlissa he knew, though how deep
that would eventually go he was not yet sure. He was also beginning to like
Aranloth.

He was travelling with them, going to places he had
never been before, and the urge to explore that had once driven his steps over
the plains and swamps of Galenthern woke in him again. He yearned to discover
Alithoras, to cross its bright rivers, see its snow-topped mountains and dark
forests, to walk among its people and experience new ways of life.

He was about to turn away when he saw six riders
emerge from Gold Gate. They were Royal Guards, no doubt the same that he had
seen in Conhain Court, and suspicion gripped him. He was about to say
something, but Aranloth beat him to it.

“I see them. They were outside the City Archive as
well. Murhain has sent them for the sword.”

Lanrik let his breath out loudly. “I expected better
from a king.”

“Kings are people too,” the lòhren said with a
shrug. “There are some that are bad, some good, and many mixed. Murhain belongs
to the bad. He’ll stop at nothing to get the sword,
but he must not have it.
”

“Not only did you deny him the sword,” added
Erlissa, “you made him look foolish too, and he’ll hate you for that.”

 Aranloth nodded. “We should go. They’re not likely
to try anything in daylight so close to the city, but we’d better keep ahead.
Come nightfall, when they expect us to camp, we’ll ride hard and put them
behind us.”

They continued along the road. It was wide and well
made, the middle raised slightly so that the sloping sides drained water. It
was covered in turf and good for riding. It could accommodate the army for a
swift march to protect Esgallien’s interests in Caladhrist, but all that it had
ever been used for was to supply the miners with food and equipment, the return
of gold laden wagons, and the traffic of farmers and merchants.

Villas lined the roadside once more, but the soil
here was less suitable for vines, and there were horse studs instead that bred
stock for the races in the Haranast. Esgallien Creek ran through this area; the
gold was long since gone, and its flats were cultivated to pasture and
deep-rooted legumes.

The road crossed the creek via a stone bridge. It
was old, built in the early days of the kingdom, but it was solid and secure.
It had survived many floods, and so too had the inn beside it, which was as far
north of Esgallien as Lanrik had ever been.

The inn was famous for two reasons. Firstly, the ale
was reputed to be the best in Esgallien, a claim that he was willing to
support, and secondly, it was said that Danhain had met his wife here. Rhodmai,
who had once poured beers for weary travelers, had become queen of Esgallien
and after her husband’s death ruled wisely for nearly two decades, living to
the age of one hundred and one. During that time many of the finest buildings
of the city were constructed, and peace and prosperity abounded. The story went
that she never forgot her roots and returned to the inn to die. The people
loved her, and even today flowers were left at her statue in Conhain Court.

Lanrik kept a surreptitious watch on the Royal
Guard, but they did not attempt to catch up. Aranloth was right; they would
wait until nightfall, but that was not far away. The sun was low on the
horizon, and long shadows from trees to the left spilled across the road.

“They’ll get suspicious if we don’t set up a camp
before dark,” Lanrik said.

Aranloth rubbed his chin. “But if we stop they’ll
draw level with us.”

Lanrik made a noise of disgust. “There’s nothing for
it except to keep going, but we’ll have to look casual.”

Erlissa looked over at them. “You both worry too
much. At the end of the day, we have a lead and good horses. If it comes to a
race, we should be able to out distance them.”

Aranloth smiled. “I haven’t lived a long time
without worrying about these kinds of things, but there’s truth to what you
say.”

The thought of a pursuit prompted Lanrik to ask a
question.

“How far is it to Lòrenta?”

The lòhren considered for a moment.

“It’s over a hundred leagues as the bird flies,
that’s a journey of two weeks – but we must travel a longer road. The sorcery
the elùgroths will use to draw Lòrenta into the spirit world will be a barrier
between life and death itself. To pass, we’ll need something special.”

Erlissa spoke coolly. “I didn’t think it would be as
simple as you made out earlier. What will we need, and what danger will there
be in obtaining it?”

Aranloth shrugged. “The mistletoe plant has long
been associated with the threshold between worlds. We must retrieve three
berries, but not any mistletoe will do. There are oak groves in the hills of
Enorìen that were ancient before the Halathrin came to Alithoras. Ùhrengai is
potent there; the old magic, the magic of the making. Eating one each will
allow our physical bodies to enter the spirit world, for a time, without harm.”

“I see,” Erlissa said. “But mistletoe berries are
poisonous. I don’t suppose these will be any different?”

Aranloth inclined his head. “These are far more
potent and poisonous than the ordinary variety. Yet one berry is safe enough,
so long as it’s picked in the middle of the night beneath the first rays of the
rising half moon. Otherwise, it’s deadly. So too is eating one but not crossing
into the spirit world.”

“I’ve heard of Enorìen,” Lanrik said. “It’s said to
be a special place, but why is that so?”

“The hills are as the world once was,” the lòhren
answered. “People do not dwell there, nor do travelers or hunters journey to
it. The hills are covered by pathless forests that have never felt the bite of
an axe or heard the hiss of a flighted arrow. It’s a remnant of Alithoras from
a time before Halathrin or man, and unweakened ùhrengai flows in its primordial
waters, rises in the slow sap of its trees and shines in the bright eyes of the
animals that roam its dark tracts.”

Erlissa looked at him levelly. “You make no mention
of the Guardian.”

Aranloth shrugged once more. “There is a Guardian as
you say. A primeval creature, a being of ùhrengai. The Guardian keeps Enorìen
the way it is, otherwise men would long since have settled there and the
ùhrengai been diminished. Guardians aren’t dangerous, nor are they safe, but
the lòhrens have had dealings with them before.”

The long shadows deepened as they talked. Stars
glimmered faintly in the darkening sky, and dusk crept over the land. Lanrik
glanced back and saw the Royal Guard were still following. Looking ahead, he
saw a rise crowned on both sides of the road with trees. Night fell as they
reached it, and in the last moments of half-light he dismounted and asked the
others to do likewise. It would give the impression that they had stopped to
camp.

“Will it fool them?” asked Erlissa.

Lanrik ran a hand through his hair “For a while,
maybe. They have no reason to think that we’re aware of them. They’ll give us a
few hours to eat and go to sleep before they approach. They may outnumber us,
but no one in the Royal Guard got there by being foolish. They’ll try to take
us by surprise – it’s safer that way.”

It was now dark, and they wanted to rest but could
not. They mounted once more and moved off at a slow trot. When they were sure
the sound of the horses would not carry they kicked them into a run, wanting to
get far ahead. Once the camp was found to be deserted their pursuers would know
their mission had been understood, and the real chase would begin.

Aranloth led them, his roan took great strides, and
his robes flew behind. The alar horses followed, smaller but surer of their
footing, and they showed no signs of tiring. Lanrik began to feel that they
could run all night if they had to, and though the roan was a fine horse, the
alar had speed and endurance beyond it, or any other horses he had seen.

The stars wheeled in the sky; the air grew still and
cool, and dew began to settle over the grass. The night grew old and was quiet
except for the regular thud of hooves on turf. Bright Halathgar, the
constellation of the Lost Huntress, crept over the eastern horizon and glimmered
along their path.

Erlissa rode beside Lanrik, her black hair one with
the night-shadows, and her face hidden except for the flashes of the whites of
her eyes as she smiled at him in the dark. She at least did not fear pursuit;
she worried about nothing and planned for nothing; she was just the opposite of
how Lanrik knew himself to be. Yet he had a sense of her wild joy and realized
that he did not want to part from her after the quest was done.

Clouds eventually scudded across the sky, and they
drew to a halt. There was no sign of their pursuers, and they moved off the
road into a grove of trees. They rubbed the horses down and ate a cold meal of
bread and dried meat. Then they settled themselves as comfortably as they could
and slept. Lanrik wondered if they should set a watch, but the Royal Guard
would not have been able to keep pace even if they had followed at once.

It was after dawn when he woke. Erlissa was still
asleep nearby, her hair tousled, and her head resting on one arm. Aranloth was
awake and had been busy. He had collected tinder and started a small fire over
which he was heating water. The canopy of trees dispersed the smoke.

The lòhren looked in his direction. “Nothing like a
warm breakfast to start the day.”

Lanrik could not agree more. “Warm breakfasts are
the Raithlin’s delight,” he said. Over the years he had eaten more cold and
quick meals before the sun had risen than he cared to remember.

He glanced at Erlissa and found that she was awake
and looking at him, her eyes were large and dark, but her expression
unfathomable. She sat up, yawned, and ran her hand through her hair and frowned
with dissatisfaction at what she found. She muttered something that Lanrik did
not catch.

They ate their meal within the cool dark of the
trees. The road beyond remained quiet; the only movement was of a nuthatch
working its way down a nearby trunk in search of insects with its
characteristic head-first approach.

When they were done they checked over the horses. 
None of them showed signs of soreness or injury from the long ride, and they
saddled them and moved into the open. The sun was bright, the day was clear,
and the turf on the road, though still wet with dew, was springy and fresh. It
was a good time to ride, and they would make sure they left the Royal Guard
well behind.

They started slow, allowing the horses to warm up,
then increased the pace. The countryside around them was changing. The villas
of the wealthy were now gone; only farmsteads remained, and those were becoming
infrequent and separated by thick tracts of forest. The land was rising into
downs, and the ground was rockier, no longer the chalky soil of Galenthern, and
the stands of beech that he was used to were replaced by oak.

It was a new type of county for him. He must find a
new way of life, too, but what direction should he take? Nothing stood out. The
skills he had were not useful except to the Raithlin. Had he wasted his life
learning them?

Erlissa rode beside him and looked over.

“What’s the matter, Lan,” she asked.

He did not like telling people his problems, but
there was something about her easygoing manner that encouraged it.

“I’m worried about what I’m going to do when this is
over. The other cities have scouts, I guess, but they’re not Raithlin, and I
don’t have the training for anything else.”

Erlissa shrugged. “Something will turn up. You’re
young and determined and could be successful at any number of things.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “I think you already
know that. What bothers you isn’t the future but the past. You feel it’s a
shame to let your skills and the traditions of the Raithlin go to waste.”

Lanrik pondered her statement.

Erlissa smiled. “I’m getting to know how you think,
but tell me this; do you still believe in the Raithlin creed?”

He did not hesitate. “Of course.”

He remembered the words he had spoken over Lathmai’s
cairn. The creed was widely known throughout Esgallien and beyond. He must have
said it thousands of times, and he repeated the words once more.

Our duty is to
serve and protect

Our honor is to
fight but not hate

Our love is for all
that is good in the world

“It’s curious,” Lathmai said, “but there’s nothing
there about the Raithlin skills. There’s nothing about how to track or throw a
knife. Instead, what’s valued is a way of life. The creed is a code to live by;
you can uphold the Raithlin values in everything you do in the future.”

Lanrik sighed. He knew she was right, but it would
not be the same. “I’ll think on it,” he said. “And thank you.”

She gave him a smile.

They rode all that day, and there was no sign of
pursuit. The road was a lonely strip of civilization in the wilderness,
travelled by few this far away from the city, but they still saw the occasional
farmer who preferred to live in the wild and drive fattened cattle into
Esgallien once a year.