Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (18 page)

Lanrik raced to the fire and kicked away the branch
he had put in it earlier, and then dropped the sword and kneeled. He used his
hands to frantically fling dirt over the flame.

The fire sputtered and went out. Ebona screamed and
turned toward him. She flung out her long arms, but her image turned to smoke
and drifted apart in the air.

Lanrik tried to stop himself from shaking. “Did I
kill her?”

“No, but destroying her image will have caused her
pain.” Aranloth slowly lowered his staff. “If she was your enemy before, she is
doubly so now.”

Erlissa came to stand beside the lòhren. “What’s
going on?”

Lanrik told her what had happened.

“Could she really have hurt us?”

“I don’t think she could have done anything,”
Aranloth said. “Her power has grown greatly since last I saw her though.”

“What
is
the history between you?” Erlissa
asked.

The lòhren shrugged. “Ebona was once a power in the
world. She wished to maintain authority over the tribes that worshipped her,
but Alithoras had other needs, and I broke her influence.”

“When was that?” Lanrik asked.

“A long time ago,” the lòhren said. “What matters
now is that she has found us. I should be able to prevent her from entering our
camp again, but she will soon put Mecklar and the others on our trail.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it tonight,” Erlissa
said. “We need rest, and so do the horses. I suggest you both get some sleep.
I’ll keep watch until dawn.”

Lanrik knew she was right, and the lòhren’s
expression showed he was done talking, so he lay down and made himself
comfortable. He ensured his sword was close to hand and drifted to sleep with
his fingers curled around its hilt.

****

The next few days of travel passed without incident,
and whatever steps Aranloth took to ward off Ebona worked. He was withdrawn and
tired though, even more so than could be accounted for by the six days of hard
riding since he had harvested the mistletoe berries.

The effort had been worth it, however. The fork
where the River Erenian split from the Carist Nien was now before them, and
they had crossed a great stretch of land that had separated them from Lòrenta.

Ahead, there was an immense escarpment. It was a
steep ridgeline of ragged cliffs and stone buttresses, barren of vegetation
except for dwarfed bushes that clung to life against wind and sun.

The two rivers were visible to either side. So too
was the beginning of the Angle, and at its center where the rivers diverged was
a great waterfall a quarter of a mile wide that cascaded over the escarpment
with a roar and spume of white water.

Lanrik looked at Aranloth. “Are you
sure
there's a way to the top?”

“I know this land as you know Esgallien,” the lòhren
answered. “I’ve explored every nook and cranny, witnessed every splendor and
danger, trod every path. There is a way.”

They continued, and the two rivers hemmed them in.
Each had their source from a lake below the waterfall that churned and frothed
perpetually. At its center was an island, all shattered rock and tumbled
boulder that was cluttered by flood-deposited driftwood. A many-arched bridge
of ancient stone spanned the roiling water toward it.

Aranloth dismounted and hand-led the roan onto the
bridge. Lanrik and Erlissa followed suit. It was wide enough for them to ride,
but the roar and swirling spray from the waterfall made the horses skittish.

Lanrik looked closely at the slick stone beneath his
feet. It was rutted and crumbled like the ruins in Alonin, and he guessed it
had been constructed before the founding of Esgallien.

They reached the other side and stepped onto the
island. His tracker’s eyes noticed heel marks from a boot in the gravel, and he
realized that someone had been here recently. The land was isolated, and he had
a sudden idea who it must be.

He drew his sword. Even as the blade cleared its
scabbard he saw two Royal Guards, weapons drawn, break from a pile of
sun-bleached timber to his left. They raced toward Erlissa. At the same time,
Mecklar and Gwalchmur emerged from behind broken statuary to the right and
closed on Aranloth.

The shazrahad blade sang to him, and the urge to
fulfil his promise to Lathmai raged to life. He would kill Gwalchmur for all
the things he had done. He stepped toward his enemy and then halted, caught by
indecision.
What about Erlissa?

Lanrik spun around and stepped between Erlissa and
the guards who rushed toward her. He thought of his throwing knives but wanted
to use the shazrahad sword. It leapt like a tongue of flame in his hand, and
its power ran through him.

The first guard slashed wildly. Lanrik stepped back
half a pace and allowed the blade to pass without attempting to block it. Just
as its tip went by, he lunged and drove his sword into the soldier’s
unprotected armpit. The guard jerked away and staggered, then rolled to the ground
and screamed. His part in the fight was over, though the wound would not kill
quickly. Lanrik paid him no further heed and concentrated on his remaining
opponent.

The second guard approached more warily. He wove the
tip of his blade in figure eights, and Lanrik noticed he was allowing his
defense to drop just a little too low. It was a ploy to encourage a high attack
that he would be ready for, and practiced at countering.

Lanrik obliged and slashed toward his opponent’s
neck. The guard dropped to one knee and prepared to thrust upward, but Lanrik
was already changing the direction of his stroke, and his blade hammered down.
Its edge struck between helm and mail coat, and bright blood spurted from a
severed neck artery.

Lanrik wasted no more thought on the guards. He
turned, wild-eyed, toward his true enemies: Gwalchmur and Mecklar. But Aranloth
had done something unexpected. He had used lòhrengai to gather the water spray
that flurried across the island and hurled it at his attackers with concentrated
force.

“Ride!” he yelled.

Erlissa mounted and followed the lòhren. The hooves
of their horses clattered over the rocky ground, but Lanrik hesitated. The
driving spray flew like daggers into their enemies. Mecklar struggled to stand
while Gwalchmur turned and fled.

Erlissa drew level with Lanrik. “Ride!” she yelled.

He was caught by indecision once more. He must
fulfil his promise to Lathmai: Gwalchmur must die, and Mecklar with him. But
Erlissa was already riding away, perhaps into danger, and he had to help her.
The warmth of the lòhrengai in the sword infused his body, but he slammed it
home in its sheath. He followed Erlissa, suddenly cold to the marrow of his
bones.

The island ran parallel to the waterfall, and it
took them several minutes to reach its further end. When they did so Aranloth
took them quickly onto another bridge that arched over the churning water. They
crossed, and the howling wind of lòhrengai and water faltered, which allowed
their enemies to mount and pursue them.

To the left of the bridge, the great falls thundered
in their ears, and Aranloth urgently waved them on. Ahead, a steep ravine led
to the top of the escarpment. It was hard to see through the spray of water
that clouded its opening and the dark shadows of its interior. Yet, as their
eyes adjusted, they saw it was narrow and treacherous with scree and unstable
boulders. A ledge was cut into the buttressed cliffs on the left side, and
Lanrik repressed a shudder at the thought of the climb ahead. It ran
arrow-straight to the top of the escarpment above a deadly drop to the broken
rocks below.

Aranloth reached the end of the bridge and
dismounted.

“One at a time!” he yelled.

Lanrik let the lòhren and Erlissa go first. He
walked slowly behind them and spoke calm words to his alar stallion. Words that
he did not feel himself. He steadfastly refused to look at the ever-increasing
drop to his right, and he hugged close to the wall. He forced himself on and
was a little relieved as they progressed, for the overwhelming noise of the falls
diminished as the rushing water passed out of sight behind the edge of the
escarpment. Mecklar and Gwalchmur were coming into view though. They had
reached the ledge and dismounted.

“They’re following!” Lanrik cried.

Aranloth yelled over his shoulder. “Quickly! There’s
a place ahead where the ledge widens into a recess. We may have to turn and
face them.”

They moved on in a slow but deadly race. Their
pursuers showed less care, or less fear for their lives, and gained.

To the right, on the cliffs of the opposite side of
the ravine, was a series of giant carvings hundreds of feet high. Time and
weather had blunted and cracked the images, but they were perhaps more powerful
for the aura of antiquity upon them.

There were groups of farmers who worked together in
unison to harvest wheat with sickle-shaped blades before they threshed the
chaff from the grain. Some of the seed was stored in underground silos, and the
rest ground to flour in stone querns turned by oxen.

Hunters with long spears, tall and aloof, left a
village with their heads bent in the search for the spoor of game animals.
There were miners with long-handled picks and shovels, smiths and masons,
dancers and storytellers. And there were warriors too: hard looking men in
leather armor with round shields and short swords. At the end of the long
procession was what must have been a king and queen. They were stern and
fearful to look upon, and there was an edge of cruelty in their stony glance.
They wore no crowns; instead, great diadems encircled their brows.

Lanrik was amazed at the artisanship, and had never
seen anything like it before. It was not as refined as the stonework in
Esgallien, but the scale of the achievement was stupendous. It must have taken
decades, even hundreds of years, to carve it all into the hard rock. And it
would have been dangerous work too. Men must have sometimes fallen to their
deaths on the jagged teeth of stone below, and he shuddered at the thought. He
took his gaze away from the carvings and concentrated on looking ahead and just
placing one foot in front of the other.

The ledge rose higher above the floor of the ravine,
and his stomach churned with cold fear that seeped into his limbs. He was
scared of heights, but Aranloth and Erlissa were not so afflicted. They drew
ahead as the minutes passed and turned and waited for him when they reached the
recess.

He was embarrassed when he got there.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m no good with heights.”

Aranloth placed a hand on his shoulder. “Think
nothing of it. I’ve met many brave men in my time. They all feared something.
Only the stupid are without it.”

The lòhren turned and intensely studied the wall of
the ledge where it joined the recess.

Mecklar was not far away, and Gwalchmur was close
behind him. Lanrik looked out beyond them both. He had a better view of things
now. The Angle was visible between the two silver bands of river that formed
its sides. Between was a green and fertile land that rose to a gentle-sloped
hill near the middle. It seemed to him that there were buildings on it, all
over its crest and far down its sides. They appeared toppled and broken, but it
was too far away to be sure. He guessed that it was the city of the people who
had built the ledge on which he now stood and carved the great figures opposite.
He could not help but wonder what it was all for, and what had happened to
them.

Mecklar and Gwalchmur were coming closer, and he
drew the shazrahad sword. At last he would get the chance to kill his enemies
and avenge Lathmai. Something about Mecklar disturbed him though. As he
advanced, Lanrik had the momentary feeling that it was actually Ebona
approaching. Her image seemed to flicker over Mecklar’s features, and the
king’s counsellor paused, a contorted expression on his face. Suddenly he stretched
out a stiff arm, and blood-red fire spurted from his fingers toward Aranloth.

Lanrik had no time for thought. He lifted his sword
and stepped in front of the distracted lòhren. The warmth of the blade filled
him, and he no longer feared either falling or the enemy.

The streaking fire blinded him, but he felt it drawn
to the blade and the lòhrengai within surge in response. Both powers gathered
and roiled at the tip of the blade. He thrust it forward instinctively, and
white flame shot through with red arced like a bolt of lightning at Mecklar.

The image of Ebona flung up an arm in defense, but
Mecklar was nevertheless knocked off his feet and into Gwalchmur. They both
went sprawling dangerously on the ledge.

“Back!” cried Aranloth.

Lanrik reluctantly retreated into the recess. The
lòhren had decided what to do, and he raised his oaken staff and struck its tip
into the stone overarching the path. Lòhrengai erupted, and with a groan and
sudden crack the stone shattered, and Aranloth leapt back.

With a deep boom that echoed throughout the ravine a
huge mass of rubble slid down. Some of it plummeted into the chasm and
clattered far below, but the ledge was blocked.

Aranloth wiped stone dust from his face and looked
at Lanrik.

“Thank you!” he said. “I knew Ebona’s influence was
growing on Mecklar, but I didn’t expect that attack. If not for you, I might
have been killed.”

Lanrik grinned at him. “You saved me from the hounds
of the otherworld. Let’s call ourselves even.”

“What now?” asked Erlissa.

Aranloth studied the destruction he had caused. He
seemed almost remorseful.

“There’s no chance of them getting through for a
while,” he said. “They’ll have to move the rubble piece by piece and with great
care or more will pile down on them. Either that or they’ll go back and try the
ravine. There’s a way, even if it’s dangerous and slow. We can have a short
rest, but this is no place to linger.”

Lanrik sheathed his sword. He quickly stepped away
from the ledge and began to look about him for the first time. The recess they
stood on was a large half moon shape, perhaps forty feet long and just as deep
at its furthest point. In the center was a squat and ugly stone. It was as tall
as a man, and wider than it was high. Each of its four faces was inscribed with
strange writing.

He went over to look, and Erlissa went with him.
Aranloth, subdued, trailed behind.

The marks on the stone were odd. They were a series
of slashes, dots, and half circles, obviously some kind of script, though it
was different from anything in Esgallien or any document written in Halathrin
that he had ever looked at.

“Have you ever seen its like before?” asked Lanrik.

Erlissa shook her head. “Never.”

He turned to the lòhren. “What about you?”

“I’ve seen it before,” Aranloth said shortly. “There’s
more of it in other lands too.”

Lanrik looked back at the stone. It was ancient and
had a brooding presence.

“What does it say? Who made it?”

The lòhren appeared reluctant to answer, but at last
he let out a long breath and spoke.

“It’s the writing of that same race of people who
first mined Caladhrist. The stone is very old. The gap between now and the
founding of Esgallien is but a tenth of the time since this place was last
used. The Halathrin named those people the Letharn, the Stone Raisers, or
sometimes just Arn, the builders. An apt name, but even the Halathrin, gifted
with tongues, have never been able to translate the writing on the stone.”

Erlissa tilted her head in thought. “But
you
know what it says.” She stated it as a fact.

Aranloth shrugged.

“Tell us,” she insisted.

The lòhren looked at her with a pained expression.

“It’s better that some things are forgotten.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“I’ll tell you this,” he said. “The whole area
around us was a place of worship and ceremony. The island, the ledge and the
carving. It’s also a place of death. The writing on the stone marks it as such,
and where we stand on this recess, and the tunnel beyond, is at its very
heart.”

Lanrik had not even noticed the tunnel, but when he
looked in the shadows of the far wall he saw what at first he took to be the
mouth of a cave. Looking closer, he realized Aranloth was right; it was man
made. It was buttressed with slabs of stone, and the lintel was inscribed with
the same curious writing. Now that his attention was on it, he thought he could
detect a faint odor of decay drifting from the black entrance.

“What does the writing above the tunnel say?” asked
Erlissa.

Aranloth did not look at it. He appeared lost in
thought, but when he spoke his voice was assured, though reverent.

Attend! We who mastered the world are become
dust. We possessed the wealth of nations. Gold adorned our hands; priceless
jewels our brows; bright were our swords. The world shuddered when we marched!
Now, our glory lies unheeded in the dark of the tomb. Servants mutter secret
words as they walk the hidden ways. Death and despair take all others!

“That’s charming,” Lanrik said.

Erlissa slowly shook her head. “Don’t make light of
it, Lan.”

“Death and despair take all others? It’s an empty
threat,” he said. “Any riches would have been stolen long ago.”

Erlissa looked at the entrance and quickly averted
her gaze.

“The words aren’t empty. Can’t you feel it? There’s
something inside. It hates the living and it kills them if it can.”

Lanrik shrugged and looked at Aranloth. “What of the
Halathrin? I bet they entered and found whatever treasure there was.”

Aranloth was still subdued and leaned tiredly on his
staff.

“Yes. A group of them once entered. And they found
riches undreamed of.”

Erlissa looked at him carefully. “But did they
return?”

He closed his eyes. “No. Their bodies still lie
within.”

The lòhren suddenly turned away and walked to the
horses. “We’ve rested enough. Now we’ll have to make good time. Our enemies
will either clear the road or find another way up the escarpment. Either way,
we won’t have much of a lead.”

Erlissa turned back to Lanrik and placed a hand on
his shoulder. “The tunnel is a place of death,” she said. “Promise me
something?”