Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series (8 page)

Erlissa raised a hand to shade her eyes from the
sun.

“Who would have ever guessed this existed?”

“It makes for quite a change,” Lanrik said. “Swamps
are made out to be horrible places but really they’re full of life.”

Erlissa looked at him. “It still smells disgusting.”

Lanrik laughed. “There’s no getting around that.”

A flight of ducks arrowed over the tops of the
trees, and then flew low over the water before landing.

“How can there be a lake and grassland in the middle
of a swamp?” Erlissa asked.

Lanrik shrugged. “The way I understand it is that
Galenthern, however level it appears from a distance, is covered with folds and
undulations. Some areas are low enough to expose a different type of soil. It’s
dark clay, and water percolates through the earth for many miles around to feed
the swamp and fill the deeper lake. The grassland itself is a little higher and
the aurochs probably formed it. They’re destructive animals, always pulling
down leaves from low branches, rubbing saplings and grazing seedlings. Over a
long period they can turn forest into pasture.”

Erlissa pointed to the grassland. “Is that where
we’re going?”

“Yes,” Lanrik said. “And we’d better do so now, for
the Azan are close behind.”

They moved into the open and picked their way across
the grass. The ground was damp, but not muddy, and they were careful to avoid
the more suspect areas. For the first time since entering the swamp they rode,
though slowly and with care.

The deer had long since disappeared into the
surrounding trees, and as they approached halfway across the little plain the
aurochs moved with much noise and backward looks into the fringe.

Lanrik veered toward the lake. He dismounted and
handed the water flask to Erlissa who took several small sips and returned it.
It was nearly empty. He waded out as far as he dared to reach clear water.

“This is the cleanest, but still dangerous. Later on
I’ll filter it through sand or charcoal to make it safe.”

When he was done they watered the horses. They
mounted again and Erlissa drew in a sharp breath.

“They’ve come,” she said.

He saw them. They were mounted, the shazrahad in the
lead, his scarlet headdress bright against the green of the trees under which
they momentarily rested.

Lanrik smiled grimly. “Not all of them.”

Five riders, with their spare horses, watched them
bitterly from the eaves of the trees; mud spattered, bedraggled and weary as
only travel through swampland can make man or beast. Of the sixth, there was no
sign: the swamp had taken him.

The pursuit began in earnest. The shazrahad was
close to his enemy, his redemption near to hand, but he had learned caution in
the last day. He led the Azan onto the grass, but did not gallop as the rash or
foolish would. He took his time, choosing his way with care, and followed his
prey with determination whetted by frustrated desire.

Lanrik and Erlissa moved on and did not look back;
that would only waste time. With as much speed as they dared, they moved toward
the end of the lake where there was a large area of rushes.

The rushes were the haunt of black adders. The
snakes, thick and fat, lay on the narrow paths that wound between tall stems.
They basked in the sun and were slow to move even when Lanrik, now on foot and
leading his mount once more, stamped the ground. The horses were nervous with
fear.

They continued. The rushes gave way to trees again,
and once more they walked in the half-light of the swamp forest. In places,
slime-covered water submerged the path for many paces at a time, though the
ground underneath was solid.

Lanrik picked their way carefully, first choosing
one path and then another, switching as often as he could. Some tracks remained
for the Azan to follow, but it would slow their pursuit.

It grew warm and sticky as the day passed. The
sounds of the Azan reached them regularly as they struggled on. They were close
behind, but no matter how hard they pushed, they could not quite reach their
prey.

Late in the afternoon the swamp changed. The paths
and trees faded, and they came to a flat area covered with ankle deep water and
vegetation just reaching above the surface.

“This is it,” Lanrik said. “The corpse the Halathrin
found was here. It’s called Dead Man’s Flat.”

“Then we’re trapped,” Erlissa said. “It’s too
dangerous to walk over that.”

Lanrik did not take his eyes off it. “There’s a way
forward,” he said. “The Azan won’t follow, or at least they’ll soon give up if
they do.”

He looked at Erlissa and saw doubt for the first
time. “I’ll not lie,” he said. “It’s dangerous, and yet there’s a way for those
who know. The soil here is of different types, some the dark clay of the swamp,
and some the chalky rock of Galenthern. To traverse the clay is to sink into
oblivion, but you can walk on the rest – with care.”

“How do you know which is which?”

“Look, and tell me what you see?” he asked.

Erlissa studied the flats and a frown appeared on
her face. “It all looks the same to me.”

Lanrik chuckled. “Let’s hope the Azan think so too.
But however it looks, as the soil varies, so does the vegetation. Some plants
prefer the black mud, others the chalky soil.”

 Erlissa looked at the flats once more. “That’s so
simple, and yet so hard to see.”

“The Halathrin are skilled observers of nature. It
was they who long ago gave the Raithlin the secret of crossing Dead Man’s Flat.
Let’s hope the Azan aren’t as discerning.”

He listened for any signs of pursuit, but heard
nothing. It could still be some way back, or closing in. Nevertheless, night
was drawing on, and they could travel no further, so they spent another
unpleasant night in the swamp. Lanrik hated the delay. While they were stuck here
the army was marching far ahead of them and getting ever closer to Esgallien.
Should it reach the ford before them, it would prevent them from bringing their
warning to the lòhrens.

When dawn came they had already eaten a sparse meal
and were ready to move.

“Quickly,” Lanrik said. “Take off your boots. In
bare feet you’ll better feel what type of ground you’re standing on. And if you
step in mud you have a better chance of extracting yourself. Boots act as an
anchor.”

They pushed forward onto the flats. Lanrik led and
Erlissa walked her horse directly behind. The wet ground was slippery, and the
water level fluctuated between ankle and knee. Though the ground was soft, they
often felt crumbly rock within it. Sometimes Lanrik paused, uncertain of the path.
Even though he knew what to look for the variation in vegetation was not always
clear.

Behind them they heard harsh cries, and the Azan
appeared out of the trees. They mounted their horses, and one of them whooped
and yelled. Seeing the shallow water and much green grass, he thought it safe
to ride. He kicked the horse into a gallop, and it raced across the flats.

Lanrik was tempted to ride as well. He pushed down
the urge and trusted the Raithlin lore. The Azan rider approached without
problem and left a trail of splashing water. However, the horse suddenly
propped and stumbled, its legs deep in mud, and the rider cartwheeled over its
head.

The more the horse struggled the deeper it sunk. Its
hind legs kicked and pushed wildly but to little effect. In its extreme panic
it heaved too far in one direction, and the right foreleg twisted and broke. It
screamed in terror and agony.

Lanrik wanted to close his ears to the sound but
could not; nor could he turn his eyes away.

He and Erlissa watched as the rider scrambled and
sunk, yelling and trying to reach his horse. The horse quietened and accepted
its fate with glazed eyes. The man screamed to the last.

When it was over there was silence on Dead Man’s
Flat. The antagonists watched each other over the gap, and hatred burned in the
shazrahad’s features.

Lanrik thought he would turn back, but he did not.
He yelled at his men, and with great reluctance they dismounted, spread out,
and led their horses forward. He followed them at a distance, monitoring their
progress and staying in their safe tracks.

Lanrik and Erlissa pushed on without speaking. He
took his time, knowing that their lives depended on the path he picked more
than the progress of those who followed.

They were halfway across when one of the Azan yelled.
They turned and looked as he struggled. It was a close thing, but he got out of
the mud, and then led his horse further to the side. He tried again, but soon
succumbed once more. He withdrew, exhausted, terrified and bootless for the mud
had sucked his footwear away.

The others fared no better. Only their slow pace
enabled them to escape the mud once they stepped in it, but even so they were
nearly killed several times. Their luck and strength could not last much
longer.

Lanrik and Erlissa drew ahead while the Azan slowed
then stopped. The shazrahad yelled, projecting a deep and authoritative voice
over the flats.

“Halt,” he commanded. The two fugitives turned.

“You must return my sword. Do that, and I shall
pursue you no further.”

Lanrik’s breathing was ragged from exertion, but he
still laughed. “You
can’t
pursue us any more.”

The shazrahad showed no chagrin. “Will you flee as a
mere thief, then?”

Lanrik did not like that. Everything he had done in
the enemy’s encampment and the tent were acts of war against an invading army,
not petty theft.

“Does the sword mean that much to you?”

The shazrahad paused. “Yes,” he said eventually.

“Then withdraw your army from the field and I’ll
return it.”

The Azan were a people whose culture greatly
esteemed honor. He would not accept the offer, but it was worth a try for if it
was, the shazrahad would be as good as his word.

The face of the Azan remained impassive, but his
silver beard bristled. “I cannot do that.”

“Then the sword,” Lanrik said, “will remain the
spoils of war.”

 “You do not understand.”

“I understand this,” Lanrik said. “Time is short and
our conversation is over.”

He and Erlissa began to cross the flats once more.
There was silence for a moment before the shazrahad spoke again. His voice
smoldered with suppressed emotion.

“Then I, Musraka, curse you, and all your line. I
will pursue you across the earth all the days of my life. Not desert heat, nor
storm or bitter night will hinder it. So shall it be!”

Lanrik kept walking and did not answer. The sword
was worth a fortune, but so too was the horn and horses, yet these had not been
mentioned. Perhaps if a lòhren interpreted the script on the blade the reason
would be clearer.

They reached the end of the flats and looked back.
The Azan were gone.

“Can they find a way around?” Erlissa asked.

He shook his head. “The trails wind about in a maze,
and it would take them days to find the way, if ever. The quickest thing to do
would be to go back to where they entered the swamp and ride north over
Galenthern until they find where our tracks will leave the swamp, but they’ll
never catch us now.”

They moved on. The day passed and the trees grew up
tall and dark about them once more. The trails wound and turned, but Lanrik
knew the way. After some time they followed a path that widened. Though it was
dark, they wanted to be out of the swamp and they mounted and rode, but with
great care.

Night had fallen when they emerged onto the green
grass of Galenthern. The stars were swollen and bright as they only were in the
wilderness, and a northeasterly breeze pushed the smell of the swamp away.

“Fresh air!” Erlissa said.

Lanrik thought her smile and the flash of her eyes
was brighter than the stars, and it felt good to be alive.

“Ride,” he said. “Ride for the lòhrens and all
Alithoras!”

And the horses ran, fast and surefooted toward a
land they had never known, but to a city their riders loved.

They sat upon sweat stained mounts. Green-grassed
Galenthern lay behind them, and ahead was Esgallien Ford.

“I don’t see anybody,” Erlissa said.

“Neither do I,” Lanrik replied. “Nobody at all.”

 He was worried. Esgallien’s army was not here, and
the way to his home was still open. Had Mecklar given them the warning?

There were other problems. This side of the ford
offered concealment for enemy scouts who could attack them as they crossed. And
the crossing itself would be difficult. The Careth Nien was hundreds of paces
wide at this point; making it shallow, and though the stony bottom gave good
purchase the waist-high water flowed so quickly that it could sweep away a
rider.

The bank was not steep. It was an inside bend of the
river, and there were deposits of sand and gravel. Erosion gullies,
sun-bleached tree trunks and flood debris were scattered widely.

He nudged the stallion forward and kept in the open.
The angled early morning light helped him to see any tracks. When the sun was
high, a trail was harder to spot.

He noticed the imprints of iron-shod boots. Elug
scouts were hidden ahead and would attempt to kill anybody returning to
Esgallien.

“They’re already here,” he warned Erlissa.

The ford covered a large area, and the elugs must
either be scattered or concentrated. Spread out, riders would have a chance of
breaking through, and if grouped together, there was a chance of avoiding them
altogether. The horses would be their advantage. They were fast, sure-footed
and agile.

The alar were tired though, having borne their
riders far across Galenthern. After leaving Dead Man Swamp Lanrik and Erlissa
had trailed the enemy host, following its beaten path and detritus.

Eventually they had heard the throbbing of elug
drums, ominous and sullen. The rearguard came into sight, and they observed
whip-wielding Azan forcing the drummers to set the marching rhythm. The
drùgluck signs had worked.

The army was half a day late and struggling to
maintain its pace. Lanrik had proven the Raithlin skills, far exceeding the
exercise with Mecklar. This was validation, and the king could no longer
begrudge their funding.

The riders swung wide of the host, and then looped
back to its front. It had cost them a day and allowed forward scouts to beat
them to the ford.

Lanrik turned to Erlissa. “We’ll have to rely on the
speed of the horses. The elugs could be in a number of hiding places, and we
can’t avoid them all. Our best chance is to surprise them and try to get passed
before they have much chance to react.”

Erlissa scanned the bank and shrugged. “It’s a
simple enough plan,” she said.

Most people would have been tense, but she just
accepted that they would get through, or not, as chance dictated. He admired
her composure but found her fatalistic attitude disconcerting.

They moved forward at an easy walk, giving no sign
that they knew scouts were there, but avoiding places of ambush until they had
descended the steeper part of the bank and the ground flattened. The debris and
erosion gullies would make the next stretch a treacherous place to gallop.

“Are you ready?” Lanrik whispered.

Erlissa flashed him a grin and by way of answer
kicked the chestnut mare so that it bounded forward. The stallion took off
after her, and Lanrik drew his Raithlin sword. The horses sped toward the
river, veering one way and then the next to avoid sand gullies. They jumped
scattered logs, and their hooves alternatively churned through gravel and
clattered against hard rock.

When they neared the river, ten elugs raced to
intercept them from a gully to the right. Lanrik urged the stallion on until he
caught up to the mare and placed himself between the elugs and Erlissa.

They made it to the water, and it splashed and
sprayed about the horses’ legs. One elug, a little ahead of the others, reached
them and slashed at Lanrik. He parried with the sword, enough to deflect the
blow, but the angle was awkward and the elug’s strike tore the weapon from his
grip; it spun and fell to the riverbed. The elug swung again, but the stallion
surged ahead in a rush of foaming water.

The river deepened, and the elugs milled
indecisively behind them. They were afraid of the current, for there were no
rivers such as this in the dry Graèglin Dennath mountains.

Lanrik cursed the loss of his sword and muttered
under his breath. The water was deep now, but the horses moved on. The force of
the current was strong, and it grew stronger as they headed toward the center.

Erlissa looked at him, and he saw understanding in
her eyes. She knew what the Raithlin swords meant to those who carried them;
everyone in Esgallien did. The Lindrath presented them at the initiation
ceremony of a new recruit, who cherished and preserved them for the rest of
their lives. He cursed once more.
At least the elugs are no longer a threat.

The force of the water diminished as they passed the
middle of the river and approached the northern bank. When they came to land it
was steep, and the horses slipped and struggled to the crest. They halted, for
there would be a Raithlin guard.

The Careth Nien was a border: wilderness lay to the
south, the tamed and fruitful lands of Esgallien to the north. Ahead were
cultivated fields, and hornless red cattle grazed pasture; they were the
descendants of animals Conhain brought when he founded Esgallien. Thick
hedgerows of hawthorne, blackthorn and hazel bordered the paddocks. Some were
left as pasture, others ploughed, the dark earth awaiting a crop; and some,
seeded in autumn, were now lush with the green shoots of oat, barley and wheat.

They waited. Several moments passed before a lone
man rose from behind a fallen log and strolled toward them. He carried a
notched bow and was dressed in Raithlin garb: soft doe-hide boots, grey pants
and tunic covered by a forest green cloak and hood. Woven with red thread above
his heart was the Raithlin motif of a trotting fox looking back over its
shoulder.

Lanrik noticed, despite the man’s casual appearance,
that his glance was sharp and took everything in; the girl, the horses, the
hilt of the shazrahad sword sticking up from his backpack and the horn slung
over his shoulder.

The guard lowered his hood. “Well met,” he said.
“You and Mecklar left on foot, yet you return on an alar stallion and in the
company of someone far more beautiful than the king’s counsellor. There must be
quite a story to it all!”

Lanrik laughed. “There is, Gilhain. But I don’t want
to repeat it, so the others had better join us.” He looked around. “I can
probably guess who’s with you. Come Rhodlin and Rhodmur, where are you hidden?”

Two men, obviously brothers, both heavily freckled
and crowned with red hair, emerged smiling from some tall grass.

“There should be more,” Lanrik said. “Perhaps also
the brothers Arawdan and Arawnus.”

Two more men, these with solemn faces, black hair
and blue eyes, swung down from the branches of an oak tree and landed lightly
on the ground.

The Raithlin unstrung their bows and made a pretense
of studying the horses, but he saw their surreptitious glances at Erlissa.

She smiled. “The mare is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Indeed,” Gilhain said. “But the rider is fairer
still.”

Erlissa laughed. It was the free and light laugh of
a girl used to compliments and at ease with the men who gave them.

Lanrik realized with a shock that he did not like
the attention they were giving her. Was he jealous?

He cleared his throat. “Has Mecklar returned?” he
asked.

Gilhain’s expression changed. “Oh yes.”

“He was as charming as ever,” Rhodlin said.

“Charming enough to inform us,” Rhodmur added, “that
the Raithlin were useless, treacherous and that our days were numbered.”

Gilhain slapped his thighs and laughed. “He’ll have
to eat his words now. By his calculations, the elugs should be here already. He
said you intended to slow them down, and obviously you succeeded.”

“He also informed us,” Arawdan said in his somber
voice, “that you would not be able to do so, that in fact you would return soon
after him, having thought better of trying.”

“The
king
will have to think better of things
now,” Gilhain said. “The elug army isn’t here and the horses, horn and sword
show that you’ve been in their camp and delayed them – a feat to enhance the
renown of the Raithlin.”

“A feat indeed,” Arawnus said, in a voice even more
solemn than his brother’s. “You will be the Raithlindrath one day.”

He used the formal term for their leader rather than
the usual abbreviation, and his words gave Lanrik a queer feeling. The
predictions of Arawdan and Arawnus were often uncannily accurate. He noticed
the respect with which the other men looked at him, and it made him
uncomfortable.
I haven’t done enough to deserve it.

“How soon will our army arrive?” he asked.

Gilhain glanced northward. “A horse was given to
Mecklar and a rider sent with him. News was taken quickly to the king, and we
expect the army by noon.”

Lanrik could not help but feel that Mecklar had let
him down. He should have returned to Esgallien more swiftly than this.

“It’ll be close,” Erlissa said.

“Close,” Gilhain replied, “but the ford won’t be
breached.”

Irrespective of his words, he glanced worriedly to
the north again. After a little while, he guided Lanrik and Erlissa to a small
cottage built some way from the ford. He prepared a meal of cured meat, bread
and wine while the other Raithlin remained on watch.

The morning passed. Gilhain’s mood was one of forced
buoyancy; the attitude usually adopted by the nervous. He was moved to tears
however when they talked of Lathmai.

“Gwalchmur is a dead man,” he said, “if the Raithlin
find him.”

Lanrik remembered his promise to Lathmai and
wondered what Erlissa would say if she knew.

The faint but growing sound of elug drums broke
their wait. They left the cottage and returned to the ford, Lanrik strapping on
the shazrahad sword and taking the horn. The Raithlin were standing in plain
sight on the bank, their bows strung and arrows notched.

Rhodmur acknowledged Gilhain. “Elug scouts began to
cross the river so we revealed ourselves. They turned back but more will join
them soon enough, I guess. They’ll try to force a crossing when there are
enough of them.”

“Let them come,” Gilhain said. “We have arrows and
enough blades to stop them.”

Lanrik knew this was true. However, the elug army
was fast approaching, and a handful of Raithlin would not hold
it
back.
He did not doubt their own army, if it arrived in time, would secure the ford
against the enemy. It was an adverse place for a hostile force to cross. The
swift water would slow them and make it difficult to hold shields in place.
Archers would take advantage of this, sending accurate and murderous volleys of
arrows repeatedly into their dwindling ranks. And if any reached the bank, they
would scramble up the steep incline into a wall of waiting spearmen.

There were no other crossings except those guarded far
upstream by the Halathrin and downstream by the free cities. A strong man could
swim the river, but elugs had little love of water, and single swimmers were
not armies. Armies must carry food and equipment. Food would spoil and
equipment weigh down a soldier and drown him. Rafts could be built, though with
great labor, as there was no timber near the river. However, the army must
receive supplies, and such a bridgehead required strong protection, for a
successful counterattack would sever the army from its lifeline and destroy it.

The sound of galloping horses came to the Raithlin,
and columns of riders swept along the hedgerow-bordered road coming from the
city: a hundred, two hundred, three hundred – a contingent of Esgallien’s
cavalry had arrived. They thundered up to the ford and dismounted. Their horses
would be of little use here, but they carried short-limbed bows and sabers.

Their commander pulled his mount in close to the
Raithlin, and Gilhain stepped forward. “It’s good to see you,” he said.

The officer dismounted and shook his hand. “It’s
even better to see that the enemy isn’t here yet. Mecklar led us to believe
we’d be too late.”

They talked a little as they waited. The elug army
was in sight now, rolling forward to the surge of the drums, but the ford was
guarded and Esgallien’s army close behind.

It eventually came, marching to the beat of no drum
but to the blowing of ancient carnyx horns, the sacred instruments that had
been winded in the tumult of battle by their ancestors before the days of the
Halathrin. The soldiers strode forward, the forerunners holding high the
banners of Esgallien’s lords. At their head, brightest and most poignant, was
the Red Cloth of Victory that all the kings of Esgallien had used since the
founding of the kingdom out of battle and despair.

Lanrik felt a surge of pride. These were his
countrymen, sworn to protect the nation, willing to risk their lives to do so.
And the king’s banner, whatever he thought of Murhain, brought goose bumps to
his skin just as it did to all in Esgallien: every farm hand, every weaver,
every shepherd, every baker. It represented for them the sacrifice Conhain made
to save his people.

The army of Esgallien took up position; the elug
army was still a mile distant. The king and his retinue established themselves
on a westward rise with a view of the ford. A general would direct the battle
as Murhain was not a war leader.

Out of the multitude, the Lindrath walked to Lanrik,
and they shook hands.

“You’ve made us proud,” he said.