Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

  RENOWN OF THE RAITHLIN

  BOOK ONE OF THE RAITHLINDRATH SERIES

  Robert Ryan

  Copyright 2013 Robert Ryan

  Cover Design by www.ebooklaunch.com

  1. Dawn of Change

  Lanrik endured hunger, and the humiliation of the situation, with patience. He could not allow Mecklar to break him.

  First light colored the grasslands, and he sensed change in the air. The world he knew was slipping away. He studied his companion and saw the embodiment of that force at work: a man lacking the desire to strive for anything except self-gratification, yet with the power to destroy the achievements of others.

  They sat on the ground, separated by a small and smokeless fire. Mecklar ate with slow relish, his sausage-like fingers slick with grease. His lips and chin were smeared too, but he ignored that and continued to chew methodically. His stubbled jowl rolled with each movement, and his heavy-lidded eyes glazed with pleasure.

  He casually wiped his hands on dirty trousers and spared Lanrik a glance. Whenever he spoke, it was only to probe for a reaction like a nudaluk bird that relentlessly hammered its beak against a tree in search of insects.

  “You’d have something to eat as well – if you were any good at hunting.”

  Lanrik shrugged and looked away. This was another attempt to provoke him. His hollow stomach tightened in anger, but he resisted pointing out that Mecklar only had food because it had been brought from the city. Lanrik had carried it, along with Mecklar’s tent and heavy sleeping rug, though he made do without such comforts himself. He slept under the nighttime sky, his head resting on mounded dirt and his body wrapped in his Raithlin cloak. Yet he liked it that way, and the cloak of the scouts of Esgallien City offered more than warmth: it symbolized all that was good in his life.

  The silence did not discourage Mecklar.

  “I’d share some food with you, but it would defeat the purpose of the exercise. I’m supposed to see how good the Raithlin are.” He sipped watered wine from a silver goblet, his gaze fixed on Lanrik. “And I haven’t been impressed so far.”

  Lanrik tensed but sat perfectly still. Nothing I do would ever impress you. The taunting was difficult to ignore, but Lanrik was not going to retaliate and provide an excuse for an unfavorable report to King Murhain.

  The king, trying to reduce expenditure, had sent Mecklar to evaluate the Raithlin. He had gained his position in Murhain’s retinue by cutting costs in the past, and likely sought advancement by doing it again, placing the Raithlin in jeopardy. I'm not going to let you goad me.

  He relaxed and answered in an even tone. “It’s my part to show the skills of the scouts – yours to judge their usefulness.”

  There were a hundred Raithlin, but their leader, the Lindrath, had chosen him to demonstrate their capabilities.

  Constantly tested by Mecklar, he had represented the Raithlin over the last week. They had set out from Esgallien, crossed the white-watered ford of the Careth Nien, and headed south onto the plains. He had run for miles with a heavy pack, climbed trees, and despite Mecklar’s surly watchfulness, crept unseen through grass and shrubbery to within feet of him. He had also found water, built shelters against the weather, concealed his tracks and laid false trails.

  These were the basic skills of the Raithlin, but he was proud to be more than just a scout. In times of war, though not part of Esgallien’s army, he might have to spy out enemy positions and sow confusion. In times of peace, he and others watched Galenthern, the plains beyond the ford.

  Nothing moved over the grasslands within a week’s march that the Raithlin did not see: not a hare that cautiously fed or a hawk that wheeled in the sky. That, Lanrik admitted to himself, was the problem. Not a single enemy warrior, much less an army, had been seen for decades and the king felt secure. He might think it safe to disband the Raithlin; but they knew otherwise. Not for nothing did Esgallien’s enemies swear an oath during tribal ceremonies to conquer the north. The desire had infused their blood since antiquity, and their leaders often fanned it to life. If they sacked the city it would yield untold wealth.

  Mecklar belched and renewed his verbal assault.

  “If you hadn’t missed your shot you wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

  In an attempt to diffuse the constant taunting Lanrik changed tactics. He'll find it difficult to fault someone agreeing with him.

  “I’ve only got myself to blame,” he said.

  This was more truthful than Mecklar knew. Yesterday afternoon, they stalked a herd of aurochs in one of the wooded swamps scattered across the plains. They closed on a young bull. Its blackish coat was glossy with health and the pale stripe along the length of its spine shimmered in the waning light. It stood man high, though it still had growing to do, and was in range of Lanrik’s bow.

  The beast sensed danger and lifted its head. The black snout quivered and tested the air. They were downwind though, and their scent had not reached it. Its lyre shaped horns swept from side to side; the long ears flicked with uncertainty. Angrily, it stamped a hoof to chase persistent flies.

  Mecklar tapped Lanrik on the shoulder and urged him to shoot, but the bull was a magnificent creature and it was not the Raithlin way to kill such an animal when the majority of its meat, tough and strongly flavored anyway, would be wasted. Yet Mecklar was not the kind who understood such things, and Lanrik, knowing he had shown the Raithlin skills to good effect all week, deliberately loosed the arrow wide. It struck a willow trunk with a crack. The bull and his herd crashed away through the thick scrub.

  Lanrik’s thoughts returned to the present. Eastward, an unbroken column of smoke was rising in the still air.

  Mecklar had seen it too. “What’s that?”

  Lanrik stood and strained his eyes over the grasslands. He did not know what it signified, but a gnawing worry gripped his stomach.

  “A finger of smoke pointing to calamity,” he said at last, and there was a catch in his voice. “Over there the flat ground rises into a tor covered by rock and overgrown with scrub. The Raithlin use it as an outlook.”

  “So one of the scouts lit the fire?”

  Lanrik nodded. “Yes, but why?”

  “Then when we return to Esgallien I’ll have them punished. Only an incompetent would reveal their location.”

  Lanrik dragged his gaze from the horizon. His eyes narrowed with suppressed anger.

  “You don’t understand. None of the Raithlin is incompetent. We light fires such as the one I used to cook your breakfast: small and smokeless. This is a deliberate signal – the sort made by someone in desperate trouble.”

  “Well, we’re due to head back to Esgallien soon. No doubt we‘ll find out the truth then.”

  Lanrik shook his head. “We can’t go back to Esgallien. We have to find out what's going on.”

  Mecklar came smoothly to his feet. His bulk and slovenly manner gave the impression of lethargy, but the opposite was true: he was strong, fast and nimble.

  “You Raithlin think you run the world, don’t you? But you’re not in charge of this expedition. You’ll go where I say.”

  Lanrik pointed to the east. “Someone over there needs help, and the next lookout is further away than us. Events have overtaken the demonstration, and the Raithlin skills are needed in earnest. You can come with me and observe what I do, or you can return to the king, but I bet he’d like to see how we perform in a real emergency.”

  There was a cold silence while Mecklar thought.

  Lanrik waited patiently. Snake-hearted bastard. You're not weighing up what's right and wrong – you're deciding how
to make the Raithlin look bad.

  “Very well," Mecklar said. "We’ll see why the fire was lit, but my report to Murhain will surely emphasize the arrogance of the Raithlin.”

  Lanrik did not answer. He kicked in dirt from the rim of the fire-pit to put out the flames without smoke. Shouldering his heavy pack he set off, and Mecklar strode angrily beside him.

  He could have wished for things to be different, but wishing was in vain. He must make the most of the situation and knew that none of the other scouts, and certainly not his uncle who had instilled Raithlin values in him since childhood, would ignore someone in trouble. Besides, it was his job to find out what had happened, and he could not see a way for Mecklar to twist that into a fault.

  The two men moved swiftly across the grasslands. Profuse flowers of purple vetch and lush whorls of red-flowered clover stood out against the green of the plains. The column of smoke bent in the rising morning breeze until it looked like a half-fallen tree. Neither man spoke, but Lanrik sensed Mecklar’s irritation.

  He thought about his companion as they walked. Mecklar was overweight, sloppy and difficult to get on with, but his mind was rapier sharp. Lanrik did not know anybody else of such contrasts. He sensed a ruthless intellect weigh and judge him every time the heavy-lidded gaze turned in his direction. It was no surprise that he was adept at saving the king money.

  His ability as a swordsman was a shock, though. He was too big to move fast yet shifted rapidly between retreat and attack with seamless grace anyway. His size lent strength to his blows, and beneath layers of soft flesh was a framework of iron-hard muscles.

  They first met a few weeks ago in the sword tournament of Esgallien’s Spring Games. They each won through the early rounds, facing and beating a series of increasingly skilled opponents, before the king judged their clash in the final bout.

  The sword was Lanrik’s specialty weapon. His uncle, a former Raithlin of renowned sword craft, had trained him. But his uncle could not have prepared him for what happened.

  Most bouts lasted about six rounds, but the final had gone twice that without a blow landing. The crack of the oaken practice swords reverberated through Conhain Court, the square in the city named after Esgallien’s first king. The crowd, rowdy at first, grew quiet as they watched, and though time did not stand still, it barely shuffled past.

  Finally, Mecklar broke through. He thrust forward and Lanrik twisted to avoid what would have been a lethal stroke with a real weapon. Instead, the wooden blade merely skidded across his ribs.

  To Lanrik’s astonishment, King Murhain did not call an end to the round. Instead, he awarded Mecklar the Red Cloth of Victory. Uproar broke out in the square.

  The Lindrath spoke to Murhain but eventually turned away and called for quiet.

  “The king has invoked the ancient right of the judge,” he said.

  There was more shouting, and the Lindrath waited for it to subside.

  “There’s a rule that if a bout continues an unreasonable time, the judge can award victory to the competitor he thinks is likely to win.”

  There was renewed mayhem in the crowd, but a single voice rose above the din.

  “Maybe for the early rounds. Not the final!”

  The Lindrath’s gaze shifted to the king, and he spoke with thinly veiled sarcasm. “It’s true that in the nine hundred and fifty three years since the first games in Esgallien, the rule has never been invoked in a final. But it still exists.”

  The crowd eventually dispersed, and the Lindrath came over to Lanrik.

  “There’ll always be next time, son. You know better than most that the king dislikes the Raithlin – as well as your family. It’s no surprise that he’s favored someone from his retinue.”

  Lanrik wondered, as he often had since then, if Mecklar really was better. He had a feeling that they would find out one day. For the moment, his main concern was the column of smoke, and he noticed that it was thinning.

  Mecklar glanced at him. “It seems that your incompetent friend has realized their stupidity.”

  Lanrik clenched his hands into fists, and then breathed out slowly and relaxed.

  “Perhaps the person is injured and only had the strength to build a small fire.”

  “Then they’re weak as well as stupid. Characteristics that don’t go well with the primary Raithlin trait of arrogance. All these faults must cause your people lots of problems.”

  Lanrik could sense Mecklar’s anticipation for his response. It was like a vast pit before him, and his antagonist was willing him to stumble into it. He refused to allow the man to break him though. Instead of saying what he really thought, he just laughed. It was no time for humor, but there were worse reactions to the absurd.

  Mecklar went rigid, and Lanrik felt that he had won a kind of victory. Irrespective of what happened, Mecklar’s report would be bad; it was what the king wanted, but he would not get it easily.

  Lanrik wondered what he would do if the scouts were disbanded. Could he learn other skills? He would have to, but his heart would never be in it. The Raithlin were his life and identity. His uncle had made it so.

  Other concerns crowded his mind. Why would one of the Raithlin, for whom stealth and caution were second nature, light a fire to deliberately make smoke but only feed it for a short time? Whatever it signaled, it was not an enemy attack. No army could approach the lookouts without being seen, and at first sight, the outlying scouts would return to Esgallien and give warning. The inner ring of scouts would monitor the enemy and assess its strength, intention and morale.

  The tor was in plain view now, and Lanrik studied it as they continued to close the gap from its southwestern side. It was a time to be cautious, for something must have happened, but without knowing its nature, he did not know what to be wary of.

  Underneath his boots, the lushness of the plains changed. The fertile earth dried and turned into shallow and rocky soil. The grass was now wiry and yellowish; the vetch ceased to scramble over grass stems and became sickly, while the delicate red clover disappeared altogether.

  He veered to the northern side of the tor, and Mecklar looked at him questioningly.

  “There’s an easy path up the southern side,” he explained. “We’ve been visible since dawn, and whoever’s up there knows we’re coming. They’ll probably be expecting us to take that way, but until I know what’s happening, it’s best to be unpredictable.”

  Mecklar only grunted but changed course readily. They moved as quickly as possible up the tor’s slope but had to slow frequently to navigate around boulders and find a way through thick stands of stunted ash and birch. The air became still and dead. The light grew dim beneath the trees, and the only thing they could hear was the ceaseless hum of insects.

  When they broke through to the top it happened so suddenly that the full light of the sun dazzled Mecklar. Lanrik, expecting it and careful to shield his eyes with his hand, was the first to study the small plateau.

  It was bare of trees but strewn with massive boulders. Climbing the last few steps, he reached the top, and mile after mile of the bright green plains came into view. He did not give this any attention. The summit, perhaps only fifty paces across, held his interest. He saw on its southern side the remnant of the fire.

  There was no sign of the Raithlin who should be there. Where had they gone? He did not doubt that a scout had lit the fire and saw clear signs of their activity. Low branches along the southern trail had been broken to fuel it, and there were deep scrapes on the ground indicating the Raithlin had been injured and dragged themselves across the earth. That being the case, they could not have gone far.

  He studied the plateau more closely. The boulders cast large shadows, and if he were injured it was in just such a place that he would rest. He walked slowly across the summit.

  He saw the boots first. They were of the soft doe-hide that the Raithlin preferred for comfort and maneuverability. He noticed the rest of the body immediately afterward. The grey pants and tuni
c were ordinary, but the forest green cloak and hood were the garb of the scouts. He knew when he got closer that he would see on the cloak the Raithlin motif: a trotting fox looking back over its shoulder. It would be woven with red thread above the heart just like his own. The etching on the blade of his sword showed the same design.

  He hesitated before taking the last few steps. Both of the scout’s legs were broken, and he saw the gleam of exposed bone. The cloak was tattered and bloodstained. A large rip tore one side, exposing a long wound, blackened at the edges and raw in the center. The scout’s face was burnt, almost beyond recognition of being human. The hair that was left was shriveled, and the skin of the face covered in blisters and seeping blood. He knew all the Raithlin but could not tell who this was. He felt sick but forced himself closer.

  He knelt down carefully beside the body. Impossibly, one eye flicked open and held him with its gaze. Of the other, only a ruined socket remained. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. How could anybody suffer such injuries and live? Not only had they endured unimaginable pain, they had worsened it by dragging themselves along the trail to collect branches for the fire. How many torturous journeys had they made, alone and uncomforted, to gather enough material? And for what purpose?

  He had little time for such thoughts as the scout gripped his shoulder and tried to speak. He pulled off his pack and retrieved a water flask, dribbling a little at a time into the Raithlin’s mouth. He sensed Mecklar approach from behind. An idea occurred to him, and he turned quickly and saw that his companion had drawn his sword.

  “You won’t need that. Whoever’s done this has gone. What I need now is a tuber from one of the elendhrot bushes that grows on the path to the summit. Do you know the plant I mean?”

  “I know it,” Mecklar said, his eyes fixed on the wounded Raithlin.

  “The tubers are near the surface. I only need one.”

  Mecklar shifted his attention to Lanrik. “No medicine can heal those injuries.”

  “Just get me the tuber!”