Lore of the Letharn Read online

  Aranloth waited no more. He strode forth. The tunnel they now followed was perfectly even, the floor, walls and ceiling clad with white marble. Statues and carvings decorated the long aisle, and to each side were great tombs.

  The large alcoves were open, as were the previous niches, but here the rooms were no longer rough chambers hewed out of stone, but like the pleasure-rooms of a great palace. Columns of carved marble formed an entrance to each one, and a single stela of black granite, inscribed with the strange script of the Letharn, stood to the left of each opening.

  The stelae, supposed Lanrik, listed the names of those buried within. And within, when the light of Aranloth’s staff reached that far, were no collections of rustic furniture and clay pottery, but gold, silver and finely-worked glass.

  No room was quite alike, but most had a great table near one of the walls. Over their dusty tops were all manner of bowls, plates and dishes, each filled by the desiccated remains of an ancient and uneaten feast. Chariots, their wheels gold rimmed and their ornate timber carved and inlayed with jewels, stood ready to drive. The skeletons of horses lay before them, age-darkened bits among their white teeth. And beyond that, piled high and deep, were gold coins, silver chains and jewels that sparkled a thousand colors.

  Caldring lingered near one chamber of particular luxury.

  “Touch nothing,” the lòhren reminded him. “It may look tempting, but a fine layer of poison is over all that you see.”

  They walked on. The tunnel seemed endless, without change or stint in the finery. The wealth of the world was collected here, the treasures of an empire that ruled Alithoras. Lanrik shook his head at the wonder of it, and more so at the fact that this was only the resting place of the wizard-priests. What splendor lay buried with the emperors?

  Something else occurred to him. The lòhren now invoked his charm less often, and the shadowy movement that followed them through the dark had retreated. Perhaps some lingering power of the wizard-priests offered protection.

  Without warning the tunnel changed. It came to a resting place like the one above. The light of Aranloth’s staff flared, revealing a similar dome and new tunnels to left and right.

  The lòhren did not enter, though. Instead, he turned to the last tomb on the left. This, they now saw, was larger than the others and resplendent with even greater wealth. There, on a gilded bed, lay a body bedecked in silver, gold and jewels.

  Here, there was no skeleton as elsewhere, but an actual body clothed in white robes. A shock of silvery hair sprang from the ancient head. A black beard, stiff and streaked by gray, covered its chin. And there was a face rather than a skull. The skin might have been dry and leathery, the cheeks sunken, the hooked nose a little twisted, but by some art of the ancients, or power of enchantment, the flesh of the long dead remained whole.

  “The head-priest of the Letharn,” muttered Aranloth. “See the black rod beside him? That marks him as not only a wizard-priest but also of the royal blood. We must enter his tomb, but I warn you again, touch nothing.”

  He walked through the pillared opening, and the others followed. Straight away they saw another flight of stairs to the left. This led down, and he led them along it, leaving the tomb of the head-priest behind.

  “We must yet return this way,” the lòhren said. “The rooms we seek lie beneath him. Even in death he guards the accoutrements of power that he held in life. He it was who first learned the uses of the poison that protects the treasures, and he also discovered the cure. His aged steps led the processions for years beyond count. Few priests the Letharn had, and fewer still the number of head-priests, even during the course of the long reign of the empire. But he was the greatest of them all.”

  Down they followed the lòhren. The stairs soon ceased and a new tunnel began. Rooms lay to each side, but these were not tombs. They appeared to be storage chambers. Ancient timber kegs filled some, tall clay vessels others. The scent came to them strongly of frankincense, myrrh and medicines that Lanrik well remembered from his youth whenever he went to the healer. Some of the smells also reminded him of the dried herbs that were often used in Esgallien cooking to preserve meat or disguise the taste of food that was going bad.

  Aranloth stopped before one of the rooms.

  “What we seek is in here.”

  He went inside, his eyes roving the many shelves and tables, but without hesitation he reached out to a smaller clay vessel imprinted with the image of a five-leafed plant.

  Dust covered the jar, and for a small container the lid seemed heavy when the lòhren lifted it. Within moments of him doing so, the strong smell of a herb dominated the room. It had a bittersweet scent, and seemed as fresh as herbs just cut from the garden. Lanrik breathed in the smell with wonder, for the dried leaves had been stored here since before a time that was legend.

  “This is it,” Aranloth said. “I well remember the smell.” He pulled a soft leather pouch from his robes and undid the string that held it tight.

  He carefully tipped the vessel until its contents, fine stalks and narrow leaves still intact, fell into the pouch. He gathered little more than a few pinches before turning the jar upright again and replacing the heavy lid. Quickly, he drew the string of the pouch tight and placed it back into one of his inner pockets.

  “Will that be enough?” Lanrik queried.

  The lòhren looked at him with sad eyes. “It’s enough. If not, then no amount of the cure will work. Erlissa was well under the influence of the poison before we reached the fountain.”

  Lanrik did not answer. He always knew there was no guarantee that their quest would be successful, but now that they had the actual cure in their possession, it was hard to hear that there was a chance it would not work.

  “We should leave,” Aranloth said. “The less time we spend in the tombs the better.”

  Lanrik did not disagree, and the lòhren led them from the chamber and back up the stairs. They reached, after a hard climb, the tomb of the head-priest once more.

  The chamber was not the same. Lanrik paused, trying to think what it was. There was a stronger smell. Incense hung heavy in the air. And resin, too. More subtly, he caught the scent of decay. It was slight, but growing.

  He looked at Aranloth, but the lòhren paid him no heed, his eyes fixed on the head-priest. Lanrik followed his gaze.

  The priest lay as before, and yet it seemed like there was a thrum of movement beneath his folded arms, as though the long-stilled heart fluttered once more in his dry chest.

  The fingers twitched. Dust stirred from the age-darkened sheets, and the air grew cold. With a moan and a creak the body shivered; the arms unfolded and the ancient corpse heaved upright to sit on the side of the bed like an old man waking from sleep. The head turned, the leathery flesh of its neck twisting, and it looked at them.

  What gazed at the travelers was like the face of a live man, so great was the preservation skills of the ancients. The eyelids flickered, which had been sealed with fine thread for eons, but did not open.

  “Sleep,” the lòhren intoned. He reached out a hand, palm down. “Sleep. Rest. Lie in peace.”

  The dead man shuddered, and then his mouth worked, but it too was sealed by thread.

  “My sleep is broken. What do you do in my tomb, Harlak?”

  “I do nothing, Burik. Lie down. Sleep. Rest in peace.”

  The dead man shook his head as though casting away a fog that dulled his mind. He spoke again, his lips moving but still sealed, and Lanrik realized that the voice he heard were the thoughts of a dead man conveyed from mind to mind by wizardry.

  “Do not try to deceive me. You possess herenfrak. This I know, and you intend to take it out, out to the world beyond. But you know better than others that nothing leaves this place, neither the great treasures nor the small ones.”

  “Sleep. It is not your concern.”

  The dead man ran his withered hand through his shock of hair. The sleeve of his robe fell down, and the wasted flesh of his arm was l
aid bare. Corded muscles slid beneath dry skin.

  “I am dead, Harlak. Nothing concerns me. And yet, and yet, all concerns me. I have seen you in my long sleep, seen how you scurry about helping the lesser races that once we ruled. They roam the lands that we conquered like a plague of mice. They are nothing to us. Why do you waste your time to help them? You, who yet live. You could bring back the old ways. Have you no loyalty to those who raised you up, made you what you are?”

  Aranloth straightened. He held his staff firmly, his grip white-fingered.

  “The old ways are gone. They will not return, and the world is better for it. Ours was a great people, but they lost their way. I toil now to redeem the many wrongs we did, to make right all our sins. I serve, rather than conquer.”

  The priest clenched his gnarled hands.

  “Thus you dare to treat me? I, who was your master.”

  “You are no longer my master. Those days are gone.”

  The dead man shook his head from side to side.

  “Gone. Gone! Dust and ashes blown away on the wind of time! Yet hear me now, Harlak.” The long-sealed eyes fixed on the lòhren. “You were a good student. The best. You know as well as I that the guardians of the tombs will consume you. You, and all with you. Your spirit will be devoured! No long sleep for you. No rituals. No funerary procession befitting your great station. You cannot defy them, though you utter the charm until the breath is stolen from your chest. Not while you take something that belongs here. Here it shall stay, and your rotting corpse with it.”

  Aranloth struck the end of his staff against the stone floor.

  “Enough!” he cried. “Life is lived by the living. I do what I do, and I take the risks I must. Sleep! Lie down! Rest! We shall leave you.”

  “Leave me, traitor. That is good. I will sleep the long sleep again, for your babble tires me. But know this!” The head-priest’s head turned away from the lòhren and surveyed the others. “The eyes of the dead see all. I know what one of you carries in your false heart – the seed of destruction for the rest. And I know what one of you carries in their strong hand – the seeds of destruction for a nation. Most of all, understand this. You try to save your friend, she who lies in the embrace of ùhrengai, but she is not there. Ebona has her, and that new race of sorcerers that you fight. They shall kill her in the Vale of Gold that once gave us great wealth. Your quest is come to nothing. Go! Go now to your deaths, and I shall dream of your wailing while I rest.”

  The corpse lay back, and they were dismissed as though an emperor had finished with them. The body rested again on the bed, the long arms crossed themselves. The corpse grew still, and away in the tunnels Lanrik heard the wailing start again. Whatever it was, it stirred once more, and the dead priest’s words hung in the air.

  “Cranky old bugger,” Arliss said.

  Lanrik turned to her in amazement. A cold sheen of perspiration clung to his face, and fear made his heart beat wildly in his chest. And yet in the face of all that had just happened, Arliss joked. She was incredible, and he knew that she was a companion to endure the worst with.

  “Come,” Aranloth said. “The way is long and our hope shorter than it was. My old master has brought the guardians of the tombs to full wakefulness. He was ever spiteful.”

  “Is there any hope?” Lanrik asked.

  “Dead men do not lie,” answered Aranloth. “But they do not see all, either. We shall discover now who is mightier. I, or my old master.”

  19. Queen of the World

  It seemed to Erlissa that the world tilted beneath her feet. The witch had been waiting for her.

  “Foolish, foolish girl,” Ebona said. “Yet not so foolish as Carnona. Or maybe desperation drove her to this act of stupidity.”

  The witch’s pale eyes glittered in the dim light.

  “Tell me, sweetling, how does my sister fare? Does she fret? Does she worry what will become of her when I triumph? What did she promise you as reward for this act of folly?”

  Ebona’s gaze was serene, and yet there was a hint of something in her eyes. It might have been the barely checked power that roiled through her body, for her growing strength was a palpable and wild force in the chamber. Or it might have been madness.

  Erlissa made no response. Her thoughts raced, but hope died every second. Yet she would not give up. She did not think Carnona would have sent her had there been no chance of success.

  The witch raised her hand and lashed out with sudden and violent force. The slap stung Erlissa’s cheek, and she felt the force of it right down to her feet. It made her reel back and sway.

  Her face throbbed, but she regained her balance. Anger flared within her, but she made no move to retaliate. Not yet; not until she better understood what was happening.

  “Carnona promised me nothing. I came of my own accord. I came … because you must be stopped.”

  “Stopped? Not even Carnona can stop me now. She may as well have sent a pebble to dam a flooding river.”

  The witch’s words stirred something in Erlissa’s memory. Carnona had also called her a pebble. Unexpectedly, Erlissa smiled, for she saw that even with all Ebona’s power she did not know everything, and there was still a chance to surprise her, maybe even defeat her.

  “You must be stopped, Ebona. How many have died to fuel your strength? Are their lives worth nothing to you? And if you don’t stop now, when will you?”

  Ebona looked at her sweetly. “I shall never stop. There are realms and races that have not yet heard my name. All the power and people of Alithoras would not serve to glut my greed. And why should it be glutted? In this world the strong take, and the weak give.”

  Erlissa looked at her calmly. “Not always. Sometimes the strong give in order to help the weak. Even if you kill me, others will oppose you.”

  The witch laughed. “You speak of the lòhrens. Maybe they’ll try to stop me. If so, they’ll fail. But truly, I hope they try – it’ll save me the trouble of hunting them down.” Anguish momentarily distorted her face, and she spat on the ground. “Aranloth humiliated me once, but I’ll not endure that again. Not ever!”

  Ebona swiftly regained her composure, but Erlissa had seen something that further stiffened her resolve: the witch was going mad. She had gathered too much power to herself, too quickly. It was a festering corrosion that ate at her mind. And it would only get worse.

  The witch gave a shrug. “Anyway, my dear, Aranloth will be my concern. You’ll be long gone before he, or anyone else, comes looking for you.”

  Ebona lifted her arm. She pointed at Erlissa with a long-fingered hand as though admonishing her.

  “You should think less of the lòhrens and more of the elùgroth. For with him you shall go, and he is not best pleased with you. It may be that living in his service is worse punishment than the slow death I would otherwise have given you. But he wants you, and he shall have you.”

  Erlissa turned to Elù-Randùr. The elùgroth seemed little more than a black shadow that had not yet spoken. She wondered what his relationship was with the witch. She knew them both, better than she liked, and she believed that neither would give precedence to the other.

  Elù-Randùr appeared subservient to Ebona, but he would bide his time and use her even as she used him. In the end, one would prevail over the other, and though the witch ordered things to her will at the moment, it need not stay that way. The elùgroth would have a scheme. Perhaps he understood what Ebona did not: that she was losing her mind, and he intended to take advantage of that.

  Erlissa repressed a shudder as Elù-Randùr looked straight at her. The fingers of his blue-veined hand, pallid and sickly, twitched against the black wood of his wych-wood staff.

  “Welcome, sister.”

  “I’m not your sister.”

  He smiled. “Oh, but you are. More so than any creature that shares my blood, for you and I share the same spirit.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  Elù-Randùr shook his head. It was a slow movement,
like the patient crawling of an insect.

  “So you say now, but I’ll bend you to my will in the end. I’ll show you what it is to be an elùgroth, show you powers that Aranloth dare not teach. You’ll be mine then. My disciple. My servant. And yes, even my sister.”

  Erlissa laughed. “You might once have bent me to your will. But not now. I’ve seen your kind. And I’ve lived among those who oppose you. I know the difference, and I’ve made my choice. I’m stronger than I was when you last held me captive.” She hesitated, and then added, “Don’t you realize that you have no power over me?”

  The elùgroth studied her with a long gaze and calculating eyes.

  “So confident? Never mind. It’ll give me all the more pleasure to break you. And yet your manner intrigues me. I sense that you have grown, and that you’ve realized some of your potential. But there’s more yet. So much more. I’ll bend you to my will. And if I can’t, I’ll kill you. I cannot allow the enemy to possess your skills.”

  Erlissa shrugged. “You talk a lot, but all I see is an impotent sorcerer who serves as a witch’s lackey – like a dog that picks up the scraps its master lets fall from the table.”

  Elù-Randùr drew in a sharp breath, and she knew that her taunting had wrung a chord that disturbed him. And yet he recovered smoothly.

  “So quick to judge. You should know that Ebona and I have an agreement. For the moment, our plans overlap, much to our mutual benefit. But it’s interesting that you think to try and divide us. Quite devious, in fact. There’s hope for you yet, no matter that you deny it.”

  Erlissa ignored him. She turned back to the witch.

  “You understand of course, that he’ll betray you in the end.”

  Ebona smiled. “Yes dear, I know. He thinks of it all the time. But the day he tries to will be his last. He thinks of that all the time, too. I know much that happens in these lands. Carnona brought you here, spirited you away from Lòrenta on a river of ùhrengai. I will say this, her skill is great to have done so, but she could hardly have been unaware that I would sense it and divine her purpose. While you’re discussing treachery, you should think on that. She abandoned you to this fate, for she knew I would be waiting for you. Just as I know what the elùgroth desires. But in this new world, only my desires matter.”