Lore of the Letharn Page 18

  The witch drew herself up. Amid the dark, the pale linen of her dress gleamed. Her eyes flashed, and the power that was in her flared as though an inner light burned her soul.

  “I, who once was great, will be great again. Men shall bow before me. Nations shall tremble at my word. I will grind the lòhrens to dust, and even the Halathrin, that proud race of immortals, will serve me. I will rule all! Queen of Alithoras I shall be, and the world will tremble!”

  Ebona stood there, a mighty figure, and yet a mere shadow of what she would become if she was not stopped.

  Erlissa bowed her head, as though in dismay, but her gaze sought out the cauldron. She could only break Ebona’s power if she could destroy the source of it. The witch fed on sacrifice and dark rites, and somehow the cauldron gathered those forces and multiplied them. Break it, and her power would diminish. Carnona could then withstand her.

  The witch trembled and regained control of herself. She seemed to shrink, to become more human again.

  “Already it starts. Many plans are afoot. Esgallien is in my power. That meddler, Aranloth, will receive a nasty surprise soon, if he has not already. Arliss is in the pay of Musraka, and with her help he will reclaim the shazrahad sword that once belonged to his forefathers, that will one day belong to the Hakalakadan.” Ebona smiled at the thought, relishing her words. Then she shrugged. “Or one of my own men will, and he’ll give it to Esgallien’s king. Either way, it shall unleash bloodshed and ruin in the city. And when that happens, nothing will be able to stop me. Nothing at all.”

  “Enough,” Elù-Randùr said. “You have the cauldron, and I have the girl. It’s time to go our separate ways.” He looked hard at Erlissa, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “I sense that there is more going on here than you know. Aranloth is a meddler, but he is not stupid. I have learned not to underestimate him. Carnona you know, and I do not, but she sent the girl here with some sort of hope. We have her now, and it’s time to move on to the next step. She’ll come with me to the south. There, she’ll serve that which I serve, or she’ll die.”

  Erlissa looked at him with more calmness than she felt. That Arliss was a traitor was a surprise, a surprise that in truth she did not believe, for she thought she had read the girl’s feelings for Lanrik like a book.

  Another wave of dizziness crashed through her, but she ignored the incessant pull of her true body in Lòrenta. It was a fact that both the elùgroth and the witch, for all their boasting, had not understood.

  She raised her arms, and the walnut staff throbbed with power in her hand.

  “Truly, I shall come with you, brother.”

  Elù-Randùr looked at her in surprise. That moment would not last, and the moment, the one moment that Erlissa had waited for, the one moment she had in which to act, was upon her.

  20. On Wings of Darkness

  The light of Aranloth’s staff flared and bobbed as he strode ahead. He led them from the aisle of buried wizard-priests into the domed chamber at its end. The rasp of their boots filled the eons-old silence that haunted its vast space.

  Lanrik saw two tunnels. One ran to the left and the other veered right. They probably housed the crypts of the royal families. Yet Aranloth headed for neither.

  The lòhren moved to the nearest marble bench. He put his weight against it and pushed. Nothing happened for a moment, and then Lanrik heard the loud groan of stone sliding over stone.

  He could not pinpoint where the noise came from. He turned around, his eyes searching, and suddenly he saw a vertical line split the wall to his right. A second ago it had been tall and intricately decorated; now a great door stood open, black and forbidding.

  “Quickly,” Aranloth said.

  They moved into the dark, and Aranloth followed them.

  “Give me a hand,” the lòhren said to Lanrik.

  Together they braced themselves against the stone wall and slid the door back in place. It thudded shut, and a deep boom reverberated through the many-tunneled tombs.

  Lanrik listened for some moments, and when the last echo died he realized a complete silence lay over everything. The wailing in the dark had ceased as swiftly as it had earlier begun, but he had a feeling the peace would not last long.

  Around them was a rough-hewn tunnel. He studied it carefully as they began to walk. It had none of the luxury of the previous passages. Nor were there niches for the dead.

  Aranloth glanced at him and must have noticed his puzzlement.

  “This place is vast, and none but the wizard-priests ever learned all its secrets. There are areas even they dared not go. But wherever they went, they wanted to get there quickly. The stately and winding tunnels were for the conduct of rites and the passage of large processions. Lone servants on minor errands used narrow ways such as this that lead directly to where they wanted to go.”

  He led them on, and soon other tunnels intersected with the main one that he followed. After a while, he started to take some of these. Many that they saw led down, but he always chose those that led upward.

  The wailing began again. Lanrik could not tell if it came from behind them, or ahead, it seemed to be all around. And it was loud.

  “It’s getting closer,” Arliss said.

  “Too close,” Caldring added. “How far do we still have to go?”

  Aranloth’s long strides did not slow while he answered over his shoulder.

  “Still a while yet. Have faith, you’ll see the daylight soon enough. In the meantime, try not to listen to the wailing. It’s meant to unnerve you. Ignore it.”

  Lanrik though that was good advice, but it was advice that he could not follow. The wailing had a way of getting inside his head, of swirling through his every thought like a snake slithering through tall grass.

  At times the wailing seemed more than simple noise. He heard words, and the more he thought about it, the more certain he became. He realized that whoever, or whatever, guarded the tombs was only playing with them. It could reach them swiftly if it wanted to. It had wasted no time in dealing with the royal guard.

  He thought of Aranloth. That was the difference between the fate of the soldiers and this group. Aranloth had powers, great powers, and even the guardian of the tombs was respectful of him. It bided its time, or gathered its strength in preparation for an attack. But however strong the lòhren was, if the head-priest was to be believed, there was no escape while they carried the herenfrak.

  Whether or not the head-priest was to be believed was a good question. He had claimed that Ebona and Elù-Randùr had taken Erlissa. That seemed impossible, for she was entrapped in the ùhrengai of the fountain. And yet he could not dismiss it either. Aranloth had said that dead men do not lie. Perhaps they could be mistaken, though. Either way, his first concern was to escape the tombs. He could not do Erlissa any good if he died here.

  They raced ahead. From time to time they climbed stairs, narrow and twisting. Lanrik’s thighs ached, and his breathing was labored, but he noticed a change. The air was fresher, maybe even more humid, and if his ears played no tricks on him, he heard the faint thrum of water carried through a maze of tunnels from the great falls. Or perhaps from the river itself.

  Suddenly the lòhren chanted the charm. Har nere ferork! Skigg gar skee! As he spoke, the light of his staff flared and lòhrengai sparked at its tip. What danger he was responding to, Lanrik could not tell, but his lòhren senses, or his ancient knowledge of their foe, must have given some warning.

  A moment later, Lanrik saw what Aranloth had sensed. They turned a corner, and there ahead of them were three creatures: the living embodiment of the naked women on the carvings. Their faces were contorted in rage or pain at the lòhrens words, and they gave ground, but only a little. In their long-fingered hands they carried the saw-toothed knives, and they held them forth as though eager to rend flesh.

  Har nere ferork! Skigg gar skee! The lòhren yelled, but just as the head-priest had foretold, the charm now seemed to have little effect.

  The women hi
ssed, long tongues curling in their red-lipped mouths, their eyes flashing hatred.

  One stepped ahead of the others. She pointed her knife at Aranloth, singling him out.

  The lòhren stood his ground.

  “I must have it,” he said, referring to the herenfrak.

  The woman shook her head. Her hair swung, black and lush, but as she moved snake heads darted among the long ends. A piercing cry that might shatter stone burst from her throat. Lanrik put his hands to his ears. Caldring and Arliss reeled at his side.

  Aranloth took a single step forward. He raised his staff high and lòhren-fire flickered at its tip.

  “I must have it,” he said.

  The woman hissed louder, and the other two joined in, stepping forward to meet him while they unleashed their own screeching cries.

  Lòhren-fire erupted and sizzled through the air with a blinding flash. The sound of thunder rolled through the hollow halls and the floor shuddered.

  Lanrik raised his arm to shield his eyes, and when he lowered it the women were gone.

  “Are they dead?”

  The lòhren shook his head. “No. They are the harakgar. They do not die.”

  “What are they?” Caldring asked.

  “The lore of the Letharn delved into many secrets. Some that it would have been better to leave alone. They created the harakgar to serve as guards for the tombs.”

  “If they were created, then surely they can be killed?” Lanrik asked.

  “Not by blade or shaft. Not even by magic, for they are creatures of ùhrengai, of the very power that shapes and substances the world. It runs strong here, deep in the stone that forms the bones of the earth. The Letharn woke it, transformed it and used it. The harakgar are the result, but even if I could kill them, I would not.” He paused, leaning on his staff while he rested. “Too many secrets, too many powers and artifacts lie buried here besides the bodies of a long-dead nation. It is better that they never see the light of day again, and the three sisters ensure that.”

  “Then how can we get out?”

  “Have courage!” Aranloth said. “Now, walk fast, but keep your eyes open! They are far from done yet. So far, they are only testing me.”

  The lòhren led them forward again. His stride was sure, his staff high, but Lanrik, who knew him well, recognized that worry vied with his confidence. But the lòhren did not have to fight alone. If the creatures were of magic, the shazrahad sword would be of use. He reached down, drew it, and felt the warmth of its hilt seep into his hand.

  He heard a soft rasp as Arliss drew her own behind him. He glanced back at her. She walked with seeming confidence, as she always did. Of what she really felt or thought though, he saw nothing. It was as if she had drawn a veil over her face. Caldring paced nervously at his side, a knife in his hand, but he was white with fear. This was a hard learning experience for him. He was too young for this kind of danger, and yet regardless of his fear, it did not hold him back. If he lived, he would make a good Raithlin.

  Aranloth led them through another door and once more they were in the tombs. Here seemed to be buried warriors of some renown, for weapons, strange and cumbersome to Lanrik’s eye, were piled high in the niches beside the bones of those who once held them.

  No sooner had they entered this new tunnel than the wailing began again. This time it rose to a maddening shriek of laughter.

  A green mist flowed low over the floor just ahead of them. They stopped and watched. The vapor swelled and rose. Swiftly it coalesced into a great serpent, tongue flicking, tasting the air. Its scales glittered as it undulated and rose up, head held back, poised to strike.

  The creature was as thick as a man and its trailing body disappeared back into the vague gloom. Eyes, like black diamonds, stared at them malevolently.

  Aranloth moved forward, the end of his staff pointed at the serpent. It arched its head higher, and then suddenly struck. The great head shot forth, fangs bared.

  Lòhren-fire flared to meet it. A flash of white light and the roar of thunder filled the tunnel. When the light blinked out, the serpent was gone.

  “Quickly,” Aranloth said. “They won’t relent and my strength diminishes.”

  They strode through the tunnel of buried warriors. Soon new tunnels branched out everywhere, but the lòhren chose his path unerringly. They came to another of the domed recesses. Now, the lòhren slowed and then stopped.

  “What is it,” Lanrik asked.

  “I don’t know. Keep your eyes open.”

  Lanrik looked about him. He saw nothing, but then heard Arliss gasp.

  “The walls!” she said

  Lanrik spun around looking at them. As with many of the others, they were carved. Tall figures, six feet high, ringed the domed chamber. There seemed to be all manner of Letharn. Men and women. Nobles, peasants, warriors and dancers.

  It was the dancers who caught his eye. They were girls, lithe but muscular, the taut flesh of their curved figures barely concealed by thin veils. They lifted their arms high over their heads, entwining their fingers while their hips swayed to music gone silent for long eons.

  As Lanrik watched the stone shimmered. Like oiled muscles the stone undulated and rippled. He let out his breath as the figures stepped off the wall. Stone had become flesh. Dark eyed girls now danced over the dusty floor. Veils wove to and fro, parted red lips smiled and perspiration glistened over silken skin.

  Unexpectedly, one of the girls began to sing. Her voice was rich and pure. Lanrik drank it in like chilled water on a hot day. He yearned for it, and it lulled him. It made him feel that all was right in the world.

  The song dropped into a deeper tone, low and husky. And then it rose to a high sound, sweeter than the air he breathed. Lanrik could not understand the words, but he longed to learn their meaning.

  The singer looked at him, her red lips parted, her dark eyes smiled, teasing him, inviting him to come to her.

  The other dancers moved in growing frenzy, their bare limbs gleaming in the light, the perfect blend of muscle and impossible grace.

  The singer wrung ever-sweeter sounds from the air, and her long fingers ran through her shadowy hair, but her dark eyes, deep like pooled night, gazed at Lanrik.

  He took a step forward, enchanted.

  Arliss moved behind him. One moment her hand was on his shoulder, holding him back, and the next she was in front of him. As quick as the eye could see, she lifted her hand and flung something.

  Cold steel glinted, and one of her knives flashed through the air.

  The singer ducked, unnaturally fast, and the knife clattered into the wall. But the dark-eyed singer was gone. In her place stood one of the harakgar. Tall, statuesque, naked. She was as beautiful as the singer, but her hair writhed in a fury and her hand, holding a saw-toothed dagger, trembled in rage.

  Har nere ferork! Skigg gar skee! shouted the lòhren.

  He reinforced his words with a flicking motion of his staff. This time, there was no lòhren-fire. The room darkened and the air became thick like muddied water. A wave of shadows crashed through the chamber and rolled over the harakgar. She made no noise, nor did she struggle.

  The wave of shadows dissolved, and when the light returned, faint and fluttering at the tip of Aranloth’s staff, the harakgar was gone. Of her two sisters, there was no sign.

  The lòhren wasted no time on words. He strode ahead, turning left at a tunnel that opened up on the other side of the domed room.

  They moved swiftly, dark shadows flickering through the tunnel like bats. Shadows flitted across the looming walls, for here there were no burials. The ground ran at an upward slope, quite pronounced for the first time, and it was uneven, as though a natural cave had been hewn roughly into the semblance of a man-made tunnel.

  Their path curved one way and then another, but it always led upward. Their breathing was loud in the closed space, but the air seemed fresher than before.

  Abruptly, the tunnel ended. Now Lanrik knew they really were in a cave
. Sand and loose stones covered the floor. The walls, or at least what he could see of them, were natural and uneven. The vault of the ceiling was lost somewhere in an echoing space above.

  “Be careful,” warned Aranloth. “The outside is close, and the harakgar will try to stop us in earnest.”

  “You mean they’ve been playing so far?” Arliss asked.

  Aranloth peered about him, measuring the great cave for signs of ambush.

  “That’s exactly what I mean. They’re creatures of immense power. So far, they’ve just tested me. They know who I am, but they have not measured my strength. They show caution, learning what they can. Now, near the exit, they’ll use that knowledge in a concerted attack.”

  “What happens if we break free of them?” Lanrik asked. “Will they follow us outside?”

  “No. They’re linked to the tombs. They can’t go anywhere else. That was the way the Letharn created them. But this is their world, and here they are all-powerful. Only the charm protects us, and even that is close to useless now.”

  “Then how do we escape?” Caldring asked.

  “A good question,” Aranloth answered. “They might be all-powerful, but I have delved deep into the lore from which they are made. They can be defied, but only with great power, and only briefly. When they attack, I’ll repel them. In those few moments you must flee to freedom. I’ll hold them back as long as I can. Use the time wisely.”

  They moved ahead. Aranloth led them slowly now, careful of every step, and casting light into every nook and cranny ahead of them. Arliss walked behind, quiet and watchful.

  Lanrik held the shazrahad blade ahead of him. The hilt remained warm, and he felt the powers inside it rise and surge in response to the harakgar.