Lore of the Letharn Page 2

  They saw nothing but a dirty wall. The mood of the group sank, yet after a momentary silence Aranloth chuckled. He tapped the wall with the end of his staff. The faint light at its tip flared, and dancing shadows leaped and swayed throughout the room.

  Under the angle of new light a slight depression was visible. Aranloth pressed it with the palm of his hand. There was a loud click and a puff of ancient dust. The lòhren then eased his weight against the stone.

  Lanrik watched in astonishment as a door opened with only a hint of sound. The small room beyond revealed a glimpse into antiquity and how the Halathrin had lived. It was undamaged by the wrecking hand of the enemy and untouched by the slow-footed centuries, except for a fine layer of gray dust.

  An exquisite table, crafted of black walnut, stood gracefully at one end. An intricately carved paperweight, of the same rare timber, rested on it, and beside it was a writing quill and a silver inkwell. The ink was the only thing in the room that revealed the passage of time. It had long since dried, but mold and fungus had grown about it and stained the sides of the vessel.

  A chair stood next to the table. It was pulled out as though whoever had last sat on it had left in a hurry, which Lanrik thought might well have been the case. Bright tapestries, only slightly dulled by dust, rich rugs and a glorious stained-glass window completed the room.

  Aranloth turned to Erlissa. “Everything is just as the survivor told me. The book should be in the draw. Since retrieving it was your idea, the task of claiming it falls to you.”

  Erlissa did not answer but walked to the table purposefully.

  Lanrik knew better than the others what this meant to her. It was not just that her parents were healers and that she wished to honor them. It was also a measure of her guilt at killing the elùgroths who had attacked Lòrenta. She had done what was needed, and he thought she would do it again if circumstances arose, but this was her way of balancing the scales. By bringing the book to light she would advance the art of healing and redress the hurt she had done. It was the first part of her plan to establish a special section in the Halls of Lore; to create a place of learning where healers from all over Alithoras could gather and exchange their knowledge.

  Her hands did not pause on the draw handle. She pulled it out smoothly. There, protected from dust, lay the book she sought. It was a large tome, the leather cover dyed black. Gold lettering in Halathrin script ran across its surface.

  Erlissa placed the book on the table and gently turned a few pages. They seemed brittle, but otherwise unharmed by the passing years. Beautiful writing in a sweeping hand covered each one.

  She turned to the lòhren and smiled. “We’ve got it!”

  “Yes,” he said. “At least we can salvage something from all this destruction. But I cannot help wonder about all the other books. What knowledge, what wisdom, what record of an age that was, has been lost forever?”

  Lanrik understood that Aranloth felt such losses keenly, but there were more pressing problems.

  “We’ve got the book,” he said, “but we still have to get out of here. The wolves will be close by, and the pine tree won’t burn forever.”

  Erlissa placed the book in the small pack that she carried, and they left the room. The travelers began the long walk down the stairs.

  Lanrik sent Hargil ahead. It would be his job to ensure the stairwell was clear and that the base of the tower was free from wolves. Leaving the settlement would require a different approach. Stealth had served them well on the way in, but speed would serve them better on the way out. And a preparedness to fight. For he did not think the wolves would leave them alone while they walked the dim paths of the pine forest.

  They reached the tower door and found Hargil waiting. For a while, he and Lanrik studied the square from the shadows of the entrance, but in the light of the still burning tree there was no sign of the wolves.

  “Let’s go,” Lanrik said.

  He gestured for Hargil and Ruthark to move out to either side, and took the point position himself.

  They had only taken a few steps when he called for them to stop.

  “I don’t see any wolves,” Arliss said.

  Lanrik did not answer. The shazrahad sword at his side suddenly felt heavy, and he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. A dozen horsemen trotted from the shadows beneath a building and headed straight for them.

  “Back to the tower,” Lanrik said.

  “Musraka!” Erlissa hissed through clenched teeth.

  Somehow, the shazrahad had found them, and Lanrik knew what he wanted. He caught a glance from Aranloth and read the same fear there. He must not have it.

  2. King’s Poison

  Lanrik gritted his teeth and ran back to the tower. There would be no escape without a fight, and they were badly outnumbered.

  One by one the travelers passed into the dark interior again. He held back, allowing the others to go first. The pounding of hooves over cobbles swiftly grew loud behind them, and a strident yell pierced the air. He and Erlissa reached the threshold together, but she looked back on hearing the shout and gasped. Then, doing what he least expected, she pushed him hard to the side.

  He lurched but did not fall. There was a muffled thud, a cry of pain, and Erlissa went down to her knees. He could not make sense of it until he saw a knife on the ground beside her.

  The blade must have been aimed at his own back, and in saving him she had been hit herself. He picked her up and carried her inside the tower. All the while he feared another knife or an arrow, but there was no further attack.

  Hargil and Ruthark blocked the entrance after he stumbled through. They notched arrows to their bows, but the horsemen wheeled to either side of the tower and passed out of view. The only way to shoot at them would be to step out into the square, and that would place the two Raithlin in the open and leave them vulnerable. They remained where they were.

  Lanrik laid Erlissa down on the hard flagging of the tower floor, and her dark hair spilled out over the dirty stone.

  “Please be all right,” he muttered.

  He was not sure where the knife had struck her. He needed to locate the wound and staunch the bleeding, but he was confused. A number of vivid stains marked the white cloth of her lòhren robes.

  She grimaced and then struggled into a sitting position. “No need to fuss,” she said.

  “Tell me where you’ve been hit,” Lanrik asked.

  “It’s nothing – just a glancing blow to my arm.”

  Lanrik let out a sigh of relief. There seemed to be a lot of blood, but hand and arm wounds often bled profusely even when they weren’t serious, and because people moved their arms, the blood easily transferred to other parts of their body.

  Arliss handed him some cloth, and he rolled up the sleeve of Erlissa’s robe, found the wound on the back of her arm, and bandaged it carefully.

  When he was done, she stood up. “What do we do now?”

  Ruthark looked back from his position at the entrance. “I think I can hear them talking, but they haven’t tried anything yet.”

  “Maybe the wolves will attack them,” Hargil said.

  Aranloth frowned. “There are too many riders, I think. If we’re to get out of here, we’ll have to find a way to do it ourselves.”

  “How did the Azan find us in the first place?” Lanrik asked.

  “It cannot be a coincidence,” Aranloth said thoughtfully. “I sense Ebona’s hand in this. She often deals with the enemy.”

  Lanrik mulled it over. “They couldn’t get across Esgallien ford, but they might have swum the river elsewhere. An army couldn’t do it undetected, but a small group of riders might manage it, I guess. From there they could have used the cover of night to make their way to Ebona. Assuming they knew where to find her.”

  “Who knows how long they’ve been in contact and what information they’ve passed to each other,” Aranloth said. “Or how, for that matter. But to remain undetected in the north of Alithoras, and to fin
d us as well, tells me that they had help. Ebona is their most likely ally. And she has good cause to hate us both.”

  Lanrik moved to the entrance and considered the situation. The square lay ahead, all open ground that offered nowhere to hide or to avoid arrows. The light from the burning pine, though less than it was, still illuminated it, although the fog that blanketed the sky appeared to be thinning. If they tried to run, the riders would pick them off by bowshot before they reached cover. Even if they made it into the streets, the forest lay beyond them. It was perpetually dark beneath the thick canopy of leaves, and there was little in the way of undergrowth to hinder the horses. They could not outrun a pursuit in those conditions.

  A voice unexpectedly rang out and broke the silence of the square.

  “Parley!”

  “Granted,” Lanrik replied immediately. While they were talking it would give him time to think. And he needed it, for there was no obvious way out of this mess.

  Musraka stepped slowly into view. A scimitar, in a decorated scabbard of hardened leather, hung by his side, but he took care to keep his hands in the open and away from its hilt and his clothing, where the suspicious might be wary of a concealed knife. His scarlet headdress gleamed in the flickering light, and the whites of his eyes and upturned palms shone palely.

  The shazrahad came to a stop, and the two men studied each other in silence for some moments. It seemed a distant memory to Lanrik since they had last met in Dead Man Swamp. The days had been good to him since then. He and the others had saved Lòrenta from the elùgroth attack, and the establishment of a new Raithlin order was progressing well. Time had been less kind to Musraka. His beard was unkempt; the headdress wrinkled and travel stained, and his face was gaunt with hollow cheeks and drooping bags under his eyes. But his voice, when he spoke, remained as deep and rich as Lanrik remembered.

  “You know why I have come,” the shazrahad said.

  “Yes,” Lanrik replied.

  “I promised that I would pursue you across the earth. I told you that nothing would stop me.” He gave a weary sigh. “The road was longer than I expected though, and you have cost me much. But war is war, and I no longer hold the taking of the sword against you. If you give it to me now, I will let you and your companions walk from here freely.”

  Lanrik did not answer straightaway. He thought Musraka would be as good as his word, and the offer seemed the only opportunity to escape, for he still could not think of any plan. But the consequences were unthinkable.

  He wanted to draw the conversation out, but he could not stifle a clear-cut reply.

  “No,” he said. “I knew nothing of the sword when I took it from your tent. But now I do. I know it’s the embodiment of a prophecy about the conquering of Alithoras, and I can’t let you have it – even for safe passage. If need be, we’ll fight. But know this. Battle is always uncertain, and you might be the first to die.”

  Musraka laughed. The sound was deep and rolled through the square. It was strange to hear in the ruins of a long-destroyed city and by the leaping light of a burning tree.

  “A good attempt to seed doubt into my mind. But what is death to me? I have no honor until I regain the sword. And without honor, my life is worthless. But truly, it will not come to that.”

  Lanrik doubted if the shazrahad’s men felt quite as strongly about it, but he felt a stab of unease at the last words and remained silent.

  Musraka folded his arms. “You do not ask why?”

  The man’s confidence disturbed Lanrik, yet while they spoke there was still hope that he, or one of the others, would think of a way out of their predicament.

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “Very well. I aimed the knife at you. But your companion bravely knocked you to the side, and it struck her instead. She will come to regret it, for the poison that filmed the blade is now working through her blood.” Musraka paused, allowing his last words to have their full effect, before he continued. “But you can save her. Return the sword to me, and I will give you the cure.”

  The shazrahad watched him closely. Lanrik gave no sign of the sudden despair that washed over him.

  Musraka clapped his hands together. “You do not let me see your defeat. Well done! You are a good opponent, yet we both know that in the end you will agree to my terms. Just as you knew nothing about the sword when you took it, I knew nothing of you. But I have learned since then. I know all about you and Erlissa. I know who you are and how you think. I know that you will yield.”

  Lanrik had no answer. His thoughts reeled, and he heard movement behind him.

  Aranloth stepped into the flickering light of the tower entrance.

  “What poison did you use?”

  Musraka inclined his head slightly at the lòhren.

  “I know all about you too, Aranloth. But wise as you are, do not think that you can find a cure. For both poison and remedy are plants that grow only in my homeland on the southern slopes of the Graèglin Dennath mountains and the dry plains in their shadow. Even there, they are rare.”

  Aranloth leaned wearily against his staff. “I know where your homeland is. What I asked is the name of the poison.”

  The shazrahad paused and then shrugged. “It does no harm to answer. You would render it in your tongue as King’s Poison. But I doubt even you have heard of it. And if you have, the knowledge will avail you nothing.”

  Aranloth sighed. “I haven’t heard of it.”

  “It is a favorite among my leader’s court,” Musraka said. “Death is certain without the cure – and that is seldom administered in time, for the poisoning is rarely diagnosed until too late. The onset of its effects are slow. It may take a week to become apparent, making it hard to identify the poisoner. It also gives them a luxury of time to escape if they fear suspicion will eventually fall on them. But however slowly the poison works, it is a swift and agonizing death in the end. I tell you all this freely so that you understand the situation. The girl will die, unless Lanrik returns the sword to me.”

  Aranloth hung his head. “We’ll think on your offer.”

  Musraka did not try to hide his sneer. “Take all the time you need. None of us are going anywhere.”

  The shazrahad walked toward his men and disappeared from view.

  Lanrik and Aranloth went back inside the tower. Erlissa’s face was pale, but she spoke before the others had a chance to say anything.

  “I feel fine,” she said. “There’s no proof that Musraka used poison – he could be lying just to get the sword.”

  Aranloth slowly shook his head. “That’s certainly possible, but I don’t think it’s the case. The Azan are a cruel people, but lying is not their way, least of all a shazrahad.”

  “Then why don’t I feel any different from normal?”

  The lòhren looked at her gravely. “The poison is slow acting, as Musraka says. I have heard of it, though there was no need for him to know that. It will take several days before you fall ill.”

  Lanrik felt a sensation of cold settle deep into his bones. “You’re convinced that he’s telling the truth?”

  “I believe so.”

  Lanrik drew the shazrahad sword. Its pattern-welded surface gleamed in the flickering light of the pine.

  “There’s nothing for it then but to give him what he wants.”

  Erlissa fixed him with an implacable gaze. “That’s not going to happen. You know the prophecy – the Azan need the sword to conquer Alithoras. It must never get back into their hands.”

  “I know the prophecy,” Lanrik said. “But I know this too. I’ll not keep the sword and lose you.” He spoke quietly but with force.

  “There are more important things at stake than me,” Erlissa said. “The fate of Alithoras might depend on keeping the blade away from them.”

  “Perhaps. But what’s the fate of Alithoras worth to me if you’re not safe?” He paused. “Anyway, you’re forgetting something. The sword is mine. I took it from Musraka’s tent . . . an
d I can return it.”

  She looked at him silently, and then placed a hand on his arm.

  “I appreciate what you want to do. The sword may be yours, but my life is my own. Think on this – would you want me to live, knowing that in doing so I doomed Alithoras? Would you place such a burden on me all the days of my life?”

  Lanrik held his ground. “The prophecy isn’t certain. I don’t—”

  “Enough!” Aranloth stamped the end of his staff against the stone flagging. “You’re both right. And you’re both wrong. There’s a third way.”

  They all looked at him. Even Hargil and Ruthark at the tower entrance glanced over their shoulders.

  “There are too many of them to fight,” Lanrik said.

  “I don’t intend to fight them.”

  Then how can we get out of here?”

  “The tower has a basement,” Aranloth answered. “The survivor that I spoke with told me there’s a tunnel that leads deep into the woods. If we discover it, then we can elude Musraka and his men.”

  Lanrik thought about it. “Maybe so, but what about Erlissa? If we don’t get the cure from the shazrahad, she’ll die.”

  Aranloth smiled grimly. “Musraka knows much about the poison, but he knows little of lòhrens. Erlissa is strong in lòhrengai. The magic fortifies her body, and it will help her to resist it until we draw near to Lòrenta.”

  “But what’s the good of that? There’s no cure in Lòrenta?”

  The lòhren shook his head. “It may be as Musraka says. No cure may exist north of the Graèglin Dennath. But in Lòrenta I’ll find references to the poison in the Halls of Lore. There are many books on the subject, some from the Azan lands themselves. But what Musraka doesn’t guess is this. The Letharn, that ancient race of men who once ruled much of Alithoras, long ago dwelt in the lands that he now calls home. They too were fond of poisons. They would have known of this plant, and the herb that worked as a cure. They imported such things from all over Alithoras and grew them in the Angle. Many such plants still survive there, growing untended in the wild, even if their names and uses are lost to memory.”