King's Last Hope: The Complete Durlindrath Trilogy Read online

  Aranloth stared bleakly into the fire. “I don’t know. But if I don’t discover the reason for their increased strength…” he paused, “or the artifact that they’re now using, then I cannot prevent further attacks. They’ll certainly try again. They nearly succeeded this time.”

  Brand turned, for the king had left the servants to tend his wife. He no longer looked like a man who had just faced death. There was nothing to be read in his eyes; they held the same sharp intelligence, the same wolfish stare as always. Perhaps he was used to it by now.

  “Once more you’ve saved me,” he said to Brand. “And my wife this time as well. What reward can I give you?”

  Brand shrugged. “To serve is reward enough, My King. To defy your enemy, who is also the enemy of my people, is … satisfying also.”

  “Come! There must be something?” Gilhain pressed.

  Brand shook his head. “The one thing that I wish above all else, my family and my rightful place among my own people, is something beyond even the power of a king of Cardoroth.”

  The king looked at him sadly. The wolfish gaze turned to pity.

  “Those things I would give, and gladly, if I could, though it meant that Cardoroth lost its bravest man, and I a friend. But if I cannot give you that, then take at least my thanks, and those of the queen. They’re heartfelt.”

  Brand bowed. They were high compliments, and he found no words in answer.

  Gilhain turned to Aranloth. “Come, old friend. We must speak. This latest turn bodes ill for the realm, and we have much to discuss.”

  Brand left them to it. He had other duties now. He walked to the doorway where the bodies of the two Durlin lay.

  The others of his order had gathered there. Their faces were grim, and they did not speak. Of the thirty, the new thirty that he had himself handpicked since the previous Durlindrath and his men were killed, there were now only twenty-eight. He did not doubt that soon there would be less. And it was hard to find good men these days. Guarding the king was a job that few were suited to, and fewer still were willing to suffer its risks.

  He looked down at the dead men, and the creed of the Durlin ran through his thoughts:

  Tum del conar – El dar tum!

  Death or infamy – I choose death!

  These men had been given no choice. They were slain by sorcery in the night. Yet they had still chosen to serve the king, to protect and guard him, to swear their oaths of loyalty. In their way, they did choose death, for they knew when they joined the Durlin that Gilhain would be attacked, if not how.

  Brand gazed at them somberly. How long before someone looked down at his own dead body the same way, tallying up the long record of those who had died before him?

  There were too many enemies, both outside of Cardoroth and inside. For there were traitors within the walls also. Less powerful than the sorcerers, but cunning, determined and cloaked in secrecy. Yet there was honor to set against it. The Durlin were legendary, and often the mere sight of their white surcoats in the city streets brought cheers from the crowd.

  Soldiers arrived with stretchers, and Brand made a sign for his men to take them. They gently moved the bodies across. Brand lifted up the end of one by its wooden handles, bearing the weight of a dead man that he felt responsible for.

  He made a signal to four of the Durlin. “Stay here,” he said. “Keep a close eye on things, for there are now many coming to see the king, and that could be taken as an opportunity. Let no one in who does not need to be here.”

  “Yes, Durlindrath,” they answered.

  Slowly the stretcher-bearers moved down the corridor, and the remaining Durlin followed. One led them, holding a single candle in his hand, and as they went the men chanted softly the words that had come down through the long years for such a procession. It was grim, but sonorous in their deep voices, and it held a certain grace.

  Wherever they met palace staff in the corridors the men and women stood still and bowed their heads in respect. Some cried quietly, perhaps those new to the palace who had not seen this as often as others who had served longer.

  Down they went until at length they reached the chapterhouse of the Durlin on the ground floor. They walked through the great doorway, crafted of carved oak posts and into the ancient rooms set aside for their use since the building of the palace some eight hundred years ago.

  The walls were paneled with oak, broken by massive arched doorways that led to an outer courtyard. But many old hangings decorated the walls, woven in their threads the story of the Durlin since their founding and the many brave deeds that they had done.

  The vaulted roof was high above, and the chanting of the men grew deeper while the ceiling threw down their voices again in matching echoes of mourning.

  Brand felt the weight of the dead man that he carried. Somewhere his story would be added to one of the newer hangings.

  His footsteps slowed as they came to a central dais. Here the men would be laid in state until their funeral. Carefully, they moved the bodies across onto the cold stone, the same red granite from which much of the city was built, only this was polished and carved with symbols.

  The chanting of the men ceased. They stood now in a circle around the dais, joining hand to hand and standing with bowed heads. It was now silent.

  Brand closed his eyes. A minute they would stand like this, showing their respect, and then their duties would call again to serve the king.

  He could not help but wonder that it was a small amount of time; but not hours nor weeks would bring them back. There was no weeping as there would have been in his homeland. The people of Cardoroth were stern and proud, though death touched them just as deeply. And if they stood now in a grand building, instead of in a thatched hut; if they were silent instead of weeping, it did not change anything. There was love and respect in the room, and that was all that mattered. And that was the same whether here or at home.

  But thinking of home drew memories to his mind. He wanted to walk there again, beneath its trees and sun, to once more climb its green hills and look out over its wide lands, to cross its rivers and hear the sound of the cattle lowing on the wind. But he could not. His loyalty belonged to the king. Now more than ever.

  The silence was over, and the group became restless.

  “Durlin,” he said. “These two men have paid a high price. They gave freely of what they had so little – time. For there is always much that we dream of, and in the end much that is left undone before age, sickness or death robs us of our abilities.”

  The men looked at him. Their expressions showed little, but they heard his words and understood them. He was one of them, and there were certain truths that they all knew, even if they rarely spoke them. And they knew what he would say next, because they had heard him say it before.

  “Yet these men chose freely, as do we all, to guard the king. But it is not so much the king that they died to protect, but the ideal of what is good in the world. Today, they served justice. Today, they struck a blow for the people against the forces of chaos. Today, alone and in the dark, they gave of their lives so that there may yet be other days where truth and justice and honor and goodwill shine in the world.” He paused, looking at the dead men. “We will not forget them.”

  The men gave the ritual reply: “Long will we remember them.”

  At his sign two Durlin retrieved a flag from a redwood cabinet nearby and draped it over the bodies. It was made of the same thick cloth as their surcoats, gleaming and shining, but whereas they wore no sign or emblem on their clothes the flag was woven with their insignia: seven red stars that represented the seven sons of the first king of Cardoroth, all of whom formed his guard. Three had died to protect him, and these were woven on the top. Beneath them were the other four. Separating them was the Durlin creed, uttered by the first son to die while he defended his father from attack:

  Tum del conar – El dar tum!

  Death or infamy – I choose death!

  Brand took a last look. T
here was nothing else he could do for these men. Now, he must turn his thoughts to the king and how best to protect him from attack. He could not rely on Aranloth to stymy the sorcery. The enemy had somehow gained an advantage, and courage might now be asked to achieve what wizardry could not.

  His second and third in command understood what he was thinking and approached. They knew him well, from even before his time as Durlindrath, and they guessed he would have instructions.

  He nodded to them. “Lornach. Taingern – let’s go to the courtyard. I’ll feel better if I can breathe some fresh air, away from death and sorcery.”

  They followed him through one of the great arches and into the gray half-light just before dawn. The courtyard was paved with smooth flagstones, though at its further end it was grassed.

  This was where the Durlin trained. A mass of weapons and armor hung from every wall. These were the tools of their trade, and Brand knew them better than most men living – else he would be dead. But he would rather hold a horse’s reins than a halberd’s handle. He preferred the tilling of the earth and the sweet smell of newly opened ground where things would grow instead of the hacking and cutting and bludgeoning that brought death. But few men chose their destiny. It chose them.

  “What now?” Lornach asked.

  Brand turned to one of his few friends in the city, and one of his oldest. He knew him better as Shorty, but that was unbecoming for the high station of a Durlin.

  “The king should not be alive,” he said. The two men looked at him strangely, and he gave them a faint smile. “What I mean is that our chances of keeping him alive have always been slim. And that has been the case for a long time. We fight a losing battle, one we should have lost long ago, and from now on it will only get worse.”

  “You paint a picture of little hope,” Taingern said.

  “There is no hope,” he replied. “We three know it. And so do the rest of the Durlin. But they do not have our experience. They do not know that fate favors the bold-hearted, as we have learned ourselves. For we also, just as the king, should be dead.”

  “That may be so,” Lornach said. “But how does it help them?”

  “We survived our past perils, and there were certainly enough of them, by believing in ourselves. We did not despair. And a way of survival opened up. Of course, we were lucky too, but a person makes their own luck. So this much we must do for them. We know they are prepared to die to try to save the king. And likely all of us will, but we cannot allow them to resign themselves to that fate, or it will come all the swifter. We must remind them at every opportunity that there is hope, even if it cannot be seen, and to fight to the last, with not only courage but also cunning. That way at least some of them may survive.”

  The three men looked at each other grimly. Their task was not now only to keep the king alive, but the Durlin also. It would be the hardest job of their lives, and they knew it.

  They walked back inside. The Durlin had returned to their duties. The room was empty except for the two corpses. Soon men would come to prepare them for their long rest. There would be a funeral, full of pomp and ceremony. They would be praised with great praise. But nothing would bring them back. Not the gray-eyed Gernlik who could never keep his white surcoat clean, nor the red-haired Carangar, always quiet and somber, but merry as a country maid when he drank too much.

  The three men went their separate ways. Taingern was in charge until mid-morning, and for a little while Brand had a chance to get some rest.

  He returned to his chamber and slipped back under the covers, but he did not put aside his sword. He feared to do so, for he did not know when, or in what manner, the next attack would come. He gripped the hilt even in his sleep, and through a fog of slumber and half-waking he heard the war drums of the enemy begin to beat, the enemy that had haunted other cities, other realms and other times before this. The enemy that had harried mankind for long ages of the land of Alithoras: elugs.

  The beating drums rose to a faster pace, and then the chanting of the enemy soldiers began. It too had been heard outside the walls of many besieged cities before this. Some still stood. Many did not. Brand tossed and turned as the fell words floated through the heavy air:

  Ashrak ghùl skar! Skee ghùl ashrak!

  Skee ghùl ashrak! Ashrak ghùl skar!

  The chant flowed without beginning or end. The drums hastened. Stamping boots thundered, and dread wove itself through the shadow-world of Brand’s half sleep. He heard the hateful words, and understood them:

  Death and destruction! Blood and death!

  Blood and death! Death and destruction!

  The dark words ran through the streets and drowned out birdsong and the crowing of roosters as the dawn shone golden on the high domes and lofty roofs of the city.

  In his sleep Brand heard knocking at his door. Or was it elug war drums in the palace? He leapt out of bed, sword in hand, his chest heaving for air.

  But it was no attack. Aranloth stood in the doorway, the white robes of his office lit by morning sun shining through the window and the oaken staff in his hand gleaming gold. If he was alarmed by the sword levelled at him or the sudden reaction, he gave no sign of it.

  “Come with me,” he said. “I have an errand on the city walls, and I would like you to be there with me.”

  Brand picked up his scabbard from a nearby table and sheathed his blade.

  “I dare not leave the palace. The king is in too much danger.”

  Aranloth leaned on the staff. “So he is. He’s always in danger. But he’ll survive an hour or two without you. I need you now more than he does, and Gilhain has given his leave. He knows whence I go and what I seek.”

  Brand let out a long breath and some of his tension went with it. He was still wearing his trousers and boots, so all he needed to do was put on a shirt and his white surcoat, and then belt on his sword.

  When he was ready they went to the palace stables and retrieved their mounts. Brand rode his black stallion, a massive horse, but one that still mustered great speed at need and that could endure long hours of toil at a slower pace. Aranloth rode a young roan gelding.

  They trotted down the streets, and the people looked at them as they went. Both were well known, and their clothes showed who they were well before their faces came into view.

  Aranloth took the road to Arach Neben, the West Gate. It was chiefly there that the enemy had established its camp. They did not surround the whole city. Rather, they concentrated their force on one length of wall.

  It was a long ride. Aranloth did not speak much during it, for he was deep in thought, and Brand did not disturb him. What he pondered was obviously troubling, and Brand was not eager to learn it, though he guessed that he would, whether he wanted to or not, when they reached their destination.

  They stabled their mounts at the bottom of one of the guard towers that flanked the gate. Then, ascending many stairs, they came at length to the top of the tower.

  Brand knew it well. In this very place he had served for some time, and the view of the walls to either side and the open lands stretching out to the west he knew well. But it all looked different now.

  Below was the enemy camp. It spread out, sprawling and vast. It threw out wings to encircle the city, but these were no more than picket lines to prevent Cardoroth’s scouts from entering or leaving.

  The main host remained on the west side and concentrated their attack on that wall. For a month they had done so, but the city had food and water to last for years. It was a stalemate, as all sieges were, and yet by force of numbers and a persistence of effort over a long time the enemy might break through. The constant battle against fear, and the sorcerous chanting of the enemy during the night where their power was exerted to weaken the morale of the defenders, took a slow but inevitable toll.

  Brand and Aranloth looked at the enemy camp. The sorcerers were in a tent in the midst of the host. They were surrounded by rank after rank of elugs, fell creatures with gray-green tinged skin
, malicious eyes and harsh voices. They were a cruel people, apt subjects of the sorcerers, and they fought with an ancient enmity for mankind, born out of a time of legend, for battles had been fought with them since before the Camar races of men came east and founded realms along the coastal lands of Alithoras. And the Duthenor, Brand’s own people, fought with them in ancient times also, although his ancestors migrated eastward much later and in fewer numbers than the great waves of Camar tribes.

  All along the battlement wall, which the people often called the Cardurleth, the king’s soldiers held their stations. They relaxed while they could for no assault was being made at present. But men skilled with blade and shaft were not the only ones who defended the wall. Spread thinly among them were white-robed and staff-carrying wizards.

  Aranloth spoke briefly with the captain of the tower and he led his men away, filing down the stairs to leave the two of them alone.

  “What if the enemy attacks?” Brand asked.

  “The men won’t be far away. They have only gone down one level and can return swiftly. But the enemy is not going to attack for a while.”

  Brand was alone with the wizard, and he sensed that something would soon happen, something of importance.

  “So, what’s our purpose here?” he asked.

  Aranloth looked at him grimly. His face was unreadable, as it usually was, but there was a look to his eyes that spoke of some emotion beneath the surface, though what it was Brand could not tell.

  “I’m going to attempt something …” he said.

  Brand studied him more closely. He saw no fear, but there was worry, and that concerned him. For whatever Aranloth was going to do, it must be dangerous, perhaps exceedingly so, and the wizard did not take such risks without great need.

  3. Use the Sword!

  Aranloth looked over the battlement at the enemy.

  “Out there is the host, and it’s monstrous in size and temperament, but its head is the small group of sorcerers – elùgroths to give them their proper name. They are the beating heart of the enemy, and its mind also. Not only that, they are the source of the drùghoth, the sendings that last night nearly killed the king. If I would learn whence came the power to achieve that, if I would learn more of the elùgroths’ intentions, then I must seek that knowledge from them.”