Lore of the Letharn Page 22

  Lanrik slowed their pace. He knew exactly where they were now. If not for the rain, and the last fringe of trees, the fortress would have come into view. Instead, all he saw was dripping leaves and scudding cloud. He veered to the left. If the Azan were watching, they would likely do so from a position straight out from the gate, rather than to one side. That way they would have less distance to travel in order to intercept anyone.

  He signaled the others to stop. “I’ll go forward and have a look.”

  Handing Aranloth the reins to his horse, he dismounted. Carefully, he walked ahead. He saw nothing unusual. Nor was there any sound, except for the pitter-plop of rain on leaves and earth.

  When he neared the edge, he lowered his body to the ground and used the Raithlin crawl to bring him to a point where he could see the stronghold. Even more important was the green sward that lay between forest and fortress.

  The earth, usually soft with leaf mulch, had turned to mud. He disregarded that – his Raithlin cloak and other clothes were already filthy. In fact, the new stains would help him to blend with his current surroundings. What he did not like was the clamminess that permeated his leather boots and all his clothes. He felt cold and uncomfortable, and that was the kind of nuisance that made people impatient. Impatience, in its turn, led to poor decisions.

  He drew up beside a tree. He did not get too close, for the pale trunk would cause his darker clothes to stand out. It was better to merge with the background color of the forest floor.

  He studied the situation carefully. Nothing moved on the sward. There were no enemies there. Nor had they gathered at the gate. That was too close to a possible attack from the ramparts. He doubted that there had been any fighting between his men and Musraka’s, but that did not mean that the Azan would place themselves in a vulnerable position. But there were horsemen.

  To the right, about a hundred paces away, was a group of five men. They were not mounted, but their horses stood saddled and ready nearby. Musraka was among them.

  Of the other Azan there was no sign. No doubt they were spread out around the fortress, perhaps even patrolling it. They would be ready to bring word to the shazrahad if they spied the travelers.

  Lanrik had no intention of trying to find another way in though. All ways were guarded. All ways were dangerous. Here, at least, the numbers were fairly even. Of one thing he was confident: he and Arliss could hold the Azan off long enough for Aranloth to take the herenfrak inside the fortress. That was what mattered. And Caldring could go with him. The young man had courage, of that there was no doubt, but he did not possess fighting skills to match Azan warriors.

  He watched them for a while, studying their habits. They were established in that spot, and showed no sign of riding off on a patrol. They also remained alert. There was one at all times who eyed the fringe of trees and another who observed the fortress.

  Lanrik smiled. He had instructed his men not to engage in fighting, but the Azan did not know that. Nor did it mean that the Raithlin had not harassed any warriors who ventured near the walls. By the Azan’s wary appearance, he judged that they were frightened of arrow shot, perhaps even of a sally from the gate.

  He started to consider the best way ahead. There were Raithlin on the walls, and they would see the travelers when they crossed the sward. If he could somehow signal them sooner, they might be ready to provide help when the travelers made a dash. But was there any way to send a message?

  Nothing was changing, no matter how much he thought about it, so it was time to go back to the others and let them know how things stood.

  He eased back into the cover of the timber. When he was deep enough in the wood, he stood and went back to the others.

  “Best to dismount and talk,” he said quietly when he reached them. “But do it quietly. They’re near.”

  The group settled down beneath a tree. It gave them shelter from the rain, but they did not remove their hoods.

  He was not worried about the horses. There was no wind to carry scent, and the rain stirred up many smells from the forest floor. It was possible that they would detect others of their kind and whinny, but he thought it unlikely. Nevertheless, he kept a careful eye on them. They seemed disinterested in the world, though. They stood still, their heads down, and appeared just as miserable as their riders.

  He explained the situation to the others. They listened to his description carefully.

  “So, what do you think?” Aranloth asked.

  “There’s no point trying to get in elsewhere,” Lanrik said. “We’ve got as much chance here as anywhere else. Besides, the more we roam around the more likely we’ll run into Musraka’s men by accident. At least here, we know about them, and they don’t know about us.”

  “Should we just make a dash for it?” Caldring asked.

  Lanrik hesitated. “Probably. I think we can get through that way. One or two of us at least.” He glanced at Aranloth. “Everything we’ve done is futile if you don’t reach Erlissa with the herenfrak. That’s our most important job.”

  The lòhren returned his gaze, and after a moment gave a slight nod. Lanrik looked at Caldring, and then back at the lòhren. Aranloth gave another nod. He would do what he could to protect him.

  “The only question,” Lanrik said, “is whether it’s possible to alert the Raithlin on the ramparts without letting the Azan know we’re here. If we can do that, it’ll give us an advantage.”

  Arliss looked up at the sky. “A fire is out of the question. The Raithlin on the battlements would see smoke before the Azan and know that something was happening, but we couldn’t get one going in this wet.”

  Lanrik frowned. “We might, but it would take forever to search out enough dry material. Even as wet as it is, there’d still be tinder beneath logs and fallen branches. But we don’t have the time for it.”

  He turned to the lòhren. “Is there anything you can do?”

  Aranloth pursed his lips. “Perhaps. I could use lòhrengai to make fire or cast light, but the Azan would likely see that at the same time as our own men. There are other things that I could do, but they take more power. Even though I’m regaining strength, it might tire me enough that I’d have to wait several days before I could release the enchantment around Erlissa.”

  Lanrik shook his head. “That’s a no, then. The sooner she gets the herenfrak the better I’ll like it.”

  “Then we’d better just make a dash for it and see how it plays out,” Arliss said.

  Lanrik took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “It’s not the greatest of plans, but it’s all we’ve got. Anyway, sometimes the simplest approach is best.”

  He looked at them all. “Remember. Our first goal is to get Aranloth through the gate. Only he can wake Erlissa.” He turned to Caldring. “After that, you’ll go in. Arliss and I will hold the Azan off until the Raithlin inside the fortress come to our aid.”

  Arliss nodded decisively. “Count on it.”

  They mounted and drew their weapons. Lanrik deliberately moved to the right flank, closer to the Azan, and Arliss joined him. Their sword arms would be free, while the Azan would have to slash across their horses. Also, Aranloth and Caldring would be better protected. Lanrik knew what Erlissa would say about all his planning, and the thought of her, and of being so close to achieving the quest, brought a lump to his throat. He would not let her down.

  The lòhren said nothing, but glanced at him and then at Arliss who was busy stretching her arm and freeing her muscles. Lanrik took his meaning. Aranloth still mistrusted her.

  He acknowledged the warning with a slight nod. Aranloth was not right about her, but now, if ever, her loyalty would be tested. He straightened, and nudged his mount forward. Whatever else happened, he would ensure Aranloth and Caldring got through the gate.

  They neared the fringe of trees. Rain battered them. It fell in a thick curtain between them and the fortress, obscuring it completely. That was good, for the Azan would be less watchful, but also bad, for it would li
kewise influence the Raithlin on the battlements.

  He looked at everyone, making sure that they were ready, and lifted his sword arm.

  “Ride,” he said, and slashed the blade downward. Drops of rain sprayed from the metal and flashed through the air.

  His alar mount responded to a quick nudge of his boots. It shot forward, clearing the trees and gathering speed as it raced across the wet grass.

  The others galloped with him over the open sward. From their right came a series of cries, and in moments the Azan mounted and raced to intercept them.

  Lanrik’s heart pounded, and the hooves of the horses thundered. Clods sprayed behind them. The ground was even wetter than he thought, and the riding was dangerous. He felt the mount beneath him scramble, but it regained its footing.

  They were ahead of the Azan, but Musraka’s men had the shorter distance to traverse. They might cut them off.

  Lanrik bent forward, keeping his head down and urging his horse faster. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the alar mounts slip and fall. It crashed into the ground and tore a long rent in the grass. The rider, thrown over its head, landed hard.

  Lanrik looked ahead again. Rain drove into his face, and he could barely see the ramparts. He assumed his men had noticed what was going on, and that someone was getting ready to open the gate, but he could not be sure.

  He glanced to the side again, and even as he did so his own horse slipped. This time it did not regain its balance but skidded and toppled. He leaped off, glad for the lack of stirrups. Had his foot been caught the horse might have crushed him.

  He landed heavily, but somehow managed to keep a grip on his sword. Rolling several times, he came to his feet and cursed. Pain shot up his arm, but nothing was broken. He looked for his horse. It was up again, mud smeared all over its flank, but it was some way off. He would not reach it before the Azan surrounded him.

  Aranloth rode ahead, his white robes billowing. Sudden light flashed from his staff. The fortress must be alerted now, but it would take the Raithlin time to get out here.

  Arliss must have noticed his fall, for she pulled up her mount. It too nearly went down, but somehow kept its footing. She galloped back, but the Azan reached him first.

  He cleared his thoughts, paying no attention to the wild yells and shrieks of Musraka’s men. He could not ignore the shazrahad’s face though; he resembled a hawk about to pounce on a rabbit.

  Lanrik took deep breaths, willing himself to relax. He got ready to fight for his life, or to sell it dearly. Arliss approached and dropped off her mount to stand next to him.

  Musraka hawked and spat. “The sword!” he yelled. Give it to me!”

  “Come and get it,” Lanrik said quietly.

  “Fool! Don’t you know when you’ve lost?”

  “I haven’t lost yet.”

  Musraka bared his teeth in a feral grin. “It’ll take at least a minute for help to arrive from the fortress. You’ll be dead before then. Give it to me, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Lanrik did not answer straightaway. Every second of delay was a chance at life, and he knew Musraka did not want to fight. It would be quicker to be given the sword. Also, if he killed him, he knew the Raithlin in the fortress would be more likely to pursue him. With them on his trail, it would be near impossible to reach the southlands.

  “The odds could be worse than two against four,” he said. “It’ll take you a while to kill us both, and while you’re trying, help will arrive.”

  Musraka smirked. “Fool,” he said. “The odds are worse than you think. The girl works for me. Give me the sword. Give it to me now, and you shall live. Delay any longer, and you’ll die. Choose!”

  Lanrik glanced at Arliss. She did not look at him. Her gaze was fixed on Musraka. She looked cold, devoid of emotion, but ready for anything.

  The shazrahad pulled a silver medallion from his tunic.

  “See this? It’s a gift from Ebona. You’ll have seen that Arliss also wears one. Ebona’s witchery has allowed us to talk to each other. How else do you think we found you all the time? Now, the sword!”

  Lanrik felt empty inside, but he showed nothing.

  “Like I said – if you want it, come and get it.”

  For a moment, all was still. None of the Azan moved. Arliss remained motionless, but he knew she was poised to act. He was ready to pivot away from her, and yet to do so would propel him straight at one of the riders.

  All at once, everything erupted in a blur of motion.

  Musraka stretched out his left arm. The glint of metal shone dully as a knife dropped from his sleeve and into his hand. At the same moment the gate of the fortress opened. Aranloth was through, and men raced over the wet grass on foot toward them.

  The shazrahad hurled his knife. It was likely filmed by poison, the same substance that he had used on Erlissa.

  Lanrik began to move, to try and fend the blade away with his sword, for to dodge right was to be impaled by the waiting rider. Arliss moved also. He thought for a moment that she was thrusting at him, but her body came across in front of him instead. She held her blade up, slashing it through rain and air.

  Lanrik cried out. He saw what she had tried to do. But her strike missed the knife, although her body continued to move and the dagger blade, unhindered by her attempted block, drove into her shoulder. It struck bone and bounced up, its hilt smashing into her head.

  She made no noise but stumbled and fell. Lanrik leaped over her body at Musraka. The shazrahad’s horse shied away. Musraka pulled the reins hard, forcing the horse to shift position, but Lanrik was quicker. He need not fight; he had only to delay long enough for the Raithlin running toward them to intervene.

  The other Azan wheeled around him, but he ducked and weaved. Throwing his arms up and shouting, he scared their horses. They did not lay a blade on him, but as they tried he led them away from Arliss so that she would not be trampled. He saw that she was struggling to her feet, but she would play no further part in the battle. Blood drenched her shoulder, and she swayed dangerously.

  Either the Azan killed him swiftly now, or they must flee. Musraka leaned forward over his saddle and struck a vicious blow. Lanrik narrowly avoided it, but as he darted back, another horse shouldered him and knocked him down. Hooves churned the wet earth near him, but he avoided them. Rolling beneath a horse that pranced and kicked, and came to his feet on the other side.

  All the horsemen wheeled on him again, but only Musraka attacked. The others paused, and then backed away. They yelled urgently at their leader in their own tongue, and though Lanrik did not understand what they said, he guessed the import of the words. The Raithlin were nearly here, and though they were on foot, they outnumbered them.

  Musraka hesitated, his face contorted by anger and frustration, and Lanrik saw his lust for the sword. He needed it as other men needed air. It was his birthright, it made him who he was, and with it he wanted to conquer the north.

  Lanrik knew he would always seek it, and no one in Lòrenta would be safe until the matter was resolved. He lowered the blade and looked straight at Musraka.

  “Parley!” he called.

  The shazrahad stared at him. He knew what those words meant: the Raithlin would not harm him.

  “Can I trust the word of a thief?”

  “You’ve already done so. Otherwise, you’d have fled.”

  Lanrik drew a deep breath while the Raithlin gathered around him.

  “It’s time to sort this out once and for all.” He held up his hand and spoke to his men. “Parley has been called. Let every man here sheath their swords. Musraka and I will settle this by ourselves.”

  The shazrahad dismounted. He handed his reins to one of his men and stood before Lanrik.

  “How do you propose we settle this? The sword is mine. You know it, and I want it back.”

  Lanrik spoke quietly, without anger or haste.

  “You brought war into our lands and held an innocent Esgallien girl prisoner. You
’ve forfeited your rights to ownership.”

  Musraka was about to respond, but Lanrik held up his hand to forestall him.

  “We could argue all day. It won’t resolve anything. What I propose is this: we shall fight, just the two of us, and to the death. I know you won’t ever give up the sword, not in life. And I can never give it to you.”

  Musraka, his eyes hard and dark, studied him for a long time.

  “If I win, I shall have it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have your word, and the word of your men, that they’ll let me go?”

  “Yes.”

  Musraka smiled. “Then you will die. For I am a great swordsman in my land.”

  Lanrik shrugged. He had seen Musraka wield a blade. The same blade that he carried now, an elug scimitar. He was not worried. There was risk to what he did, but the benefit outweighed it. At least to his way of thinking. Musraka would never give up the chase, and how many others would die by a hidden blade or poison? They must settle the issue now.

  “Perhaps,” he responded. “But I don’t think so. It’s more likely that I’ll kill you, and swiftly.” He paused, and looked earnestly at Musraka. “I don’t tell you this as a boast. I say it so that you know what’s going to happen.”

  “Enough words,” Musraka said. “Time to fight!”

  The Raithlin backed away at a sign from Lanrik. The remaining Azan also kept their distance.

  The shazrahad was tall and well built. He moved with speed and agility, but he was a man born into a position of power. He had never struggled to prove himself, never competed with other men to gain his rank. Lanrik thought he had his measure. Still, doubt nagged at his mind. He was taking an immense risk. He knew Aranloth and Erlissa would advise him against it. But the truth was that things could not go on as they had.

  The two men stepped forward and circled each other. Lanrik was tired after many days of hard riding, yet danger made him feel fresh once more. He put the Raithlin and the Azan warriors from his mind. His only thoughts were of his slow drawing of breath, the feel of the wet grass beneath his boots and the balance of the sword in his hand. He felt strong and nimble.