Lore Of The Letharn (Book 2) Page 23

  Without warning, Musraka slashed. The curved elug blade sliced through the air. Lanrik leaned back, feeling his weight shift onto his rear leg. The point of the scimitar tugged at his cloak, but it did not touch his skin. Even as Musraka’s swing continued, and he started to divert the blade into a return stroke, Lanrik lunged. He thrust the point of his own sword forward, propelling the weight from his rear leg to the front one.

  Swift he struck, and like an arrow the sword-point drove through the air. It pierced the shazrahad’s belly, slowing little as he pushed it forward and up.

  Musraka staggered back. He dropped his blade, his eyes wide with stunned disbelief. Rain sheened his pale face.

  Lanrik withdrew the sword. Blood coated it, yet only a trickle ran from the wound. Red froth foamed at the shazrahad’s lips as he tried to speak, but no words came. He dropped to his knees, gazing at Lanrik in astonishment. The pain of his injury washed over him, and he shuddered. For several long moments he convulsed, and then he died.

  The corpse toppled to the ground. There was silence except for the heavy patter of rain on the grass.

  Lanrik stepped away and sighed. So much had changed since that night in the tent long ago. And yet so much was the same. He had intended to kill Musraka then, although he did not want to, and he had killed him now, although he wished not to have needed to. It ended as it began.

  He turned to the Azan. “Does anybody else wish to claim the blade?”

  One of them took a step closer. He was scrawny, but Lanrik read self-assurance in his every move.

  “I’m Nurhaq, and I now lead these men. The blade isn’t worth anything to the rest of us. We weren’t born to it, and the pursuit of it has led us to disaster.” He turned dark eyes on Lanrik. “For myself, I care nothing for conquering these lands. I’d just as soon never be cold and wet again.”

  “Then go in peace. But do not return.”

  Nurhaq tilted his head. “Know this, though. A man’s fate is rarely his own. I go where I’m commanded, and so too for my nation. Whether it is me, or my brothers, you will undoubtedly see Azan again. Those whom we must obey, have decreed it.”

  “So be it,” Lanrik said.

  Nurhaq spoke no more. A moment, he and the other Azan looked at the body of the shazrahad, he who once had led them, and though the expression on their faces was unreadable, Lanrik did not think he saw love there. Together, they trotted off. Lanrik watched them go, and then he walked to Arliss.

  She did not look at him. Her eyes were downcast, as though something on the ground was of vital interest. She had torn a square of cloth from her tunic and pressed it over the wound in her shoulder. Blood seeped through it. The wound did not seem to be overly dangerous. More worrying was the poison that Musraka had used. She would need the herenfrak as well. He just hoped there was enough of it.

  It surprised him that she had been working for Musraka. He had misread that, and Aranloth had been right. Yet it did not surprise him that in the end she had sided with the Raithlin. He had never doubted her loyalty.

  “You took a knife for me,” he said. “Why did you do that?”

  She glanced at him for the first time. There was a new look to her face that he had never seen before. Gone was her bravado, worldliness and humor. She seemed unexpectedly young, and he saw only vulnerability. It was something that she had never shown before.

  “You would have done the same for me,” she whispered.

  Lanrik thought about it a moment. He had done something similar when they escaped the tombs of the Letharn. And she had just now echoed his own words at the time.

  He nodded slowly. “That’s what it means to be a Raithlin,” he said.

  He noticed something else. She had puller her tunic a little to the side so that she could press the cloth to the wound on the shoulder. He could not see the medallion.

  She read his look. “It’s gone. I threw it away. If Ebona wants it back, she’ll have to take on the three harakgar.”

  Lanrik realized that he had not seen the medallion for a long time.

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to wear it any time soon,” he said. He searched a moment for the right words to his next question. It was something he needed to know.

  “When did you meet Musraka?”

  She closed her eyes. “He was in Cardoroth. Somehow the witch knew you would go there to recruit Raithlin. She also knew that you would seek me out. I suppose it’s true what Musraka told me, that she has the sight. Anyway, he offered me money to spy for him.” She paused, seemingly unwilling to go on, but then continued in a rush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you then. And money was hard to come by. You have no idea how poor my family is. I supported them by knife fights. Men bet on me to win. And I rarely lost. It was the only real skill I had. My only way to earn money. It was all I was good at, until I came here.”

  A tear rolled down her rain-wetted check. It was another look on her face that he had never seen before.

  “You’re a natural at all our skills,” he said.

  The other Raithlin were nearby, but not close enough to hear the conversation. They were busy catching the horses.

  “As things went on,” she continued, “I loved that I belonged somewhere. I loved that I no longer had to risk my life for nothing but money. There was a reason for things here. To help Alithoras. I felt a sense of belonging that I’ve never felt before.” She looked at him, and wiped the tear away. “I’ll never forget that. I’ll miss it.”

  Lanrik winked at her. “You won’t miss it – you’ll still be here. Once a Raithlin, always a Raithlin. There’s a place here for you as long as you want it.”

  She gazed at him with disbelief in her eyes.

  “You’ll keep me on after what I did? How can you trust me?”

  “How can I not? You just risked your life for me. I trust you more than ever.”

  She would have said more, but he waved her comments off.

  “First things first,” he said. “We need to get to the fountain.”

  He helped her onto her mount when one of the men brought it over, and then took the reins of his own. They rode to the fortress in silence.

  The gate was open, and there were more men there. Lanrik passed through swiftly, only pausing to acknowledge greetings with a quick wave. After that, he helped Arliss dismount, and as she was still unsteady on her feet, he picked her up and carried her through Lòrenta’s passageways.

  Rain splattered his face once more when he entered the courtyard. The square of sky high above the enclosure was dark grey. The grass, trees and flowers seemed drab and motionless, except for the glistening water drops that gathered on every surface.

  The great spray of water from the fountain was just as peaceful as ever, though no sunlight played over it today. Aranloth stood nearby, leaning on his staff. The lòhren looked down at the block of ùhrengai that encased Erlissa, and seemed oblivious to all else, but he glanced at Lanrik.

  His gaze took in Arliss. Concern crossed his face that she was being carried, and then surprise when he saw the blood on her shoulder.

  He was about to speak, but Arliss spoke first.

  “I chose the right side, at last.”

  Aranloth stared hard at her, and then he nodded. “So you have.”

  Lanrik laid her down on the grass, and then looked back at Aranloth.

  “We’ll need herenfrak for her, too. Musraka was fond of poison.”

  Aranloth raised an eyebrow, but did not ask any questions. He probably realized by Lanrik’s choice of words that the shazrahad was dead.

  “There is enough to spare. But no matter how much we have, it may be of no avail for Erlissa. The head-priest was right. Ebona had her.”

  Lanrik stepped close enough to see. His breath caught in his throat. Erlissa lay there, but not as she was when they last saw her.

  Blood marked her face from a long cut that ran above her eye. Soot and dirt covered clothes and skin alike. Her long black hair was burnt at the tips. Worst of
all, there was still fire about her. It gave off light, yet did not leap and twine. It was caught, just as she, in a moment of time. Strangest of all was the black staff in her hand. It had not been there before.

  Lanrik shuddered. It looked like the wych-wood staves that elùgroths carried. Yet as he studied it he realized that it was not. It was walnut, a timber that he knew and liked. And there was something about it that seemed at the same time both strange and familiar.

  He looked at Aranloth, and tried to keep his voice steady.

  “How is this possible?”

  Aranloth shook his head. “It was done by some art or power beyond my own. I sense Ebona at work. The fire is certainly hers, but the staff is something else. It belongs to Enorìen, and I think Carnona has been involved. The head-priest did not lie, but he did not tell all the truth.”

  Lanrik forced himself to ask the single question that burned in his mind.

  “Is she alive?”

  Aranloth straightened. “She’s alive, although it’s clear that when I release the spell that binds her, the blast of witchery will strike. I cannot say if she will survive that. She may wake for a single breath only.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  Aranloth looked at him, his age-old eyes deep wells of sympathy. He shook his head.

  Lanrik gritted his teeth. “Then the sooner we find out the better. Do what you need to do.”

  Aranloth took a firm grip on his staff. “Stand back,” he ordered.

  Lanrik moved away to where Arliss sat on the ground. Together, they watched as the lòhren stilled himself. He seemed a statue that mirrored the one in the fountain. The only motion was the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

  When he had focused his mind, he lifted the staff high. Water ran along its length, dripping from its end onto the green grass. Suddenly, lòhren-fire flared. The water sizzled and turned to mist, and a tongue of silver light leaped like lightning into the earth.

  The fire flicked back and forth between ground and staff. With a heave, the lòhren thrust the tip higher. Lòhren-fire shot upward, arcing into the air and driving deep inside dark clouds.

  Aranloth relaxed, lowering the staff, but the lòhren-fire thrummed steadily. Once more he drove the tip high, and the silver light shone with a blinding flash. There was a clap of thunder, and the grey clouds flickered with inner light.

  Once more he relaxed. This time he swayed a little, but he did not allow the staff to touch the ground.

  He steadied himself, and Lanrik and Arliss put their hands over their ears. A third time he drove the staff up. Blinding light flared. The air hissed and crackled, and a vast boom rolled over Lòrenta. The earth shook with it. The fortress shuddered. Far away birds cried in the woods and took flight, wheeling in confusion across the sky.

  The boom receded. The land grew still. There was an answering rumble, distant and subdued, like an echo of the first. The ùhrengai that encased Erlissa turned to water and sank swiftly into the earth. It left her resting on the marble bench.

  Erlissa gasped for breath, and even as she did so the witch-fire burst all around her. She screamed, and her hand twitched on the walnut staff. The fire engulfed her, bathing everything in red.

  The others staggered back. Even as they did so, a white light, tinged by forest-green, flared to life inside the red.

  Lanrik fell to his knees. A voice bellowed from the very earth.

  “Die!” it screamed.

  Lanrik knew it. It was Ebona.

  As swiftly as they had burst forth, fire and voice dispersed. There was only Erlissa, partly shielded by the forest-green light. She reefed herself into a sitting position, wisps of flame curling over her clothes and through her hair.

  Lanrik raced over to her. He tore off his Raithlin cloak and tried to smother the flame. After a moment, he picked her up, and then stepped into the basin of the fountain. Water sprayed over him, and ran up to his knees.

  He laid Erlissa down, soaking her and putting out whatever flame was left. He held her head above water and splashed her face.

  She called out, but he could not understand her words until she reached up with her free arm, the staff still in her other, and pulled the Raithlin cloak away.

  “Enough,” she said.

  Lanrik looked at her. She was injured, but perhaps not so badly. Her hair was shriveled in places, but the fire had not reached her skin.

  He rested his head against hers for a moment. But then he forced himself to pick her up and move out of the fountain. There was more yet to do.

  His legs ached as he carried her over to Aranloth. The lòhren lay on the ground, groggy but unhurt.

  “The herenfrak!” Lanrik said.

  Aranloth stirred. He reached into his robes and pulled out the bag that Lanrik had last seen in the tombs of the Letharn.

  The lòhren moved close to Erlissa, and then stopped.

  “You do it,” he said to Lanrik. “My hands are too shaky.”

  Lanrik took the bag.

  “Just a small pinch,” Aranloth said.

  Lanrik opened the bag and reached in. There was little of the herb there. It was powdery to the touch, and so light that it felt almost as though nothing was there. He pinched a little between his fingers.

  Aranloth looked at Erlissa. “Eat it,” he said.

  Lanrik placed the dried herb in her mouth. There was a pungent odor, and for a moment he was reminded of the tombs. And then the smell was gone.

  Erlissa lay down as she chewed and swallowed.

  Lanrik leaned over her. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, but took some time to speak. “I think so. I feel the cure begin to work. I’m already stronger, but I could still sleep for a week.”

  “She’s had enough,” Aranloth said. “Now for Arliss.”

  Lanrik stood up and walked to her. The few paces that separated them tired him like a ten-mile walk. He nearly collapsed, but sat down and gave her the cure.

  She looked to Aranloth. “I don’t feel anything,” she said. “Neither better nor worse.”

  “You would not. Erlissa did because she is adept at lòhrengai and felt the cure run through her body. Trust me, you’ll be well.”

  The lòhren retrieved the bag and looked inside.

  “There’s still some left,” he said. “I’ll store this properly.” He drew the strings of the pouch tight. “It’s hard to get.”

  Lanrik would have laughed if he had enough strength for it. Hard to get was an understatement.

  He signaled the Raithlin, who had kept a distance while powers beyond their understanding moved around the fountain, and gestured to Erlissa and Arliss.

  “Take them to their beds. See that they get rest.”

  Erlissa and Arliss did not resist as the strong hands of the Raithlin picked them up and carried them into the fortress.

  Lanrik and Aranloth were left alone. Above them, the clouds parted and sunlight filtered down into the courtyard. He felt the peace of the fountain, and all seemed well with the world.

  “Have we just achieved the near impossible?” he asked Aranloth

  The lòhren ran a hand through his hair.

  “Yes, but that’s only a beginning.”

  Lanrik knew what he meant. Musraka was dead. But other enemies were not: both their own and those who wanted to conquer Alithoras.

  “We’ve got a lot to think about.”

  Aranloth nodded. “And a lot to decide when all counsels are considered.”

  Lanrik stood. His thoughts went to the shazrahad blade, and his hand dropped to it. It felt comfortable by his side, yet he knew that its pull on destiny was getting stronger. That would be their first task, to figure out what to do with it.

  He extended a hand to Aranloth and winked at him.

  “Come along, old friend. The girls aren’t the only ones who need some rest. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

  Aranloth raised an eyebrow. “That’s true. But you’d better hold o
nto that sense of humor. You’ll need it.”

  Epilogue

  The following weeks were quiet and restful. And rest was needed, for Lanrik had never felt so exhausted. Yet, the more the discomfits of his body eased, the greater his disquiet grew. He became anxious to learn of events in Esgallien.

  He visited Erlissa and Arliss regularly. They were recovering well, though Erlissa was slower to return to health. The poison had brought her to the very brink of death, and the confrontation with Ebona had nearly pushed her over.

  She had explained Carnona’s use of ùhrengai, and of the task the Guardian had set her. It amazed him then, just as it amazed him every time he thought about it since, that she possessed such courage as to challenge the witch in her own stronghold. There seemed no limit to her nerve, and he wondered how many lòhrens, even those with greater experience, would have attempted it.

  It was clear that Erlissa’s efforts had broken the witch’s attack on Enorìen. It was not clear what influence she retained in Esgallien.

  Arliss regained her humor, but there was often an introspective cast to her eyes when he came upon her unexpectedly. She avoided him, and he knew why. But he found no words to say to her. Only time would remedy what ailed her.

  The Raithlin honed their talents. He taught them, taking them on expeditions all over the hills, and they learned with diligence and determination. They did not forget that one of their companions had been killed, and they understood better than ever the dangers of their profession and the necessity to become adept at a multitude of skills.

  The new order of Raithlin were now a band of people who shared a common desire to help Alithoras. They had the skills of their namesake in Esgallien, though it would take many years of real-life experience to match the level of expertise the old Raithlin possessed.

  Lanrik often wondered how his former companions fared, particularly the Lindrath. His old leader was no friend to the king, nor would Ebona sway him. Those things, and his fondness for direct speech, might cause him problems.