Lore of the Letharn Page 3

  Lanrik stared hard at the lòhren. “That was thousands of years ago. You’re only guessing that the cure still grows there. And even if it does, it’s still too far to retrieve in time.”

  The lòhren ran a hand through his hair. “No, we can’t be sure the plant still grows there, and we don‘t have the time to go there, or anywhere else to get it. At least, that’s what Musraka thinks. But he knows less about all of us than he thinks he does, and nothing of the power upon which Lòrenta is founded. The same force that protects the fortress from assault has other uses.”

  Erlissa raised an eyebrow. “The ùhrengai that wells up from the fountain?”

  “Yes,” Aranloth answered. “It has many properties. It does not heal, but it can preserve. Within the veil of its power you can lie down and rest. You will sleep, a sleep near to death perhaps, but you will not die. Should you be woken, the poison will progress as normal, but otherwise, we’ll have the time we need to seek and find the cure.”

  The light from the flickering fire had grown dimmer as they spoke. It was now quite dark in the tower, but Erlissa’s eyes gleamed with determination. She turned to Lanrik.

  “That’s what we’ll do. It gives me a chance, and it saves the sword.”

  Lanrik stared back at her. He knew that she had made up her mind and would not turn from her decision. Still, he did not like it. It was a courageous choice, though some might call it stupid. But she always trusted to her luck, and perhaps Musraka himself had played a part. The shazrahad had held her captive for a time, and she would do anything she could to stymy his plans, even, it seemed, at the risk of her own life.

  He looked back to Aranloth. “Very well. But if the tunnel leads to safety, why was there only one survivor from the attack on the Halathrin?”

  The lòhren met his gaze squarely. “Apparently, many of the Halathrin fled that way. But none reached the safety of the outlet into the forest. They all died within the confines of the tunnel.”

  “What killed them,” Erlissa sked.

  “The survivor wasn’t sure. He believed this, though. Shurilgar, who betrayed them, had learned of the tunnel’s existence. He cast a great sorcery within it, and the survivor heard the screams of those who sought to escape that way.”

  Lanrik listened to the lòhren speak while he looked down at the flagging. He wanted to locate the trapdoor that led into the basement.

  “Let’s get started then,” he said. “The sorcery must have worn off long ago, whatever it was. We should have more luck than the Halathrin.”

  Aranloth shook his head slowly. “You need to understand something, Lanrik. Sorcery may linger for many lives of men, and Shurilgar was very powerful. His trap, whatever it was, is still set. I can feel it now. The very earth beneath our feet throbs with its malevolence.”

  3. Flood of Fear

  There was silence after his words, and Lanrik felt the air in the room grow heavy with dread. Yet there was no other way out.

  “We’ll just have to take our chances,’ he said.

  Without further pause, he continued to look for the trapdoor. His matter-of-fact acceptance of the situation would set an example for the new Raithlin. They were not used to intense danger. Somehow, a difficult expedition had turned into something more perilous, and he hoped they could cope with it. He must lead by example and show them that it could be coped with. The last thing they should see were his own doubts, even if he had many of them. He had to conceal his fear. Likewise, he must hide the fact that the threat to Erlissa set him on edge, just as Aranloth’s seeming self-assurance of finding a cure appeared to him to be overconfidence. Unless, of course, the lòhren knew more than he was telling. If so, it would not be the first time.

  It was Erlissa who eventually found the trapdoor. It was directly opposite to the entrance.

  “Over here,” she said quietly.

  In antiquity, the Halathrin would have used furniture or a rug to hide it. The elugs, however, had destroyed that long ago. What had kept it from view was the dust of countless years. Erlissa continued to brush it aside with her boot while the others approached. The stone flagging looked like any other, except that it had a metal ring set into its center to make it easier to lift.

  Aranloth wasted no time. “Stand back,” he said.

  The lòhren slipped his staff through the loop and set its tip against the next square of flagging. With a quick heave the square of stone lifted, and Lanrik and Erlissa stepped in to ease it to the side. They were careful to make no noise. This was a chance to escape from Musraka, but it would be lost if he became suspicious.

  Lanrik looked down into the gaping hole that the missing flagging revealed.

  “What can you see?” Arliss asked.

  “Not much except the top of a wooden ladder. It seems sturdy enough.”

  The timber was ancient, but it looked like it could still hold the weight of a climber. He tested it carefully, making sure it was solid before he went down into the pit.

  The ladder remained secure under his weight, and he knew he should have trusted the craftsmanship of the Halathrin. It was dry beneath the tower, protected from the elements as the upper floors were not, and those conditions served well to preserve the timber.

  He reached the bottom and waited in the dark. There was only a glimmer of light, and he could see little except vague outlines of massive stonework. He guessed it formed the foundation of the tower, but as yet he could see no tunnel, nor could he feel the movement of any air. He thought of making a noise, to see if he could detect by sound or echo how big the chamber was, but decided against it. He did not want waken whatever nameless sorcery Shurilgar had invoked.

  Aranloth came down the ladder next, and the lighted tip of his staff cast a reassuring light. As the lòhren climbed lower, the shadows receded and Lanrik caught his first real glimpse of the chamber.

  The great slabs were indeed foundations. They were neatly laid, and seemed large enough to support a structure many times greater than the tower that rose above. Still, Lake Alithorin was nearby, and the Halathrin might have feared movement from wet ground.

  Beneath his feet were similar flagstones to those above. The chamber was round and smoothly crafted for work intended to remain out of sight. The great slabs ringed him, but on the opposite side, in the direction of the square, he saw a massive portal. Aranloth’s light did not illuminate the tunnel that lay beyond.

  Amid all his concerns, Lanrik felt a touch of amusement. They would escape beneath the very feet of Musraka and his men. When the shazrahad finally discovered the deception, he would be furious. Yet he was not stupid and would also realize that they had some plan to help Erlissa. Musraka could not possibly guess its nature, but that would not stop him from trying his best to hinder it and reclaim the sword.

  Lanrik’s amusement was short lived. Aranloth joined him at the bottom, and the lòhren’s sharp gaze studied the tunnel while the next person began to climb down. His eyes, and his expression, showed deep uneasiness. If he was fearful of ancient sorcery, there was good reason for it.

  “Do you have any idea what kind of trap Shurilgar set?” Lanrik asked.

  “I sense the elùgai,” Aranloth answered, “but I cannot deduce its nature.”

  Nothing about this is going to be easy, Lanrik thought. It was hard to prepare a defense if you did not know what form the attack would take.

  The rest of the group soon assembled in the chamber. Ruthark and Hargil quietly pulled the stone flagging over the trapdoor and joined them last.

  Aranloth gave everyone a searching look.

  “There’s danger ahead,” he said. “I’ll lead, but you must keep your eyes open. If something happens, remember this. Do not flee back here. There’s no escape this way – not with Musraka above. And if his presence isn’t good enough reason, consider this. None of the Halathrin made it back this way.”

  Without another word he turned and walked toward the portal. Lanrik agreed with the lòhren’s assessment, but could not he
lp consider what remained unspoken; the Halathrin had not escaped by pressing forward, either.

  The dim light of Aranloth’s staff now lit the tunnel on the other side of the portal, and they stepped through. Erlissa followed behind the lòhren. Lanrik went next, and the new Raithlin formed a guard at the rear. How long Musraka would wait, no one could guess, but sooner or later he would tire of it.

  They moved through the tunnel. It was wide enough for several people, but they continued in single file. Aranloth went slowly, and though his eyes searched everywhere, Lanrik knew that he used some art of lòhrengai to try to locate the trap. He now felt something of the sorcery himself, or at least he sensed the magic in his sword stir in reaction to it.

  The tunnel extended in a straight line. There were no bends or side chutes used for cellars or storage spaces, and there was no variation in the stonework. It was exactly what the survivor had told Aranloth: an escape route. How far it ran into the pinewoods though, no one knew. They had been walking for a while, and even at their slow pace they must already have passed beyond the square and the rest of the town. The forest grew above them now. Dark and brooding as it was, Lanrik wished he were there instead.

  Ahead, Aranloth came to a halt. A long time he paused, and everybody waited in silence, but whatever he studied by the dim light of his staff no one else could yet see. Eventually, he moved on, but now each step was slower than ever.

  In a few moments, Lanrik saw for himself what had caused the lòhren to stop. A body lay on the ground. It was ancient and decayed. Little remained but grime-coated bones and tattered remnants of white cloth, now yellowed and stained. A leather scabbard, cracked and warped by time, rested by its side.

  The survivor’s account, as it had been with everything else, was accurate. It appeared as though no one had escaped the raid. Lanrik paused to study the remains for some moments, but he could detect no sign of what had killed the Halathrin warrior. None of the bones showed evidence of breaks or notches that a blade might have caused. He did note one thing though; the man had not drawn the sword from its sheath.

  Within a few paces more bodies came into view. They lay scattered across the floor. The bones rested exactly where the people had fallen long ago, unburied and untended. It made Lanrik picture the terror they must have felt.

  The lòhren began to mutter something. It was little more than a whisper, and Lanrik strained to hear. After a few paces, he understood.

  Eleth nar duril, the lòhren said repeatedly. Lie in peace, in the Halathrin tongue.

  Soon the bodies of warriors gave way. Now, there were no swords or blades, no shields or daggers, no bows and arrows. The bones belonged to women and children. Lanrik felt his heart pound harder, and anger rose within him. But fear swelled with it. He tried not to look at the bodies as he passed, but it was hard not to. The fragile bones of children, some of whom had died in their mother’s embrace, were everywhere.

  The muttering of the lòhren grew louder, and Lanrik reached for his sword. Whatever had lain in wait for these people now waited for him. His hand touched the hilt, and he felt the power within the blade roil.

  Aranloth led them onward. He held the staff high above his head, trying to see further into the darkness, but it achieved little except to reveal the horror about them in greater detail. Lanrik took long and slow breaths to calm himself. His sword reflected the lòhren-light and felt alive in his hand. He heard the movements of those who came after and wondered how they fared.

  The Raithlin, he knew without looking, had drawn their own weapons. But ready as they were, they could not properly prepare for an attack without knowing the nature of what threatened them. Nor was it encouraging to consider that the long blades of the Halathrin warriors had done them no good.

  At last the bodies of the women and children gave way to warriors again. They lay thickly all over the floor, and the travelers now had to pick their way carefully through a rubble of bones, skulls and discarded weapons.

  A new scent tainted the air. Aranloth came to a halt and sniffed it, and Lanrik did the same. It smelled like disturbed mud at the bottom of a stagnant pond. There was also a movement of air, for the first time so far in their underground journey, and it was this that carried the smell.

  Aranloth did not move. His whole body went rigid, and the light at the tip of his staff wavered. Erlissa remained behind him. She had not yet earned her lòhren staff, but she stood straight and tall, her head tilted a little to one side and her arms out in front of her body.

  The smell swiftly grew into a stomach-churning reek. It was fetid and putrid, as though the deep bottom of Lake Alithorin boiled upward and drove the decay of centuries toward the surface. The movement of air quickened into a breeze. It continued to intensify until it felt like the very air pushed against them in the narrow confines of the tunnel.

  Lanrik gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, yet there was no enemy that he could see, and he felt helpless. Deep inside his heart, a shadow of fear darkened and grew. Distantly, he heard a rumble, as though the foundations of the earth broke their bonds and once solid ground slid like mud. The forward press of air beat against him like a hammer blow. The wind swept dust off the stone flagging and drove it into his eyes. At the same time a thrumming sensation came up through the floor.

  He turned his gaze to the lòhren. Aranloth’s staff now pointed forward in a defensive position, yet still no enemy showed itself.

  “It comes!” yelled the lòhren.

  Erlissa moved to the lòhren’s side. Her dark hair streamed behind her, and she held her arms higher, fingers pointing forward.

  Suddenly, Lanrik heard a rushing noise in the dark ahead of them. It was the bubble and gush of water. Not the steady running of a stream, but the wild torrent of a river in flood. Somehow the sorcery of Shurilgar had diverted water from Lake Alithorin into the tunnel.

  A film of moisture sprayed across Lanrik’s face. The gloom deepened, and the wavering lòhren-light faltered. A knee-high wave smashed into their legs. Cold water filled their boots.

  The wave swelled around them, constantly rising, and it became hard to stand.

  “Hold fast!” the lòhren cried.

  Yet in moments the rush of water rose to their chests. White foam rode its scum-crusted top, and it smashed into their bodies. Lanrik went down in the torrent. His mouth filled with putrid water. He struggled to keep his head above it. Ahead of him, only Aranloth stood tall, unbent by the surging wave. Erlissa was lost from sight. He tried to struggle back to his feet, and heard a shout from somewhere behind him. The Raithlin had fallen too. Nothing could survive this flood, and now he knew how the Halathrin had perished. They had not escaped this sorcery, and neither would he.

  4. The Light of Truth

  Lanrik, his lungs full of water, sank to the bottom and his back came to rest against the hard flagging of the floor. Though the torrent raged through the tunnel, strangely, it exerted no force at the bottom.

  A sense of peace settled over his mind. Death was certain, and no matter how many times he had fought it before, it was now inevitable. He closed his eyes. It was easier to surrender than to struggle without hope.

  All about him was blackness. His thoughts swirled, and then like leaves blown away in the wind, they dissipated. He was at peace. There was no longer anything to strive for. Nothing remained to fight against. Now, there was neither good or evil, nor fear or happiness. There was nothing.

  A lone thought drifted through the timeless oblivion. It disturbed his tranquility like a drop of water breaking the clarity of a still pond. He remembered Erlissa. A picture came to him of how she looked the first time that he saw her. Once more, he was in the shazrahad tent. The thick shadows pressed against him. Destiny lurked in the corners, unseen but all-powerful. The hangman’s noose hung before her, intended to break her spirit. But once more he saw the expression on her face: alert, curious and ready for anything. The bloodstained rope had not intimidated her. He recognized this as the single mom
ent in time that he had fallen in love with her. She was the drop of water, and he the pond. He wanted to tell her that it was so.

  He felt emotion stir amid the calm. His eyes flicked open, and the press of water drove against them. All was still dark, yet he saw a glimmer of light. He concentrated on it. As he watched through the blur, it clarified and blossomed. In moments, it blazed brighter than the sun.

  In the very heart of the light stood a dazzling form. The figure was tall and robed in white. Bright fire streamed from it. He felt warmth bathe him like sunlight on a winter’s day. Suddenly, he remembered the scent of moist earth. He thought of green grass and air so fresh that it could be drunk like wine.

  He breathed deeply . . . and spluttered. Scrambling to his knees, he gulped in the life giving air. Ahead of him, Aranloth stood straight and tall. Silvery-white fire wreathed him, but swiftly faded. Erlissa crouched at his side, a pale green light flickering at the tips of her fingers.

  Lanrik spun around and saw that the Raithlin were getting to their feet.

  He turned back to Aranloth. “The water! What happened to it?”

  “There was no water,” the lòhren said calmly.

  Lanrik looked about him in a daze. The bones of the Halathrin remained unmoved. How could that be? The force of the flood should have swept them along the tunnel.

  He looked wide-eyed at Aranloth. “It was a trick?”

  “Indeed,” Aranloth said. “But a dangerous one. From the first moment we entered the tunnel, Shurilgar’s sorcery commenced to work. It wrapped around us, entwined itself through our thoughts. It sapped our will and brought to the fore our weaknesses, but most of all it deluded us. It used all our senses to give shape to its purpose. It made us aware of Lake Alithorin. Then it built its lies, step by step, on that foundation of fact. We believed its whisperings, and the illusion became real. The mind is a powerful thing.”