Lore Of The Letharn (Book 2) Page 4

  Lanrik understood now. The sorcery was gone. His garments, which should have been dripping, were not. He ran his hand through his hair, and it was dry.

  “No sorcery is stronger than self-deception,” the lòhren added.

  Erlissa raised an eyebrow. “But no enchantment is more potent than self-belief.”

  Aranloth inclined his head. Lanrik was still trying to regain his breath, and he wondered how they could philosophize at a time like this. He went to check on the Raithlin. They seemed shaken and subdued, their drawn swords held in white-knuckled grips.

  Arliss rallied and gave him a quick grin when he approached. “I was due for a bath, I guess.”

  “It’s been a long journey,” Lanrik said. He could not help but admire her resilience.

  She sheathed her sword and brushed her hands together.

  “It’s a pity that make-believe water doesn’t clean like the real stuff,” she said.

  Ruthark and Hargil chuckled. They sheathed their swords as well, and Lanrik thought they would be all right. It was a hard introduction to the life of a Raithlin, yet it was the sort of experience that no training could simulate. It was molding them, tempering them into what they needed to be in order to serve Alithoras. And at the same time, it was giving them the skills they needed to survive.

  Erlissa called out from ahead. “Time to go,” she said. “The sooner we’re out of here the better.”

  They began to walk once more. Aranloth led them quickly now, his strides long and fast and the light of his staff a steady reassurance.

  “The sorcery is gone forever,” the lòhren called back to them. “Our survival destroyed it, for like any lie, it cannot withstand the light of truth.”

  The tunnel did not change as they progressed. It must have required an enormous effort for the Halathrin to build, and how long it had taken, Lanrik could not guess. Being immortal had its advantages, he supposed. They were people with the time to achieve their goals.

  He thought of the bodies that lay behind them. Immortal or not, blades and sorcery still killed them. For a long time the Halathrin had defended Alithoras from elug invasions. They paid a high price for it. Still, they had their own reasons and motivations. Not everything they did was solely for the protection of Alithoras.

  Aranloth slowed his pace. For the first time since their descent, the tunnel changed. It suddenly veered to the left and began to drop at a steep angle. It was strange, but the Halathrin knew what they were doing. Everything in a construction like this served a purpose, whether it was obvious or not.

  “I can smell the pine forest above,” Erlissa said.

  Lanrik could not, but women had a better sense of smell than men. It was one of the advantages of employing female Raithlin. The ability to detect smoke, or other odors, could save lives in the wild.

  He kept on walking, glad that they were coming to the end of this stage of the journey. It was still a long way back to Lòrenta though. At least they would soon be able to retrieve their horses and ride. The Raithlin he had left with them were disappointed at his decision. They had wanted to play a greater part in things than serve as horse guards, but their time would come. Had he known that Musraka would attack, he would have brought them along. But stealth was what he had wanted at the time, and horses and additional people would only have worked against that.

  A new thought came to him. How exactly had Musraka found them? Ebona might have helped initially, but after that the Azan must have followed them for some time. If so, they would know of the Raithlin left to guard the horses. Had they attacked their camp before riding to the Halathrin settlement? There were six Raithlin; enough to make life difficult for the Azan, but not so many, or well enough trained, to long repel a concerted attack.

  Aranloth came to a halt. They had finally reached the end of the tunnel. Stone and mortar surrounded them. The blank wall they faced was solid, and without any obvious exit, but it leaned at a slight outward angle. A great chain fashioned of inch thick links was imbedded in the wall, and the other end was strung to a massive pillar set into the floor. The chain was taut and evidently under a great strain of weight. A pin, thick as a man’s forearm, pierced the last link, which was an enlarged circular ring. The metal bar ran right through the center of the pillar, and its end was visible on the other side.

  On top of the stone post, shoulder high to Lanrik, rested a hammer. It was made of iron, thick and heavy, with a short oaken handle. Rust pockmarked its surface, and it had no doubt lain exactly where it was, untouched and unseen by hand or eye, since before the destruction of the settlement.

  “How exactly are we supposed to get out of here?” Ruthark asked.

  Lanrik reached for the hammer. “With this,” he said. “I guess it’ll only take one stroke.”

  He took the handle in both hands. It felt like it was made of lead, and his muscles bulged and strained with the effort of holding it.

  Aranloth looked closely at the wall, and then came back to the group. “The Halathrin leave little to chance. But the escape route has been untended for centuries. It’s possible that trees have grown in the way, and the wall may not collapse as intended.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Lanrik said.

  He was sick of this underground place, and the sooner he got out of here the better. It would be just fine by him if he never had to go anywhere like it ever again.

  The lòhren gestured with his staff and everyone stood back. Lanrik positioned himself behind the pillar so that the loosened chain would not hit him as the wall collapsed – if it did. He made a few practice strokes of the hammer, and then took a deep breath and swung a mighty blow.

  There was a great ring in the narrow confines of the tunnel, a clang of metal as the pin drove through the stone and clattered on the flagging at the base of the pillar’s far side. At the same time, the end wall of the tunnel dropped like a drawbridge. The massive chain slammed into the floor, and then ran forward. A vast boom sounded, and natural light filtered through the dust-filled air.

  Lanrik waited a few moments before edging forward to look outside. It was still daylight, but for some reason it appeared dimmer than he would have expected, even for the forest. He drew his sword, and then stepped out over the toppled wall. It remained intact, though he could see metal bars holding it together wherever the stone had fractured. He did not look back, but heard movement behind him and knew the Raithlin were following.

  He looked about him in the gloom. Tall pines towered about him. Their straight trunks and leafy branches blocked most of the light and obscured his view, but he saw through the occasional gaps that they were in a steep-sided dell. It made sense, he supposed. The Halathrin had built the tunnel as an escape route, and when they exited they would want to do so in a place that hid them from the enemy and muted noise. The dell was a good location for that. Scouts would have next ascended to the rim, ensured they were clear of the enemy, and then guided the fugitives out and away. At least that’s what would have happened. They had not counted on Shurilgar’s treachery.

  He signaled the others to join him. He did not know exactly where they were, but the horses and remaining Raithlin were on the west margin of the wood. It would be less than an hour’s walk to reach them. At least the wolves would not be able to track them by scent, and they would likely be prowling about the city and watching Musraka’s men anyway. The tunnel, at least now that they had survived it, had proven fortuitous. Both of their enemies were behind them. At least for the moment.

  Lanrik moved ahead. Ruthark and Hargil melded into the forest on either side, just as they had on the way in. The sides of the dell were rocky and steep. At times, it was more a matter of climbing than walking, but they eventually reached the top. Lanrik paused and studied the surroundings.

  It was still dark beneath the trees, and he could not see the settlement nor any smoke from the burning pine. But he could smell it in the air. It seemed strongest in the direction that he took to be east, and so he
turned west and commenced walking toward their camp.

  They would not arrive back at exactly the same spot where they had entered. That, thought Lanrik, was a good thing. It would give them a chance to come up to the camp by an unexpected angle and investigate it closely. There was no way to know how many men Musraka commanded. They could have captured the Raithlin and left a contingent there. He did not want to walk back into a trap.

  Lanrik set a faster pace on the way out of the woods than he had on the way in, but stealth was still important. Wolves need not be the only danger that lurked in the trackless gloom. Yet they reached the eave of the forest without any difficulty. Late afternoon light slanted through the thinning trees, and Lanrik signaled the others to wait while he went forward on his belly, using the Raithlin crawl, until he looked out beyond the world of trees.

  The yellowed light of day’s end revealed the flat grasslands that stretched west of Lake Alithorin. To the north, he thought he saw the land begin its gradual rise toward the mountains of Northern Alithoras. Southward, he studied the forest margin carefully. He saw only the long line of marching trees, but that was all he expected. The Raithlin would stay within the cover of the timberline and out of view. So too would Musraka’s men if they had overrun the camp.

  There was little light left, and that suited Lanrik well. He went back to the others.

  “I know where we are,” he said. “Our camp is less than half a mile to the south.”

  “Did you see the others?” Arliss asked.

  “No. I saw no sign of them.” He sat down on the ground. “The only way to find out if Musraka has already been there is to go ourselves. It’ll be dark in a few minutes. We can rest briefly, and then head out onto the grass.”

  The others sat down. They seemed restless to be on their way, obviously fearful of Musraka catching up to them, but Lanrik knew that even a few moments of rest would do them good. Assuming they eventually found the other Raithlin unharmed, it would be a tiring ride back to Lòrenta. And no doubt the shazrahad would sooner or later give chase. They needed to pace themselves, for such a pursuit would be unrelenting.

  Long shadows glided through the forest when the sun set. An owl hooted somewhere deep amid the trees, and Lanrik stood.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  He led the way, and as ever, Ruthark and Hargil flanked him. It was dark on the plains, the border of the forest just a black shadow, but the bright stars provided enough light to travel by.

  The grass was short and their strides long. They quickly reached the vicinity of their old camp. Halathgar, the constellation of the Huntress, glittered palely.

  Lanrik went ahead for the last hundred paces by himself. He stepped slowly, his every movement hushed, and all his senses acutely alert. He approached along the margin of trees so that the lighter western sky would not silhouette him.

  When he peered into the camp he knew that something was wrong. There was no fire or noise of any kind, not even the quiet stamp of a horse’s hoof or the swish of its tail. He remained perfectly still, taking in the sight and allowing his eyes to adjust to the darker shadows of the forest. He caught a glint of metal, the barest flicker, and waited. Nothing happened. The blade did not move, nor did anyone reveal their presence by sound or movement.

  Moving slowly, and drawing his cloak tighter about himself, he stepped forward. The blade was clearly visible now. It lay on the ground. A little to the side was the body of a Raithlin. Durnlath’s pale face looked up at him with sightless eyes, and Lanrik’s spirits sank. Had he known that things would end this way he would never have brought the Raithlin. They were his responsibility, their presence in this place at his command, but he was not here when they needed him the most. It was one thing to put himself at risk, but another to place someone else in jeopardy. He felt the crushing weight of leadership.

  But what of the others? He saw no sign of the remaining five Raithlin.

  Quickly, he scouted the camp. The horses were gone. The body of one of Musraka’s men lay under a tree, a Raithlin arrow in his chest. Had Musraka taken the Raithlin prisoner? Lanrik considered it. He did not think so. The shazrahad would have used them as a bargaining point when they met in the settlement. But would that necessarily be the case? He might have withheld that information. It was always better to hold something back in negotiations for later use. The Raithlin might, or might not, have evaded the Azan.

  Lanrik called the others into the campsite and explained the situation.

  “If they escaped, where would they go?” Aranloth asked.

  “Into the trees,” Lanrik offered, “There’s cover there, and a few men with bows might hold off Musraka’s men.”

  “Maybe,” Aranloth said. “Or we may find only dead bodies and that our horses have been stolen.”

  “Perhaps,” Lanrik agreed. “But we had better go in and look. And let’s hope they survived, not just for their own sake, but because without the horses Musraka will soon find us.”

  5. The Jealous Dead

  Lanrik led the way into the forest. If it had been gloomy during the day, it was now a pit of shadows. Nor was it silent anymore. The limbs of the trees creaked strangely, and shallow roots muttered as they rubbed against one another. There were shuffling noises, high-pitched cries and angry hisses. The entire forest seemed alive, from the thick layer of dry needles that covered the ground, up the trunks and high into the topmost boughs.

  It was a grim place to get separated, and Aranloth caused a faint light to glimmer at the end of his staff, which helped to keep them together. Lanrik led by instinct rather than sight. It was impossible to track anybody, so he put himself in the Raithlin’s position. He tried to feel what they felt when Musraka’s men attacked, think as they would have, and then intuit how they reacted.

  Outnumbered and shocked by Durnlath’s death, they would have been scared. That would make them retreat. But where to? Would they run blindly into the forest? No, he had trained them better than that. They would seek a defendable place to regroup. Somewhere close, so that he and the others could find them. So far so good, but what terrain offered the best protection in a forest?

  He knew the answer as soon as he thought of the question. The grasslands to the west were fairly flat, but there were hills and ravines in the forest. Though he could not see it, he sensed with his every step that at his left the land rose. He turned that way. The steeper the ground grew underfoot, the more confident he became that he was on the right track.

  Someone approached him from behind. He knew it was a Raithlin by the quiet tread of their feet.

  “I smell smoke,” Arliss whispered.

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  She hesitated. “Just ahead, I think.”

  They went on. In moments, Lanrik smelled it too. He slowed his pace, and the light at the tip of Aranloth’s staff faded and went out.

  It was hard to tell in the gloom, but this seemed just the sort of place the Raithlin would choose to defend themselves. The slope was increasingly steep, and the trees grew thickly. He moved ahead. Flickering light soon began to show where a fire burned. But why was there a fire in the first place? Would the Raithlin light one? Or was it lit by Musraka’s men?

  He paused, uncertain how to proceed, and a voice boomed out of the dark from his left.

  “Halt or die!”

  Everyone went still, and Lanrik cursed himself. The fire was a trick. Its purpose was to lure them forward while the people who lit it hid elsewhere.

  However, he thought he recognized the voice.

  “That’s a good ploy,” Lanrik said. “The fire had me. And to think I fell for something that I taught you myself.”

  There was movement in the shadows. The light of Aranloth’s staff glowed again, and from the dimness between two trees the grey form of a man emerged. He held a bow, an arrow notched to the string.

  Lanrik faced him. “No need to shoot, Feldring. Killing your own Raithlindrath, although an achievement, will likely hurt you
r career.”

  Feldring lowered the bow and slipped the arrow back into its quiver.

  “It’s good to see you, Lindrath. We’ve had some problems . . . ”

  Lanrik saw strain on the man’s face. He also saw it lift, even as he watched. Feldring was the most senior of those left behind. Now that his leader was back, he was unburdened of responsibility. Lanrik did not hold that response against him. He was, in fact, quite pleased with the man’s efforts in a difficult situation.

  “I know. I found Durnlath. What of the others?”

  “We all survived,” Feldring said. “But it was a close thing.”

  He gave three sharp whistles, not so loud as to carry far, but loud enough to bring the other Raithlin. They came in from different directions, one even dropping from a nearby tree.

  There were some quick greetings, but Feldring wasted no time. He explained what had happened since they parted that morning. The Azan had attacked, seemingly more interested in stealing the horses than anything else, but when that failed they did not push their advantage of numbers home. They left swiftly.

  Feldring glanced toward Erlissa. “Did you get the book?”

  She patted her backpack. “We got it.”

  Lanrik told him of the confrontation at the tower, Musraka’s poisoned knife, and their escape through the tunnel.

  “It’s time to go,” he said when he was done. “The Azan know where you’re camped and they’ll come here first.

  Feldring led them a little further into the trees where the Raithlin had tethered the horses. Lanrik’s stallion and Erlissa’s chestnut had once belonged to the Azan. They were fine horses, and he knew why they wanted them back. Just as well that they had not got them though. It was a long way to Lòrenta, and he feared Erlissa would soon be in no position to walk.

  Aranloth led them out of the forest, the light of his staff helping keep them together. They led the horses by hand, Hargil taking not only his own mount, but Durnlath’s as well. The two of them had been friends, and Lanrik decided to watch him closely. It was hard to deal with unexpected loss, and he would be questioning everything he knew at the moment. He would hide the pain he felt, but that did not mean it was not there.