Raging Swords Page 6

  Aranloth sighed. “You love him, as I have also learned to do.”

  “Yes, and though it seems that I sent him now into great peril, it may be that he has the most chance to live, for he will escape the city. He might survive what comes after, for though it will not have occurred to him just yet, he will realize sooner or later that if the harakgar press him too hard he might live by dropping Shurilgar’s staff and leaving it in the tombs.”

  “That is so,” Aranloth said.

  “It might be better that way. For I would be glad if he lived. And he would be glad to return to the lands of the Duthenor. He only stays here to help me. Otherwise he would have gone back before now. That is where his destiny is, if there is such a thing, and there he would be spared from Cardoroth’s fall, as we will not. I would have it so.”

  “Perhaps,” Aranloth said. “But his destiny with the Duthenor is linked to his destiny in Cardoroth. He’s not quite ready yet for what will follow if he returns to his home. There is more for him to learn before he can face those problems – and his enemies.”

  Gilhain gave a wan smile. “What man is ever ready for such things?”

  Aranloth acknowledged his words with a solemn inclination of his head. For a long while after, they sat in silence.

  7. A Token of Trust

  Night crept through the streets of Cardoroth. It came slowly, spreading shadows before it that filled the narrow alleys first.

  The last rays of the sun gleamed off golden domes and then shot up into the sky to spark the first shimmering of stars. Then the darkness came. Swift it fell, as though a lamp were snuffed out, and the air stilled, and an eerie silence grew. This was no rowdy city; not tonight. It was a city under siege, and word of the dark sorcery of the previous night ran from district to district, house to house, person to person. Fear ruled the shadows tonight. The house doors were shut. The inns were empty. All the city’s windows were barred.

  Brand rode slowly through the streets. He enjoyed the quiet. It gave him a chance to think and to prepare himself for what was coming. He was not nervous, not yet. That would come later. But he had experienced nerves before. He acknowledged them, as always, for a man void of nerves was a man oblivious to danger, and that was a danger in itself. So, when the nerves did come, and they would, he knew how to deal with them. What froze others set his true spirit free, for was he not a wild man of the Duthenor after all? And these city folk, guarded by walls, the strategies of a great king, soldiers and laws, they did not understand that in life-and-death struggles all their wealth and privileges and culture counted for nothing. There was only strength of will.

  He had put away the white surcoat of the Durlin. But the chain mail the king had given him, light yet strong, whispered reassuringly to him beneath the drab tunic he now wore.

  He arrived at the West Gate and found the king already there. Aranloth was with him, and also Taingern and Lornach and every surviving member of the Durlin.

  He had not expected that. Rather, he had intended to slip away unseen and unknown, for farewells were hard, and he had said more than he wished to in his short life. Nor was there any need to give his two lieutenants any instructions. Both of them knew their task.

  There were few others about. Only those who needed to be abroad had ventured the streets this night. For the most part they were soldiers, and though they must guess that something was happening, they did not know what.

  Finding a hitching rail, he tied his horse. The black stallion was his favorite, and he wished he could ride him on this quest. He would have been more than company on a lonely road; his was a bold heart that showed no fear, and it gave of its strength without stint. The horse could run all day and still finish with a burst of speed.

  He ran his hands along its flanks and over its head. “I’ll be back,” he said, “And when the enemy is gone, I’ll take you for a long ride where the grass is green and the water cool and fresh.”

  The horse tossed its head and neighed. Brand gave it a last pat and turned to face the others.

  Lornach and Taingern had approached. If ever there were two people the complete opposite of each other it was these. One was tall and courteous as a king of old; one was short and irreverent. Yet they both had this in common: they were his friends.

  Taingern shook his hand in the warrior’s grip. “Take care,” he said with quiet intensity.

  Lornach took his hand in the same fierce grip. “We don’t know exactly what your quest is,” he said, “But we know this much. You’re going to light a bonfire under the pimply backsides of those pasty-faced sorcerers. So, best of luck! We all want to see that.”

  Brand flashed them both a grin. “I’d like to see it too. The fire part anyway.”

  They said no farewells, and neither did he. They pretended he would return, and he went along with that. But they all knew this was likely their last meeting, and the hard held warrior’s grip said more than their words.

  The gathered Durlin saluted him as he walked past, fists to heart, and then their swords leapt from their sheaths and flashed high above their heads catching the gleam of flickering torches near the gate.

  Brand drew his own blade, the sword of his forefathers that had passed down from chieftain to chieftain of the Duthenor through years uncounted. Slowly, he kissed the metal, and then softly but clearly he voiced the Durlin creed:

  Tum del conar – El dar tum!

  Death or infamy – I choose death!

  The Durlin gave a cheer, and then sheathed their blades. The city was quiet again, and Brand moved through the ranks of his men until he came to the king and the lòhren standing within the light of the gate torches.

  “The time is nearly upon us,” Gilhain said. “The evening grows dark, and the enemy is settling down for another night. But before you go, we have some gifts for you. May they help you on the road.”

  Aranloth stepped forward. He held the lòhren staff in his hand. “This I give to you until we meet again. You will find it useful at need. Trust in it, as I trust in you, and you will draw more from it than you guess.”

  Brand took it. He had never heard tell of a lòhren parting with their staff, but what Aranloth did next surprised him more.

  With steady hands the old man reached up and carefully took the diadem from his head. It was a delicate thing of silver, plain and yet beautiful. Most of the time Brand never even saw it, but he knew that sometimes it flickered with its own light when the lòhren put forth his power.

  Brand was not sure what to do. He did not want anything to do with magic. The staff and the diadem would be useless to him, and yet the lòhren kept no trinkets and would offer nothing without purpose. So, Brand removed his helm, the horned helm of the Duthenor that their enemies had learned to hate, and allowed the lòhren to place the diadem on his head. The silver centerpiece came to rest on his forehead. It was so light, and fitted so well, that he barely felt it there, but it was cool against his skin and there was something about it that seemed calming.

  He put the helm back on, covering it. “Two gifts,” he said to the lòhren, “and I know they are not lightly given. I will care for them as best as fate and chance allow, and return them if I may.”

  Aranloth gave a bow. “You will need them – more than you think. Remember most of all the harakgar charm that I taught you, and between the three things you might yet return. If it helps, I think you will.”

  Brand glanced at him sharply.

  “Nay,” the lòhren said. “I have not had a vision, and I offer no foretelling. Call it wishful thinking if you will. Or call it trust. But the words are no more lightly given than the gifts.”

  “Thank you, Aranloth,” Brand said. “I fear that my skill lies in blades and the art of war, and that the virtues of staff and diadem will prove beyond my reach. I have no desire for magic and mistrust it, but time shall tell its own tale.”

  Aranloth gazed at him intently. “I would give you neither gifts if they would not turn to some benefit in your posse
ssion. And you mistrust magic, you say? Then you are already wiser in its ways than many who possess it and use it daily. But as you say, time shall tell its own tale.”

  The lòhren stepped back a little, and Gilhain came closer. He drew from the pocket of his robe a sheathed knife.

  “This,” the king stated, “is said to have come down through my line from the days of old, even from Carnhaina, that great queen of my people. It has no special value, or none that I know of save for its great antiquity and that her hands once held the hilt, but it’s believed that it brings luck to all of our line. So it has proved for me since first my father gave it to me. May it prove so for you, and yours. If nothing else, it will be a sharp knife in the wild.”

  Brand bowed low. He looked carefully at the hilt and the sheath. It was Halathrin made, of that he was certain, though he had never seen their workmanship except for his own sword and the helm he wore.

  The hilt was decorated with a strange design. Two small gems gleamed in the dim light, the sign of the Lost Huntress, the constellation of Halathgar. It was the same design as on the ring he wore on his finger, a gift itself after saving the great queen’s tomb from ransacking. Well did he believe that once she had owned this thing.

  He took the knife, drew it, and held it before him. He liked it. It felt good in his hand. But the king’s words reminded him that he was not married nor likely to continue his own line.

  “No,” he said. “I cannot accept this. It’s too kingly a gift, and a thing of your own family. Most especially, it brings you luck, which surely you need more than me. You’ll be hard pressed while I’m gone, each and every day without stint.”

  He tried to hand it back, but Gilhain would not take it.

  “We both need it,” the king said. “But only one can have it. Accept it from me as a token of my trust in you. You cannot gainsay a gift of your king. It’s mine to give, and I give it to you.”

  Brand could not refuse. It was a great gift, and one of more than knife alone. It would be churlish not to accept. He bowed again, deeply, but found no words to say. He was humbled.

  Next, the king drew forth a great diamond, large as a child’s fist, from his robes. It glittered in the torchlight, catching the dancing flames on its many surfaces and throwing the light back with a shimmer.

  “This is no ancient thing,” Gilhain said, “Nor is it an heirloom of my house. But it is of value, and you will find it so wherever you travel among Camar or Duthenor or further lands still that kings of the east know not, but perhaps the wandering feet of a bold man might tread. I give it to you, for you may survive, even if Cardoroth falls, and then I would ensure you had money to support yourself and to further your aims among the Duthenor when the time is right for your return to them.”

  Brand grinned at him. “Another kingly gift! But if I come not back here, then I am dead.”

  “That may be,” Gilhain answered. “But not even a king knows what road he will walk until his feet are upon it. Take it on the chance that you survive and Cardoroth does not. For despite all our efforts, so it might come to pass, and I would not have one that earned such great reward leave my service without a token of recompense.”

  Brand took the diamond. It was no token. He suspected it was worth a king’s ransom, yet the knife was still the greater gift.

  Aranloth led them through a side door into the base of the tower. It was dark inside, the torches meant to burn in here were extinguished.

  They went down a flight of stairs, near stumbling in the dark, but halfway down beyond sight of the entry a soft light sprang from the tip of Aranloth’s staff.

  The Durlin did not follow them. They were alone, and the noise of the city, such as it was, was dimmed to a far distant mutter.

  There was nothing in the basement of the tower save an old rug and a table and chairs. All was covered in dust, but the furniture had recently been moved and the rug exposed.

  Aranloth bent and pulled it aside. The stone floor was revealed, and set within it was a small wooden trapdoor. This was the secret exit from the city.

  The king himself took hold of the brass ring in the timber and opened it, exposing a rickety ladder that descended into the dark.

  “I thought I knew this tower,” Brand said. “But this was under my nose for quite a while, and I never knew it.”

  “Cardoroth is an old city,” the king answered. “It has many secrets, and even I don’t know them all. But don’t be dismayed that you worked here for a while and didn’t know. Few do. It’s well hidden and better guarded.”

  They walked along a narrow passage. It was a confined place, hung with webs, covered in dust, and it showed no sign that anybody had ventured here in hundreds of years. Ahead, the tunnel came to an abrupt end.

  Brand looked around. The stone was bare of ornament or sign. There was no opening, at least none that he could see, but the king pushed at a certain place on the far wall, and the stone turned at his touch like a door. And so it was, for at once he saw hinges recessed with skill and precision, and that what he had taken to be stone was in fact heavy timber painted by some art to look like the other walls in the tunnel.

  They moved through the door. On the other side were two guards. They did not speak, evidently having been prepared for tonight’s unusual events at some earlier time.

  Before the guards was a strong metal gate, a replica of the grand gate above, though much smaller. Yet it was strong, and obviously whoever had had this built did not rely on secrecy alone to protect the city from any chance that the enemy should discover this route and attempt to use it.

  Gilhain produced an ornate key. With a click and a rattle he opened the gate and they walked through. The way was now a little wider, but the guards did not follow them.

  There were six more gates. Each guarded, though now by lone soldiers. A bell was at each station to provide advance warning should some enemy try to break through.

  Brand wondered why the tunnel was wider than at its beginning. It did not really make any sense, but then he noticed the pillars that studded each side. A long chain was attached to each and ran the length of the tunnel. He guessed this was another defense. At need the tunnel could be collapsed, thus preventing entry into the city but also killing, in mass, whoever was attempting to force their way inside.

  They came to the last gate after what seemed nearly an hour of travel, though it was hard to tell in their strange surrounds. At a sign from the king the guard there withdrew.

  “This is it,” Gilhain said. “The last gate. From here your quest begins.”

  “And your danger,” added Aranloth.

  “The one goes with the other,” Brand said. “But we all knew that from the beginning.” He paused, and then took the king’s hand in the warrior’s grip, even as he had done with the Durlin.

  “Stay safe until I come back,” he said.

  “And you also,” Gilhain answered. “We’ll await your return, for if you’re successful it’ll tip the advantage back to us. I don’t think Cardoroth will remain besieged if the enemy suffers such a defeat. But if you’re not successful, there are other choices than death, whatever the Durlin creed says. A man can only do so much. Fate shoulders the rest. If you can, live well off the diamond, and, maybe, you can reclaim your rightful place among the Duthenor.”

  “It’s better,” Brand said, “to serve a great king than to lead a small people. I’ll return.”

  Aranloth shook his hand. “Don’t forget that a small people can become a great one. But fate will be what it will be,” he said. “Good luck, and may the sun ever rise on your face and set at your back.”

  They spoke no more. Brand moved down the shadowed passage, leaving behind two that he loved and a city that had become home.

  The passageway swiftly narrowed. It became dark, wet and dirty. At times he had to crawl, worming his way forward, but at length he felt the whisper of fresher air and the sounds of nightlife. The rough floor now turned at an upward slope, and he climbed slowly
; not because of the rough passageway, but because he did not know with certainty what lay at the end of the path. And that was near.

  Crawling on his belly he neared the exit. It was only a crack in the rock; whether natural, or man-made and given the appearance of something natural, he could not tell.

  He listened and looked from within the last foot of the tunnel, but it was too dark to see much, and he could not hear anything out of place. He crept further forward, and his head now stuck out. He could see a little better and discovered that he was somewhere amid piled and tumbled rocks on what seemed to be a steep hill.

  With drawn sword he climbed out, but there seemed no cause for alarm. Yet his life among the Duthenor, where he had been hunted for many years by his enemies, and his trials in Cardoroth, had taught him caution.

  He saw ahead of him that the slope rose to cliffs, but there was a path, barely perceptible, that led up to the top of the hill by a less steep route. This he took, and then looked out on the night-darkened lands below.

  Cardoroth was there, the great city itself alight with a glow from tens of thousands of windows. It was still, but before it was great movement. On the flat lands near the west wall he saw the shadowy mass of the enemy, lit by their cooking fires, seething and roiling with movement for the evening meal was being taken after the long fighting of the day.

  But even for this time of day there seemed too much movement, as though they were in disarray or some strange event had occurred in their camp. This was confirmed when he heard the wild blast of a horn. It was no call to end hostilities for the day or to signal the movement of troops to sentry positions: it was an alarm. But for what?

  It was a question that disturbed him, and he did not like the feel of things. Something was wrong.