Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series Page 9

  He nudged the stallion forward and kept in the open. The angled early morning light helped him to see any tracks. When the sun was high, a trail was harder to spot.

  He noticed the imprints of iron-shod boots. Elug scouts were hidden ahead and would attempt to kill anybody returning to Esgallien.

  “They’re already here,” he warned Erlissa.

  The ford covered a large area, and the elugs must either be scattered or concentrated. Spread out, riders would have a chance of breaking through, and if grouped together, there was a chance of avoiding them altogether. The horses would be their advantage. They were fast, sure-footed and agile.

  The alar were tired though, having borne their riders far across Galenthern. After leaving Dead Man Swamp Lanrik and Erlissa had trailed the enemy host, following its beaten path and detritus.

  Eventually they had heard the throbbing of elug drums, ominous and sullen. The rearguard came into sight, and they observed whip-wielding Azan forcing the drummers to set the marching rhythm. The drùgluck signs had worked.

  The army was half a day late and struggling to maintain its pace. Lanrik had proven the Raithlin skills, far exceeding the exercise with Mecklar. This was validation, and the king could no longer begrudge their funding.

  The riders swung wide of the host, and then looped back to its front. It had cost them a day and allowed forward scouts to beat them to the ford.

  Lanrik turned to Erlissa. “We’ll have to rely on the speed of the horses. The elugs could be in a number of hiding places, and we can’t avoid them all. Our best chance is to surprise them and try to get passed before they have much chance to react.”

  Erlissa scanned the bank and shrugged. “It’s a simple enough plan,” she said.

  Most people would have been tense, but she just accepted that they would get through, or not, as chance dictated. He admired her composure but found her fatalistic attitude disconcerting.

  They moved forward at an easy walk, giving no sign that they knew scouts were there, but avoiding places of ambush until they had descended the steeper part of the bank and the ground flattened. The debris and erosion gullies would make the next stretch a treacherous place to gallop.

  “Are you ready?” Lanrik whispered.

  Erlissa flashed him a grin and by way of answer kicked the chestnut mare so that it bounded forward. The stallion took off after her, and Lanrik drew his Raithlin sword. The horses sped toward the river, veering one way and then the next to avoid sand gullies. They jumped scattered logs, and their hooves alternatively churned through gravel and clattered against hard rock.

  When they neared the river, ten elugs raced to intercept them from a gully to the right. Lanrik urged the stallion on until he caught up to the mare and placed himself between the elugs and Erlissa.

  They made it to the water, and it splashed and sprayed about the horses’ legs. One elug, a little ahead of the others, reached them and slashed at Lanrik. He parried with the sword, enough to deflect the blow, but the angle was awkward and the elug’s strike tore the weapon from his grip; it spun and fell to the riverbed. The elug swung again, but the stallion surged ahead in a rush of foaming water.

  The river deepened, and the elugs milled indecisively behind them. They were afraid of the current, for there were no rivers such as this in the dry Graèglin Dennath mountains.

  Lanrik cursed the loss of his sword and muttered under his breath. The water was deep now, but the horses moved on. The force of the current was strong, and it grew stronger as they headed toward the center.

  Erlissa looked at him, and he saw understanding in her eyes. She knew what the Raithlin swords meant to those who carried them; everyone in Esgallien did. The Lindrath presented them at the initiation ceremony of a new recruit, who cherished and preserved them for the rest of their lives. He cursed once more. At least the elugs are no longer a threat.

  The force of the water diminished as they passed the middle of the river and approached the northern bank. When they came to land it was steep, and the horses slipped and struggled to the crest. They halted, for there would be a Raithlin guard.

  The Careth Nien was a border: wilderness lay to the south, the tamed and fruitful lands of Esgallien to the north. Ahead were cultivated fields, and hornless red cattle grazed pasture; they were the descendants of animals Conhain brought when he founded Esgallien. Thick hedgerows of hawthorne, blackthorn and hazel bordered the paddocks. Some were left as pasture, others ploughed, the dark earth awaiting a crop; and some, seeded in autumn, were now lush with the green shoots of oat, barley and wheat.

  They waited. Several moments passed before a lone man rose from behind a fallen log and strolled toward them. He carried a notched bow and was dressed in Raithlin garb: soft doe-hide boots, grey pants and tunic covered by a forest green cloak and hood. Woven with red thread above his heart was the Raithlin motif of a trotting fox looking back over its shoulder.

  Lanrik noticed, despite the man’s casual appearance, that his glance was sharp and took everything in; the girl, the horses, the hilt of the shazrahad sword sticking up from his backpack and the horn slung over his shoulder.

  The guard lowered his hood. “Well met,” he said. “You and Mecklar left on foot, yet you return on an alar stallion and in the company of someone far more beautiful than the king’s counsellor. There must be quite a story to it all!”

  Lanrik laughed. “There is, Gilhain. But I don’t want to repeat it, so the others had better join us.” He looked around. “I can probably guess who’s with you. Come Rhodlin and Rhodmur, where are you hidden?”

  Two men, obviously brothers, both heavily freckled and crowned with red hair, emerged smiling from some tall grass.

  “There should be more,” Lanrik said. “Perhaps also the brothers Arawdan and Arawnus.”

  Two more men, these with solemn faces, black hair and blue eyes, swung down from the branches of an oak tree and landed lightly on the ground.

  The Raithlin unstrung their bows and made a pretense of studying the horses, but he saw their surreptitious glances at Erlissa.

  She smiled. “The mare is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed,” Gilhain said. “But the rider is fairer still.”

  Erlissa laughed. It was the free and light laugh of a girl used to compliments and at ease with the men who gave them.

  Lanrik realized with a shock that he did not like the attention they were giving her. Was he jealous?

  He cleared his throat. “Has Mecklar returned?” he asked.

  Gilhain’s expression changed. “Oh yes.”

  “He was as charming as ever,” Rhodlin said.

  “Charming enough to inform us,” Rhodmur added, “that the Raithlin were useless, treacherous and that our days were numbered.”

  Gilhain slapped his thighs and laughed. “He’ll have to eat his words now. By his calculations, the elugs should be here already. He said you intended to slow them down, and obviously you succeeded.”

  “He also informed us,” Arawdan said in his somber voice, “that you would not be able to do so, that in fact you would return soon after him, having thought better of trying.”

  “The king will have to think better of things now,” Gilhain said. “The elug army isn’t here and the horses, horn and sword show that you’ve been in their camp and delayed them – a feat to enhance the renown of the Raithlin.”

  “A feat indeed,” Arawnus said, in a voice even more solemn than his brother’s. “You will be the Raithlindrath one day.”

  He used the formal term for their leader rather than the usual abbreviation, and his words gave Lanrik a queer feeling. The predictions of Arawdan and Arawnus were often uncannily accurate. He noticed the respect with which the other men looked at him, and it made him uncomfortable. I haven’t done enough to deserve it.

  “How soon will our army arrive?” he asked.

  Gilhain glanced northward. “A horse was given to Mecklar and a rider sent with him. News was taken quickly to the king, a
nd we expect the army by noon.”

  Lanrik could not help but feel that Mecklar had let him down. He should have returned to Esgallien more swiftly than this.

  “It’ll be close,” Erlissa said.

  “Close,” Gilhain replied, “but the ford won’t be breached.”

  Irrespective of his words, he glanced worriedly to the north again. After a little while, he guided Lanrik and Erlissa to a small cottage built some way from the ford. He prepared a meal of cured meat, bread and wine while the other Raithlin remained on watch.

  The morning passed. Gilhain’s mood was one of forced buoyancy; the attitude usually adopted by the nervous. He was moved to tears however when they talked of Lathmai.

  “Gwalchmur is a dead man,” he said, “if the Raithlin find him.”

  Lanrik remembered his promise to Lathmai and wondered what Erlissa would say if she knew.

  The faint but growing sound of elug drums broke their wait. They left the cottage and returned to the ford, Lanrik strapping on the shazrahad sword and taking the horn. The Raithlin were standing in plain sight on the bank, their bows strung and arrows notched.

  Rhodmur acknowledged Gilhain. “Elug scouts began to cross the river so we revealed ourselves. They turned back but more will join them soon enough, I guess. They’ll try to force a crossing when there are enough of them.”

  “Let them come,” Gilhain said. “We have arrows and enough blades to stop them.”

  Lanrik knew this was true. However, the elug army was fast approaching, and a handful of Raithlin would not hold it back. He did not doubt their own army, if it arrived in time, would secure the ford against the enemy. It was an adverse place for a hostile force to cross. The swift water would slow them and make it difficult to hold shields in place. Archers would take advantage of this, sending accurate and murderous volleys of arrows repeatedly into their dwindling ranks. And if any reached the bank, they would scramble up the steep incline into a wall of waiting spearmen.

  There were no other crossings except those guarded far upstream by the Halathrin and downstream by the free cities. A strong man could swim the river, but elugs had little love of water, and single swimmers were not armies. Armies must carry food and equipment. Food would spoil and equipment weigh down a soldier and drown him. Rafts could be built, though with great labor, as there was no timber near the river. However, the army must receive supplies, and such a bridgehead required strong protection, for a successful counterattack would sever the army from its lifeline and destroy it.

  The sound of galloping horses came to the Raithlin, and columns of riders swept along the hedgerow-bordered road coming from the city: a hundred, two hundred, three hundred – a contingent of Esgallien’s cavalry had arrived. They thundered up to the ford and dismounted. Their horses would be of little use here, but they carried short-limbed bows and sabers.

  Their commander pulled his mount in close to the Raithlin, and Gilhain stepped forward. “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  The officer dismounted and shook his hand. “It’s even better to see that the enemy isn’t here yet. Mecklar led us to believe we’d be too late.”

  They talked a little as they waited. The elug army was in sight now, rolling forward to the surge of the drums, but the ford was guarded and Esgallien’s army close behind.

  It eventually came, marching to the beat of no drum but to the blowing of ancient carnyx horns, the sacred instruments that had been winded in the tumult of battle by their ancestors before the days of the Halathrin. The soldiers strode forward, the forerunners holding high the banners of Esgallien’s lords. At their head, brightest and most poignant, was the Red Cloth of Victory that all the kings of Esgallien had used since the founding of the kingdom out of battle and despair.

  Lanrik felt a surge of pride. These were his countrymen, sworn to protect the nation, willing to risk their lives to do so. And the king’s banner, whatever he thought of Murhain, brought goose bumps to his skin just as it did to all in Esgallien: every farm hand, every weaver, every shepherd, every baker. It represented for them the sacrifice Conhain made to save his people.

  The army of Esgallien took up position; the elug army was still a mile distant. The king and his retinue established themselves on a westward rise with a view of the ford. A general would direct the battle as Murhain was not a war leader.

  Out of the multitude, the Lindrath walked to Lanrik, and they shook hands.

  “You’ve made us proud,” he said.

  “I did what was necessary,” Lanrik replied, not wanting any attention.

  “It was necessary,” the Lindrath said, “but it was more than could have been asked.”

  Lanrik shrugged uncomfortably. “Lathmai gave even more.”

  The Lindrath looked at him carefully and then nodded. “She‘ll be honored,” he said quietly.

  Lanrik knew he meant it. They were simple words, but behind them was the weight of everything that it meant to be a Raithlin. They were a close group, little given to showing emotion but bonded by the hardships of their training and the purpose they served.

  Lanrik beckoned Erlissa over and introduced her to the Lindrath. She told him what she had learned of the threat to the lòhrens. His eyes widened as she spoke, and he shook his head as though denying that such a plan could exist, but there was no hesitation in his voice when he spoke.

  “Lòhren Aranloth is with the king’s retinue,” he said. “The last time I saw him though, he’d gone off into a field saying he needed to think. We’d better track him down.”

  The Lindrath led them through the army and to a place behind the king’s banner. They forced their way through the hedgerow and into the open field beyond. It was pastureland, and the red cattle in the paddock looked at them briefly and then continued to graze placidly. It was a repetitive and peaceful sound.

  The lòhren was an old man. He sat on a tree stump, his long legs gathered under him. He stood when they neared, and Lanrik watched him closely. His actions were fluid and graceful. Regardless of his appearance, he moved as no old man Lanrik had seen before. He carried an oaken staff but did not lean on it. He was dressed in white robes and his hair was white also. His face was wrinkled but the skin was clear and a healthy pink. A diadem circled his brow, nearly hidden by his hair, and was engraved with some strange symbol that tugged at Lanrik’s memory, but he could not see it clearly or recall its significance. The man’s eyes were sea-grey: the deep eyes of someone who had seen the highest joy and the lowest tragedy. They were eyes that looked into the hearts of men and read souls as others did the pages of a book. Lanrik had a feeling that his thoughts and nature were being considered as a smith would study the virtue of a new metal.

  The old man strode forward and met them. Surprisingly, he spoke to Erlissa first.

  “Are you well, my child? A shadow has fallen on you since last we met.”

  Erlissa had made no mention of the fact that she knew a lòhren.

  Her shoulders slumped. “It’s as you guessed long ago, Aranloth. The enemy tried to make me join them.” She straightened and glanced at Lanrik. “But he saved me.”

  Aranloth looked at her sadly, and Erlissa turned back to him. “I’ll still not join the lòhrens though.”

  “Peace, my child.”

  Aranloth turned his attention to Lanrik. “You’ve done well,” he said. “Apart from saving Erlissa, the talnak horn and the shazrahad sword you wear are tokens of success.”

  Lanrik was surprised. A talnak must be the type of an animal hunted by the Azan to obtain the distinctive horn. It was knowledge the Raithlin did not possess and proved that the lore of the lòhren, even of lands in which it would be death for them to walk, was far reaching.

  “How did you know about the sword?” he asked.

  Aranloth laughed freely, and it contrasted with the dignity of his bearing. “It was a simple guess,” he said. “You rescued Erlissa and took a talnak horn from the enemy. Such a prisoner and the horn would only be kept in the sha
zrahad’s tent. Given that you were there, and observing the scabbard and the ruby on its hilt, the sword must have been his.”

  “So it was,” Lanrik said. “And it must be more valuable than the horn for he was interested only in getting it back.”

  “Really?” the lòhren said thoughtfully. “Talnak horns are of great ceremonial value to them. Both horns and swords are heirlooms handed down through centuries, and they each represent courage; one for the hunt and the other for combat. Tell me – is there script on the blade?”

  “There is,” Lanrik said.

  Aranloth rubbed his chin. “I’ll look at it later and see what it says. But for now, there are no doubt other matters to discuss. You would not otherwise have come to see me when battle is about to be joined.”

  Erlissa briefly recounted what she had heard in the shazrahad’s tent, and the true purpose of the enemy. Aranloth listened closely, and so too did the Lindrath, but he also eyed Lanrik from time to time. That slowing the army had involved entering the shazrahad’s tent obviously surprised him.

  Aranloth remained calm. His face was serene and showed no hint of disquiet. He must have felt it though, and Lanrik was impressed. This was a man who got things done while others panicked.

  “Are you certain they spoke of a Morleth Stone?”

  “They used the term several times.”

  “And it will be taken to one of the mountain ranges north of Lòrenta?”

  “Yes, but they didn’t say which.”

  “It could be Anast Dennath or Auren Dennath,” Aranloth said. “It’s ill news either way. Morleth Stones are dangerous. They offer a way for many elùgroths to use sorcery in unison. Their making is not without cost though: elùgroths would have died.”

  The Lindrath looked puzzled. “But why take the stone to the mountains and not Lòrenta?”

  Aranloth answered, searching for a simple way to explain. “Lòhrengai and elùgai gather energy. It becomes part of us, and bent to our will, is transformed. It cannot be completely changed though and retains much of its original nature. The elùgroths assembling outside Lòrenta will be linked to the energy the stone absorbs from the mountain peaks. The mountains are a different world: not quite of the earth nor yet the sky; bathed in bright sunlight but deathly cold; at the top the world yet littered with seashells. I believe the elùgroths intend to open a way into the spirit world; a place between life and death. Lòrenta will be drawn within, and though not destroyed, it will be cut off from us, and we from it.”