by Robert Ryan
“And how are they defeated?” Ferla asked.
“They cannot be defeated or killed,” Aranloth said. “But they can be held off. For this, the ancients wove words of power into the magic that summoned them. These words of power act as a kind of key. Without them, you cannot penetrate far into the tombs without being slain. Without them, you cannot leave again carrying any treasure, no matter that it is nothing more than a copper coin.”
Faran thought about all this. He was beginning to see why Kareste was scared.
“Do we really need to go there?” he asked.
“You do if you want weapons and armor to match the training I’ll give you. And if you want to be able to face the kind of sorcery that will be sent against you if you are found again.”
That was enough for Faran. However dangerous the tombs sounded, facing enemies such as he had without help would be worse. And what if Aranloth or Kareste were not there? He would be killed almost instantly.
Ferla was looking at him, and he thought he saw resolve in her expression. She must have been thinking exactly the same things he was.
“I’ll go to the tombs,” he said.
“As will I,” Ferla added.
Kareste looked away. She made no further argument against it, but it was clear she still thought this a bad idea.
“Then it is settled,” Aranloth said. “Tonight, we will rest, and tomorrow we will reach them.”
The afternoon sun was dropping low, but there was still some time left before evening. Faran did not look forward to being shut up in this enclosure all night. And he wanted a chance to talk to Ferla as well.
“It’s safe here isn’t it, in the ruins? I think I might go for a little walk before the night sets in. I get restless in confined spaces like this.”
Aranloth hesitated, but then shrugged. “The ruins should be safe. But don’t go far. Night isn’t long away, and you don’t want to be trying to find your way back in the dark.”
Faran stood, and he was glad that Ferla did as well. Together, they made their way out of the enclosure and back onto the main road.
There seemed a little more light here outside the enclosure, but dusk was falling. He really did not like this place. They had not reached the tombs yet, but this place seemed like a tomb to him. It was like a vast graveyard, and the relic of each building a gravestone.
They moved down one of the side streets. The hill flattened out here, and the buildings seemed more intact. Many of them stood there, windows and doors gaping in undamaged walls.
“Thank you for including me in Aranloth’s training,” Ferla said.
“You really do need it as much as I do,” he answered. “Aranloth was quick to agree, too. It was almost like I asked for something he had already decided on.”
“Perhaps he had. I thought he was quick to agree as well.” Then she gave his shoulder a mock punch. “But he probably knows that I’m the better fighter of the two of us.”
He grinned back at her. “Not by much. But yes you are.”
They walked in companionable silence for a while. But soon the street opened up onto a large square. It was hundreds of feet long and hundreds of feet wide. In the center was some construction, probably a fountain, but neither of them wanted to go so far out in the open. They had left the danger of elù-draks behind, at least for a good while, but habits died hard.
Instead, they walked along the southern perimeter staying close to the cover of the buildings. There was a kind of roofed walkway, and Faran realized that market stalls would have been placed along it and protected from rain and sunlight. There were even pieces of wood here and there, remnants of tables or benches that had survived in this dryer environment. And quite a few wooden doors still hung, if at strange angles, at entrances.
They were halfway along when Ferla looked up and pointed at a window two stories above.
“What’s that?”
Faran looked, and just as his gaze fixed on the window he saw a shadowy movement through it, but it was there and gone so fast he could not be sure.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I thought I saw something. But maybe not.”
“There was something there,” she replied. “I don’t know what either. Perhaps it was only an owl. Maybe.”
He kept gazing at the window. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Ferla was not so sure. “What if it’s dangerous?”
“Aranloth said the city should be safe. Neither Lindercroft nor the king could have found us again so quickly. Let’s have a look.”
Ferla followed behind him, if reluctantly, as he entered the building. On this one, the wooden door had fallen off its hinges and lay across the threshold. At the touch of one of Faran’s boots, the timber of its corner disintegrated to dust.
They moved inside. It was quite dark, for part of the tile roof remained intact. It was not a large room, and rubble and debris lay scattered everywhere. Much of it was from tiles that had fallen down, but some was timber.
The timber had come from a stairway against the back wall. Most of it remained intact though, and Faran touched it. It was more solid than the door had been.
“Don’t even think about it,” Ferla said. “Neither of us is walking up those stairs. They’re not safe.”
Faran was about to make an argument for why they should, though in truth he knew she was right, when he saw a shadow at the top of the stairs. Again, he caught only a glimpse. But this time it seemed distinctly manlike. Yet just as before, it was gone before he could be certain of anything.
There was a creak above, and Faran saw a sliver of timber fall down. Then the whole ceiling began to move.
“Get out!” he cried. Pushing Ferla ahead of him, they ran for the entrance. They had not reached it when the walls began to move as well, and the grinding sound of brick on brick filled the air with dread.
They leaped and dived through the entrance. Then they raced across the walkway and into the open square beyond. Behind them, the building collapsed with a long boom that rolled through the ruined city and sent a cloud of dust billowing into the air.
They stood in the square, panting and white-faced.
“That was close,” Ferla whispered.
“Too close. But the building did not look like it was ready to collapse.”
Kareste came into view then, crossing the square toward them. She looked like she had been running, but she was not now.
“You two find trouble wherever you go,” she said when she reached them. Despite her light words, there was relief on her face. “What happened?”
Faran told her about the shadow in the window, and how they went to investigate.
“And did you see the shadow when you went inside?”
“I saw something,” Faran answered. “I’m not sure what. It looked like a man, but it could not have been. It was there and then it was gone.”
“And what of you, Ferla?” Kareste asked.
Ferla drew a long breath. “I saw exactly what Faran saw. But just like him, I can’t be sure what it was. It did seem manlike. Maybe we should look in the rubble? If it was a person we have to help.”
Kareste shook her head. “There are no people here. No one comes to this long-dead city.”
“What caused the shadow then?” Faran asked.
She did not answer him, and that alarmed him. She might have said it was a bird. Or their imagination. But she offered nothing. Instead, she led them back to their camp.
But Faran now knew. There had been a shadow when Aranloth stumbled coming out of the circle of standing stones. There had been a shadow here. And they were both the same, and Kareste suspected it.
And that shadow had lured them into the building and then tried to kill them.
4. Brand of the Duthenor
They passed the night in the enclosure without incident. The cool north wind blew harder, but faded away toward dawn. And they kept a watch at all times.
No one questioned the need for a watch. No one asked
what they watched against. It was enough that they all felt a sense of unease, and they all slept better knowing someone was still awake, keeping a lookout for the unexpected.
At first light they ate a swift breakfast and broke camp. Aranloth led them again, winding his way down the long slope and the road that once must have borne the tread of countless boots and the passage of hundreds, if not thousands, of riders and wagons each day.
The size of the ruins astounded Faran. And there were many things to see that caught his interest. Statues lined the way at times, and grand buildings still stood among the rubble. There were parks where trees flourished, and more squares. But all the while they moved downhill and eventually, as they came to flatter lands, they left the city behind.
The road continued, but it was no longer paved. It was a long stretch of grass, barely distinguishable from the grasslands all around. But there were signs here of farms. Cottages still stood in places, but mostly they had fallen. Yet still their foundations showed. Here and there were signs of fences made by hedging. But most of all there were remnants of orchards. Fruit trees grew prolifically, though the original orchards had died out thousands of years ago.
Now that they were in the open, Faran could see a green land spread out below them. It was hemmed in on either side by two rivers, and beyond it rose a long escarpment. From this, the flashing light of a mighty waterfall caught his gaze, even from so far away.
Aranloth set a brisk pace, but he still looked tired. Or maybe just somber. This must once have been his home. He did not say so, but it was clear from the troubled look in his gaze. At least, so Faran thought. But he recalled hearing a legend once that the lòhrens were founded by him, and based on the wizard-priests of the Letharn. And that Aranloth had been one of those.
It seemed likely to him. Aranloth had a look to his eyes that spoke of seeing the vastness of the world over a long time, and much of it bad. Yet for the most part he remained cheerful, which was a feat if he was as old as Faran thought and legend claimed.
Everything was quiet and peaceful, but that did not stop Faran looking behind him from time to time. There was no sign of the shadow. Nor was there any sign of Lindercroft, and both of those were good things.
He hated the feeling of being hunted and pursued. Even now, when there was no reason for it, he still felt it. Or at least worried about it. He should be safe from Lindercroft, but the fear was still with him. Fear cast a shadow. What had happened before sent a specter of itself ahead of him. And to beat that fear, he must face it.
Learning the arts of the knights was the best way to do that. He could prepare himself for what might happen in the future. He and Ferla could learn the skills they needed to stay alive.
Aranloth called a halt to rest and eat lunch. Faran was surprised at how quickly the morning had passed, but the noon sun shone down from above, and he suddenly felt the weariness of a long walk. He would be glad to sit and eat.
But even as he did so he found a patch of grass and faced the others, looking back at the ruins and checking for any sign of movement along their back trail.
Their food stores were getting lower, and they ate frugally to stretch them out. But they did eat well. There was some hardened cheese left, and this they had with some hazelnuts and dried fruit.
They rested a little while after they ate, and while they did so Aranloth drew out a knife from somewhere within his robes and cut a slender branch off a nearby plum tree. The wood was young and whippy, and he whittled away at it quietly while the others talked.
Eventually, Faran asked him what it was.
“A training sword,” the lòhren answered. “A primitive one, but it will serve for the moment.”
“But we’ll need two. I can’t spar Ferla unless she has one as well.”
The old man looked at him with amusement. “One will suffice. The training methods of the knights are somewhat unique. At least, when I train them.”
Faran just shook his head. He had no idea what Aranloth was talking about, but there was no point disputing his methods. Legend claimed he had taught the knights not just magic but also martial skill.
“Have you worked out the secrets of the knights yet?” Aranloth asked, finishing what he was doing with the branch.
“It seems like there’s quite a few of them,” Faran said. “But no, I haven’t.”
“No matter,” Aranloth replied briskly. “You will.”
The lòhren stood then and threw the practice sword to Faran. He caught it deftly and swung it in the air a few times to test it.
“It’ll do,” he said. Actually, it felt surprisingly sword-like in his hands. “But now what? Will you teach me some techniques?”
“No,” the lòhren replied. “I want to see what you know already and how good, or bad, you are.”
“My grandfather did teach me. I’m not bad. It’s just that I could be a lot better.”
“We’ll see. Hold the sword up, and be ready.”
“Hold it up for what? I have no one to spar.”
“Yes you do. I’ll give you one. The image you see will seem real. Blows will hurt. The shock of a strike will travel down your arm. But it is illusion.”
Suddenly an image appeared before Faran. A red-bearded man, not very tall but sturdily built, came rushing at him and slashed wildly with a wooden practice sword of his own.
Even though caught by surprise, Faran stepped neatly to the side, avoided the blow and thrust his own blade up into the man’s abdomen.
The red-bearded man disappeared with a flash of light, and Faran grinned.
“I told you I wasn’t bad. This is easy.”
“Well it should be,” Aranloth said. “That man was a farmer who only held a sword once in his life, and he died wielding it. He had courage, but not any skill.”
Faran was surprised. “You mean he was real?”
“Not what you saw. That was just illusion drawn from my mind of how he fought. That’s how the magic works. It takes my memories and makes them seem real.”
“Well, how about a worthy opponent then?”
The lòhren gave him a cool look. “You have much to learn. That man was worthy, he just had no skill with a blade. Here is one who will test you more.”
Another image appeared. It was of a larger man, yet he stood with a casual grace that spoke of the warrior. A sword was in his hand, its blade bright. On his head was a helm, gleaming silver. He was no knight, but he reminded Faran of both Lindercroft and the king. Only he seemed nobler than they, kinglier by far than even the king had seemed.
Kareste hissed between her teeth, but Faran did not look at her. He could not take his gaze off the image before him. The eyes of the warrior were blue, and they were cold as ice. Not because he was heartless, but because when he held a sword in his hand it was to kill. There was implacable determination in them that Faran had never seen before. Nor did he even see the blow that crashed into his head.
His opponent had barely seemed to move, but Faran reeled back, feeling the knock to his head, but only faintly. Those blue eyes regarded him once more, and Faran trembled. This man was death to face in combat. Then the image slowly faded away.
“That was no farmer,” Faran said, and his voice shook.
He expected Aranloth to answer, but it was Kareste who replied.
“That was Brand of the Duthenor,” she told him. “And you are not ready to face the likes of him. Even Lindercroft would quail before one such as that.”
Brand. Faran had heard stories of him. Who had not? No wonder that he had been beaten so easily.
“Give the sword to Ferla,” Aranloth said. “Let’s see what she can do.”
Ferla took the sword from him and turned to face the lòhren. She held the blade steady before her, standing poised and relaxed. When the image of the red-bearded man appeared, she did not wait for him to attack but gracefully stepped forward and ran him through even as he lifted his own blade.
The image disappeared in a flash of light aga
in, and Aranloth clapped.
“Well done! Attack can be the best form of defense.”
They continued their journey then, and the land around them changed. Aranloth seemed to know exactly where he was going, and he led them through patches of trees and into lower country. Faran heard the rush of water nearby, and he knew he was close to one of the rivers he had seen earlier. Ahead, the land rose into the massive escarpment which he had also seen.
There was little vegetation on the face of the escarpment. Here and there were a few stumpy bushes, but for the most part there were only steep buttresses of dark stone.
They drew closer, and the roar of the waterfall that he had seen earlier became loud, and then as Faran emerged from a small wood he saw it spilling down a quarter mile stretch of rock. He had never seen anything like it, and the roar grew deafening as they came closer.
Beneath the falls lay a lake, but it was no placid body of water. It was a churning maelstrom, and from here two rivers sprang and ran to separate courses, forming an ever-expanding angle between them. The hill behind Faran, on which the ruins slowly crumbled, was the center of that angle, and the heart of the Letharn empire of old.
The falls thundered in his ears. Water sprays filled the air, cleared, and then became thicker again.
“Follow me!” Aranloth bellowed above the tumult, and he led them a little to the right. They crossed an ancient bridge over to a small island, and then another to their right again.
The stone of the bridges was pitted by age, and slick beneath their boots. But they crossed quickly. The rivers lay to their left now, and before them a gorge opened up and ran toward the top of the escarpment. It was hard to see because of all the water spray, but they moved up it and the air swiftly cleared and the roar of the falls lessened.
The gorge widened as it ascended, and a ledge was cut into the cliff on the left. This Aranloth led them onto, and they followed him upward as the path rose over the ever-increasing drop to the right.
“One at a time only,” Aranloth called over his shoulder. “And be careful of your footing.”
Faran did not like it. The ledge was narrow, and though he hugged close to the cliff, the chasm seemed like a yawning mouth to his right willing him to fall into it.
