The Sorcerer Knight

by Robert Ryan

  He tried not to look anywhere but the rocky path ahead of him, but the cliff on the other side of the ravine drew his attention. There, great figures were carved into the stone, and they became taller and grander as the ledge he climbed ascended higher.

  The figures were now hundreds of feet tall. Countless years had aged them. Wind and water had attacked them. The ravages of time wore away at them, yet they still remained images of awe.

  Farmers there were, scythes in hand or guiding ploughs drawn by oxen. Hunters were shown, and their quarry. Weavers and potters and warriors there were too. The warriors looked grim, and they wore fine armor. Almost Faran felt that they were watching him, judging him, and staying their hand to attack. For now.

  And higher there were priests. Solemn figures. Wise. Their pitted eyes gazing out at the world with the sad gaze of the philosopher.

  But last came figures that must be royalty. They wore no crowns nor sat on thrones. But they were kings and queens. Or emperors and empresses. Diadems were on their brows, and the art of the carvers made it seem that the stones caught light and cast it out over the chasm.

  Faran felt the weight of time. More, he felt the weight of destiny. Would he make something of himself? Would he be worthy one day to have a statue carved of him? Would his likeness be remembered after death consigned him to the oblivion of the great dark?

  He glanced back at the way they had come. Far away he saw the great hill on which the ruins of the vast city of the Letharn sprawled. Tallach-far Aranloth had called it. But Faran wondered how many in all the world still knew that name.

  The thunder of the great falls had receded to a murmur. Faran looked ahead again, and they came now to a place that showed signs of damage. The ledge had been repaired here, perhaps from a landslide. Looking at the cliff above it, it seemed that the rock face was less weathered. But there were char marks as well on the stone, and he surmised that magic had been involved. Some battle had been fought on this spot.

  Just after this, the ledge altered. It cut farther into the cliff-face forming a recess. Beyond, the ledge narrowed again and continued its way up to the top of the escarpment. But it was the recess that Aranloth was interested in, and Faran saw why.

  It was not a large space, but Faran was glad of the extra room and moved away from the chasm that unnerved him.

  In the center of the recess stood a stele. It was a strange looking thing, and there was writing on it. The script was like nothing Faran had ever seen, and must have been the language of the Letharn. But Aranloth did not translate it, and Faran did not ask. He was not sure he wanted to know.

  It was the cave that attracted Faran’s attention though. But he soon realized it was no cave but a man-made tunnel. Here was the entrance to the tombs.

  “Do not enter without me,” Aranloth warned. “Or you will die. Now is no time to enter anyway. We’ll wait until dawn.”

  Faran looked out over the chasm. It was swallowed by shadows, and the light had that feel to it of late afternoon. Perhaps it was not the time to enter the tombs, but it would be a long, long night out here on the ledge.

  5. The Shadow of Fear

  They settled down for the night. It was yet another fireless camp, for there was no timber here.

  Faran felt exposed on the recess. Should an elù-drak find them, they would be vulnerable. But Aranloth did not seem concerned by the possibility. That, at least, was comforting. Finally, Faran had left his enemies behind him. It might be months, even years before they found him again.

  Unless he found them first. The king and Lindercroft had ordered the destruction of his village and the murder of innocent people. For that, they must be brought to justice.

  But these were thoughts of the future. Just now, he wanted to know of the past.

  “Tell me more of the Letharn?” he asked Aranloth.

  They sat quietly in a small group. They had eaten, and the sun had set. The ledge above them and below them was lost in shadows. The massive carved figures gazed invisibly across the chasm. The entrance to the tombs was close, but it was even darker than the night which filled the ravine like a river.

  “The Letharn,” Aranloth began, “were the greatest of people. And the worst. Their knowledge surpassed any nation that has come after them. Take your pick. Healing, farming, smithcraft, magic, mining, embalming, chariot building, book binding. It doesn’t matter. In almost any field they had the greatest skill. But with that went pride.”

  The old man gazed out into the night. There was nothing to see, but Faran did not think he was looking at the present.

  “You were one of them, weren’t you?”

  The old man sighed. “I was one of them. I knew their glory before they fell. I still atone for their sins.”

  Faran felt an inkling then of the weight of years this old man carried, burdened by emotions that someone as young as himself would struggle to understand. And he understood something else, too.

  Aranloth was driven to do the things he did. He was a figure of legend, standing against the dark things of the world. He risked his life for the great and the small alike. He did it because that was who he was, but also to make up for something his people had done. Maybe that he had been a part of himself. How great a sin must it have been if he still atoned for it after all this time?

  “Why did they fall?” he asked.

  “That is like asking why the sun rises, lad. Some things just are.” The old man considered him a moment, and then went on as though deciding that for once he would give a detailed answer. “Consider this part of your training. Nothing lasts forever. Nothing. Even this earth upon which we walk will one day burn in fire and spin away as a cold rock into the void. The sun itself shall snuff out, and all that you see now in the starry sky likewise. One day. But not today. The death of people is quicker. But nations, just like people, die also. The Letharn had their day. They did much good, but they spawned great evil also. And they got worse as they aged. Not all the gold in Alithoras was enough to glut their greed. In the end, their demise was a good thing.”

  It was a lot to take in, but Faran thought he understood. Nations could indeed die just like people.

  “Is that what’s happening now to Faladir? Is the realm dying.”

  Aranloth raised an eyebrow. “You have your grandfather’s swift grasp of situations. Yes, Faladir is dying. But all nations know periods of ebb and flow. Sometimes they rise again from their defeats. It may be so with Faladir. The seventh knight might bring renewal.”

  “It will not be me.”

  “Perhaps not. It may be another. We will see. But this much has been your lesson. Nothing lasts forever, and even the great forces of the cosmos fade. The better you can read these changes, in the large and the small alike, the better you can judge when to act, and how. And maybe, just as a nation in jeopardy can find renewed vigor, so too might you.”

  Faran nodded. “This is why you wouldn’t let me fight Lindercroft. His power is great, and mine is nothing. But in time, I may learn enough to rival him?”

  “Exactly,” Aranloth said appreciatively. “You really do grasp these things quickly.”

  Ferla leaned forward. “But the knights have greater skill than us. How can we hope to ever match them, unless we wait until they reach their dotage?”

  Aranloth grinned. “A fair point. But I am Osahka. I will guide you, and I will give of my knowledge. And I will train you as even the knights never were.”

  The night had worn on about them, and they slept soon after. They took turns to keep watch, but it was hard to see anything in the darkness that engulfed the recess. Even the stele, which they were close to, was but a dim shadow.

  Faran slept. His would be the last watch of the night, and Kareste would wake him when her turn was done.

  Dreams troubled his sleep. They came and went, but ever there was a fear in them. Few he remembered when he came to wakefulness, but sleep, and more dreams, pulled him under again and he tossed restlessly.

  This a
lso gave him fear. In the dark, it was easy to imagine that the edge of the recess was much closer, and that he might tumble off in his sleep to fall and crash against the jagged rocks far below.

  He was deeply asleep when the worst dream came. The stele, not far from him, twisted to look where he lay. Faran wanted to scream, but he could not. And the stele, after surveying him, detached itself from the earth and crept toward him. It was a man now, or the shadow of a man, and terror ran before it like wind before a storm.

  Long hands reached for his neck, and Faran struggled. He thrashed and punched and then rose out of sleep like a man rushing up to the surface of a lake where he had been drowning.

  It was dark. Aranloth and Ferla were nearby, sleeping. The stele was where it always had been, and it was still. Leaning against it was Kareste. She was awake, and he saw that her head was turned in his direction. He must have made a noise or moved during his nightmare.

  And it had been a nightmare, but the feel of it was not receding. Rather, it grew stronger.

  He saw then something beyond Kareste. It was a shadow, darker even than the other shadows, and it stepped. It was no dream this time, but real. And though it did not move again it had given itself away.

  “Awake!” cried Faran.

  At the same moment, Kareste must have sensed something also for her head spun back so that she could see back down the ledge up which they had climbed yesterday.

  “Enemy in the camp!” she yelled, and bright light burst from the tip of her staff.

  The light was blinding, and Faran half shielded his eyes. For a moment, he saw nothing, but then he saw the shadow again, and the light had not dispelled it.

  Tall the shadow stood, manlike, and even in discovery it did not flee as it had done before. For Faran knew it now. It was the same shadow he had seen in the ring of standing stones and later in the ruined building.

  Kareste leaped up, and shadows danced all over the recess in the flaring light of her staff. But the intruder did not retreat. She sent lòhren-fire darting at it, but it dodged and came at her.

  Leaping to his feet, Faran drew a knife and sent it hurtling through the dark. He was not sure if he missed his target, or if the knife just passed through it, but he saw the blade gleam as it tumbled away into the chasm.

  Ferla did not throw a knife, but she held one in her hand and joined Kareste. Faran followed a moment later, and even as the shadow swung back and forth to look at them all, more lòhren-fire flared. This time it came from Aranloth.

  The shadow dodged again, and then it bounded down the ledge and disappeared in the dark. Kareste sent a blast of magic after it, but it merely roared against rock and stone and then sputtered away into the dark again. Of their enemy, there was no sign.

  “What is that thing?” Ferla asked.

  “I don’t know what it is,” Aranloth replied. “But it hunts us.”

  The old man looked tired again, as though the battle had taxed him greatly. But Faran had seen him do far more and look less tired than that.

  “Whatever it is,” Kareste added, “it’s getting stronger and bolder.”

  That was something that Faran had not thought of, but it was true. It was getting a more definite shape as well. It was no longer just a vague shadow, but distinctly manlike.

  They moved back on the recess and farther away from the ledge, sitting down once more. But Kareste did not let the light of her staff out, and they watched the ledge closely. There would be no more sleep for any of them now, but dawn was not that far away.

  Faran studied Aranloth as he sat, still holding his staff upright in his hands.

  “You really don’t know what it is?”

  The old man slowly shook his head. “I wish that I did.”

  “Can you not even guess?”

  “Guessing is a dangerous game. But this much I think is right. Whatever it is, it wishes us no good. It has tried to kill, and there is no reason to think it won’t again.”

  It was not what Faran wanted to hear. “You said that Lindercroft and the king would not be able to follow us when we Traveled. But it seems that one of them still managed to send something after us.”

  It was Kareste who answered him. “As Aranloth said, guessing is a dangerous game. But he and I have talked about this. Our enemies in Faladir don’t have the knowledge for this. They don’t know how the standing stones work. Whatever that shadow thing is, and whatever its purpose, it has nothing to do with them.”

  Aranloth twisted his staff idly in his hands, but his gaze was sharp when he looked at Faran.

  “Many things are in doubt, but this much is true. Whatever the thing is, it will not survive where we go next. Nothing enters or leaves the tombs unless it knows the words of power that stave off the harakgar. Nothing.”

  “And yet,” Kareste said, “it will still follow us. There’s a determination to its actions.”

  “Then it must surely die,” Aranloth answered.

  As they sat on the recess and talked, the sky grew gray and the night faded away. They ate a meagre meal, and then Aranloth stood.

  “The tombs await,” he said. “The sooner we enter them and retrieve the weapons and armor, the sooner we can leave them.”

  They followed him inside, but Faran could not help a quick glance behind him to see if the shadow was anywhere in sight.

  6. Your Time Will Come

  It was dark in the cave, and the smell of death was strong. But worse to Faran was the sense of a presence. It whispered in the back of his mind, and it was hostile to anything that lived.

  He knew what that presence was. The harakgar of which Aranloth warned. The lòhren had said how powerful they were, but the force of their enmity and the strength of the magic struck like a blow, and though warned, Faran was ill-prepared.

  Yet when he glanced at Ferla, he saw that she showed nothing more than wariness. Aranloth and Kareste were not likely to show any fear. They were too powerful themselves, and too schooled in the art of hiding their emotions. But why should he feel the strength of the enmity more than Ferla?

  It was not long before they came across the first bodies. These were revealed by the light at the tips of the lòhrens’ staffs. But they had not been laid to rest here in some sort of funeral.

  The bodies lay scattered over the floor. They had died entering the tombs, and likely enough they were robbers of some sort. But it was proof, if any were needed, that this place was guarded.

  Swords lay on the floor, out of their sheathes. These men had fought, or at least tried to. But it must have been long ago. What remained of them now was the dry husk of their bodies, withered by time, but still intact. Though it was a cave, no scavengers had ever entered here to disturb the corpses. More confirmation, in its way, of the power of the harakgar.

  They moved ahead, the steady light of the lòhrens showing the way. And the tunnel changed swiftly, going into a steep decline.

  Faran felt the whispering presence in this place grow stronger. He had the feeling that the harakgar had been far away in the tombs, but they were here now. Distance meant nothing to them. There was little restraint on the magic, and he knew that in this place, they ruled.

  He had not seen them yet. But he knew he would soon. They were close. Watching. Thinking. He looked for them, but saw nothing. Yet Aranloth sensed them also, as surely he must have better than Faran could. He held his staff a little higher, and he seemed ready and poised.

  There was a sense of movement in the air, and the lights dimmed a little then flared brighter. Dread hung over the travelers, the intruders into a realm that was not theirs. Here, the harakgar held dominion, and they finally showed themselves.

  There were three of them. And like sisters they appeared. Long was their hair, and it twined around their naked bodies. Their eyes were bright, but their gaze held no human emotion.

  In their hands were long knives, sickle shaped and serrated. These they lifted and glided toward Aranloth.

  The lòhren stood his ground.
If he were worried, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he lifted his staff higher still, and his voice rang out in this hollow place deep within the earth.

  “Har nere ferork. Skigg gar see!”

  It was the charm. These were the words of power. This was the one weakness woven into the great magic that had summoned the harakgar. And even like a key turning in a lock, Faran felt something change.

  The harakgar ceased to move toward them. But their eyes flashed hatred. The charm held them, but if they had their way they would rend flesh and shred minds.

  The three figures flowed and melded into one another, moving like a sinister mist. As one they raised their serrated knives, and then these fell to the floor with the clang of steel. But when Faran looked, there was no sign of the weapons. It was meant as a warning rather than a submission to authority. The message was a challenge. Proceed if you dare, but we will watch and wait. We will appear again, and test you.

  With a screech of rending stone, the mist that was the harakgar passed into the ceiling above and disappeared.

  Aranloth stepped ahead again, his tread steady. He did not even look at the ceiling as he passed below where the harakgar had exited, but Faran did. And despite the noise, the stone was undamaged.

  The tombs started now. Within the walls to each side were alcoves. Some small, and some larger. There were side passages also, though these were narrow. But all contained the remains of humans. Bones gleamed in the light, and skulls, toppled at strange angles, leered.

  Sometimes the remains had not decomposed. They had been embalmed, and withered flesh clung to the bones.

  “Touch nothing!” Aranloth reminded them all.

  Faran could not see any sign of poison, and he wondered what poison could endure through the long years. But he did not doubt Aranloth’s word.

  Nor did he understand the need for protection against theft. There seemed nothing here that anyone would want to steal. Mostly, each alcove contained nothing more than a body. Although sometimes there were tools such as chisels, hammers and pottery wheels. They must have been the tools the dead used in life.