by Robert Ryan
But set off they did, this time with Kareste in the lead and Faran with his arm around the old man to keep him steady. No light came from his staff, and Ferla guarded the rear with her bow strung and an arrow notched.
Aranloth walked with Faran’s support, and also by using his staff as a walking stick.
“Let me know if you need rest,” Faran said.
Aranloth looked ahead. His gaze determined. “I’ll get by. Don’t worry about me.”
“But I do worry about you. And I worry that thing, whatever it is, isn’t dead.”
Aranloth looked troubled. “It may not be. I underestimated it.”
Faran kept his gaze ahead also, making sure there was nothing on the ground they might trip over. If the old man fell, he might not be able to get up again.
“I thought you said nothing could survive in here without the charm?”
Aranloth shook his head. “I said that, and it’s right. But before you ask me anything else, let me say I just don’t know. I don’t know how the shadow lived, and I don’t know what it wants, either. Somehow, I’m wrong despite being right.”
Faran did not say anything else. He did not want to upset the old man, but it seemed clear what the shadow wanted. It wanted to kill them all, and maybe especially Aranloth. There was something intensely personal about that battle on the bridge.
None of this sounded like anything that Faran had a chance of understanding. It was clear that even the two lòhrens did not know what was happening. It was not, as it sometimes was, that they held knowledge back. It was that they just did not have it in the first place. And it was disturbing to hear that Aranloth, Aranloth the White, about whom a thousand legends spoke with a sense of awe for his courage and wisdom, had been wrong.
Faran helped the old man along. Both that, and his being wrong made him seem very human. But that was a two-edged sword. He became suddenly more approachable and less of a forbidding figure. But just now, of all times, they needed the legend.
They moved ahead, shuffling through the darkness, and the light of one lòhren staff alone seemed hardly enough to keep back the dark that pressed in like water filling a bucket.
And worse, Aranloth seemed to be growing weaker.
8. Armor, Swords and Treasure
Kareste led them now, and several times the harakgar had appeared. She repelled them each time with the charm, but it seemed to Faran that they were not repelled as much. There was more to the charm than the mere words alone.
Down they went, deep beneath the earth. Nor was there a path back the way that they had come. The bridge was thrown down. Aranloth was weak, or ill. If Kareste were injured or killed, he and Ferla would die down here in the gloom. They would never find a way out by themselves. They would stay down here forever, two more dead bodies among the millions of those who had gone before.
Faran gritted his teeth and trudged on. No more did he look in the alcoves and the passages filled with the dead. He had seen more of that than he wanted to, and the sight taunted him. You will be one of us. That was what he thought he heard the dead say. Sooner than you think.
Faran ignored the dead. And he ignored the whisperings in his head. He was young. He was alive, and he had a task to achieve in the world of the living. A task that he must achieve.
The tunnels did not change much. Some were wider. Some narrower. There were crossroads at times, and even stairs cut into the stone at places. It was clear though that Kareste knew where they were going. She must have known the tombs, and Aranloth must have told her what their destination was.
Certainly the old man was no help to her now, and he offered no guidance. It was all he could do to put one foot ahead of the other and continue forward. But he did seem just a little stronger.
As they went ahead, they reached a point where the tunnel widened. There were pillars in the center now, and these were carved with scenes of war and battle. The alcoves of the dead disappeared. Instead, great chambers opened up to each side, and these were piled high with gems and jewels and gold and silver.
Faran could not believe what he was seeing. Stacked careless on the floor was wealth enough to buy Dromdruin a thousand times over. No, there was wealth enough here to buy Faladir, and all within it, a thousand times over. It would make the king look a pauper, and they had only just entered this place. The wide corridor continued far out of sight beyond the light of Kareste’s staff.
He looked at Ferla. He saw wonder on her face also. But it was Aranloth who spoke, and his voice was grave.
“Behold! You see here the plunder of nations. This is but one of the treasuries of the Letharn. These are the spoils of but one campaign in antiquity. You may see the gleam of gold and the glow of jewels in the shadow. I see the blood of warriors spilled. Both our own, and our enemies. Or those who our greed shaped into enemies. This is not a storehouse of wealth, but a well of sin, and the dark waters of it run deep.”
Faran was stupefied. This was just one of the treasuries of the Letharn? But the words of the lòhren made him think. All this was won by war. But perhaps that was the nature of empires. They had to expand and grow. If not, they died.
But they had died anyway. And what good was all this wealth to them now?
Kareste led them on, and the treasury continued. But after a little while, Faran stopped looking. The treasure here was more disturbing than looking at the dead.
After a while, Faran noticed a change, and he looked again. Now there were artifacts rather than treasure. There were statues and carvings. There were paintings and tapestries. There were devices of kinds that he could not guess the workings of, and vases. There were rugs and … there were weapons too.
As they moved ahead each chamber to the side was filled with swords and helms and armor. There were bows too, and maces and halberds and daggers and spears.
It struck Faran as odd that nothing here seemed to rot or decay. Especially the tapestries that he had seen before, but even the wooden handles of the weapons seemed as new, except for the dust that covered them. It could not just be the dry in this place. It was more. It was magic. He thought it was related to the harakgar, for they were the great magic invoked here, and their role of protection must extend to preservation also.
Even as he thought of the harakgar, they appeared. This time they glided upright in the air, and they came before Kareste as though to block her path.
Kareste uttered the charm, but the creatures of magic did not back away. Again Kareste voiced the words of power, and still nothing happened. It was only when she strode toward them that they dispersed in a mist that floated away, and then reformed again. Once more they took form, but they backed away as Kareste moved ahead.
“They sense our purpose,” Aranloth muttered.
Kareste paused and spoke back to him. “Where exactly do we go from here, old man?”
“The next chamber on the left,” Aranloth replied.
This Kareste led them to, and they entered. The harakgar hovered close all the time, and their constant presence was more than disconcerting.
The chamber was full of armor. Most was hung on stands, but some was piled on the floor.
“To the back of the room,” Aranloth said.
They passed through the stands of armor. The stands looked almost like ranks of soldiers, but they did not move and the helms were hollow, being supported by thin sticks of timber. Faran felt uncomfortable though. Apart from anything else, some of the armor looked much like his grandfather’s, though how that could be he did not know. This armor was ancient before Faladir was founded.
They came to the back of the chamber. There, on a stand by itself, was a silver helm and a bright sword. And a coat of gleaming chainmail.
This was not just similar to what Faran had seen, but identical to what his grandfather, Lindercroft and the king had worn.
“It’s the armor of a Kingshield Knight,” he whispered.
“Not just the armor of a Kingshield Knight, but the very armor that once belonge
d to your grandfather, and others before him.”
Faran looked at him. “And this will be mine?”
“It will be yours – whether or not you become a knight. It was crafted of old, and magic is in it. Especially the sword. And you will need it. For that reason, your grandfather would have wanted you to have it.”
The old man leaned wearily against his staff, and his face was gray.
“But remember this. It is not armor that makes a knight, or a warrior. It is the heart that beats within, and the skill of limb and mind that wields the blade.”
Faran gazed at the armor. It seemed flawless. No nick was on the chainmail that he could see. Nor any scratch on the blade or dint in the helm. Yet he knew his grandfather had fought battles.
“Put it on,” Aranloth urged him.
Faran reached for it, then hesitated. “What of the poison?”
“There is none here,” Aranloth answered. “Weapons and armor might be needed swiftly, and there might be no time to cleanse them as required. So, in some few places within the tombs, that protection was not used. But I repeat, touch nothing unless I give you leave.”
Kareste moved over to be near the old man if he needed any help, and Faran reached for the armor.
It was awkward to put it on. First, there was a padded jerkin that absorbed some of the power of blows and made the chainmail more comfortable. Then there was a belt that drew some of the weight of the armor and transferred it to the hips so it was light to wear. Next came the helm, and last the sword which Ferla helped attach by a short strap to the belt.
Faran felt uncomfortable and a little stupid, but Ferla stepped back and she looked at him seriously. That made him feel better.
“What of Ferla?” he asked. “Where’s her armor?”
“I have not forgotten,” Aranloth said. “We’ll find something for her in the next chamber.”
They moved out then, and Kareste continued to support the old man while Faran got used to his armor. It was strange to think that his grandfather had worn it. And reassuring. But he would not follow in his footsteps.
The next chamber was quite similar. It was filled with armor on stands and weapons. But again, Aranloth seemed to know exactly where he was going, and he led them to the left side, near the wall.
Here were rows of armor, but both helms and chainmail coats were smaller. Faran realized these must have been for women.
“All these suits of armor look so much the same,” Faran asked. “Do they all belong to Kingshield Knights?”
“Not a one of them,” Aranloth said. “Or all of them, depending on how you look at it. You see, all these suits of armor once belonged to Letharn royalty or generals. But it is also from here that I have armored every Kingshield Knight who ever lived. You and Ferla are the first to be given this honor who are neither Letharn nor Kingshield Knight.”
Faran considered that. It was an honor indeed. He touched the hilt of the sword at his waist and felt suddenly unworthy.
Aranloth drew to a stop before a stand of armor that was positioned by itself against the wall. It looked like all the others, only it was slightly smaller and upon the helm was a sign. No, Faran realized, it was a rune such as his ancestors once used before they adopted the script of the Halathrin. But what did it mean to the Letharn?
This time it was Faran who helped Ferla don the armor. But with her, she did not seem awkward as he had felt. Everything seemed to fit perfectly, and she wore it with a grace that he could not match.
“Draw the sword,” Aranloth said. “Let me see you hold it.”
Ferla did as asked. With a fluid motion the blade slipped from the scabbard and she held it high. It gleamed in the shadowy light, and she suddenly seemed like a hero out of legend. She looked like one born to the ways of a warrior, and the rune on her helm caught the lòhren-light and flared.
“Sheath the blade,” Aranloth said. “And know that the armor you now wear belonged to one that you have met. Be proud of that, for she was a great queen, and I think you will bring as much honor to yourself as she did in her time.”
Ferla said nothing, but she nodded once to Aranloth and slid the blade home in the scabbard. But suddenly her eyes widened and she reached for the lòhren.
Faran turned to look, and he saw that the old man swayed where he stood. His face was pale as death, and only Kareste by his side kept him upright.
9. Force of Will
Faran was scared. There was something terribly wrong with Aranloth, and his breathing was ragged while his faced paled even further.
They eased him to the ground, and there he lay unmoving. Kareste held her fingers to his wrist and neck, checking his pulse, and she bent her ear close to his chest to listen to his breathing.
“What is it?” Ferla asked.
Kareste squatted back on one leg, and she shook her head slowly.
“I don’t know. He was not well before, and then he fought that shadow on the bridge. It took more out of him than I knew. The use of lòhrengai is not without effort or consequences. It taxed him greatly, and he is close to death.”
Faran could not believe he was hearing those words, but they matched the fear that surged through him. He had been there through the worst of his grandfather’s last days, and he knew the signs of grave illness.
“Is there anything we can do?” he asked.
Kareste looked at him as though assessing exactly what he was made of, like a tool being judged for fitness to the task at hand. And especially if it would break.
“His heartbeat is erratic,” she said. “I can lend him of my own power for a while, until he regains his own strength. But I cannot do that and protect against the harakgar at the same time.”
She looked at Faran, her brown-green eyes boring into his own. “You must take over the charm for me, and keep the harakgar at bay until we escape the tombs.”
Faran felt a cold chill sweep through him. “But I have no magic. I can’t do it.”
“There’s no time to ease you into this, Faran. You must do it, or Aranloth will die. As you get older you will realize necessity makes you do things that you do not wish, or do not think you can. This is such a situation. We all must rely on you to do that task, because you are the best hope. There is no other choice.”
She held his gaze a moment longer. “But you should know this, also. You have more magic than you think. As the old queen said, you have seen the Lady of the Land, and that is not by accident. But the power of the charm is also in the words. You need no magic to speak them.”
Faran wanted to refuse, but he felt the truth of what she had said and straightened.
“I’ll do my best.”
“That will be enough. Now, repeat the charm to me.”
Faran did so. He had been listening when she and Aranloth said it.
“Almost right,” she said. Then she corrected some of his pronunciation.
He tried again, and she nodded. “One more time.”
The charm was not hard to remember, and he voiced it again.
She flashed him a quick smile. “Good! That’s it. Remember those words, and speak the charm whenever you see the harakgar. Remember also that though there is no magic from you involved, the force of your will counts. If you falter, the harakgar will swoop. Be strong!”
Faran kept a lookout then for the harakgar. They had remained outside the chamber, but he still sensed them close. Again and again, he repeated the charm in his mind, and he memorized the exact pronunciation that Kareste had taught him.
While he watched, Kareste and Ferla worked to use some padded jerkins from nearby armor and the two lòhren staffs to make a stretcher.
Kareste extinguished the light from her staff, but even as she did so she waved her hand and a mist rose from the floor that came only to their ankles but it gave off a pale light.
When they were ready, they shifted Aranloth to the stretcher and supported him by the staffs on their shoulders. Faran knew that Ferla was strong, but he had not been sure of K
areste. Yet the both of them lifted Aranloth easily.
“Time to go, Faran,” Kareste said. Already she seemed distracted, and he guessed that not only would she maintain the light but that she also had begun to support Aranloth with magic and keep him alive.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Back to the main passage, and then the same way we were going before. Always head up now when there is a choice, but I should still be able to give you brief instructions as we go.”
Faran squared his shoulders and led them on. But his first challenge came sooner than he expected.
No sooner had they reached the main passage when the harakgar swooped. The creatures screamed and hissed, hovering before him with those wicked knives drawn and hatred in their eyes.
“Har nere ferork. Skigg gar see!” Faran shouted.
The harakgar seemed to pay him no heed, and if anything they hovered closer, spittle dripping from their lips and hunger replacing hatred in their eyes.
“Har nere ferork. Skigg gar see! Har nere ferork. Skigg gar see!” Faran screamed the charm, and he knew he was saying it right, but still the harakgar edged closer, and he felt fear stab him as surely as those horrible knives soon would.
“Yelling does not really help,” Kareste said calmly, and Faran admired her in that moment. “Say the words, and put the force of your will into them. You know the charm, and the harakgar will obey your will.”
Faran did not look at the serrated knives in the harakgar’s hands. Instead, he held their gazes in turn and softly spoke the charm, but this time he put all the strength of his will into the words.
The harakgar screamed, and they spat like a cornered cat. But they slowly backed away.
He stepped forward and moved down the corridor, and the harakgar continued to give way, but all three in unison raised their knives and slowly slit their own throats.
