by Robert Ryan
Even as he said that, he wished he had answered differently. If the king had also failed, had he not also brought shame upon the knights?
“We will discuss your punishment shortly. For now, what steps are you taking?”
“I am casting down a ring of ancient standing stones. I believe Aranloth used them to Travel. That was how he and his companions escaped. Where he went, I cannot determine. But I have already sent elù-draks abroad to seek signs of him in the land. And I have sent men out also. Both to search and to seek news from any that may have seen or heard rumor of the lòhren or those with him.”
Druilgar listened attentively, his bloodshot eyes focused.
“You are correct. He Traveled, and he went to a far larger ring of standing stones. Where that is, I cannot say. But it was surrounded by ruins.”
Lindercroft was glad of that information. There were standing stones in many places all over Alithoras. And ruins too. Yet that knowledge would still speed his search.
Druilgar had not finished speaking though. “I will assist you. There are men in my employ who are well traveled and knowledgeable of other realms. I will send them to you, and thereafter they can scatter across Alithoras seeking information.”
“That will be most welcome, my lord.” Lindercroft knew who these men would be. Spies. He had little liking for those who practiced the arts of subterfuge, yet he could not deny their usefulness.
“This also I shall do. Savanest has been too long in the tower, and he is due relief from the duties of guarding the stone. He will also scour the land with soldiers from the army. He will act independently of you though.”
Lindercroft bowed his head in acknowledgment and hid his chagrin. Another knight working on this task meant that his own chances of completing it were halved.
Always, the king set the knights in competition with each other. That competition was fierce, for they each wished to prove themselves. Success in any task meant greater time with the stone. It was a reward to guard it, but also an opportunity to grow in power by virtue of proximity. Just being in the tower seemed to bring greater health and strength in magic. It had even brought youth back to the king, but he was jealous of it too. He kept the knights vying for the privilege and in constant rotation. They whispered amongst themselves that he wished none of them to spend too long there lest they grow in power enough to match his own.
“What of the summoning you sent to destroy them, my lord? I saw it leap into the Ring just as they began to Travel. What happened to it?”
It was a foolish thing to ask. He knew now it must be dead, but it was a way to fight back against the king. That thought too was foolish. Everything he had, or was, stemmed from the king. At least, while the king possessed the stone.
“The elùdurlik perished,” Druilgar answered. “It was destroyed by lòhren-fire and arrow. This much I learned from its passing though. The boy and the girl have great courage. And…”
Druilgar’s voice trailed away as though he were in thought or had realized something for the first time and only now had begun to contemplate it.
“What is it, my lord?”
The king’s gaze flicked back to him, those bloodshot eyes intense.
“There were great forces unleashed when my summoning leapt into the circle of stones. Such Rings tap into the vast power of the earth. Then there was Aranloth’s lòhrengai to activate it. And finally the beast itself, which was born by the power of the stone. Those three forces swirled together into the void, and then came out somewhere else in Alithoras. But they had to have interacted in some way. Something unexpected must have come from that.”
“How do you know, my lord?”
“I do not. But instinct tells me it is so, and my instincts are sharper and reach farther than they ever have before.” The king ran a hand through his long white hair. “This much is certain though. The battle will be rejoined. Either we will find our enemies, or our enemies us. For Aranloth will not abandon Faladir indefinitely.” He paused, quickly removing his hand from his hair as though he had made a decisive decision. “Now, it is time to mete out your punishment.”
13. A Peaceful Land
Aranloth regained strength, albeit slowly. The travelers stayed by the temple all day, and the night after.
But dawn of the next day saw them moving off once more. Aranloth was strong enough to walk, and he led them. He set a slow pace though, one arm in a sling and the other using his staff as a walking stick. Their rest breaks were frequent, too. This was far different from the way he had led them out of Dromdruin, but Faran was just glad to see that he was improving.
Perhaps given time, the old man would be as he was. But there was still a shadow of pain on his features, and the way that he needed his staff to aid balance was worrisome.
They headed south, and the country was an undulating one of open grasslands. But small stands of trees were numerous, some even large enough to be called a wood. There were few pines, and the trees were often oaks, but there were many broadleaf varieties whose names Faran did not know. This land had the look about it of fields that had once been cultivated, but that the forest was claiming back.
“Where are we going?” Faran asked as they commenced to walk once more after a break. It was not that he really cared. Everywhere was new to him, and anywhere was better than where his enemies had been seeking him out.
“I know a place,” Aranloth told him. “A good place. It’s not far from here, and there’s a cabin there that will give us shelter. There’ll be game too, for we’ll soon need supplies. And there’s good water as well.”
“The water sounds good,” Kareste said. “I could do with a bath.”
“Me as well,” Ferla said.
Faran glanced at her. It still seemed strange to see her in chainmail. But he supposed he must look strange to her too.
They traveled at a leisurely pace for two days. Aranloth, despite his infirmity, had lost none of his wits. There was no threat that they knew of, yet still he chose paths that led them over hard ground that would leave less of a trail, and he used creeks when they came across one to hide their trail altogether.
It was still early in the morning when they approached a ridge higher than the others they had found in this undulating countryside. Trees grew on its crest, and when they reached that and looked down into the valley beyond, it seemed that the grass was greener than it had been and that there were many little woods, more numerous than the surrounding areas.
But it was the lake at the center of the valley that drew their eyes. It was not especially large, but it glittered silver and lay still in the quiet of the dale.
Faran was a hunter rather than a fisherman, but he had still caught many a fish back home in Dromdruin, and he knew that the lake would provide a quick and easy supply of food. Fishing was easier than hunting, if just as unreliable.
“This will be our home for some while,” Aranloth said. “I have been here before, and I liked it. I think you will too.”
Faran thought the lòhren was right. This was a peaceful land, and his enemies had lost his trail and would struggle to find him here. It was not Dromdruin, but it looked a good place to put down roots and forget the dangers that lay behind him, and that might one day catch up with him. But looking down into the valley, he hoped that day was long away.
They descended slowly. There was no trail, and it seemed that people never came here. Yet Aranloth had said there was a cottage, so it must have been populated at some point.
They passed through some woods, and these were cool with the night air still trapped within them. Faran noticed stands of hazelnuts, as well as various berries, and that would be a supply of food later on as well. Not to mention that there would be mushrooms in places like this. Food would not be an issue in this valley, and there was sure to be game as well, just as Aranloth said.
After some time they reached flat ground at the bottom. The grass was lush here, for the soil was fertile due to flooding. Spring melts would have d
eposited topsoil from the higher slopes for millennia.
The lake was not quite still when they came to it. The surface rippled slightly as a cool breeze blew over it, refreshing and sweet to breathe. Faran could not tell how deep it was, but he had a feeling that at its center it was very deep indeed.
Toward the edges there were shallow stretches where he could see the bottom, and at times schools of small fish darted, turned and flashed beneath the clear water.
They followed the edge of the lake, which was often sandy but at times the green grass grew right up to the water as well.
Aranloth knew exactly where he was going, and he led them after a little while to a slight rise above the lake. It was still close, but it would offer a view over the whole body of water and of the valley all around. And at the crest of that rise was the cabin he had mentioned.
Trees surrounded it, and would likely hide it from the ridges of the valley above. Certainly he had not seen it from up there. That would have been a factor that influenced Aranloth’s choice in coming here. Not to mention the abundance of wild food.
The cabin was rustic, even by the standards of Dromdruin. The walls were of felled logs, though they were well chosen and neatly cut so that they fitted snugly. What gaps there were had been filled by a mixture of clay and straw. This would keep the weather out and the warmth in.
Faran glanced up. The roof was of slate, and it was pitched high to shed snow. Slate was a common enough material for roof tops, but this was old and mossy, and it blended in well with the green round about. Perhaps that was an accident or perhaps not. He began to wonder how Aranloth knew of this cabin and what it had been used for in the past.
The lòhren went to the front door, which was a sturdy construction of heavy oak boards. Far heavier, in fact, than necessary. Faran realized this place had been built with not just a mind toward concealment but also to defense.
Three times Aranloth struck the tip of his staff against the door.
“Ho the cabin!” he called.
He waited a few moments, then called again. “Ho the cabin!”
No one stirred. “Best to be careful about these things,” the old man said. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here, but if some traveler was using it, it’s best to announce yourself. It saves getting a knife in the belly by just storming in unannounced. Folks can be touchy living out in wild lands such as this.”
He turned the knob and pushed the door open. It swung smoothly on well-greased hinges, and again Faran was suspicious. From the outside, it looked like no one had lived here in decades. Yet someone must have been here in the last year or so to grease those hinges.
The floor inside was hardpacked clay sealed with some sort of oil. It was smooth and even, and in winter straw could be layered over it to keep out the cold, although that would probably not be necessary.
There was a solid wooden table with several chairs on one side. Near it was a stone hearth for cooking and warmth with a well-crafted chimney. On the other side was a series of racks and hooks in the ceiling designed for storing fruits, vegetables, sausages and cured meats.
“It’ll need a good clean,” Kareste said.
Faran knew she was right. But this had the feeling of home about it. He liked it instantly, and he saw Ferla looking around curiously too. He could tell that she liked it.
“There’s more,” Aranloth said. He went to the back wall and opened a door there. Beyond was a narrow corridor and three small rooms. None had beds, but there were piles of straw and neatly folded blankets.
Outside and around the back was a small shed, and they found many tools here, mostly for gardening, but they also found some straw brooms and rags for cleaning.
They worked for the rest of the morning, cleaning and tidying things up. Against one side of the cabin was a pile of split timber for the hearth, and Faran brought some inside in preparation for lunch and dinner. He had noticed an axe in the shed, and likely it would be his job all through the summer to find and split logs to build that wood pile high to prepare for winter. Likely, it would not get quite so cold here as in Dromdruin, but it would certainly snow.
He and Ferla would have to hunt well too. If they could obtain salt somehow, they could cure meat to last them all through the winter.
Aranloth started a fire in the hearth, after checking the chimney was not blocked, and he found various pots and pans hanging on hooks nearby and began to clean them by boiling water inside.
Soon after, they sat around the sturdy table and ate a simple meal of some of the last of their supplies.
“This will be a good place to stay,” Aranloth said. He looked at Faran and Ferla in turn. “Here, in peace and quiet, we can all recuperate. And I’ll teach you the skills of the Kingshield Knights.”
After they had lunched and rested, Aranloth took Faran and Ferla outside and walked the short distance to the lake. They found a nice patch of grass, level and green, and an oak tree close by that threw shade to protect from the afternoon sun. There were several log seats here as well. Someone in the past had obviously favored this spot.
“I’ll train you hard,” Aranloth said, sitting down on one of the logs. He still looked very weak. “If you have the ability, you’ll increase your skills fast. But you must put in tremendous effort. Are you willing?”
“I’m willing,” Ferla said immediately.
Faran sensed an eagerness about her. “As am I,” he added.
“Then let’s begin.” The old man gestured to Faran. “Sit and watch. I’ll give Ferla a sparring partner.”
Even as Faran sat down he saw an image form. It was an armed man, and he held a sword in his hand. It was not as large as the swords of the Kingshield Knights, nor did he wear armor or even a helm. He was simply dressed in doe-skin boots and gray trousers and tunic. Over that, he wore a forest green cloak with the hood up.
Faran’s eyes widened in surprise. Woven in red thread on the cloak, near the heart, was a trotting fox looking back over its shoulder.
“He’s a Raithlin,” Ferla said. Faran knew it too, and he was surprised. They were legendary scouts, and no doubt skilled at fighting too. Too skilled for either him or Ferla.
“Not just a Raithlin,” Aranloth said, “but Lanrik himself.”
Ferla leveled a cool gaze at the old man. She had heard of Lanrik. He was a legend.
But it became apparent that this was no harsh fight as it had been the last time they did this. Lanrik moved in, lithe and graceful. Metal clanged against metal and he withdrew, even though he could have pressed home the attack and perhaps won the fight.
Faran understood. This was less a fight and more a sparring session. It was to give Ferla a sense for how a great warrior moved. To learn by watching and feeling.
Ferla darted in, thrusting swiftly with her blade. The Raithlin moved back gracefully, but only just enough to avoid her thrust. This positioned him well to counterstrike, which he did with a two-handed blow at her head which nearly missed, but not quite. The tip of his sword screeched against her helm and she stumbled back, far less gracefully than her opponent had retreated.
This was a great opportunity to learn how to fight, and just as much for Faran as Ferla. By watching, he could study and learn. Already he realized the importance of a good retreat. The idea was to move back just enough and no more. Otherwise you were too far away to attack in your turn. And he sensed the old man watching him nearly as much as the fight. He was making sure the lessons were observed.
“Hold your sword with a looser grip,” Aranloth called. “It’ll help you relax your whole body. Fighting is an art of skill, not brute strength. Only tighten your hand at the moment of contact. That’ll stop the weapon being jarred from your grip.”
The two combatants circled each other. Faran watched, amazed by how lifelike the illusion of Lanrik was, and also at the man’s poise.
Ferla attacked again, launching a series of lightning fast strikes, but Lanrik glided away from them smoothly and then retaliated with hi
s own offensive.
The Raithlin’s movements were sure and smooth. Twice he struck Ferla’s helm, and a third slash ran across her legs but the blow was held back. Ferla stumbled and fell, while the Raithlin sheathed his sword and stood motionless.
“That’s enough for you,” Aranloth said. “You did well against a great fighter. Some of your opponents so far have been more skilled than any Kingshield Knight. I’ve done that so that you can see how great the gap is between where you are and where you need to be. But don’t be disheartened. Even warriors such as Brand and Lanrik once had less skill than you do now. With training, you can become formidable in your own right, and quickly.”
Faran had his turn next. He tried to move with his opponent’s grace, and he tried to put into place the advice that Aranloth gave him and the things he had learned by watching Ferla’s efforts. But it was one thing to understand something and another to put it into practice with a sword slashing toward his head.
He did not do as well as Ferla, and his admiration of her increased. She did have genuine skill, and more than his own.
After the third time the Raithlin’s sword rang against Faran’s helm, Aranloth made a gesture and the illusion of Lanrik swirled his green cloak and faded away.
“Both of you,” Aranloth said, “did well against an opponent that far surpassed you. You could not hope to win, but fighting a better opponent exposes your weaknesses and shows you where you must improve.”
Aranloth stood up, and he led them right to the edge of the lake.
“You were both too eager to attack. Remember always that it is easier to defend than to attack, but that takes patience. This next skill of the knights well help you with that.”
They followed his lead and sat cross legged on the green grass, gazing out over the tranquil lake.
“Breathe deep of the air,” Aranloth told them. “But very slowly.”
This they did, and Faran found it harder than it seemed. To do something slowly was often harder than to do it at speed.
