Lore Of The Letharn (Book 2)

by Robert Ryan

  To the right a chasm opened up. It was a gash in the earth, deep and dark. Aranloth stayed away from it.

  A drop of water struck Lanrik’s forehead. He looked up, but saw nothing. Another one hit his arm and he realized they were very near the surface. Deep in the tombs it was dry as dust, but here, the river was close.

  The cave veered to the left, and Aranloth led them around a great boulder. On the other side were more chasms and the sound of running water. It was a place of small but swift-flowing streams. Aranloth worked his way through a maze of fissures.

  The ground was almost flat now. It was pure sand, deep and soft beneath their feet. Ahead was a glimmer of light that was not from Aranloth’s staff. Fresh air moved among the travelers and ruffled their clothes. Freedom and escape were close. Yet as they walked, Lanrik’s sudden hopes sunk.

  Ahead was a span of stone. It arched over a great chasm between them and the light. The rush of water came loud from its hidden depths, but on the span stood the three sisters.

  The harakgar made no sound. They stood, tall and regal as queens, cruel as mad women, beautiful but evil.

  Lanrik felt his heart beat wildly in his chest.

  “We will pass,” Aranloth said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the cave. The harakgar hissed in response. As one, they walked forward, their saw-toothed knives raised, red tongues licking the blades and a deathly smile on their lips.

  They came to the end of the narrow bridge and stopped.

  Far away Lanrik thought he could hear the calls of birds, and he saw the movement of something in the light at the end of the tunnel, as though trees leaned and leaves rustled at the touch of a breeze.

  They were close, but this, he knew, would be Aranloth’s greatest test. The lòhren had defied Elù-Randùr when Lòrenta was besieged by sorcerers, but this was a trial of a different order. Here were creatures of ùhrengai, created with only one purpose, and they were in their home. Aranloth was the outsider here. He did not belong, for he was alive, and there were three harakgar, but only one of him.

  Lanrik stepped forward to stand by the lòhren. The three figures watched him, their eyes glinting.

  Without warning, the harakgar stretched forth their arms and green fire streamed form their fingers.

  Aranloth raised his staff. Lanrik lifted high his sword, but before any flame reached them a wind blew. It smelled of the tombs below: dry and stale. It rushed forward, sweeping the green flame aside and smashing into the harakgar. They staggered back. The flame died. The wind ceased.

  In the momentary silence the harakgar began to laugh.

  Truly, thought Lanrik, they were creatures of power. There was something immutable about them, as though they were forces of nature. Not by any ordinary means had the treasures of an empire remained inviolate for eons.

  Aranloth stood calmly, poised but unmoving. If he felt fear or doubt, he did not show it. The harakgar ceased their laughing and watched him through narrowed eyes, sensing that he was doing something.

  Breathless moments passed. The combatants remained motionless despite the forces at their command. Then suddenly Aranloth raised his staff.

  The harakgar crouched, their eyes staring hard at the lòhren, seeking the source of his attack. They did not see it. But Lanrik did. The chasm that the bridge spanned must have been filled with a deep river. Lanrik watched as a swell of water rose up high, white crested, towering, silent behind the three sisters. A shadow fell over them, and they swung around.

  Too late they saw their danger. The wave crested, rolled forward, and swept them off the bridge with a roar that drowned their screams.

  The water smashed back into the chasm, though some of it spilled onto the sand in front of the travelers, and the spray of heavy droplets whipped against their faces like pelting rain

  “Run!” Aranloth commanded.

  The travelers scrambled across the wet sand. Of the harakgar, there was no sign. Whether the wave had drowned or destroyed them, Lanrik did not know.

  The stone of the bridge was smooth and wet. As swiftly as they could they crossed it. Below was a dark gulf, filled with the crash and rush of seething water. It was not far below, but darkness hid it.

  They came to the other side, and the light at the end of the tunnel was close. But their ordeal was not yet ended. The harakgar remained undefeated.

  The three sisters did not seem to be bound to any form. They could be a mist, a noise, or even stone. Now, they rose up from the chasm on wings of darkness, their long-fingered hands, that once carried saw-toothed daggers, had transformed into talons that gripped and squeezed the air while shadowy wings beat above.

  “Flee!” shouted Aranloth.

  The travelers ran.

  Aranloth and Lanrik were in the lead, Arliss came last. Ahead, a fresh breeze blew and a pool of late afternoon sunlight dropped like a fountain of water into the darkness. They made for it, sprinting for freedom and escape.

  They were nearly there when Arliss fell. Lanrik heard a muffled cry and turned back. She lay sprawled on the ground, a misstep on the loose sand having sent her sprawling. Over her, the harakgar hovered.

  Lanrik did not think. He turned back and stood between Arliss and the harakgar while she scrambled to her feet. He had already lost one Raithlin; he did not intend to lose another. They had pledged their loyalty to him as Raithlindrath, but that loyalty went both ways.

  The shazrahad sword was hot in his hand. A blue shimmer of flame ran along its length, the lòhrengai inside it coming to full wakefulness. But the shadows above him darkened and the harakgar screamed with glee. Their wings folded and they dived.

  Suddenly, Aranloth was there. His white robes billowed wildly, and he extended his staff in a stiff arm.

  “Flee!” he yelled. “Ill hold them off!”

  Lanrik lifted Arliss. Blood trickled down her forehead. He held her, his sword still in his hand, and carried her to the mouth of the tunnel.

  Warm sunlight streamed on his face and he looked back into the darkness of the cave. The harakgar had surrounded Aranloth. They fluttered above him, dark wings beating and talons stretching forth. They dropped from the air and reached for him.

  21. The Light Within

  The harakgar screamed. Their beating wings flung a whirlwind of sand and dust into the air. For a moment they hovered above the lòhren, and then they plunged, talons outstretched.

  Once more Aranloth called out the charm. His voice boomed through the hollow cavern, and white fire burst from his staff. Dust and sand sizzled in the swirling air, and the lòhren shone with the power of lòhrengai that was within him.

  The three sisters screeched. Their pain-maddened cries tore the air. One fell to the side, her form twisting while she plummeted, her dark wings aflame. The others wavered, but then dropped and reached for the lòhren.

  Lanrik leaped into the chamber. The shazrahad sword, hot in his hand, caught the lòhren light and silver-white flame ran along its length.

  He charged into the fight, sword swinging, and its bright edge struck one of the harakgar a glancing blow. She screamed and spat, her dark hair streaming while the snake heads hissed.

  Aranloth sent a bolt of lòhren-fire into the other. It blew her to the side, and she tumbled from the air.

  They turned toward the remaining harakgar. She plunged once more at the lòhren. At the same time, fire darted from his staff and Lanrik stabbed with his sword. The creature writhed in sudden fury, and her shadowy wings arched high. She lifted herself beyond the reach of the sword. Yet, just when Lanrik expected Aranloth to finish her off, the flame died.

  The lòhren swayed, nearly spent. At that moment, the first harakgar pulled herself off the ground. What injuries she had suffered Lanrik did not know, but her power seemed endless, for she appeared whole and unharmed again. Her wings were gone, but her long legs, sleek and rippling with muscle, propelled her across the ground.

  She leaped like a striking serpent, and her body smashed into the lòhren and se
nt him sprawling. His staff flew from his hand and landed in the sand. She perched atop him, clawed hands tearing, and her mouth sinking into his shoulder.

  Red blood spurted over his white robes. He yelled, his voice made harsh by pain and anger. Fire burst from his fingers and stabbed into the harakgar. She screamed, but the noise was muffled, for she would not unclench her jaw. Instead, she worked her teeth deeper into the lòhren’s flesh.

  Lanrik staggered toward them. He had never seen Aranloth so beset before. He might at last have met his match, but the hot blade of the shazrahad sword slid through the harakgar’s body before she could drive home her advantage.

  She arched her back and lifted her head. Blood frothed at her lips as she screamed, and the lòhren threw her off him and reached for his staff.

  Lanrik heard the beat of wings above. He started to turn, knowing that he would be too late. He began to lift the sword, but though his mind raced with swift thoughts, his body was too heavy and sluggish to match them.

  The harakgar would be on him before he could bring any weapon to bear. He would die in the tombs of the Letharn, and Erlissa’s warning not to come here ran through his mind. She had seen this. He would miss her, and his heart ached at the thought.

  He felt the thrum of lòhrengai in the bade, felt the exultation of that other power that was in it, that force of will or prophecy that was pulling on the strings of fate, drawing him into the net of his enemies.

  And then suddenly Caldring was running and leaping. He held his knife high in one hand and a rock as big as his fist in the other. The harakgar saw him and shied away, though little harm could come to her from such weapons. Yet that momentary pause altered Lanrik’s fate, and the destiny that Erlissa had long ago seen was averted.

  A thin streak of lòhren-fire smashed into the harakgar. Her dark wings blazed and she unleashed a mad cry.

  The lòhren stumbled to his feet. “Run!” he yelled.

  And they ran. It was a short stretch to where Arliss lay in a daze outside the mouth of the cave. But the beat of wings was loud behind them as well as the sand-dulled thud of running feet.

  Darkness loomed behind. Light lay ahead. Lanrik sprinted, the sword heavy in his hand. Caldring reached the opening and dived outside. Lanrik and Aranloth were a moment behind him. They sprawled to the ground, rose and turned, ready to fight, but the harakgar remained inside in a fume of shadow and swirling sand.

  The three sisters were not visible, but they could be heard. Their wail rent the very air. And then abruptly their torturous cries ended.

  The travelers lay on the ground, panting for air. At length, Lanrik roused himself and looked to clean his sword, expecting to see blood, but there was nothing there. The steel glimmered at him coldly.

  He went to Arliss. She had used the palm of her hand to stem the bleeding from her forehead, and she waved him away.

  “Look to the lòhren.”

  Lanrik did so. Dark blood flowed from the wound on his shoulder and his face was white, his teeth clenched in agony.

  Carefully, Lanrik pulled aside the cloth of the lòhren’s robe to expose the harakgar’s bite. The wound looked angry, and it had already begun to fester. It was red where teeth had rent deep into the flesh, but along the jagged edges its hew was a sickly green.

  “The bite of the harakgar is a grave injury,” Aranloth said softly. “But magic can heal what other magic harmed.” He looked up, the skin around his eyes drawn tight, and his face deathly pale. “But this will use the last dregs of my strength. For the next few days I’ll be little more than a burden. I’m sorry. I know there’s far yet to go, and other dangers ahead.”

  Lanrik placed a hand on the lòhren’s other shoulder.

  “You’ve already done so much to help Erlissa. Between the rest of us, we’ll manage from here. Do what you must to heal yourself.”

  Aranloth nodded but did not answer. He placed a hand over his wound and groaned as he pressed hard.

  For a moment nothing happened, and then white light stuttered to life. It flickered tenuously around his palm before it suddenly flared. There was a hiss, as though one of the harakgar was still present, and then a green mist uncoiled from the wound like a sluggish snake. It rose and hovered in the air, swaying one way and then another, before it shuddered and then shot like a cast stone into the cave. It disappeared from view, swallowed by the black mouth of the tombs.

  When Lanrik looked back to the lòhren, he saw that his friend lay unconscious on the ground. Of the wound, there was now little sign, though the stain of congealed blood on white robes gave mute evidence of what once was there.

  Aranloth slept, and as there seemed no further danger from the harakgar, Lanrik decided to stay where they were and rest. They had travelled all during the day and seen and heard things in the tombs that drained them. He was exhausted, and he doubted the others felt better.

  Caldring seemed uninjured, and Lanrik marveled at his daring. If not for him, he would have died. Perhaps Aranloth too. He was a youth no more, for he had shown the bravery of a man. And not only that, but a man with a sure future as a Raithlin. All the skills of tracking and concealment could be taught, but courage was the one thing that must come from within. It was the force that bound the others together.

  The sun began to set. The sky, a pale pink blushed by the last rays of light, grew darker as he approached Arliss. The cut on her forehead seemed minor, but Lanrik checked on her anyway.

  She looked up at him as he walked over, but did not speak until he sat down beside her.

  “You came back into the tombs for me. Why did you do that?”

  Lanrik did not know how to answer. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re one of us, and you’d have done the same for me.”

  Arliss shook her head. “I’ve never known loyalty like that before.”

  Lanrik reached out and put an arm around her shoulder. “Get used to it. You’re one of the Raithlin now, and we look after each other.”

  He stood up after a little while.

  “I’ll collect some timber while there’s still light. We could do with a fire tonight.”

  He moved out of the camp. The ground was rocky, and he took his time. Firewood was not the only thing on his mind. He also wanted to get the lay of the land. They must be somewhere on the north side of the river, but he wanted to know exactly where.

  He found an ancient trail. It ascended a little further, but most of it ran down hill. After a moment he recognized the features, and though it was too dark to see properly, he knew this was the same path that he had climbed once before. Somewhere down below was the recess where Aranloth had brought down stone and rubble to block their pursuers. Further below that were the great falls and the beginning of the Angle.

  He made his way back to the camp, collecting fallen branches that were dry enough to burn. He soon had an armful. On the way he noticed a stone, just like the others that carried the writing of the Letharn. A mass of grass and twisted vines covered it, which explained why he had not seen it earlier. There were many ways into the tombs, but leaving them alive was hard.

  He made a fire when he reached the camp and Arliss and Caldring gathered around it. They did not speak much, and the lòhren still slept, his face pale.

  One by one they settled down and slept. There was little chance of setting a watch tonight, for they were simply too exhausted. Lanrik’s mind was working though, and as much as he needed sleep, it eluded him for a while.

  He thought of Erlissa, and he longed to talk to her. He did not think the head-priest was right. Ebona could not do her any harm. She was in Lòrenta, secure in the ùhrengai of the fountain, and the witch was far to the south. And yet the thought disturbed him. Ebona would pay if she had done anything. Too long she had influenced Esgallien, too long a weak king had put the city and its people in danger. It was time to do something about it, but he was not sure what.

  Once more he had the strange sense that he was reliving events that had already occurred. What the prop
hecy of the sword was doing, what power it had to shape the days ahead, he did not know. But he thought that it was time to resolve that issue too.

  He eventually fell asleep, troubled by the past and worried for the future. When he woke it was bright morning. Arliss had gathered more timber and a smokeless fire burned hotly.

  They ate a warm breakfast, all save the lòhren who still slept. Lanrik chose not to try and wake him. He was not sure if that was wise or even if he could.

  When they were done, he stood up.

  “We can’t go anywhere with Aranloth the way he is. But I better have a proper scout around and see if there’s anybody nearby. I looked last night, but I didn’t go far.”

  Caldring and Arliss both stood up, ready to go with him.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I won’t be going too far. Last time I travelled this way there was nobody about, and I don’t expect that’s changed. But I better make sure. Anyway, we could use some more water.”

  He took their near empty water flasks, strapped them around his shoulder, and moved off.

  He quickly found his way back to the main trail. Now, he could see the recess far below and the tumbled rock below it. He turned west, the direction they must go, and followed the path upward. After some long minutes of hard walking he reached a crest that overlooked the river.

  He moved slowly, his natural caution always making him proceed with care, and lay down to look out over the ridge. It was for this reason that he spied Musraka’s men before they noticed him. He slunk down as low as he could, not so quick as to attract their eyes, but as quickly as possible.

  On his belly, he lifted his head just enough to peer over the top of the crest.

  Down below, the river swept toward the falls. Its banks were shallow, for the river was wide and trees and lush grass grew along its verge. Deep within a straggly copse were horses. And with them were Azan. He saw no sign of the shazrahad, and wondered what that might mean, but he watched for some time to tell what they were doing.

  They seemed to be waiting, for had they only been watering the horses they would have long since moved on. And though they were waiting for him, their presence offered hope as well as worry.