by Robert Ryan
“How did he get you across the ford?” Lanrik asked. “It’s guarded.”
He was a Raithlin. The guards knew him, and he told me that he’d kill me if I betrayed him.”
A shiver past over Lanrik. He had to ask a question even if he knew the answer.
“Did he tell you his name?”
“It was Gwalchmur.”
Even though he expected it the confirmation came as a blow. What could motivate a person to commit such treachery?
Something else occurred to him. He had heard Erlissa’s name before, but it was the mention of her parents that sparked his memory. They had been remarkable healers who had travelled the kingdom but had tragically died in a small community overwhelmed by an epidemic. This had left their daughter an orphan. Other healers had fled, but her parents had stayed, and children were saved that otherwise would not have lived. They had spread the remarkable story.
She looked at him directly and must have guessed his trend of thought.
“You know who I am now, don’t you?”
He nodded. The orphaned girl had become famous as well.
“You’re known as the Seeker. You find things for people – things that no one else can.” He did not mention the rumors that she was adept at lòhrengai, the power of the lòhrens.
“That’s why I was taken. The enemy wanted to use my talent.”
“At least you’re safe now.”
Erlissa smiled. “Thanks to you, but I have more to tell yet. Gwalchmur took me across the ford at dusk and out onto the wilderness of the plains. I thought I knew fear then, but it was nothing compared to what I felt when he led me to an elùgroth.”
She paused and struggled to control her emotions. “His menace was beyond description. He questioned me and I dared not give false replies. He wanted me to join their order, to become an elùgroth. I told him it would go against everything I believed in to use my talent to harm people, and that it would defile the legacy of my parents. He pressed me over and over again until I thought he’d kill me. But he didn’t. He said I’d join them in the end, and he put an elùgroth cloak on me and made me carry a staff that stank of death. He placed a hangman’s noose over my neck to remind me what would happen if I continued to refuse. Then he ignored me.”
She looked to the ground as though she did not want to continue. “You told me that the Raithlin stationed on the plains had been slain by an elùgroth. I knew that already. Gwalchmur and the elùgroth took me with them as they did it.”
She blinked away tears. “Evil was done that night and the next several – dark sorcery as I have never seen and cruelty beyond imagination. Even Gwalchmur would have fled – if he dared.”
Erlissa held her arms loosely by her side, but Lanrik saw that her hands shook. She had witnessed things that no one should ever see and had lived in fear for days.
Gathering herself, she spoke once more. “Even that isn’t the worst of it.”
Lanrik had a sudden sense that she had been building to this moment.
“After the killing I was taken to the army and left in the shazrahad’s tent. I heard his meetings with the army captains. They went to no trouble to prevent it because they didn’t think that I would ever return to Esgallien.”
She looked as though even she could not believe what she had heard.
“The army marching on Esgallien isn’t the only one. The free cities of the east are being attacked by several more, and the Halathrin to the west also. There’s a string of armies coming up from the south and attacking simultaneously.”
It was the greatest offensive by the enemy in hundreds of years, and Lanrik wondered if there were traitors elsewhere. If one of the other targets fell the enemy might be able to form a base from which they could attack Esgallien from two sides.
“Even that’s not all,” continued Erlissa. “The free north is in peril, and the armies will try to capture whatever they can. But in the end, it’s all a ploy. The greatest opponents of the enemy have always been the lòhrens. They’ve walked among the races of Alithoras and spread knowledge, offered council and united us all. And they’ve always combated the dark sorcery of elùgroths. They’ll come now to help, and leave their home in Lòrenta vulnerable. The history of the centuries, and the knowledge of nations are stored there. It’s the repository of their collected wisdom, and while they’re drawn to the south a dozen elùgroths are heading north to destroy it.”
Lanrik’s mind reeled. If the lòhrens were broken a power of great good would be extinguished from the world. How much harder would it be for the free north to oppose the enemy? How long could they survive without the uniting influence of lòhrens and the lòhrengai they wielded to oppose sorcery? Suddenly he had a realization that all that he knew and loved, the Raithlin, his city and its people, were just a small part of a greater whole that the lòhrens had nurtured for thousands of years.
“Lòrenta might be emptied of lòhrens,” he said, “but it’s rumored to be guarded by lòhrengai.”
“That was discussed with the shazrahad,” Erlissa said. “The elùgroths will use an artefact of power. The Azan dared only whisper its name, but I think they called it a Morleth Stone. Many elùgroths were involved in its making, and several of them died. It will act as a conduit of elùgai, to accumulate then focus it under the combined will of the dozen elùgroths. The shazrahad had great faith in it. He was confident Lòrenta’s defenses would be overcome, the fortress destroyed, and all the lòhrens eventually hunted down.”
Just as it had been urgent before to slow the army, Lanrik knew it had now become imperative to return as swiftly as possible to Esgallien.
“The lòhrens have to be told in time for them to protect themselves.”
“True,” Erlissa said. “But what of slowing the army?”
Lanrik considered the situation. His first responsibility was to Esgallien, but he had discharged it. Mecklar had begun with a half-day head start, and that lead had now increased. The army should have long since commenced to march but did not show any signs of doing so. The tents were still standing and the soldiers milling around. It would be some time yet before it could begin, and when it finally started the things he had done would continue to hinder it. He was satisfied that he had achieved his goal and fulfilled one of his promises to Lathmai.
His duty now was to see Erlissa safely back to the city so she could give her information to a lòhren. There were several in the kingdom, so they would not prove difficult to find.
It was time to move once more, and they mounted the horses. Lanrik looked at the army; it was too far away to see anything significant, but it remained stationary. He felt satisfied, but then he saw something that sobered him.
“Look,” he said.
As they watched, a column of six riders separated from the host and moved across the plains. It was the pursuit he feared. Their tracks would be visible and the column was heading in their direction. They must decide where to flee: straight back to Esgallien or elsewhere? To Esgallien was the obvious choice, but the Azan had rested during the night, and he had not slept for over a day. He must sleep soon, and he saw as well that each of the riders led a spare horse. They would nurse their mounts, but Erlissa’s and his own would get no respite. Consequently, their chance of keeping ahead of the pursuit was small. He glanced at Erlissa and read the same understanding in her face.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“We can’t out run them,” he confirmed, “so we must hide instead.”
She looked about uncertainly. “Where can we hide on the plains?”
Lanrik made a sweeping gesture. “All about us is open space, but scattered here and there are woods and swamps. The woods are small and can be searched, even by riders. The swamps, on the other hand, are thickly timbered and treacherous. They’re no place for a horse, let alone a column of riders. In a swamp we’ll have some measure of safety, and there are paths of sure ground for those who know the way. If we can elude the search for a while we’ll b
e able to leave when it’s done and still beat the army to Esgallien.”
“I take it you know such a swamp and its ways?” Erlissa asked.
Lanrik did not reply. His attention was on the column, and at its head was something that he had not expected. Even at this distance he could see that the lead rider wore a scarlet headdress. This meant that the shazrahad himself was leading the pursuit.
He realized it had now become a personal feud between them. The shazrahad had lost face, and the only way to regain credibility would be to personally recapture his prisoner. He could not kill her, for the elùgroth wanted her alive, but he could inflict innumerable punishments. Then he must show that the army’s misfortunes were not caused by a ghash, but a man: a man that could be captured and publicly executed. Also, the shazrahad had lost his sword, and it was probably handed down through generations as a family heirloom.
He looked at it for the first time in the light of day. The scabbard was decorated with gold thread and scrollwork depicting a great hunt. At the end of the hilt was a ruby, red as blood, and when he drew it the sword shimmered with the typical appearance of a pattern-welded blade: strong, flexible and sharp edged. It was inlaid with gold and script that he could not read and was a sword such as even the king of Esgallien would never have seen.
Thinking of all the things he had done to the shazrahad it was no wonder he had come after him personally. It would further contribute to the disorganization and slowing of the army, but it also meant he would pursue them unrelentingly. Even in a swamp they would be lucky to elude capture, and he knew better than most that swamps had dangers of their own.
7. Dead Man Swamp
The stench of the swamp reached out tendrils before they entered it and clutched at them tightly when they passed its threshold. There was no breeze, except in the tops of the trees, and the air was humid and heavy.
They followed a twisted trail, firm but slick with mud, which wound deeper inside this new world. It was dark under the trees, the half-light a haunt of owls and far off unidentified noises.
They dismounted and led the horses. Lanrik chafed at the delay, for to bring word to the lòhrens too late would be a disaster. He was cautious though, because getting killed would mean it never reached them at all.
Tree roots stuck out in knobs and tangles, and the leaves of overhanging limbs dripped with moisture. Grey moss trailed from high branches like the groping hands of ghosts. He knew some of the trees: willow, aspen, ash, elm, birch and oak, but some of these were different from home, and there were still others for which he had no name.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Erlissa said.
He searched for the right words to describe his feelings.
“It’s different.” He looked around as he spoke, but his glance, ever watchful for snakes, did not stray from the path for long. “But think how strange it’ll be for the Azan – they come from a land of deserts and dry mountains.”
They neared a scum-covered pool that reeked of decay, and Erlissa crinkled her nose.
“I suppose the Raithlin have a name for this place?”
He did not want to upset her, but she had shown that she could deal with the truth.
“It’s called Dead Man Swamp.”
“You’re joking?”
He scraped black mud of his boots. “I’m afraid not. The Halathrin explored these lands long before our ancestors established Esgallien. They found a corpse deep in the interior. The water level was dropping during a dry time, and the body was partially exposed. Whoever it was hadn’t died well.”
“How did they know that?”
“The mud of the swamp preserves flesh. They couldn’t tell when he died – a week or a thousand years previously, but his arms were flung up, hands clawing, and his head upturned with gaping jaws.”
“He drowned?”
“They though he fell, or was cast, into a pit of mud from which he couldn’t climb.”
Erlissa slapped at a mosquito on her arm. “I thought we were the first people to settle these lands?”
He shrugged. “So most of us think, but there was at least one person here before King Conhain came.”
Far ahead in the deeps of the swamp something bellowed. It was the harsh and drawn out hawing of an aurochs, the call they use to communicate over long distances.
“Apart from the risk of drowning in mud, what else is dangerous here?”
“The first rule,” Lanrik said, “is to look where you walk. There are plenty of snakes, but the one to watch out for is the black adder. Its bite can kill, and they’ll often not move until you step on them.”
“Anything else?”
Lanrik shrugged. “The wild cat. They’ve been known to attack a person if cornered or hungry, but mostly they stay away.”
“Charming,” Erlissa said.
They continued and it became darker as the afternoon waned. The rain turned to drizzle then ceased. It grew warm beneath the tree canopy, and flies swarmed around the horses until they swished their tails and flicked their ears constantly.
Ducks called suddenly. The urgent noise was stifled by the thick growth, but Lanrik pinpointed its origin to somewhere along their backtrail.
He paused and listened for a moment, but though he heard nothing further, he knew what it meant. “They’re following.”
“Should we move off the trail?” Erlissa asked.
“To leave the trail is to die,” Lanrik said. “The aurochs have made it, and the ground is firm. Elsewhere, you could walk a mile or sink in moments.”
“But if we stay on the path won’t the Azan just follow?”
“I hope so. We’ll lead them into the heart of the swamp and beyond, and when we’ve taken them through its twists and turns we’ll go where they won’t be able to follow.”
Erlissa waved a persistent fly away from her face. “What’s going to stop us from getting lost?”
“The Raithlin know how to find their way, and there are methods to pick a route, even in such a place as this. Besides, I’ve been in this swamp before.”
Erlissa had no other questions and they moved on. The brief afternoon warmth faded, and the path narrowed until they had to lead the horses in single file. Other paths branched off, but Lanrik kept to the original. To their right stagnant ponds had become increasingly frequent, and turning another bend, they formed a watercourse. The flow of water through reeds and rushes was still sluggish though.
Night came on suddenly and Lanrik, with great care, led them a little way off the trail.
“To leave the path in the dark, even just a little, is dangerous,” he said “We’ll not be able to move around during the night, but I don’t think the Azan will risk pushing on either.”
Erlissa nodded and Lanrik was impressed that she had not complained even once about the flies or smells. They were in danger, from both their enemies and the swamp, but she did what was necessary without fuss. It was a pity they seemed totally different types of people. Her disappointment in him when he had told her of his intention to kill the shazrahad still stung.
Night fell as if someone had cast a blanket over the swamp and suddenly extinguished all light. At the same time, the mosquitoes that had been a nuisance before swarmed around them in living clouds. A vast cacophony of noise arose; there was croaking from countless frogs, some with deep booming calls, and others with high-pitched screeches, but all were incessant. Crickets chirped and small animals rustled the undergrowth while they hunted. Occasionally, there came the desperate squeal of the smaller falling prey to the larger.
Water dripped from leaves; it ran through reeds and rushes with a slow hiss, and it plopped and splashed as creatures moved in the watercourse. Everything was damp, including the ground the two travelers sat on, and there was no chance of a fire.
Lanrik shared his water flask and some of the packages of food he had taken when separating from Mecklar. It was a cold and frugal dinner, for the supplies were not intended for two people.
; Erlissa took a sip of water. “It must take years to learn the Raithlin skills,” she asked.
He yawned, weariness settling over him like a cloak. It had been a long time since he had slept.
“It does,” he said, “but most of us have a background from childhood that helps. Many grow up hunting and tracking, and a lot were taught since their early days by relatives who are, or were, Raithlin.”
“What about you?” asked Erlissa.
Lanrik hesitated. He did not normally talk about this, but he and Erlissa had shared danger together, and he liked her, even if their attitudes were worlds apart.
“My uncle taught me,” he said. “Conrik was a Raithlin for many years.”
“Is he still one?”
“Not any more,” he said.
“Why not?”
Lanrik let out a long sigh. “He was once among the best of us. The older Raithlin say he was offered the position of Lindrath and that he could have led them all. The king made the offer, though I never had a chance to talk to my uncle about it.”
“What happened?”
“He declined. The king demanded to know why, but my uncle gave no reason. The older Raithlin say Murhain, in a great fury, commanded him to explain. My uncle, who rarely kept his opinions to himself anyway, told him the truth. He said that he had no desire to enforce Murhain’s will or impose the changes that he intended. He told the king that he did not think he respected the Raithlin, and that he had no understanding of what they could achieve or how to use them.”
“He spoke like that to the king?”
Lanrik shrugged. “So I’m told. He went too far, but there was a strong feeling in our ranks along those lines.”
He hesitated and looked at her closely, wondering how much he should say.
“There still is,” he added. “Anyway, Murhain was enraged and challenged him to a duel. Conrik laughed at him and walked away. The king called him a coward, but my uncle only laughed louder and said that he had no wish to kill a fool.”
An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and Erlissa cocked her head to listen. She ran her hands through her hair and shook it out.
