by Robert Ryan
“Would your uncle have killed him?”
“I think so. There’s no doubt that he was a better swordsman. He was one of the finest in the kingdom, and Murhain is only competent at best. Conrik always said that you shouldn’t draw a sword unless you had no choice, but having done so, it was a weapon of death and best used to that end quickly.”
He could not see what her expression was in the dark.
“The world would be a better place without swords.”
Lanrik agreed with the sentiment but thought the reality of the situation was obvious. “Yet they exist and some people won’t hesitate to oppress others for their own gain. If the oppressed don’t take up a weapon to defend themselves, then the few will always dominate the many.”
The shadow of the owl passed overhead as it sought a better perch from which to watch for prey.
“What happened to your uncle after that?”
“No one knows for sure. The story is that on his way home that night he started a drunken brawl with some of the Royal Guard in an alley. He killed two of them but the third escaped. He fled and the king pronounced a death sentence, but he was never found, and how he escaped the city has always been a mystery. The gates were closed, and the Royal Guard searched relentlessly.”
“That’s a sad end,” Erlissa said.
“It brought much shame to the Raithlin,” Lanrik told her. “It also shamed our family. Perhaps that’s why the Lindrath chose me to demonstrate our skills to Mecklar. It was an opportunity to redeem our name.”
Erlissa was silent for a while, seeming to decide whether to speak.
“You said it was a story that your uncle got drunk, but no one knows for sure. It seems that you carry shame, but you have doubts that you should.”
Her perceptiveness surprised him. The shame of the events was great, but so too was the uncertainty.
“When my uncle was outlawed his friends tried to find out what had happened. The only witness was the guard who’d escaped. The king gave his judgment after speaking to him, but his identity was kept secret, and no one else ever heard his evidence.”
Lanrik paused. Some would consider what he was about to say as treason.
“It’s whispered among the Raithlin that the king ordered some of his guards to provoke trouble and kill my uncle that night. It’s even said that the king disguised himself as the third guard – but who knows the truth?”
He had spoken the words, perhaps words that should not be said, certainly words that had never been uttered outside the circle of the Raithlin before. Erlissa was silent for a long while.
She finally reached out and touched his shoulder. “You’re not the simple Raithlin you give the impression of being. It’s not enough for you to use your sword for the protection of the kingdom. I think you’d risk everything, even confront the king himself, to discover the truth of things. You must have loved him.”
Lanrik was shocked. Erlissa had voiced what had only been a vague idea growing in his mind. Could he use his success in delaying the elug army as a shield to press Murhain for answers? Was that a part of her gift as a Seeker? Or was it the gift of female intuition? Whatever the case, he had somehow revealed more than he had intended. But he was tired. Tired of the shame that his family had to endure, tired of the danger and stress that had been ever present the last few days, and most of all just now, tired from lack of sleep.
He did not answer her, and she did not seem to expect one. Tomorrow would be another long day. He lay down to sleep, and Erlissa did likewise, but the sound of her breathing slowed and grew regular long before he found the rest he needed.
It was a troubled night. A freshening breeze cleared away the showers then stilled, allowing a clutching mist to rise from the sodden earth. The cacophony of frog and cricket rose and fell in tune with some unfathomable rhythm of the swamp. There were strange creakings and mutterings from tree trunks, and insects crawled, swarmed and bit.
Daylight finally seeped into the swamp. They ate a cold and miserable breakfast, and then carefully guided the horses back to the path. A horse neighed along their backtrail, and Lanrik knew the shazrahad had pushed hard and gained ground on them, but he did not mind for the land was treacherous, and to move at speed was foolhardy.
The track now divided frequently into others. These were like cave entrances formed of tree and fern, but the tunnels soon disappeared into mist and half-light. He made no attempt to hide their trail: he wanted the Azan to follow them deep into the swamp.
A grey heron, giving its croaking call, coasted over the treetops. Its long neck was retracted, and its wing-beat slow and ponderous. They looked up and watched it, for the canopy of leaves was giving way, and bright sunlight streamed through the gaps.
The trees, which had crowded round them since they entered the swamp, receded. They turned a final bend and a new landscape opened. A lake, steaming with mist, stretched out before them. It was a thousand paces long and nearly as wide. Innumerable ducks and waterfowl swam its waters.
On the far right trees marched right up to its shore, but the left was covered in sand and beyond that a green plain of grass. On this, Aurochs and deer grazed in the distance. White egrets, elegant as always, were prolific. Many of them stalked the ground on long legs while they searched for food, but great numbers roosted in the far fringe of trees.
Erlissa raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun.
“Who would have ever guessed this existed?”
“It makes for quite a change,” Lanrik said. “Swamps are made out to be horrible places but really they’re full of life.”
Erlissa looked at him. “It still smells disgusting.”
Lanrik laughed. “There’s no getting around that.”
A flight of ducks arrowed over the tops of the trees, and then flew low over the water before landing.
“How can there be a lake and grassland in the middle of a swamp?” Erlissa asked.
Lanrik shrugged. “The way I understand it is that Galenthern, however level it appears from a distance, is covered with folds and undulations. Some areas are low enough to expose a different type of soil. It’s dark clay, and water percolates through the earth for many miles around to feed the swamp and fill the deeper lake. The grassland itself is a little higher and the aurochs probably formed it. They’re destructive animals, always pulling down leaves from low branches, rubbing saplings and grazing seedlings. Over a long period they can turn forest into pasture.”
Erlissa pointed to the grassland. “Is that where we’re going?”
“Yes,” Lanrik said. “And we’d better do so now, for the Azan are close behind.”
They moved into the open and picked their way across the grass. The ground was damp, but not muddy, and they were careful to avoid the more suspect areas. For the first time since entering the swamp they rode, though slowly and with care.
The deer had long since disappeared into the surrounding trees, and as they approached halfway across the little plain the aurochs moved with much noise and backward looks into the fringe.
Lanrik veered toward the lake. He dismounted and handed the water flask to Erlissa who took several small sips and returned it. It was nearly empty. He waded out as far as he dared to reach clear water.
“This is the cleanest, but still dangerous. Later on I’ll filter it through sand or charcoal to make it safe.”
When he was done they watered the horses. They mounted again and Erlissa drew in a sharp breath.
“They’ve come,” she said.
He saw them. They were mounted, the shazrahad in the lead, his scarlet headdress bright against the green of the trees under which they momentarily rested.
Lanrik smiled grimly. “Not all of them.”
Five riders, with their spare horses, watched them bitterly from the eaves of the trees; mud spattered, bedraggled and weary as only travel through swampland can make man or beast. Of the sixth, there was no sign: the swamp had taken him.
The pursuit began in e
arnest. The shazrahad was close to his enemy, his redemption near to hand, but he had learned caution in the last day. He led the Azan onto the grass, but did not gallop as the rash or foolish would. He took his time, choosing his way with care, and followed his prey with determination whetted by frustrated desire.
Lanrik and Erlissa moved on and did not look back; that would only waste time. With as much speed as they dared, they moved toward the end of the lake where there was a large area of rushes.
The rushes were the haunt of black adders. The snakes, thick and fat, lay on the narrow paths that wound between tall stems. They basked in the sun and were slow to move even when Lanrik, now on foot and leading his mount once more, stamped the ground. The horses were nervous with fear.
They continued. The rushes gave way to trees again, and once more they walked in the half-light of the swamp forest. In places, slime-covered water submerged the path for many paces at a time, though the ground underneath was solid.
Lanrik picked their way carefully, first choosing one path and then another, switching as often as he could. Some tracks remained for the Azan to follow, but it would slow their pursuit.
It grew warm and sticky as the day passed. The sounds of the Azan reached them regularly as they struggled on. They were close behind, but no matter how hard they pushed, they could not quite reach their prey.
Late in the afternoon the swamp changed. The paths and trees faded, and they came to a flat area covered with ankle deep water and vegetation just reaching above the surface.
“This is it,” Lanrik said. “The corpse the Halathrin found was here. It’s called Dead Man’s Flat.”
“Then we’re trapped,” Erlissa said. “It’s too dangerous to walk over that.”
Lanrik did not take his eyes off it. “There’s a way forward,” he said. “The Azan won’t follow, or at least they’ll soon give up if they do.”
He looked at Erlissa and saw doubt for the first time. “I’ll not lie,” he said. “It’s dangerous, and yet there’s a way for those who know. The soil here is of different types, some the dark clay of the swamp, and some the chalky rock of Galenthern. To traverse the clay is to sink into oblivion, but you can walk on the rest – with care.”
“How do you know which is which?”
“Look, and tell me what you see?” he asked.
Erlissa studied the flats and a frown appeared on her face. “It all looks the same to me.”
Lanrik chuckled. “Let’s hope the Azan think so too. But however it looks, as the soil varies, so does the vegetation. Some plants prefer the black mud, others the chalky soil.”
Erlissa looked at the flats once more. “That’s so simple, and yet so hard to see.”
“The Halathrin are skilled observers of nature. It was they who long ago gave the Raithlin the secret of crossing Dead Man’s Flat. Let’s hope the Azan aren’t as discerning.”
He listened for any signs of pursuit, but heard nothing. It could still be some way back, or closing in. Nevertheless, night was drawing on, and they could travel no further, so they spent another unpleasant night in the swamp. Lanrik hated the delay. While they were stuck here the army was marching far ahead of them and getting ever closer to Esgallien. Should it reach the ford before them, it would prevent them from bringing their warning to the lòhrens.
When dawn came they had already eaten a sparse meal and were ready to move.
“Quickly,” Lanrik said. “Take off your boots. In bare feet you’ll better feel what type of ground you’re standing on. And if you step in mud you have a better chance of extracting yourself. Boots act as an anchor.”
They pushed forward onto the flats. Lanrik led and Erlissa walked her horse directly behind. The wet ground was slippery, and the water level fluctuated between ankle and knee. Though the ground was soft, they often felt crumbly rock within it. Sometimes Lanrik paused, uncertain of the path. Even though he knew what to look for the variation in vegetation was not always clear.
Behind them they heard harsh cries, and the Azan appeared out of the trees. They mounted their horses, and one of them whooped and yelled. Seeing the shallow water and much green grass, he thought it safe to ride. He kicked the horse into a gallop, and it raced across the flats.
Lanrik was tempted to ride as well. He pushed down the urge and trusted the Raithlin lore. The Azan rider approached without problem and left a trail of splashing water. However, the horse suddenly propped and stumbled, its legs deep in mud, and the rider cartwheeled over its head.
The more the horse struggled the deeper it sunk. Its hind legs kicked and pushed wildly but to little effect. In its extreme panic it heaved too far in one direction, and the right foreleg twisted and broke. It screamed in terror and agony.
Lanrik wanted to close his ears to the sound but could not; nor could he turn his eyes away.
He and Erlissa watched as the rider scrambled and sunk, yelling and trying to reach his horse. The horse quietened and accepted its fate with glazed eyes. The man screamed to the last.
When it was over there was silence on Dead Man’s Flat. The antagonists watched each other over the gap, and hatred burned in the shazrahad’s features.
Lanrik thought he would turn back, but he did not. He yelled at his men, and with great reluctance they dismounted, spread out, and led their horses forward. He followed them at a distance, monitoring their progress and staying in their safe tracks.
Lanrik and Erlissa pushed on without speaking. He took his time, knowing that their lives depended on the path he picked more than the progress of those who followed.
They were halfway across when one of the Azan yelled. They turned and looked as he struggled. It was a close thing, but he got out of the mud, and then led his horse further to the side. He tried again, but soon succumbed once more. He withdrew, exhausted, terrified and bootless for the mud had sucked his footwear away.
The others fared no better. Only their slow pace enabled them to escape the mud once they stepped in it, but even so they were nearly killed several times. Their luck and strength could not last much longer.
Lanrik and Erlissa drew ahead while the Azan slowed then stopped. The shazrahad yelled, projecting a deep and authoritative voice over the flats.
“Halt,” he commanded. The two fugitives turned.
“You must return my sword. Do that, and I shall pursue you no further.”
Lanrik’s breathing was ragged from exertion, but he still laughed. “You can’t pursue us any more.”
The shazrahad showed no chagrin. “Will you flee as a mere thief, then?”
Lanrik did not like that. Everything he had done in the enemy’s encampment and the tent were acts of war against an invading army, not petty theft.
“Does the sword mean that much to you?”
The shazrahad paused. “Yes,” he said eventually.
“Then withdraw your army from the field and I’ll return it.”
The Azan were a people whose culture greatly esteemed honor. He would not accept the offer, but it was worth a try for if it was, the shazrahad would be as good as his word.
The face of the Azan remained impassive, but his silver beard bristled. “I cannot do that.”
“Then the sword,” Lanrik said, “will remain the spoils of war.”
“You do not understand.”
“I understand this,” Lanrik said. “Time is short and our conversation is over.”
He and Erlissa began to cross the flats once more. There was silence for a moment before the shazrahad spoke again. His voice smoldered with suppressed emotion.
“Then I, Musraka, curse you, and all your line. I will pursue you across the earth all the days of my life. Not desert heat, nor storm or bitter night will hinder it. So shall it be!”
Lanrik kept walking and did not answer. The sword was worth a fortune, but so too was the horn and horses, yet these had not been mentioned. Perhaps if a lòhren interpreted the script on the blade the reason would be clearer.
They r
eached the end of the flats and looked back. The Azan were gone.
“Can they find a way around?” Erlissa asked.
He shook his head. “The trails wind about in a maze, and it would take them days to find the way, if ever. The quickest thing to do would be to go back to where they entered the swamp and ride north over Galenthern until they find where our tracks will leave the swamp, but they’ll never catch us now.”
They moved on. The day passed and the trees grew up tall and dark about them once more. The trails wound and turned, but Lanrik knew the way. After some time they followed a path that widened. Though it was dark, they wanted to be out of the swamp and they mounted and rode, but with great care.
Night had fallen when they emerged onto the green grass of Galenthern. The stars were swollen and bright as they only were in the wilderness, and a northeasterly breeze pushed the smell of the swamp away.
“Fresh air!” Erlissa said.
Lanrik thought her smile and the flash of her eyes was brighter than the stars, and it felt good to be alive.
“Ride,” he said. “Ride for the lòhrens and all Alithoras!”
And the horses ran, fast and surefooted toward a land they had never known, but to a city their riders loved.
8. A Choice that is no Choice
They sat upon sweat stained mounts. Green-grassed Galenthern lay behind them, and ahead was Esgallien Ford.
“I don’t see anybody,” Erlissa said.
“Neither do I,” Lanrik replied. “Nobody at all.”
He was worried. Esgallien’s army was not here, and the way to his home was still open. Had Mecklar given them the warning?
There were other problems. This side of the ford offered concealment for enemy scouts who could attack them as they crossed. And the crossing itself would be difficult. The Careth Nien was hundreds of paces wide at this point; making it shallow, and though the stony bottom gave good purchase the waist-high water flowed so quickly that it could sweep away a rider.
The bank was not steep. It was an inside bend of the river, and there were deposits of sand and gravel. Erosion gullies, sun-bleached tree trunks and flood debris were scattered widely.
