Renown of the Raithlin: Book One of the Raithlindrath Series

by Robert Ryan

  “They come,” she said.

  Mecklar waited. He fidgeted on the spot, but Gwalchmur remained motionless beside him, watching Ebona silently.

  The minutes passed, like a trickle of water from a crack in a rock wall, slow but unstopping. There was noise in the woods. Something was crashing through them, loud and uncaring of the clamor.

  The crashing stopped and there was silence. Ebona tilted her head, and then stamped her foot in the gesture of a little girl.

  “Come!” she commanded. “Don’t be shy my darlings.”

  She cupped her hands to her mouth, and her voice throbbed in the glade.

  “Come Balert, my little playful one. Come Bilar, who always is aloof. Come Bakert and Bikar, come my little sweetlings!”

  Four hounds emerged from the eastern edge of the wood and raced toward her. Mecklar, mindful of her words, stood rooted to the spot and as still as possible. The beasts snarled and growled incessantly as they sped across the grass. They looked like they were fighting each other as they ran, great jaws slavering as they snapped at heels or necks, but he realized they were just playing.

  The hounds darted over the field and crushed the grass beneath their paws. They ran to Ebona, circling her and yelping, long red tongues hanging from their mouths. They were massive animals whose shoulders were level with a man’s waist. Huge muscles bulged beneath tight skin and a short coat of black hair. The only other color on them was the very tips of their ears. This was crimson to match their tongues. They had little in the way of necks, just a massive round heads set on square shoulders. There was something wrong with their eyes though. They were black pits, and there was intelligence behind them, but not the thoughts of dogs.

  One by one, her hands ran over their coat, and they stilled and trembled at her touch. She whispered in their pricked ears, and when she was done she smiled at them benevolently.

  “Go, my little darlings. Run free beyond the woods. Hunt for me!”

  The beasts leaped away. They circled Mecklar and Gwalchmur, a dazzling flash of snapping, snarling and sniffing that tore the grass in a ring, then they raced off and disappeared into the woods. In moments, the noise of their passing ceased. Once more, there was only the pleasant bleating of the sheep, unaffected, but the horses whinnied fearfully in the barn.

  Ebona turned to them. Her smile was bright as the sun, and pleasure flushed her cheeks. I have set my darlings onto the lòhren. They will hunt him down. Ah! I have long wanted to do that! They will set their jaws to limbs and rend flesh. Their teeth will grind bone. Bones will splinter and snap!”

  Gwalchmur stepped back but Mecklar asked a question. “They don’t have the scent,” he said. “How will they find them?”

  “Shush,” she said, and traced a finger along his lips. “They’re creatures of ùhrengai, the old magic; the magic of the beginning. They know the scent of a lòhren. They can smell lòhrengai and elùgai both. Aranloth has probably reached the city now, but my pets will roam the borders of Esgallien at night. They’ll find his trail when he leaves and track him, and all who go with him.”

  “Very well,” Mecklar said. “What next?”

  “What next indeed,” Ebona said, looking at him thoughtfully. “My darlings are strong, yet the lòhren is not to be underestimated. Neither are the other two. What’s most vital now, above all else, is their destruction. Therefore, the two of you will follow them. If the hounds fail, you must succeed. My pets will guide you. They have your scent and can find you anywhere. They’ll not attack until you’re close on the lòhren’s trail.”

  Mecklar was astonished. “I can’t leave the king. If I do that I’ll be revealed.”

  “So?” Ebona said.

  Mecklar hesitated. He did not think it wise to argue with her, but he wanted to get his point across. “How will the king be influenced if I’m not there?”

  Ebona looked at him and slowly shook her head as though she was disappointed.

  “Do you think you’re the only one I have in his retinue? Perhaps what you’re concerned with is yourself though? But haven’t you got a great store of gold? Don’t you keep it safely in other cities, prepared for the fall of Esgallien and your escape? When this task is completed, we’ll start again elsewhere. You’ll accumulate more gold and fulfil your desires. Even the ones you haven’t yet dreamed.”

  Mecklar acquiesced. A vast future opened before him. It would not take long, and he would rise once more in service of some foolish king.

  Ebona studied them both for a few moments. “Now,” she said, “one final thing must be done. I would watch the end of the lòhren. For that, I need not leave here. You will be my eyes, the both of you. In exchange, I’ll give you power as you have never tasted before. In order for your efforts to be combined, the hounds will wait for you to attack with them, but don’t tarry. They’ll only wait so long.”

  Ebona stepped close. She reached out and placed a palm over each of Mecklar’s temples. Her forehead rested against his own, and he felt her eyebrows, coarse like wire bristles, pressed against him. Her long blond hair brushed against his face. It smelled faintly of smoke, and the warmth of her breath was upon him. He felt something stir inside, a connection between them, a rising and joining of his spirit with hers.

  He sensed suddenly the power she held, vast as the ocean, and he trembled in awe. A black wave of dizziness engulfed him, and he would have fallen but for her iron grip that nearly crushed his skull. The darkness eased, and he reeled back as she let him go. He watched in a stupor as she turned to Gwalchmur.

  When it was done she spoke once more. “We are joined now. I will be with you all the days of your life. Remember it! Serve me well and you shall prosper. Now, retrieve your horses and go to the outskirts of Esgallien. The hounds will find you.”

  She turned and walked from them, disappearing inside the cottage.

  Gwalchmur moaned. “All the days of my life,” he said.

  Mecklar understood. She had changed them. Their old lives were gone. They would forge new ones, but Ebona would always be in them. He shrugged and walked to the barn. Better to be her servant than her enemy. He did not want the beasts hunting him. They were hounds of the otherworld.

  11. Esgallien

  Lanrik watched the countryside as they rode toward Esgallien. The land was neatly cultivated, contrasting with wild Galenthern, just as the many-towered city was a world of its own.

  The fields were changing. Fences of sawn timber replaced hedgerows, and stately villas were the rule now rather than thatched cottages. Carefully planted groves of nut trees, shimmering in new leaf, grew their precious crop, and vines that produced the heady wines of Esgallien basked in the sun of south facing slopes.

  The villas, built of pale stone and roofed with bright red tiles, had wide-arched windows and intricate turrets. Various flags and banners flew from the highest points.

  The travelers had ridden until late evening, and then rested through the night. Now they started once more, and the city, ten miles distant from the ford, was only a few miles away.

  They were silent, and Lanrik thought of his future. What would he do with his life? It was hard to know sometimes where he began and the Raithlin ended, yet it seemed now that all his training had been for nothing. He would be on his own when this quest was over, and what, apart from the enmity of Mecklar and the king, would be left for him in Esgallien? But where else could he go?

  They crested a small rise and looked down on the city. The sun climbed higher in a cloudless sky, and multitudes of butterflies floated past on a southerly breeze.

  Aranloth halted and the others did likewise. They were only a little higher than Esgallien, but they saw the network of its streets, its many tall towers and bright domes. Standing out most was the Hainer Lon, the Heroes Way, the main road that swept through the city like a broad river. Along its course armies had marched to war through all Esgallien’s history, sometimes to the ford but often into Galenthern, and they had returned the same way in victory
.

  The Hainer Lon was wide and stone paved. It passed all the important places in the city, allowing people quick access to employment, shops and entertainment. It ended at Esgallien’s northern wall, though an unpaved road continued for just over a hundred miles to the gorge of Caladhrist where the city derived much of its wealth. The gorge held deposits of gold, difficult and dangerous to mine from the rocky earth, but abundant. There had also once been gold in the creek bordering the southeast side of the city, the reason for Esgallien’s placement, but it was long since depleted.

  Aranloth, his staff resting at an angle across the roan’s withers, looked at Lanrik.

  “Would you like me to translate that script on the sword?”

  “Very much,” Lanrik said. He drew the blade from its scabbard and handed it, hilt first, to the lòhren.

  Aranloth scrutinized the weapon. He started with the ruby on the pommel, which throbbed with color in the sunlight, then passed to the pattern-welded blade. The metal had been forged and reforged from bundles of iron rods, twisted and beaten to give a pliant core on which a hard edge was added. The script glittered as the lòhren turned the sword in the light.

  Aranloth studied the lettering. He muttered in a foreign tongue, and a frown grew then deepened on his face. At last, he looked up.

  “There are three inscriptions,” he said. “The language is different in each case, and though I’m familiar with several Azan dialects, I can only read the first.”

  “What does it say?” asked Lanrik.

  The lòhren read it out. I, Assurah, paramount sword-smith in Azanbulzibar, made this for Hakalakadan. His glory will endure forever!

  Lanrik had heard of Azanbulzibar; it was the capital city of the Azan. Of the other names he knew nothing and said so to the lòhren.

  Aranloth shrugged. “I haven’t heard of them either. If we were in the Halls of Lore in Lòrenta I would likely find a record of them and discover in what dialects the remaining inscriptions were written.”

  The lòhren absently scratched his chin. “Actually, there may even be a record in Esgallien. Conhain’s grandson, Danhain, was involved in a battle with the Azan. I saw the scroll many years ago in the archives, but I don’t remember exactly what it said. I’m sure it mentioned something about an unusual shazrahad and sword though, and it may reveal something to us.”

  “Do we have the time for that?” asked Lanrik.

  Aranloth considered things for a moment. “We‘ll make time. It disturbs me that I can’t read the other inscriptions – they may be important. Anyway, the archives are on our way, and it won’t take long to find the scroll.”

  They rode once more and some time later came to the city wall. It was an ancient though solid structure built of plastered brick and some thirty feet high and ten deep. Lanrik had heard that newer walls further north in Camarelon and Cardoroth were even taller and deeper.

  The gate was a different matter. Replaced several times during the history of the city, it was strong and durable. It retained its original name: River Gate, for it led to the ford. Gold Gate, so called because it opened the way to Caladhrist, was on the northern wall.

  He looked at the tall towers on each side of the entrance where fifty-foot images of Conhain were carved in high relief. He was clad in war raiment, helm and chain mail finely depicted. In his hand he held a naked sword, ready to strike, the tips of the blades touching above the center of the gate. It was a warning to any army that crossed Esgallien Ford that breaching the walls would not be easy.

  Two of the City Guards, over six feet but miniature compared to the carvings, stood watch as the travelers rode through the dim gate tunnel, the clatter of hooves loud in the confined space. On their left the open gate rested against the wall, the iron dull in the shadows, but the bars as thick as a man’s arm.

  The Hainer Lon, its laid stone thirty paces wide, commenced here. They followed it, avoiding the ruts grooved by the wheels of innumerable wagons through the centuries. On either side were tenement buildings several stories high. They were built of pale stone, and at their fronts were porticoes containing shops that sold the necessities of daily life in Esgallien.

  The people of Esgallien bustled on either side and did not seem perturbed by the threat of war. They crowded the footpaths, talking, joking and bantering with friends and strangers alike. They bargained with traders while vendors called out the merits of their produce or wares. They had complete confidence in their army and the defensibility of the ford and thought life would continue as normal, but Lanrik knew how easily it could have been otherwise.

  It always jolted him to come here after the stillness of Galenthern. There was a thrum of humanity, and the people were good-natured and happy. The streets, day or night, were full of men dressed in bright cloaks, women in colorful dresses and everywhere were laughing children.

  Aranloth’s foretelling worried him though, and he broached it with the lòhren.

  “You told the king that one day the enemy would overrun the ford and attack the city. Did you really mean that?”

  Aranloth guided the roan around a group of children whose playing had spilled onto the road.

  “I have little control of when visions come upon me, or what I see, but I can describe them accurately. I saw elugs surging through the ford and marching on Esgallien. There were images of the king too, while the city was besieged, and bitterly will he regret some of his decisions.”

  “Do you think the city will ever fall?” asked Lanrik.

  The lòhren did not answer straight away, and Lanrik looked at his surroundings. If the city were taken what would happen to all these people? Would they be put to the sword, or enslaved? What would be worse?

  “It’s at risk,” Aranloth said. “It has been since the beginning, but the risk is greater with a weak king. The city could fall, but I voiced my foretelling to help prevent that. There are other powers in Esgallien beside Murhain, and forewarned they may avert disaster, or lessen its magnitude.”

  Erlissa had been quiet for much of their travels but spoke now.

  “Nothing lasts forever, Lanrik. Whether it’s tomorrow, in twenty years or another thousand, one day all Esgallien’s people will be dust and the buildings broken and fallen. Even the Hainer Lon will return to grass.”

  Lanrik did not reply. He realized that her perspective on life was wider than his. The tragedy she had endured in her youth had shaped her in ways that he could not guess. The need to go on this quest was affecting her too. It had depressed her, but he knew she was extraordinary. She was someone who could plumb the deeps of despair and yet still reach the heights of joy. He noticed Aranloth was looking at her speculatively too.

  To the right of the Hainer Lon the ground began to drop away, and they passed at various times the great structures central to Esgallien society. There was the Hamalath, where actors performed plays and brought to life the events of history and popular dramas. Massive columns of intricately carved granite flanked its entrance. Beyond were hundreds of rows of stone benches terraced into the slope overlooking the stage. Five thousand people could sit in the Hamalath and see and hear every move and word of the performers.

  Further along was the Merenloth where people gathered to hear the debates of philosophers, declamations of poets and the chanting of bards. The structure was similar to the Hamalath but smaller. Behind it was a many-storied building whose stone threw back the voice of a speaker onto the crowd. Even as they passed the entrance, they caught the words of an ancient lay telling of the exodus of the Halathrin and their arrival on the pine-clad shores of northern Alithoras.

  Eventually they came to the inner district. The footpaths were tiled with mosaics of bright color and intricate artisanship. The buildings, larger and faced with decorated marble, flew flags indicating the residences of nobles, the prosperous or the famous.

  An extended series of granite arches opened on their right into the Haranast, the largest and most popular facility in the city. A basalt stele dedicat
ed it to Conmur, Murhain’s grandfather, who had initiated its construction at great cost and with enormous labor. It could hold ten thousand people who, from the terraced hillside, observed a level field where horses raced. The track was one hundred and fifty paces long and over fifty wide. The riders rode its length, taking a dangerous turn around carved posts at each end.

  Near the center of the city the slope on their right became less steep. The oldest facility was built here, the Karlenthern, where most activities of the Spring Games were held.

  The Karlenthern was small, seating fewer people than the other facilities. The benches were no longer level and showed damage from large crowds and long weathering. It had been built in the first years of the city, and the Spring Games held there ever since, though the games had originated earlier. They came from antiquity, before Esgallien was built, before Conhain rode with his people out of the west, before even the Halathrin came to Alithoras. Lanrik felt the history of this place, both the city’s and his own. It was here that he had watched Lathmai win the archery contest, and he remembered that one of his promises to her remained unfulfilled. Gwalchmur is still alive. He rode past the entrance and noticed Erlissa’s uncanny gaze on him.

  The Hainer Lon opened onto Conhain Court, the heart of the city, and Aranloth halted. It was a large square, colonnaded on all sides, and it contained bronze statues of all Esgallien’s kings and queens. Some were mounted for hunting, some dressed for war, some wore their crowns and royal regalia, some were stern, some cheerful, but all were part of the long history of the city. None more so than Conhain, shown astride his warhorse, suffering and determination fixed in every line of his face as he held high the famous Red Cloth of Victory.

  The Esgalliens had learned their architecture, art and way of life from long association with the Halathrin before Conhain brought his people some five hundred miles to the east. But their ennoblement had come at a cost of lives and blood, fighting the Halathrin’s enemies. A thousand years had turned those times into legend and myth, a remembrance of blended joy and despair.