by Robert Ryan
At the center of the square was a large and circular dais thirty paces in diameter and raised three feet high. It was a place of ceremony, of public announcements, royal weddings and funerals. It was here, in the oldest and most treasured event of the Spring Games, that he had fought Mecklar in the sword tournament. It was one structure in the city owing little to the Halathrin. It was a relic of a time that was ancient even before they came here and of a distant land where the people gathered at rings of standing stones and man-made hills.
Aranloth led them to a shop selling nuts, dried fruit and cured meats. “We’d better buy supplies,” he said.
The lòhren haggled good-naturedly with the owner, an ever-smiling old man in a red cloak, who helped them fill their saddlebags after the purchase. A little further on, they bought hardened leather water-flasks from a young girl in a small stall.
When they left Aranloth pointed with his staff. “That’s the building we want. It houses the City Archive.”
“Are you sure we have time for this?” asked Lanrik.
“It won’t take long. I know the place well, and I’ll find what we need quickly. There’s something unusual about your sword, even for a shazrahad blade, and it troubles me.”
They made their way along the edge of the square and tethered their horses to iron hooks set into the building’s portico. Aranloth led them up a wide flight of marble stairs, and they passed two City Guards stationed at massive oak doors. The interior had the spacious but dark atmosphere of most of Esgallien’s buildings. The roof, a vast dome high above, was decorated with a mosaic of a retreating elug army harried by a combined force of men and immortal Halathrin. The artisan had captured the disorder and panic of the elugs, the straining of men and the grace, vigor and aloofness of the Halathrin.
Frescoes adorned the encircling walls in which private alcoves were built and furnished with tables and chairs. Some, but not many, were occupied. The large space beneath the dome contained aisles of shelves stacked thickly with books.
“This way,” Aranloth said. His boots echoed loudly between the stone floor and high ceiling while he led them to the back of the room and to the last shelf, which held scrolls rather than books. They were ordered according to the reign of Esgallien’s kings, and he read the dates and titles carefully as he progressed.
He stopped suddenly. “This is the one I remember.” He chose a scroll rolled in a ribbon of crimson cloth that had once been bright but was now faded.
The lòhren led them to a table in the nearest alcove. Light entered from a small window covered by translucent alabaster, but he lit a lamp as well. He gently undid the ribbon and slowly unrolled the scroll on the table. The script was small and tightly written, the once red ink brown with age, the parchment brittle and the language archaic.
Aranloth looked it over. “It’s headed Battle of the Tor,” he said. “This is a copy of the original, which was written in the seventh year of King Danhain’s reign, the fifty-seventh since the founding of the city. The first part summarizes events of that year.”
He skimmed through it, telling them the important parts. “Elugs had gathered in large numbers and tested the ford. They were repeatedly repelled. The Raithlin were withdrawn from Galenthern and additional regiments of the army sent to stiffen the defense. The testing continued through spring and into summer.”
Aranloth skipped over much description and began again. “Danhain determined to end the harassment and enforce his authority on the region. He intended to show that the newly founded city was secure by inflicting a heavy defeat on the enemy. He led twelve thousand onto the plains against an estimated army of ten thousand.”
Aranloth read silently for a while, and then spoke again. “Danhain wanted to force a battle, but the elugs retreated. Eventually he drew them into combat south of a landmark the Raithlin called the Tor. To the west lay a swamp and on the east flank a forested area.”
Lanrik guessed this was very close, perhaps even the same spot, where he penetrated the elug army in his own time.
Aranloth went on. “Danhain considered subsequent events noteworthy enough to personally record his actions. What follows is a transcript in his own words.”
I, Danhain, grandsonne of Conhain, sonne of Condred, Kyng of Esgallyen, write these words in the seven and fiftieth year after the Founding.
This summer marauding elugs harried the realme; bolde herdsmen and hunters who had made Galenthern home returned, and the people were afeared of a breaching of the ford.
I levied an army to punish the foe and teache them awe of Esgallyen. Many dayes we marched across Galenthern, receiving word from the Raithlin, that olde and illustrious order, about the movements of the enemie that ever retreated. On the sixth afternoon tidings came that they were nearer than their wont, and by marching during the night we reached them at dawn.
The enemie showed chagrin but did not decamp. Neither host had an advantage of terrain. Esgallyen had superiority of numbers, yet were weary. Thusly balanced, we faced each other.
I attacked. Elugs, with much beating of drums and stamping of iron-shod boots, advanced to meet us. The clash commenced with great cacophony; men's voices were raised in battle cry, and foule was the cursing of the foe. Dust rose in the air; the sky grew dimme; the enemie faltered and fell back.
As it is in lyf so also it is in warr: timing is all. Orders I gave, and men followed to prevent the enemie regrouping. A route ensued and they were destroyed. The remnant fled, yet one rider, proud and fearless, returned. He drew no weapon, and the soldiers suffered his approach. It was the shazrahad, coifed in crimson, and I thought a challenge would ensue. He dismounted, and though I was ready for him, he madeth no strike; neither did he showeth discomfort, alone amid our multitude. He sat himselfe down, at ease in the cross-legged fashion of southern men, and gestured me to join him.
“It was a good battle.”
“So it was,” said I.
“Thou hast wonne peace for a time.”
“That was our purpose,” said I, “but for peace or battle we are prepared.”
He smiled grimly. “Peace is not fated, and yet it will prevaileth for a while. Know, however, that we shall return. Though sesouns wax and wane, though yeares passe, though those of thy line yet unbirthed sire kings themselves.”
He wore a great sword and drew it slowly. It shimmered as do the Halathrin blades; a red jewel throbbed on its pommel, and strange script glittered on its blade.
“This is an embodiment of prophecye. It was made for whosoever of my people becomes Hakalakadan: sovereign of nations, king upon kings, ruler of the olde lands of our fathers and the new realmes of the conquered North.”
He trembled in a great passion before lowering his head. “I know now that I am not the Hakalakadan; I am but one of many who will hold the sword for a time. Others will bear it until the prophecye is fulfilled.”
Hearing his words I took counsel of myself. Both man and blade alike were now in mine authority, and I bethought to break the prophecye. Yet even for the protection of Esgallyen it would be an ill deed to so treat a man who came free-willed to my presence.
I bowed and let him go, but he had read my thoughts and smiled fiercely.
“The prophecye says also that if ever a kyng of the North should hold the blade the dayes of his lyf will runeth short, and the ruination of his realme shall swiftly follow.”
He sprang upon his horse and could have run me down but laughed and rode until Galenthern swallowed him.
Hear now all and one, people of Esgallyen and kyngs yet to be; the sword will return, though different hand wield it. Beware!
Aranloth stopped speaking, lost in thought, then stirred. “So that’s it. The word Hakalakadan is a title and not a name. Do you realize as well that while the Azan don’t have the sword they’ll believe it impossible to conquer the north?”
Lanrik nodded. “I understand, but is it really the same sword.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Aranloth said. “Y
et still I would know what the other scripts say. There’s more to this yet.”
Lanrik’s hand dropped to the hilt of the blade. “It’s hard to believe this is the same sword that Danhain saw all those years ago.”
“The very same,” Aranloth said. “The Azan will suffer a lack of confidence and drive now, but they will also do anything to regain the sword.”
“What can they do from beyond the river?” asked Lanrik.
“Nothing,” Aranloth said. “Not themselves anyway, but there are other powers in the world. Anyway, that’s all the time we can spare the matter until we come to Lòrenta and decipher the remaining scripts.”
Aranloth rolled and retied the scroll, returning it to the shelf.
“Guard the blade well – especially from Murhain,” he said. “Some prophecies are nonsense and some come true. I fear to put this one to the test.”
They left the building, untied their horses and rode off. Lanrik saw a half dozen of the Royal Guard loitering nearby. He thought they should have been with the king but paid them no further heed.
12. The Wisdom of the Raithlin
Lanrik looked back one last time at the city. It had been his home, the home of his parents who were buried there, the home of his ancestors, some of whom had died in battle while defending it. There were other cities, other places, even other homes: but there would never be another Esgallien.
The Raithlin and Esgallien were all he knew; yet the first had been taken from him, and he was leaving the second in the knowledge that he might never return.
The future was hidden. He had little idea what would happen on their quest, and even less of what may occur after that, but at least he was enjoying the company. That he liked Erlissa he knew, though how deep that would eventually go he was not yet sure. He was also beginning to like Aranloth.
He was travelling with them, going to places he had never been before, and the urge to explore that had once driven his steps over the plains and swamps of Galenthern woke in him again. He yearned to discover Alithoras, to cross its bright rivers, see its snow-topped mountains and dark forests, to walk among its people and experience new ways of life.
He was about to turn away when he saw six riders emerge from Gold Gate. They were Royal Guards, no doubt the same that he had seen in Conhain Court, and suspicion gripped him. He was about to say something, but Aranloth beat him to it.
“I see them. They were outside the City Archive as well. Murhain has sent them for the sword.”
Lanrik let his breath out loudly. “I expected better from a king.”
“Kings are people too,” the lòhren said with a shrug. “There are some that are bad, some good, and many mixed. Murhain belongs to the bad. He’ll stop at nothing to get the sword, but he must not have it.”
“Not only did you deny him the sword,” added Erlissa, “you made him look foolish too, and he’ll hate you for that.”
Aranloth nodded. “We should go. They’re not likely to try anything in daylight so close to the city, but we’d better keep ahead. Come nightfall, when they expect us to camp, we’ll ride hard and put them behind us.”
They continued along the road. It was wide and well made, the middle raised slightly so that the sloping sides drained water. It was covered in turf and good for riding. It could accommodate the army for a swift march to protect Esgallien’s interests in Caladhrist, but all that it had ever been used for was to supply the miners with food and equipment, the return of gold laden wagons, and the traffic of farmers and merchants.
Villas lined the roadside once more, but the soil here was less suitable for vines, and there were horse studs instead that bred stock for the races in the Haranast. Esgallien Creek ran through this area; the gold was long since gone, and its flats were cultivated to pasture and deep-rooted legumes.
The road crossed the creek via a stone bridge. It was old, built in the early days of the kingdom, but it was solid and secure. It had survived many floods, and so too had the inn beside it, which was as far north of Esgallien as Lanrik had ever been.
The inn was famous for two reasons. Firstly, the ale was reputed to be the best in Esgallien, a claim that he was willing to support, and secondly, it was said that Danhain had met his wife here. Rhodmai, who had once poured beers for weary travelers, had become queen of Esgallien and after her husband’s death ruled wisely for nearly two decades, living to the age of one hundred and one. During that time many of the finest buildings of the city were constructed, and peace and prosperity abounded. The story went that she never forgot her roots and returned to the inn to die. The people loved her, and even today flowers were left at her statue in Conhain Court.
Lanrik kept a surreptitious watch on the Royal Guard, but they did not attempt to catch up. Aranloth was right; they would wait until nightfall, but that was not far away. The sun was low on the horizon, and long shadows from trees to the left spilled across the road.
“They’ll get suspicious if we don’t set up a camp before dark,” Lanrik said.
Aranloth rubbed his chin. “But if we stop they’ll draw level with us.”
Lanrik made a noise of disgust. “There’s nothing for it except to keep going, but we’ll have to look casual.”
Erlissa looked over at them. “You both worry too much. At the end of the day, we have a lead and good horses. If it comes to a race, we should be able to out distance them.”
Aranloth smiled. “I haven’t lived a long time without worrying about these kinds of things, but there’s truth to what you say.”
The thought of a pursuit prompted Lanrik to ask a question.
“How far is it to Lòrenta?”
The lòhren considered for a moment.
“It’s over a hundred leagues as the bird flies, that’s a journey of two weeks – but we must travel a longer road. The sorcery the elùgroths will use to draw Lòrenta into the spirit world will be a barrier between life and death itself. To pass, we’ll need something special.”
Erlissa spoke coolly. “I didn’t think it would be as simple as you made out earlier. What will we need, and what danger will there be in obtaining it?”
Aranloth shrugged. “The mistletoe plant has long been associated with the threshold between worlds. We must retrieve three berries, but not any mistletoe will do. There are oak groves in the hills of Enorìen that were ancient before the Halathrin came to Alithoras. Ùhrengai is potent there; the old magic, the magic of the making. Eating one each will allow our physical bodies to enter the spirit world, for a time, without harm.”
“I see,” Erlissa said. “But mistletoe berries are poisonous. I don’t suppose these will be any different?”
Aranloth inclined his head. “These are far more potent and poisonous than the ordinary variety. Yet one berry is safe enough, so long as it’s picked in the middle of the night beneath the first rays of the rising half moon. Otherwise, it’s deadly. So too is eating one but not crossing into the spirit world.”
“I’ve heard of Enorìen,” Lanrik said. “It’s said to be a special place, but why is that so?”
“The hills are as the world once was,” the lòhren answered. “People do not dwell there, nor do travelers or hunters journey to it. The hills are covered by pathless forests that have never felt the bite of an axe or heard the hiss of a flighted arrow. It’s a remnant of Alithoras from a time before Halathrin or man, and unweakened ùhrengai flows in its primordial waters, rises in the slow sap of its trees and shines in the bright eyes of the animals that roam its dark tracts.”
Erlissa looked at him levelly. “You make no mention of the Guardian.”
Aranloth shrugged once more. “There is a Guardian as you say. A primeval creature, a being of ùhrengai. The Guardian keeps Enorìen the way it is, otherwise men would long since have settled there and the ùhrengai been diminished. Guardians aren’t dangerous, nor are they safe, but the lòhrens have had dealings with them before.”
The long shadows deepened as they talked. Stars glimmered faintl
y in the darkening sky, and dusk crept over the land. Lanrik glanced back and saw the Royal Guard were still following. Looking ahead, he saw a rise crowned on both sides of the road with trees. Night fell as they reached it, and in the last moments of half-light he dismounted and asked the others to do likewise. It would give the impression that they had stopped to camp.
“Will it fool them?” asked Erlissa.
Lanrik ran a hand through his hair “For a while, maybe. They have no reason to think that we’re aware of them. They’ll give us a few hours to eat and go to sleep before they approach. They may outnumber us, but no one in the Royal Guard got there by being foolish. They’ll try to take us by surprise – it’s safer that way.”
It was now dark, and they wanted to rest but could not. They mounted once more and moved off at a slow trot. When they were sure the sound of the horses would not carry they kicked them into a run, wanting to get far ahead. Once the camp was found to be deserted their pursuers would know their mission had been understood, and the real chase would begin.
Aranloth led them, his roan took great strides, and his robes flew behind. The alar horses followed, smaller but surer of their footing, and they showed no signs of tiring. Lanrik began to feel that they could run all night if they had to, and though the roan was a fine horse, the alar had speed and endurance beyond it, or any other horses he had seen.
The stars wheeled in the sky; the air grew still and cool, and dew began to settle over the grass. The night grew old and was quiet except for the regular thud of hooves on turf. Bright Halathgar, the constellation of the Lost Huntress, crept over the eastern horizon and glimmered along their path.
Erlissa rode beside Lanrik, her black hair one with the night-shadows, and her face hidden except for the flashes of the whites of her eyes as she smiled at him in the dark. She at least did not fear pursuit; she worried about nothing and planned for nothing; she was just the opposite of how Lanrik knew himself to be. Yet he had a sense of her wild joy and realized that he did not want to part from her after the quest was done.
